Reflections From the Heart

Aside

That Special Someone

From the beginning, I loved Mark’s adventurous spirit for the outdoors and watching him interact with my gang. He took us on weekend outings and summer vacations. They included dove hunting with my son, camp-outs on the beach, air shows, the circus, barbecues at the parks, and a vacation to Disney World. Even though raised in Miami, I had never been to Disney World and recall that I was as excited to go as the kids were.

Our all-time favorite excursion: A ten-day road trip to his hometown in California. We stopped in San Diego and spent the entire day at the zoo, the largest and grandest I had ever seen or strolled through. Our second day was in Los Angeles, where I knew we’d bump into Hollywood glitter to brag about back home.

I was right, too. Well, sort of.

To my shock, a few yards away, I spotted a celebrity in the crowd at Universal Studios. I saw the back of his head, and then he turned just enough for me to see his profile. He wasn’t Tom Cruise. He wasn’t Mel Gibson. He wasn’t exactly your Prince Charming … Of course, my kids didn’t know of him. Yep, I called out his name. He turned and waved right at me. It was him, all right. Tiny Tim! His song, Tiptoe Through the Tulips played in my head for the rest of that day. Ugh!

In Monterey, we cruised along the 17-mile drive, passing greenery, plush golf courses, Clint Eastwood’s home, and the infamous Lone Cypress tree we’d seen only in photos before. We hung out at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and toured the Museum of Natural History. We stopped in Salinas, visited Mark’s aunt, and continued to Modesto. We spent the night at his brother’s home and watched the children happily camp out in their backyard under a full moon in a tent.

Come morning, on to Yosemite National Park. As far as the eye could see, the view was breathtaking, beautiful, and serene. We enjoyed a picnic, watched a waterfall nearby, and then the little ones wanted to explore. Wherever Mark led, the children followed. The kids trailed him, fearlessly climbing one rock after another. I never cared much for heights, so I took pictures on “lower” ground.

Just as I started to worry, weren’t there bears around? My kiddos raced back towards me, down the trail with Mark in tow.

“Mommy! Mommy!” they cried in unison. “Guess what?”

“Where’d you guys go?” I asked. “I started to get—”

“You should have seen Mark,” they said, trying to talk at once.

As Mark drew closer, I noticed his clothes were soaking wet, a sheepish grin on his face. Apparently, when he wanted to venture farther along the riverbank, he instructed the kids to wait for him while he climbed higher. But when it was time to descend, Mark found himself in a tight spot. The drop was much further down from where he stood to try to hop off. After some scheming, he threw his wallet and keys where the children were, then dove into the cold river and swam until he could gain a better footing and get back up on track.

Amidst the chatter, I teased Mark by saying he had really fallen into the river (instead of voluntarily jumping in). However, he and the kids insisted that he deliberately dove in when he ran out of options. We would joke about this for years to come.

Unknowingly, those voyages were just the beginning of wonderful memories my children shared with their step-dad, who, lovingly, selflessly, and so “bravely” (as my brother puts it) stepped up to the plate and welcomed us with open arms. That husband of mine became more than just a “step” dad.

It takes a strong man to accept somebody else’s children and step up to the plate another man left on the table…

~ Ray Johnson

I love my husband for striving to be the best Daddy he can be for my children. It seems to have come naturally to him, ever since day one, when we crossed paths some twenty-three years ago.

By the way, that special someone makes a great, fun-loving “Papa” for our grandkids, too.

10 Comments

June 11, 2014 · 9:34 PM

Aside

A Message from Maxwell – adding Value to Others

If you’re truly going to be significant, you have to add value to other people.

Recently, my husband and I attended a John Maxwell seminar, which we thoroughly enjoyed. A trajectory of wit coupled with wisdom ensued from this man’s lips.

Here are seven meaningful questions I jotted down and continue to reflect upon. What a great exercise!

What’s the greatest lesson you’ve learned in life?
What are you learning now?
How has failure shaped your life?
Who do you know that I should know?
What have you read that I should read?
What have you experienced or done that I should do?
How can I add value to you?

Your turn! As you think about the questions above, how would you answer them?

11 Comments

June 5, 2014 · 11:01 AM

Aside

Heaven, Hell or Hoboken – Part II

1965

Out in Jersey’s bitter cold, the moon full, the trees rustled. Mama and I spent half the night shivering, huddled together on a bus bench—my head on her lap.

“M-Mama,” my teeth chattered. “I’m cold.”

“I am, too. Now, stay still.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I know, Mary. Close your eyes. That bum. Where is he?”

We would have frozen if a kind woman hadn’t invited us up to her place to sleep on her sofa overnight.

Whenever Mama cornered Jimmy in a bar, drinking his pay away, after bickering over dinero, she’d remain with him. If I happened to be around, they sent me away, or Mama left me at home by myself. It saddened me how she preferred being with him rather than with me. Often, they’d stagger home and pass out in a stupor. Only then did the arguments cease and the fights end.

More often than not, I’d gone to bed with the sound of my stomach rumbling. Mama and Jimmy routinely barged in from a night of carousing.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Why are you awake?”

“Can you fix me something to eat?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s late.” She turned on the hotplate to fry a hot dog. A few minutes later, she’d have one for me rolled inside a slice of bread. “Here. Sit up.”

“Fix me one, too,” Jimmy demanded.

“Hold your horses,” Mama snapped.

As soon as I finished, I lay back down, my eyelids heavy. Eventually, the bright lights in the room faded. My parents’ fussing drifted away as sleep overtook me, but not before I heard familiar sounds. A can is popping open. Cursing. A slap. Sobs.

Unsure as to why, one evening Jimmy overturned the bed that Mama and I slept in. We tumbled onto the hard floor. As Mama struggled to rise, Jimmy pulled her by the arm and shoved her into a windowpane. Jimmy became aware of my presence, and after he flipped the bed upright, he ordered me back into it. I faced the wall, sniffling until I fell asleep.

The next morning, I awoke to the sight of a blood-spattered Mama hobbling on crutches. I ran to help her.

“Mama, what happened?”

“It’s nothing, Mary. Stop crying! I tripped, that’s all.”

I couldn’t help but wonder, Why did she think I didn’t know anything?

I knew some things. I hid loose change and planned to save enough money to take care of Mama one day. In my childish mind, I knew that one day we were going to live in a big house, have plenty to eat, and Mama wouldn’t ever have to worry again.

That afternoon, I heard cursing and knew it wasn’t good. A rattling sound echoed around the wall, as if something were whirling in a container. Then, to see Jimmy shaking my pink, plastic kitty bank upside down in mid-air, my pennies, dimes, and nickels clattering onto the floor, made me feel weak and sick inside.

I followed the coins that rolled under a chair and dove for them. I looked up, my eyes darting between Mama and Jimmy, hoping she’d do something. Mama called him a “jackass,” but that didn’t stop him. He couldn’t care less that I knelt there sobbing. He expressed zero shame as he scooped the scattered change into his pocket. My coins.

Later, Mama told me that Jimmy was just thirsty and to stop sniffling. “He’ll return the money soon enough,” she said. I knew that wasn’t true.

On my knees, I gathered up the broken pieces of my kitty bank. With no more tears left, I seethed, thinking, maybe Mama can take care of herself. And maybe I’ll never talk to her again. Or to Jimmy. And maybe I’ll run away . . . to my real daddy.

(Excerpt from Running in Heels – a continuation of Part I)

15 Comments

May 28, 2014 · 7:20 PM

Image

Memorial Day Tribute

Freedom isn’t free.

My 19-year-old grandpa, Florentino Mendez – 1916

Please take a moment to remember those who gave their time and even their lives fighting for the freedom we have each day. God bless America.

4 Comments

May 22, 2014 · 10:10 PM

May 14, 2014 · 9:26 PM

Into the Shark Tank – Part Two

An hour later, reluctantly, I arrived at the clinic holding the door open, and ushering the girls inside. I noticed there were no other kids or parents scheduled at the same time as we were. I wondered if they had opened just for us. I rang the bell at the counter, took a questionnaire to fill out, and plopped into a chair. My girls busied themselves exploring their surroundings, investigating all the toys and books a-plenty.

The waiting room was kid-friendly, but it felt cold, like a funeral home. Cushioned chairs lined the walls, plastered with billboards regarding child safety laws. Small toys were scattered on the gray linoleum, and bookshelves were crammed with picture books and stuffed animals. A small fish tank rested on the counter, and a yellow Lego table sat in the middle of the room. Above the sign-in window hung a large round clock.

I wanted to flee, but I rang the bell again.

A petite, white-coated woman emerged behind the counter. She looked odd wearing glasses too large for her narrow face, with an over-exaggerated smile just as wide. She held a clipboard in her hand and glanced down, skimming the pages.

“The gangs all here?” she inquired.

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Right on time. I will be calling your girls one by one to go into the examining room.”

“Do I get to go in, too?” I asked.

She answered with a phony grin.“Won’t be necessary.” Then, she turned and called in a sing-song voice, “Anna?”

She and Anna Marie disappeared behind the door. I glanced at the clock.

I flipped through the pages of a magazine. Diana tossed a picture book onto my lap, which she wanted me to read. Glad to occupy some time, I made up the words and pretended to read to her.

Minutes passed before Ms. White-Coat, with her fake smile and tone, returned. Anna Marie skipped by, chewing gum, and joined her sisters.

“Diana. You’re next,” Ms. White-Coat chirped. Diana glared at her suspiciously, but when White-Coat produced a piece of candy, Diana’s face lit up. They vanished behind the door.

My mind scrambled as I paced.

What questions are they asking Diana? She won’t understand, nor will she be able to answer properly. They’ll trick her or have her repeat whatever they want her to say. What if they ask if her Mommy ever spanks her? Or takes things away? Or sends her to her room?

I wanted to drill Anna Marie about what Ms. White-Coat had asked, but feared the room might be bugged.

I stared at the clock, unseeing. The tick-tock of the second hand turned. I peered out the curtain and watched an ant crawl along the windowsill, carrying a big crumb in its mouth, too heavy of a load for such a tiny thing. Like I sometimes felt.

Diana wasn’t kept long. The door burst open, and she scampered out with a balloon in her hand and a grape BlowPop in her mouth. I smiled. She’s no dummy; she got what she wanted. I hope Diana gave Ms. White-Coat-Goodie-Two-Shoe a run for her money.

“Okay, I guess we have finished anyway,” she said out of breath. “That leaves you, my dear. Angela, right?”

My baby girl held onto my leg, shielding her face. “Mommy, no,” she pleaded.

“It’s okay, Angela. Mommy will be right here waiting,” I said.

White-Coat held a doll and, in her ever-so-fake-sweet voice, coaxed my daughter to go in with her.

Once the examination finished, another woman came out to talk with me. She introduced herself with a last name I couldn’t pronounce. I read her name tag: Gretchen. She told me that the physicals went well. The tests came out clean, and she saw that my girls were happy and that I cared for them. Yet, on account of our history of alcohol and violence, she deemed our home an unsafe environment for the girls.

Here it comes. I held my breath and stared at the floor.

“We understand your dire straits; however, due to your present condition”—I cradled my belly— “and financial situation, you have expressed that you have no other place to go. For this reason, we must remove the girls from the home today into a more stable and suitable environment.”

A wave of nausea washed over me.

She rambled on. “Before the girls can return home, you must provide a safe place for them to return to, or . . . your husband moves . . . .”

Lost in my thoughts, my mind spun; her voice faded in and out.

“. . . recommendations . . . ,” “. . . counseling . . . ,” “. . . seek professional . . . ,”
“. . . proper care . . . ,” “. . . unfit . . . ,” “. . . temporarily . . .,” “. . . so sorry . . . .”

Stability, I thought. Where were these jokers when I was a kid?

My baby kicked. I went back to the waiting area, feeling light-headed.

“Girls, Mommy has to go away now.” On bended knee, at eye level, I struggled to control my queasiness and hide the devastation in my voice. This is the darkest day of my life!

“You will be staying at another place for a short time . . . until you can come back home again. . .” I felt my composure slipping and didn’t want to say too much, as I didn’t want to alarm them.

“You’ll have fun.” A tear escaped my eye. “Remember, Mommy loves you so much. . .” I felt I might freak out at any time, bawl in front of them, and never stop.

“Give Mommy a kiss. Mommy will see you again soon. I promise.”

Anna Marie focused more on the toys in her hands than on what I struggled to convey. She nodded when I gave her a kiss and a tight squeeze. Diana repeated, “Bye-bye,” hugging her balloon instead of me.

But my two-year-old Angela clung to me tightly. She wouldn’t let go and began to cry hard. Somehow, she understood. She felt my pain.

After kissing and hugging the girls, I trotted away as quickly as possible, leaving them behind with a CPS worker. Sobbing in the elevator, I couldn’t breathe. My heart ripped from my chest. Seeing black spots, vigorous waves thrashed about in my head. I felt like a drowning child again, greedily grasping for air; only this time, CPS sharks encircled me, and I was the bait.

I was five-and-a-half months pregnant. I cradled my belly, holding my unborn child in the safety of my womb. They won’t take this one away from me!

I numbly attended a brief court session and had to consent to relinquish temporary custody of my daughters to foster care. I went through the motions of that ordeal alone, but remembering the details afterward remained a blur. When I arrived home to the empty apartment, the quietness jarred me. I imagined my girl’s chatter and giggles. My head echoed with what a failure I was. Hadn’t God given me three innocent beauties to care for? My own heart felt like I’d surely die from brokenness. And guilt.

“Where are the girls?” Donny demanded after he came home and looked around.

“Where do you think they are?” I growled. The look of shock on his face drove me forward, fueled by rage. Before he uttered another word, I lashed out, “CPS took them so they can be someplace safe. They have a right to a healthy, normal childhood that I never had. You’re not going to take that away from them!” I ran from his sight, locked myself in the bathroom, and bawled my eyes out.

“Mary, come on,” Donny pleaded. “Whatever it takes, we’ll get them back.”

He almost sounds like he cares. “Go away.”

“You’re going to get yourself sick. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You’re going to have to come out sooner or later.” His voice trailed away.

“I can’t stand you!” I shouted.

But I hated myself even more.

(Although more in the book, this completes the excerpt from Chapter 32, “Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace.” To read Part One of this chapter, go here. In posting this for you, my readers, the emotions of those three dreary months as a young, struggling mother were some of the hardest I’d ever gone through. Prayer sustained me. God’s Grace got me through.)

19 Comments

Filed under Memoir

Tagged as alcoholism, Children Protective Services, CPS, domestic affairs, Family, social, struggles

May 7, 2014 · 10:01 PM

A Mother Too, Yet Still My Baby

My dear daughter, I’ve watched you blossom, married, and have children. Throughout those years, the depth of your eyes tells its own story — stories of joy, sadness, pain, and love. I remember the moments when I walked similar paths, the ups and downs of yesteryear. However, I’m stronger today than I was yesterday. And so you shall be.

Daughter, I am proud of you and your love for your children. You are a nurturing, giving, and selfless mother, quick to forgive, and never too busy for a hug. I just want you to know you’re doing a fine job. And I love you.

My beautiful baby girl, Angela, with her precious baby girl, Grace. Little did we know that Grace would undergo open-heart surgery just a few weeks later.

Look at me now! God’s miracle at 2 1/2 months old

Three-year-old Grace with her big brothers Christopher and Ryan.

My daughter’s pride and joy.

Angela, you did phenomenally! Thank you for my precious grandchildren!

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Filed under motherhood

Tagged as Baby Girl, daughter, Family, motherhood

May 3, 2014 · 11:59 AM

Into the Shark Tank – Part One

Tired. Bone tired.

At Rice Food Market, on my feet six nights a week, I worked the cash register, sacked and lifted heavy brown sacks loaded with groceries from 5 PM until closing at midnight. By the end of my shift, my feet swelled. My back ached. But the job provided health insurance and a six-month maternity leave with pay. This was an answer to my prayers; God had provided for me.

I usually didn’t get home until one in the morning. To my good fortune, I worked directly across the street from our apartment on Bissonnet. A teenage neighbor watched our daughters for a couple of hours and fed them before my husband arrived home. I’d leave work at break time to check in on him and the girls in the evenings.

Too often, I’d find my husband draped across the couch, out cold.

“Donny . . . Donny . . . .” I stood over him, shaking his arm. “Dammit Donny, wake up.”

“What? I am awake!” he spat and turned over.

“You’re supposed to put the girls to sleep before passing out. Remember?”

“Theyrslumppnng . . .”

“What—? You make me sick!”

I stormed away to check in on my sleeping angels. Before I opened their door, I heard whispering and giggling coming from the kitchen.

I never imagined how I’d find my girls entertaining themselves. On the floor amidst my pots and pans, they sat with the refrigerator door open. Five-year-old Anna Marie pretended to cook. She mixed her sisters a concoction of whatever she found in the fridge: raw eggs, ketchup, Pepto-Bismol, mayonnaise, grape jelly—and Lord knew what else—stirred in for good measure. I got home in the nick of time. Good Lord, I think I even smell beer in the mixture!

I wanted to quit work. But I needed to hold on to those maternity benefits.

A few nights later, I discovered the two youngest girls precariously hanging out the window of our second-story apartment—fearlessly leaning on their bellies, legs flying in mid-air—my heart swelled in my throat. Concerned for their safety, I didn’t want to frighten them or have them keel over the windowsill. And I happened to be extremely skittish about heights.

¡Calmete! I told myself. You don’t want a repeated episode of having your baby early. I held my breath. I snuck behind them, grabbed them, and pulled them in.

For me, repeatedly finding the girls unsupervised and unattended became too much to bear. They deserved better. They didn’t need to see their father’s belligerent drunkenness. They didn’t need to hear their parents fighting, name-calling, and screaming. What they needed and deserved was a non-hostile environment—a safe refuge—filled with love, security, and self-esteem. And as their parents, we failed to give them that.

I imagined what our neighbors thought about us whenever uproars detonated through the walls of our apartment.

One evening, I found out.

A couple of police officers knocked on our door. I wasn’t too surprised, but by then, all was calm. Donny, in a drunken coma, had passed out.

The cops noticed I’d been weeping; however, I didn’t have any visible bruises on me. I never pressed charges against my husband before. Call me stupid. But I wasn’t going to then either. After some specific questioning, they gathered that I needed help. They asked if the girls and I had any other place to go or relatives close by. Naturally, I thought about fleeing to Miami, but even if we were to get there, then what?

Seeing our substandard living conditions, they handed me a Child Protective Services’ calling card. They strongly advised that I take the girls in for a routine medical examination in the morning. How many times had my mother dealt with them when I was a kid? I knew nothing embodied “routine” when CPS became involved.

Early the next day, I bathed and dressed my girls in their prettiest dresses. I silently brushed their hair in pigtails, making ringlets with my fingers. I listened to their chatter, blinking away tears, and savored the moment to admire their beauty and uniqueness.

“Mommy, where we goin’?” Angela asked. “Put dis ribbon in my hair.”

“Lookie, Mommy, I can tie my shoes.” Anna Marie grinned.

“Ouchie! Don’t pull my hair, Mommy.”

“Balloon?” Diana asked, thinking we were going to the store.

“Mommy, are you sad?”

“Your tummy is gettin’ big again, Mommy.”

A few hours later, heartbroken and devastated, I was silently praying for their quick return.

(To be continued.)

This is a short excerpt from “Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace,” Chapter 32. In this snippet, I reflect back to a time when my role as a young mother wasn’t so easy. With Mother’s Day soon approaching, I felt it was appropriate to share this with you.

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Filed under Memoir

Tagged as alcholism, Children Protective Services, CPS, domestic affairs, Family, motherhood, struggles

April 28, 2014 · 7:11 AM

The Measure of Days

Meet Elizabeth. My husband, daughter, and I care for her. For the past six days, she has been in the hospital. Without delving into all the medical jargon, her quality of life is the key to the time she has left with us. She may be elderly. She may be frail. But she has the heart of a lioness! She is like family. She has not only enriched our lives but also all with whom she comes into contact. After a specialist performed a procedure on her, his words to us were, “Well, I didn’t want it to happen, had no intention of letting it happen, but she got to me. She’s in,” he said and added, “She’s in here,” pointing to his heart.

Indeed, to know her is to love her. Today, she’s back home with us, and we are grateful. I cannot help but think about the measure of time she has left with us.

I think about an hourglass; time flowing like sand, slipping away.

Photo Credit: ipsbmtc via Compfight cc

I think about the tick-tock of a clock, a timepiece of the human heart’s mortality.

Photo Credit: Left Foot via Compfight cc

“LORD, make me to know my end, and the measure of my days, what it is: that I may know how frail I am.” Psalm 39:4

The above scripture reminds me that life is fleeting. Although I cannot truly measure my days, I will strive to make each day count and remember that while I may be weak, my God is strong. When I think about life, I can’t help but think about a 103-year-old woman named Elizabeth with her zest for life, her love for others, and all that she means to me!

I wrote about this remarkable woman before; you can read my post here This Lesson Called Life

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Filed under elderly

Tagged as elderly, life, quality of life, time

April 19, 2014 · 6:15 PM

Easter Reflections

Four Generations – Easter 2007

My granddaughter Grace – 2011

My precious grandchildren: Ryan & Grace – 2012

He is risen!

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Filed under Easter

Tagged as Easter, Easter reflections, Family

April 10, 2014 · 11:33 AM

Memory Lane …

Do you remember something as a child that stood out? I have plenty! Here are some of mine mentioned in my memoir, Running in Heels:

“I remember the unpleasant chalky taste of Phillip’s Milk of Magnesia and the fishy tasting cod liver oil by the spoonfuls, administered for any complaints or discomforts given to me for cures by Grandma. Those included the green rubbing alcohol, Vicks VapoRub, and Mercurochrome for fever, colds, or scrapes, respectively. They were Grandma’s tried-and-true remedies coupled with a prayer or two.”

Here’s another one:

Photo Credit: deeplifequotes via Compfight cc

“Fascinated with ant piles, I liked to dig apart their colonies to watch the different activities of the workers, the soldiers, and the queen ant that I read about in books. I never developed a fear of grasshoppers, even if they spat “tobacco” on my fingers, or of handling caterpillars that pricked when they crawled on my hand, or of sneaking up on lizards that left their wiggling tails behind, wondering what the funny red thing on their throats going in and out was all about.”

And one more:

“As a treat before bedtime, Grandpa always gave me a cup of eggnog made with warm milk, an egg yolk, and sugar. He said it would help me to sleep after a hot bath. He was right. Sleep came like a welcome friend.”

As a memoirist, I find that one word can trigger an event. I dig deep and write some pleasant ones as a child: bubbles, puppies, balloons, swings, ice cream, Easter...!

Definition of memory: 1) The faculty by which the mind stores and remembers information. 2) Something remembered from the past; a recollection. The mind is fascinating and stores a lot of information and images. We know that there are two types of memories – pleasant and unpleasant.