I don’t know what to do today. Perhaps I’ll go outside and play, or stay indoors and watch TV, or take a bath, or climb a tree.
Or maybe I’ll go ride my bike, or pick my nose, or take a hike, or jump a rope, or scratch my head, or play a game, or stay in bed, or dance a jig, or pet the cat, or drink some milk, or buy a hat, or sing a song, or read a book, or change my socks, or learn to cook, or dig a hole, or eat a pear, or call my friends, or brush my hair, or hold my breath, or have a race, or stand around and slap my face.
I’m so confused, and bored, and blue, to not know what I ought to do. I guess that I should just ask you. So, what do you think I should do?
I came across this children’s humorous poem about not knowing what to do, and it immediately transported me back to the days when my kids were little.
Back then, outside of TV, the only technology we had was the Atari. We played games like Pong and Asteroids, does anyone remember those? But honestly, some of my favorite entertainment had nothing to do with any of that. It was watching my kids make up their own fun, especially when they were doing aerobics in the living room and calling out:
“Watch me, Mommy.”
“Mommy, look at this.”
“See what I can do, Mommy?”
Those little moments were priceless.
Today, my grown children each have their own unique gifts, talents, and personalities. I still love hearing from them, whether it’s through a phone call, text, or email. My heart still skips a beat whenever they achieve something wonderful. They continue to make me smile, and we still laugh together.
Children grow up so quickly. Blink, and suddenly you’re wondering where all the years went. Cherish those moments while you can.
(I originally shared this post back in 2013, but the memories are still just as special. Some things are worth revisiting.)
By the way, here’s a sketch I drew of my kids some 40 years ago.
We have five family members with birthdays this month. On Aug. 11th, Daddy turns 93.
I’ve written so many stories of him over the years because he has given me so many stories to tell. With his animated personality, he has always been a natural storyteller. If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you’ve probably met him more than once.
These days, I find myself thinking less about the big moments, and more about the little ones. The sound of his voice. His warm smile when he sees me. The comfort of simply sitting beside him.
At 93, every birthday feels a little more precious.
“Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained in a righteous life.” —Proverbs 16:31
So this year, I won’t say much. Just say thank you.
Thank you for a lifetime of love, for believing in me, and for being the first man I ever looked up to.
Happy birthday, Daddy!
I love you.
“Every wrinkle on his face is a story I’m grateful to know.”
Not the kind of hungry a snack fixes. The kind that settles into your bones when you’re small and poor and there’s not much in the refrigerator.
So when I think back to the smells of my childhood, the first one that finds me isn’t café con leche or a pot of arroz con pollo bubbling on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a hot dog. Frying. In the middle of the night.
I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I was home alone and had fallen asleep, waiting. I heard the door open in the wee hours of the morning. Mama and my stepfather were home from a night out. Still tipsy. Loud in the way grown-ups get home late at night when they think the little ones are asleep.
Half asleep, I called out the only thing on my mind.
Mama. I’m hungry.
She grumbled, surprised that I was still awake. But she went straight to that hotplate and started frying me a hot dog. When my stepfather asked her to make him one too, she put him right in his place.
Hold your horses.
Me first.
In her own imperfect way, she chose me that night. Eyes barely open, I ate that hot dog in bed like it was a feast.
Because it was.
But the smells and sounds that shaped me most came later.
I spent three precious years with my grandparents in their small two-bedroom apartment in sunny Miami.
At the time, I thought it was just life. I didn’t know yet that those three years would become the safest years of my childhood.
I knew I was loved there before I even opened my eyes in the morning. I could hear the soft clattering of dishes in the kitchen, my grandmother up and moving, already starting the day before it had even begun. Near the curtain window, doves cooed somewhere nearby. And always, always, there was the aroma of Spanish coffee.
On the radio, Paul Harvey’s warm, unhurried voice filled the room. And now… the rest of the story. Even the radio felt steady in that house.
My grandfather was a man of few words. Strong, quiet, and deeply loving toward my grandma. He didn’t cook; that was entirely Grandma’s domain, but he showed up in every other way a man can.
Every morning, he walked me to school. Every afternoon, he walked me home. No big speeches. No lessons announced. He allowed me to speak, asking how my day went. Just his presence, steady as a heartbeat, beside me on the sidewalk while I chattered along.
He read the Bible every day and the newspaper front to back. And every Sunday, after church, we took the city bus to a cafeteria for lunch and then to the library in downtown Miami, where we’d spend hours wandering among the books. Looking back, I think that was his way of showing me the world.
And Grandma.
She cooked three warm meals a day, every single day. I didn’t know until I was older that she wasn’t the best cook. It didn’t matter. To a little girl who had gone to bed hungry more times than she could count, three warm meals a day felt like abundance. Like being rich.
If you didn’t finish your plate, there was no dessert. Simple as that.
But what I remember most about Grandma wasn’t the food. It was the sound of her.
She hummed gospel songs through everything, while ironing on the aluminum table on laundry day, at the sewing machine, at her big black typewriter, or crocheting in her rocker.
Worship wasn’t just for Sundays with Grandma.
Grandma hummed while doing everything, always moving, making something, doing for others, always grateful.
And on Sundays, we dressed in our best.
I didn’t have many dresses, but what I had was always clean and pressed. Grandma made sure of that. We walked into church looking like we belonged there, because she believed we did.
The church was our source of strength, comforting and encouraging us in a way that held us together through the week. I would watch my grandmother in the pew, her eyes glistening with tears she didn’t bother to wipe away.
She wasn’t performing. She was just… grateful. Deeply, quietly, overflowingly grateful to God.
I didn’t fully understand it then. But I was watching faith with skin on it. And it was leaving its mark on me.
I was sent back to live with Mama when I was twelve. That chapter is its own story, and not an easy one.
But I still carry the memories with me.
The soft sheets between my toes. The cooing of the doves outside my window. The aroma of coffee. Paul Harvey’s mellow voice. My grandfather’s footsteps beside mine. And my grandmother’s humming over the daily chores of our home.
Those smells and sounds didn’t just shape my childhood.
As a young girl, I knew I had the best Daddy in the world. Although my parents were divorced, he’d come for me throughout the years.
I loved it when he took me to the parks. My daddy may have been short, but he was a big kid at heart and loads of fun. He had a knack for mimicking different sounds. Children laughed whenever he cried out like Tarzan on the jungle gym. He wouldn’t hesitate to push me high on the swing. I squealed with delight when he ran in front and scrambled away right in time before I could kick him. He’d twirl me on the merry-go-round until we couldn’t go anymore and tumbled on the ground from exhaustion. Me from laughing hard; he from running in circles.
Daddy worked as the produce manager in a huge grocery chain store. He was a hard worker and a model employee. A friendly and robust people person, he never grew tired of chatting with his customers and telling them jokes. His dark eyes twinkled with glee. The mirth in his thick Puerto Rican accent, mixed with his animated personality, charmed all.
Sometimes Daddy caused havoc, but always in fun. He often mimicked the sound of a kitten near the produce stand at work to see the children’s reactions. Once, an elderly woman hunted everywhere for the pobrecito. Then another time, while whistling like a bird, he had customers looking up for one. He even imitated a newborn’s cry.
“Excuse me, sir, but don’t you hear a baby crying somewhere?” a worried customer asked.
“A baby? No, no,” he answered. “No baby over here.” Daddy chuckled as he related to me how he watched the mystified customer walk away, shaking her head.
Daddy told me another story about a little boy in a shopping cart. The boy kept staring at him the whole time. His mother was across the aisle, weighing her vegetables.
“I smiled at da boy and asket his name, but he dun say noteen,” Daddy explained. “He just keep lookin’ and lookin’ at me, like I’m ugly or somethin’.”
“Then what did you do?” I asked and chuckled.
“I dun do noteen . . .” Daddy’s eyes twinkled.
“Go on,” I persisted, knowing of his pranks.
“I just smiled big and stuck out my bottom dentures at da boy.”
“No, Daddy, you didn’t!” I laughed, remembering him doing that very thing before, enough to startle anyone.
“Yeah, but then da boy started cryin’, so I got outta there fast,” Daddy said guiltily. “I dunno where I get these jokes. You got a funny papi, eh?”
“Yeah.” I giggled. “Muy loco, all right. Tell me the story about the goat sucker in Puerto Rico,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“¡Oh, si!” Daddy exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “¡El Chupacabra! Dis thin’ dat went round to all the animales suckin’ their blood dry.”
“Yep, that’s the one,” I said.
“Man, da people get so scared and say it’s some kind of diablo. They say, ‘sierra la puerta’, close your door, El Chupacabra is goin’ to suck your blood!”
“Ya ever see one, Daddy?”
“No, no, I never see dat thin’ in my life.” He chuckled and added, “I dunno if I believe it.”
“Well, it’s sure an awful, scary story.” I shuddered at the possibilities.
Yes, my daddy has always been a natural-born storyteller. I could sit and listen to him for hours. “Tell me again about the first time you left Puerto Rico on the plane.”
“When I left my hometown Utuado in 1952?” His eyes flickered miles away, as he mused. “Flyin’ in dat two-engine airplane made me so scared. I needed to go to el baño so bad. The stewardess want to tell me somteen. Pues, I dunno what she say; I dunno any Inglish then. She talk louder but I dun understand; I just wanna go. I try to make her understand me, so I jell to her, ‘I no spic inglish! I no spic inglish!’”
As I listened to his broken English, I laughed until my sides ached and my eyes watered.
My Papi, Benjamin Pérez
“Daddy, you didn’t know how to speak English when you were nineteen?”
“No hija, I didn’. Later, my cousin in New York explained to me that da stewardess just wanted me to put my seatbelt on. Ay bendito nene,” Daddy laughed. “I didn’ understand noteen.”
“Hey Papi,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Ya know what?”
“¿Que mi vida?”
“Ya still have an accent.”
“Ju tellin’ me, man.” He laughed.
This is a story about my father (who recently turned 92 years old). His character is one part of the tapestry of Running in Heels: a Memoir of Grit and Grace. Now, I’m translating the memoir into Spanish to honor my Puerto Rican roots and reach hearts that need this story. I can’t do it without you! Help me bring grit and grace to new readers.
Creative Director – Charlie Duggar featuring artists: Evan Craft, Danny Gokey, Redimi2 – “Be Alright” Tercer Cielo – “Yo Te Extrañare” Boyz II Men – “A Song for Mama” Elvis Presley – “Take My Hand, Precious Lord” Josh Groban – “You Raise Me Up” Mercy Me – “I Can Only Imagine”
I have always had a desire to visit Puerto Rico. It is known as “Isla del Encanto“, the “Island of Enchantment” and is the small island of my ancestors. This desire has been with me ever since I can remember. Plans to go failed over the years for one reason or another, but the third time was the charm!
Our first visit to Puerto Rico for our 30th wedding anniversary was set. After making the flight reservations and renting an Airbnb, we were so excited. We were thrilled to have some family members join us! Our baby girl, my lit’l brother, cousins, hubby, and I made the 6 of us. ¡Wepa!
¡Hola me gente!The Flor de Maga: the official flower of the Commonwealth of PRSome of the colorful buildings in Old San Juan, P.R.Going to enjoy a little grub after our walk.Bright blue Caribbean Ocean view at Castillo San Felipe del Morro in San Juan.Our daughter had these awesome tumblers specifically made for us.This was an entire roasted pig: Lechon AsadoTower of Fort Castillo de San CristóbalThis cat sanctuary looks after the community cat colony of Paseo del Morro in the historic San Juan district‘When you dance with your heart, your feet follow.’Hanging out with some of Puerto Rico’s colorful majestic parrots.Luquillo Beach, also called Balneario de la Monserrate, where the sand varies in color from ivory to golden and darker on the north side due to the trees. I sure almost tumbled twice. Thank you, brother, for having my back!
Those rocks are slick!This Guava chicken was as good as it looks! ¡Ay que rico!This is the tour boat that will take us on a 4-hour snorkeling adventure!Love doing life with my soul-mate.These sea turtles swimming under us were enormous!Love these two souls.
These are the 6 fun-loving crazies enjoying our last evening together in Puerto Rico on the patio. We shared tons of stories, many delicious meals, and loads of laughter. We plan on getting together again, hopefully with even more family members.
I wholeheartedly loved our time in Puerto Rico and learning about its fascinating culture. I enjoyed the few excursions, which required much walking on cobblestone streets, narrow sidewalks, curb ramps, and steep hills. Visiting El Yunque Rainforest was truly enjoyable. Getting on a boat for my first snorkeling adventure, allowed me to see some of the wonders of marine life underwater. It was so worth it!
I found it interesting that the little chirping Coquí frogs are the national symbol for Puerto Rico. Just like the Puerto Rican people, they are resilient. Their voices are loud, and they will be heard! The Coquí is the perfect national symbol for Puerto Rico. It is a small island with a small frog. Yet, it has a BIG VOICE. Besides, these tiny creatures would have kept me up all night if I hadn’t had my earplugs on!
I did a thing today. It wasn’t a biggie—well, maybe it was—for me. This morning, I decided to post my mother’s power lift recliner on Nextdoor. Within a couple of hours, it sold.
That was Mama’s chair.
We always covered her chair to prevent stains from food or drinks. It still looked new. It’s where Mama sat all day, getting up only to use the restroom and then returning to her chair. This chair was perfect for her, comfortable in every way. She had a hand-held mirror and combed her hair every day while sitting there. She’d put on her lipstick and do her eyebrows in that chair.
She told stories and greeted family members. She welcomed guests and the many medical personnel who tended to her while she sat in that chair. Sometimes, for hours, she scrolled through her phone. She watched her favorite cooking shows and cute animal videos in that chair.
She laughed in that chair.
She watched her TV shows, ate her meals, and enjoyed her cafecito sitting there.
She cried in that chair.
That chair was her dining room, her office … and even her bed.
I would have held onto her chair for the memories, but I feared I would have become a hoarder instead. I knew I had to let go. I prayed and believed there was someone else out there who would benefit from using this chair. They would gain some comfort and support from it.
The buyer came and took the chair.
Another hole in my heart …
Looking at this photo, I still see Mama in that chair.
“Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” Vicki Harrison
She was weak, frail, with no appetite. I prayed that Mama would make it to Mother’s Day. She did and left us at 3 pm on that very day! I believe she truly received the best gift possible. She no longer has any pain or discomfort. She doesn’t have to worry about anything or anyone else.
I had told her that I would, and I did. Three months had passed. With my immediate family, I took some of Mama’s remains to bury. We placed them alongside her parents, my grandparents. We also buried her next to my baby sister. She was tragically struck down by a hit-and-run driver at the tender age of two, some 55 years ago.
Everyone expresses life and death differently. What we did was another way to honor Mama and her memory. I know that Mama is in heaven, and not in a shallow grave. You see, doing this was more about healing for us. We are at peace knowing we did something to honor her life. Through it all—and there were many bumps in the road—Mama was loved, and she is now with her Savior. In the end: Love. Won!
"Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me.In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also. And where I go you know, and the way you know.”
John 14:1-4
So I made this Valentine charcuterie board just for Mama.
A cute basket was made by her great-granddaughter! Bless to still have Mama in our lives!
Happy Valentines y’all!
Side Note: No, Mama did not eat all of these sugary sweets; the majority given away. It was a colorful and sweet gesture that she enjoyed looking over – and pink is her favorite color. LOL
The Spanish translation of Running in Heels is complete—but the journey isn’t over. This memoir of grit and grace is being prepared for publication in Spanish, to reach hearts across cultures and generations. From family setbacks to divine provision, every step has been a testimony.
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