Sergio II
Ichiro…my first born son, his name is Sergio Antonio, go figure. We just celebrated his 13th birthday. On the days leading up to his actual birth day, I kept catching myself staring at him. Like most sons, this makes him uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the many times that I reached out to touch his head, squeeze his neck and pull him in close for a not so gentle man hug. Each time I did that I fought back the tears, at least when I was around him. Unlike my dad, I don’t hide my emotions from my kids. That is not to say that I pull an Oprah on them all of the time. But birthdays do bring out my worst/best. Of course, with Sergio it is a bit different, much deeper.
Thirteen years ago, I hauled ass from the airport to the hospital, about an hour and a half too late. Monica was living in LA at the time and I was stationed in Alameda, the Bay Area. I cannot remember if someone was at the airport to meet me or if I hailed a cab or ran to the hospital. What I do remember is walking into the hospital room and melting into Monica’s arms, sobbing. “He’s here. Our baby. He’s beautiful.” We held each other and cried like new parents must and need, to do. “Where is he? Where is my son?” I asked my sister in law. “They just took him to the nursery.” I walked, stumbled out of the room and down the hallway, aimlessly searching for the nursery. I found it and was drawn to one of the ‘cribs’. This one did not have a sign hanging from it that read, “Baby Zamora” but I knew it was him. He looked at me, ok, his head was pointing in my direction. I reached down and picked him up and cried some more. I found myself back in the hallway with my son in my arms. We walked down the hallway. Me, talking to him. And Sergio, sleeping. So much for our first father/son conversation. I did not notice the commotion around me until I felt a hand grab, forcefully, at his blanket and him. My newly inherited fatherly instincts took over, I spun away from this person and landed a nudge/elbow on her shoulder. She bounced back and yelled, “Sir! What are you doing with that baby!!” She came at me again but I shielded him with my above average sized frame, This is my son! What are YOU doing?!” “I need to see your ID, now!” I reached for my wallet and showed her my ID card. “Oh, well, you can’t leave the nursery with the baby. Our alarm went off and we have been looking everywhere for him.” That’s when I realized that I had made my way down a floor. Oops. “Alarm, what alarm?” “All new babies are tagged with a monitor. If the baby is moved out of the designated area, our alarm system goes off.”
Oh. More ‘oops’.
We walked back to the nursery where more doctors and nurses were waiting. I took their evil stares and withstood more verbal lashings with the nerves (huevos) that only a new father can understand. (All the while thinking to myself, "Man, I can’t wait to tell Sergio about this story in a couple of years!" Ha!)
Fast forward to December 15, 2008, past countless of diapers, babies clothes that still smell like he did back then, soccer/baseball/football practices and games, sleep overs, one sided conversations about doing better in school (A’s and B’s don’t always cut it) the talk(s) about the birds and the bee’s (us against/with them), band concerts, field trips, award presentations, camping out on the living room floor, and of course, nights of me standing in his doorway or kneeling next to his bed thanking Him for this precious gift and thanking my parents for instilling in me the traits that I need and have used to raise him into a boy and now, young man, that I am so very, very proud of. During these moments, if he took the time to look into my eyes, the way that I look at him, he could see all of these things, these emotions, thoughts etc. but oh no, no, no. When he catches me staring at him, instead of, “Hey dad, thanks. It's allright. I love you, too.” What do I get?, “Dad, stop it.” accompanied by the timeless classic, the rolling of the eyes.
Freakin’ kids.
Thirteen years ago, I hauled ass from the airport to the hospital, about an hour and a half too late. Monica was living in LA at the time and I was stationed in Alameda, the Bay Area. I cannot remember if someone was at the airport to meet me or if I hailed a cab or ran to the hospital. What I do remember is walking into the hospital room and melting into Monica’s arms, sobbing. “He’s here. Our baby. He’s beautiful.” We held each other and cried like new parents must and need, to do. “Where is he? Where is my son?” I asked my sister in law. “They just took him to the nursery.” I walked, stumbled out of the room and down the hallway, aimlessly searching for the nursery. I found it and was drawn to one of the ‘cribs’. This one did not have a sign hanging from it that read, “Baby Zamora” but I knew it was him. He looked at me, ok, his head was pointing in my direction. I reached down and picked him up and cried some more. I found myself back in the hallway with my son in my arms. We walked down the hallway. Me, talking to him. And Sergio, sleeping. So much for our first father/son conversation. I did not notice the commotion around me until I felt a hand grab, forcefully, at his blanket and him. My newly inherited fatherly instincts took over, I spun away from this person and landed a nudge/elbow on her shoulder. She bounced back and yelled, “Sir! What are you doing with that baby!!” She came at me again but I shielded him with my above average sized frame, This is my son! What are YOU doing?!” “I need to see your ID, now!” I reached for my wallet and showed her my ID card. “Oh, well, you can’t leave the nursery with the baby. Our alarm went off and we have been looking everywhere for him.” That’s when I realized that I had made my way down a floor. Oops. “Alarm, what alarm?” “All new babies are tagged with a monitor. If the baby is moved out of the designated area, our alarm system goes off.”
Oh. More ‘oops’.
We walked back to the nursery where more doctors and nurses were waiting. I took their evil stares and withstood more verbal lashings with the nerves (huevos) that only a new father can understand. (All the while thinking to myself, "Man, I can’t wait to tell Sergio about this story in a couple of years!" Ha!)
Fast forward to December 15, 2008, past countless of diapers, babies clothes that still smell like he did back then, soccer/baseball/football practices and games, sleep overs, one sided conversations about doing better in school (A’s and B’s don’t always cut it) the talk(s) about the birds and the bee’s (us against/with them), band concerts, field trips, award presentations, camping out on the living room floor, and of course, nights of me standing in his doorway or kneeling next to his bed thanking Him for this precious gift and thanking my parents for instilling in me the traits that I need and have used to raise him into a boy and now, young man, that I am so very, very proud of. During these moments, if he took the time to look into my eyes, the way that I look at him, he could see all of these things, these emotions, thoughts etc. but oh no, no, no. When he catches me staring at him, instead of, “Hey dad, thanks. It's allright. I love you, too.” What do I get?, “Dad, stop it.” accompanied by the timeless classic, the rolling of the eyes.
Freakin’ kids.
posted by szamora at 5:37 PM
0 comments
