Here is the picture. A man sits in front of his tv. He is watching two tv's, one color and one black and white. One is heard and the other seen. One is the news in vibrant color and sound, reflecting on the day's events with wit and imagery. The other is a sports program, perhaps baseball. The violent arm movements as the pitcher delivers a fastball contrast with the athletic grace of a batter, an infielder scooping up a grounder and throwing to first base. Sometimes it was a western. and in black and white, the good guys and bad guys were always distinct in their colors, the lines of their shadows. This was the indelible images of my fathers. The step father who raised me with an arms-length discipline and my biological father, influenced me more than I had realized with what he didn't say to me.
I know in the end of this blog, both men are unlikely to read them. That's okay, too, as the only embarrassing moments are mine to bear as well. My mom often laments at how she is "treated" on the subjects of my posts. I believe she is beginning to understand that to journal, to document these feelings, are not a way to erase some past mistake or an airing of past grievances for the court of popular opinion. I think at the inception of this blog I meant to write funny quips about life's moments, an occasional poem or short story. God had other plans. This became a place for me to ask God questions about myself, about my loved ones. In my spiritual journey that began about 4 years ago, I was obsessed with my transformation and former life--my sin story. It did not occur to me that people are also interested in your God story.
My biological Dad was a mystery to me growing up. I saw him on frequent weekend visits and a few longer stays in the summer. His house was a start contrast to my home, where loudness and a fun disorganization seemed to roost. My dad was a catalog and list guy. He kept a room full of movies he owned or recorded on VHS, all logged in a binder in alphabetical order he printed in blocky, felt-tip pen. His album collection filled a room, and he had just about every genre available to listen--as long as he was the one spinning them on the turntable. He kept a binder of actors and the movies they starred in--kind of like an Internet Movie Database before there was one available. He could tell you the name of a costumed tribesman in Tarzan without hesitation. But in his quest for the perfect film, I lost something along the way. That affirmation. Am I man enough? Do I have what it takes? My dad sat silent for so many hours in front of the television, it was like watching that black and white sports program. I remember once taking his picture and he chased me into my brother's room, snatched it away, and returned to his programs.
Growing up, the silence of my dad was deafening. I listened to my mom's stories of him in contrast to his days on a fastpitch diamond hurling strikes on humid summer days in Houston. I used to ask him questions about his life before me, the mythical fight he had that stripped him of some of his military rank while in the Marines, the meet-cute and divorce story of my mom and him. We lived our lives in the movie theaters every weekend. But when you're in the safe darkness of a movie house, the questions are squelched and then there's always another movie to watch.
I grew into a relationship with him as an adult. Luckily for me, my mom refused to have some sulky man lying around the house feeling sorry for himself. I asked questions and continue to dialogue. I understand him more now, perhaps learning his qualities from his own father who would gnaw on strip steak during the Sunday meal as a substitute for conversation. Perhaps at my grandfather's age, there isn't much to say that hasn't already been said. I remember once while in ill health, my wife and I arrived to visit him in the hospital as he was reading the newspaper. My wife rubbed his tired, discolored feet and for a brief glimpse, that man awakened like never before--the pain of his diabetes peeled back to find this great man of experience.
The role of my upbringing went to my step-dad. In one infamous bout of defiance, I would raise the heat in the house, bang on their closed door knowing it would bring punishment, and questioned who this man was who would eat all of our food. My step-dad was a man's man. He was strong from lifting 5-gallon bottles of water daily and the athleticism of his youth. I was nothing like him. I wanted to read and write, play video games and sulk, daydream. My step-dad was either on the baseball diamond, basketball court, work or in the garage cleaning or trying to repair the constant problems of a '74 Monte Carlo. Even his mustache was manly.
While he was stoic and even-keeled, I was sarcastic and moody. My class-clown antics were the source of furious contention growing up. I knew what awaited when I was found out, but perhaps that was the interaction I longed for. Am I good enough? Am I man enough? He was always doing things over for me, mainly because I was too lazy to do it right the first time, but in the end it gave me this sense of failure mentality that festered in my youth and still tries to derail me today.
I remember once he stopped by to observe me at football practice in high school. I completely dogged it. I was last in sprints and didn't care. Afterwards he cried over my lack of commitment. How could I tell him I had more interest in writing the great American novel or winning the Pulitzer in journalism?
Today, while we infrequently speak, if we are in the same room there is a synergy of conversation. I am still in awe of the man who modeled for me all my inadequacies, rather, my potential as a man and father. If only I could merge the two men--form their best qualities. Perhaps I'd leave it the same. Without their guidance, and later, support, would I be writing a different story?
Other men in my life were in some ways or another, provided great showings of the aspects of a perfect man. My uncle Richard's handsomeness, my uncle Gilbert's responsibility, my uncle David's humor, the swagger of Ray Guerra to the cockiness of The Kid. My Uncle Lorenzo's respect and the charm of my cousin Richard. In the book I'm reading, "Wild at Heart," it says that a man's heart is always yearning for adventure. It was ingrained within us at the time we were created. We were not created in the garden, Eve was. We were created in the wilderness, the outback, and we have been yearning to get back there ever since. I sense this yearning in my son, the games he plays, his spirit. On Ash Wednesday, he was adamant to have the mark of the cross on his forehead, sulky if his bread from communion wasn't large enough for his little hand. He wanted to go to school the next morning with the swagger of a believer. The next morning, the mark had been rubbed off from the tossing and dreams of an adventurous boy. That's what I yearn for. The ashes that stick.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Atticus Finch and the Invisible Dad
The one constant about having a bad week, is that you either drop everything you are doing to change the scenery. The other is you bury yourself in what you believe to be non-harmful activities. No need to change the routine--change the person, change the attitude. I think both worked.
After the storm of conferences, we dropped every commitment--well, I did. I skipped out on Life Group, share group on Saturday. I had nothing positive to say and nothing to give. I needed to think of "What did I need to hear?" but hindsight is always 20/20. Sunday, the kids were sick and I didn't teach Sunday school. I spent the day napping and doing odd jobs, threw away piles of ungraded papers and seriously was hoping to eat my way into oblivion (that didn't happen, at least).
The week started much the same way it had previously began. Monday's lessons seemed to drag, staff meetings droned on and suddenly I found myself that one person with the sarcastic attitude that I dread sitting beside. Upon entering home, I threw myself in reading. I have 3 books that are warranting my attention, sometimes 4. I have been reading "Bringing Up Boys" by Dr. Dobson which helps dads like me figure out what to do with their boys with a Christian perspective. Every chapter makes me think of my son in a different light. The tantrums and shouting are now understood. The silliness and adventurous nature of him was explained as well. He asked us tonight, "Why don't you let me jump on the trampoline without the screen?" My answer was a laundry list of dangerous activities he's tried on more than one occasion.
The other book I have upstairs is "The Bee Eater" about Michelle Rhee. My teacher friends are probably cringing reading this. Most teachers hate her. She stands for everything wrong with education--high-stakes testing, teacher evaluations and accountability and failing inner-city schools. She was featured in the movie, "Waiting for Superman," as this scowling menace that was ready to fire a teacher that was unwilling to change. For me, however, Rhee is more an opportunist than the anti-Christ. Surely she didn't introduce No Child Left Behind and all the legislation and failed policies that have come along since its implementation. She didn't create a testing company. And she surely didn't make charter schools. Another reason I'm reading about her (maybe it's my secret wish to go against the grain, and I get that too) is I'd like to form my own opinion. Commercials tells me what to eat, unions suggest who to vote for, and politicians create enthusiasm for waving into crowds and nothing more.
Another book I'm digging into is "Wild at Heart." It's a book about how to find that adventurous heart that is lacking in Christian men. I am being asked to lead a men's study with this book in the spring and delved right into its pages. I love it. It begins by asking you what do you see when you envision a Christian man? And undoubtedly, we see meek men, passive men. Nice guys. I haven't always been a nice guy. And part of my reawakening is to bring myself closer to that nice guy persona--or so I thought. The world bombards men with its image of some metro-sexual, somewhat effeminate momma's boy. Half of children's programming on Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel and even the ironically named ABC Family make dads invisible, non-existent or buffoons. And when a man is assertive, he's a punch line, a neanderthal, a bigot.
My fifth graders are reading "To Kill a Mockingbird," and in some way I am reliving my freshman year in high school. Atticus Finch was the manly man, and he never fought in a boxing ring or mauled a lion with his bare hands. The men in my Life Group are men like Atticus. Men of respect. Although I don't have aspirations to hunt, like many of them do, I love that they are bold fighters for Christ and declare their love of Jesus. They are the leaders of their households. Pansies they aren't.
This past Sunday I had a bad day at basketball. Turnovers, no defense. I had two shots blocked so bad I drew a laugh from the resident jerk. There was a moment running down the court that I was ready to intentionally foul the bastard. I quit instead. I played one more game before calling an end to my night. No more embarrassment. My thoughts ranged from that feeling I had back in fourth grade, never getting picked for kickball. I spent my entire summer kicking a ball on the side of my house. I envisioned putting a dent in that brick wall. I had my red-haired friend Kevin Hebert launch that red rubber ball high into the air to prove I could catch it. I wanted to be picked first by any means necessary. And when fifth grade started, and my time finally came, I launched that ball into the outfield. I wasn't picked last again.
I have no desire to be the jerk. As I read about testosterone and humility, I am at the same time blanketing fires within my heart that sometimes go unchecked. The one too many looks at the cute student teacher. The scenario where I'm chocking some poor bastard who laughed at me. Others too. The only way I am to make it as a Christian man is to allow the most many of men--Jesus--in a little more. And that vision is changing too. In all the pictures of Jesus, you see some timid holy man surrounded by children. But I've read Revelation, and I know that he was a carpenter. Jesus isn't a timid man to me. He's a warrior. A man's man.
After the storm of conferences, we dropped every commitment--well, I did. I skipped out on Life Group, share group on Saturday. I had nothing positive to say and nothing to give. I needed to think of "What did I need to hear?" but hindsight is always 20/20. Sunday, the kids were sick and I didn't teach Sunday school. I spent the day napping and doing odd jobs, threw away piles of ungraded papers and seriously was hoping to eat my way into oblivion (that didn't happen, at least).
The week started much the same way it had previously began. Monday's lessons seemed to drag, staff meetings droned on and suddenly I found myself that one person with the sarcastic attitude that I dread sitting beside. Upon entering home, I threw myself in reading. I have 3 books that are warranting my attention, sometimes 4. I have been reading "Bringing Up Boys" by Dr. Dobson which helps dads like me figure out what to do with their boys with a Christian perspective. Every chapter makes me think of my son in a different light. The tantrums and shouting are now understood. The silliness and adventurous nature of him was explained as well. He asked us tonight, "Why don't you let me jump on the trampoline without the screen?" My answer was a laundry list of dangerous activities he's tried on more than one occasion.
The other book I have upstairs is "The Bee Eater" about Michelle Rhee. My teacher friends are probably cringing reading this. Most teachers hate her. She stands for everything wrong with education--high-stakes testing, teacher evaluations and accountability and failing inner-city schools. She was featured in the movie, "Waiting for Superman," as this scowling menace that was ready to fire a teacher that was unwilling to change. For me, however, Rhee is more an opportunist than the anti-Christ. Surely she didn't introduce No Child Left Behind and all the legislation and failed policies that have come along since its implementation. She didn't create a testing company. And she surely didn't make charter schools. Another reason I'm reading about her (maybe it's my secret wish to go against the grain, and I get that too) is I'd like to form my own opinion. Commercials tells me what to eat, unions suggest who to vote for, and politicians create enthusiasm for waving into crowds and nothing more.
Another book I'm digging into is "Wild at Heart." It's a book about how to find that adventurous heart that is lacking in Christian men. I am being asked to lead a men's study with this book in the spring and delved right into its pages. I love it. It begins by asking you what do you see when you envision a Christian man? And undoubtedly, we see meek men, passive men. Nice guys. I haven't always been a nice guy. And part of my reawakening is to bring myself closer to that nice guy persona--or so I thought. The world bombards men with its image of some metro-sexual, somewhat effeminate momma's boy. Half of children's programming on Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel and even the ironically named ABC Family make dads invisible, non-existent or buffoons. And when a man is assertive, he's a punch line, a neanderthal, a bigot.
My fifth graders are reading "To Kill a Mockingbird," and in some way I am reliving my freshman year in high school. Atticus Finch was the manly man, and he never fought in a boxing ring or mauled a lion with his bare hands. The men in my Life Group are men like Atticus. Men of respect. Although I don't have aspirations to hunt, like many of them do, I love that they are bold fighters for Christ and declare their love of Jesus. They are the leaders of their households. Pansies they aren't.
This past Sunday I had a bad day at basketball. Turnovers, no defense. I had two shots blocked so bad I drew a laugh from the resident jerk. There was a moment running down the court that I was ready to intentionally foul the bastard. I quit instead. I played one more game before calling an end to my night. No more embarrassment. My thoughts ranged from that feeling I had back in fourth grade, never getting picked for kickball. I spent my entire summer kicking a ball on the side of my house. I envisioned putting a dent in that brick wall. I had my red-haired friend Kevin Hebert launch that red rubber ball high into the air to prove I could catch it. I wanted to be picked first by any means necessary. And when fifth grade started, and my time finally came, I launched that ball into the outfield. I wasn't picked last again.
I have no desire to be the jerk. As I read about testosterone and humility, I am at the same time blanketing fires within my heart that sometimes go unchecked. The one too many looks at the cute student teacher. The scenario where I'm chocking some poor bastard who laughed at me. Others too. The only way I am to make it as a Christian man is to allow the most many of men--Jesus--in a little more. And that vision is changing too. In all the pictures of Jesus, you see some timid holy man surrounded by children. But I've read Revelation, and I know that he was a carpenter. Jesus isn't a timid man to me. He's a warrior. A man's man.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Cowering Dog
"Have you ever been in a bad mood and you just can't get out of it?"
This is the question I asked a colleague on Thursday, probably 3 days too long into asking it. Perhaps it was the theme of my week. Perhaps it was my medication not working (in the past, it was from a lack of being medicated). I know some of it involves my own stubbornness with my devotions and the fact that I tuned out last Sunday at church. The reason isn't so much as an issue as my reaction.
Perhaps it was the lack of time, the overbooking of appointments and the coordinated attempt to document nothing and allow the schedule to dictate my life. Monday began simple enough and I realize this because I cannot even remember the day. Tuesday began the first day of our parent-teacher conference schedule. I was meeting pretty much throughout the night, and most of them were negative in terms of my message to their parents.
"Lack of effort."
"Not focused."
"Could be doing better."
Was I speaking primarily of myself? Perhaps. I spoke to a coworker this past week and said that I had felt I was sitting too much. Delegating responsibilities and jobs, checking on work minimally, barking orders and accomplishing nothing more than to move a pile from one corner of my table to another. It's ironic that my fourth graders were reading the novel, "Loser." We also read a strange fantasy story aptly titled, "The Stranger."
It's no wonder when I switch to the fifth graders, they stare at me with this glossy film. Fourth graders are needier, more immature. The girls are still girls and the boys cry enough to keep Kleenex free from bankruptcy. he fifth graders are a different bunch. Some of my boys are moody and sullen, a few of them downright scary. They can look beyond you at times. The look of a stranger. Most of the time they are talkative, sarcastic. They enjoy making fun of one another on a level reserved for comedians and frat buds. Sometimes, they just don't know how to turn off the switch.
My fifth grade girls are not so much lazy but preoccupied and ever knowledgeable. They don't make my voice rise but they know how to get my teeth grind. Their work comes in late and meticulous. They rarely ever remove their coats as if exposing their t-shirt will somehow reveal their secrets.
We're reading the novel, "To Kill a Mockingbird." A challenge for sure. So far, they are accepting the challenge well. I'm up more, directing lessons and dictating their notes. I can see their frustration at times, not necessarily with the material, but with me hovering over them as I try and manage their wasteful use of time. They are like my new dog. He cowers in his carrier, that security, as I stomp around the house. I give him the same look I give the kids but with different agendas. One peed on the carpet. One is tucking away a drawing, stopped an off-topic conversation.
Wednesday was meetings at church. I am being called in a direction that I had been openly wishing for and received an invite. Can I lead a men's bible study? More importantly, can I realize that God is calling me to act?
Thursday is back to conferences. More of the same but with more volume. I found my very walk in the classroom an aggressive form of Kramer from Seinfeld. Typically I walk away from confrontation and at times I stared too long, forced to say the last word. Even the flicker of a light switch was a damnation of their abilities.
I promptly came home and erupted, went to bed at 9 and woke up fighting again. Friday wasn't much better. Our timing was awful, rushing from one event to the next. Staying home last night and this morning from commitments previously made was indicative of my feelings towards anyone, from my relationship to God, to friends, to anything.
There's other things too. Too much for this blog. Perhaps for me as well. I wanted to get back to reviewing my personal calendar, promptly left it at school. It's either God's way of telling me that I cannot schedule my own life regardless of appointments, clocks and deadlines. Or it's another reminder that there's work to be done.
This is the question I asked a colleague on Thursday, probably 3 days too long into asking it. Perhaps it was the theme of my week. Perhaps it was my medication not working (in the past, it was from a lack of being medicated). I know some of it involves my own stubbornness with my devotions and the fact that I tuned out last Sunday at church. The reason isn't so much as an issue as my reaction.
Perhaps it was the lack of time, the overbooking of appointments and the coordinated attempt to document nothing and allow the schedule to dictate my life. Monday began simple enough and I realize this because I cannot even remember the day. Tuesday began the first day of our parent-teacher conference schedule. I was meeting pretty much throughout the night, and most of them were negative in terms of my message to their parents.
"Lack of effort."
"Not focused."
"Could be doing better."
Was I speaking primarily of myself? Perhaps. I spoke to a coworker this past week and said that I had felt I was sitting too much. Delegating responsibilities and jobs, checking on work minimally, barking orders and accomplishing nothing more than to move a pile from one corner of my table to another. It's ironic that my fourth graders were reading the novel, "Loser." We also read a strange fantasy story aptly titled, "The Stranger."
It's no wonder when I switch to the fifth graders, they stare at me with this glossy film. Fourth graders are needier, more immature. The girls are still girls and the boys cry enough to keep Kleenex free from bankruptcy. he fifth graders are a different bunch. Some of my boys are moody and sullen, a few of them downright scary. They can look beyond you at times. The look of a stranger. Most of the time they are talkative, sarcastic. They enjoy making fun of one another on a level reserved for comedians and frat buds. Sometimes, they just don't know how to turn off the switch.
My fifth grade girls are not so much lazy but preoccupied and ever knowledgeable. They don't make my voice rise but they know how to get my teeth grind. Their work comes in late and meticulous. They rarely ever remove their coats as if exposing their t-shirt will somehow reveal their secrets.
We're reading the novel, "To Kill a Mockingbird." A challenge for sure. So far, they are accepting the challenge well. I'm up more, directing lessons and dictating their notes. I can see their frustration at times, not necessarily with the material, but with me hovering over them as I try and manage their wasteful use of time. They are like my new dog. He cowers in his carrier, that security, as I stomp around the house. I give him the same look I give the kids but with different agendas. One peed on the carpet. One is tucking away a drawing, stopped an off-topic conversation.
Wednesday was meetings at church. I am being called in a direction that I had been openly wishing for and received an invite. Can I lead a men's bible study? More importantly, can I realize that God is calling me to act?
Thursday is back to conferences. More of the same but with more volume. I found my very walk in the classroom an aggressive form of Kramer from Seinfeld. Typically I walk away from confrontation and at times I stared too long, forced to say the last word. Even the flicker of a light switch was a damnation of their abilities.
I promptly came home and erupted, went to bed at 9 and woke up fighting again. Friday wasn't much better. Our timing was awful, rushing from one event to the next. Staying home last night and this morning from commitments previously made was indicative of my feelings towards anyone, from my relationship to God, to friends, to anything.
There's other things too. Too much for this blog. Perhaps for me as well. I wanted to get back to reviewing my personal calendar, promptly left it at school. It's either God's way of telling me that I cannot schedule my own life regardless of appointments, clocks and deadlines. Or it's another reminder that there's work to be done.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Bones of a Marriage
It's ironic to me that the message of my week was "busyness" and today is the epitome of "nothingness." God has slowed me down today, even my mind is working on half its normal energy. Grading papers became an arduous task; the circling of adverbs, the last word in alphabetical order neatly underlined. A stuffy nose will do that to you. The Kleenex laying beside me on my tray is a testament to my non activity.
Earlier this week, I finally got around to taking my "Marriage Assessment", which places your attributes and time-starved life on a quadrant. Both Delcina and I had similar attributes, which explains quite a bit to both of us. Because both of us are fairly subjective on our time priorities, we tend to be more like "ish" people. "I'll meet you at 3-ish." I haven't made an appointment on time in years. Why? Not because I don't want to. My dad was a strict rule/time follower. He loves movies, and we would always routinely arrive 30 minutes prior to the opening show. My buddy Dennis is opposite of me as well. When I say 1 o'clock, it means 12:45 to him. For me, it would be 1:15.
With that lax attitude about how special our time is, sometimes jobs get started but never completed. A steady stream of consciousness pervades our thoughts on what is important to fix at home. The end tables that need sanded and refinished, crown molding in the living room, the loose handle on the oven, a new mailbox, the Christmas totes that still need to find a home in the crawl space. Our finances are just as mind boggling. We spend for the now, rather then the furniture. When the other couples in our group study talk about enjoying their cruise vacations, Delcina and I just stare and wonder what we are doing wrong. I always used to blame the fact that both of us were too overweight for that beach vacation, the cruise, but in all honesty, we have never set that as a goal. Maybe we've been doing it all wrong.
And then there's my son. Delcina and I went to counselling to initiate getting my son some help with his tantrums and lack of attention in school and at home. We've been mindful of his outbursts and his "all boyishness" but there comes a time when you run our of options as a parent. What happens when grounding your kid doesn't work? Or spankings? Medication has been something I was hesitant about, but being a teacher makes us both realize how crazy it is to punish someone who just can't help themselves. And sitting there in the office while the counselor fervently writes down our sins and offenses in legal pad put my week in perspective. She kept checking her watch, I kept checking the walls and bookshelf. Del was focused, I yawned and worried about if anyone could hear my chair-gas. Here is the skeleton and bones of my marriage, my life, my fatherhood. All on display. Poor Cruz. He never saw it coming.
School. This week I terminated the option of doing open-ended projects for the colonial life unit we are doing in class. No wonder my kids at school do not get their work turned in on time. Look at their teacher! While I'm grading their acheievemnt in reading aloud, I'm checking on a text message. Why is that word wall collecting dust? Did a dead body just fall out of my desk?
And we get back to Cruz. In a moment of daddyness, I jot down a schedule. Homework, reading, walking the dog, snack time, tv time, etc. And wouldn't you know that was the one moment of the week where I felt like a father again. "Dad, I like my new schedule. I know what I'm doing everyday." We enjoyed playing Star Wars Monopoly (and the teachable moment of organizing his money and property), and he read books to his sister. There was throwing of teddy bears and shouting, but the Cordova house stood firm. Unbroken.
Earlier this week, I finally got around to taking my "Marriage Assessment", which places your attributes and time-starved life on a quadrant. Both Delcina and I had similar attributes, which explains quite a bit to both of us. Because both of us are fairly subjective on our time priorities, we tend to be more like "ish" people. "I'll meet you at 3-ish." I haven't made an appointment on time in years. Why? Not because I don't want to. My dad was a strict rule/time follower. He loves movies, and we would always routinely arrive 30 minutes prior to the opening show. My buddy Dennis is opposite of me as well. When I say 1 o'clock, it means 12:45 to him. For me, it would be 1:15.
With that lax attitude about how special our time is, sometimes jobs get started but never completed. A steady stream of consciousness pervades our thoughts on what is important to fix at home. The end tables that need sanded and refinished, crown molding in the living room, the loose handle on the oven, a new mailbox, the Christmas totes that still need to find a home in the crawl space. Our finances are just as mind boggling. We spend for the now, rather then the furniture. When the other couples in our group study talk about enjoying their cruise vacations, Delcina and I just stare and wonder what we are doing wrong. I always used to blame the fact that both of us were too overweight for that beach vacation, the cruise, but in all honesty, we have never set that as a goal. Maybe we've been doing it all wrong.
And then there's my son. Delcina and I went to counselling to initiate getting my son some help with his tantrums and lack of attention in school and at home. We've been mindful of his outbursts and his "all boyishness" but there comes a time when you run our of options as a parent. What happens when grounding your kid doesn't work? Or spankings? Medication has been something I was hesitant about, but being a teacher makes us both realize how crazy it is to punish someone who just can't help themselves. And sitting there in the office while the counselor fervently writes down our sins and offenses in legal pad put my week in perspective. She kept checking her watch, I kept checking the walls and bookshelf. Del was focused, I yawned and worried about if anyone could hear my chair-gas. Here is the skeleton and bones of my marriage, my life, my fatherhood. All on display. Poor Cruz. He never saw it coming.
School. This week I terminated the option of doing open-ended projects for the colonial life unit we are doing in class. No wonder my kids at school do not get their work turned in on time. Look at their teacher! While I'm grading their acheievemnt in reading aloud, I'm checking on a text message. Why is that word wall collecting dust? Did a dead body just fall out of my desk?
And we get back to Cruz. In a moment of daddyness, I jot down a schedule. Homework, reading, walking the dog, snack time, tv time, etc. And wouldn't you know that was the one moment of the week where I felt like a father again. "Dad, I like my new schedule. I know what I'm doing everyday." We enjoyed playing Star Wars Monopoly (and the teachable moment of organizing his money and property), and he read books to his sister. There was throwing of teddy bears and shouting, but the Cordova house stood firm. Unbroken.
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