Two Years Ezra and The Lion King

The orange and blue sky provided the background and I could hear the buzz of the street in my ear. I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. I was ready to speak to my son.

Candace pressed record and the lens focused in on me. I envisioned what he would look like, thought of what I would say to him and how he would react to my voice. I directed my words to him and began letting out my hopes and dreams, the Santa Monica wind carrying my every word into the universe.

He has yet to hear these recorded words and if I do let him watch the video, now on his 2^nd birthday, he probably won’t understand. But it felt like the first time I truly spoke to him. Candace let out her heart too. A glowing smile on her face. A special giddy tone to her voice. We stood near the famous pier with the horizon to our backs, transforming into the colorful mess one of those Big Stick Popsicles leaves behind. We knew our life would never be the same.

We patiently ate dinner at Wockano’s that night – March 13^th, 2011 – acting like a couple of cool cucumbers, when in fact all we wanted to do was get to the hospital. We were so nervous about the life that awaited us. I can honestly say those last few hours before I officially became a father were the most clear my head has ever been. That final day before my son’s birth and my re-birth is one of the happiest I could remember.

Little did I know, Ezra Rey Sanchez, the cute boy everybody loves, would eventually lose his mind. (Cue dramatic piano music here! Ton, Ton, Ton!) Yes, the little belly ball has gone Coo-Coo for Coco Puffs. And in the process, so have I.

Parenting 101 is no joke and the toughest test I've taken is managing a human being you love to the bone after he shuns you, disregards you and flat out leaves you feeling helpless.

Ezra has an imagination and a mental capacity that is beyond my understanding. I love it to death until it makes me feel like death.  Let’s just say he’s too smart for his own good.

It started with the word No.

“Ezra, give me that, it’s not a toy!”

“No!”

“Ezra, come over here.”

“Nooo…”

Honestly, the first time this happened, I smirked.  Who does this kid think he is? And even worse, why do I think it’s cute and funny? After perfecting the phonetic sound – Noooo – he started throwing it around, letting it roll off the tongue all crisp and articulate. Needless to say, this wasn’t amusing anymore. In fact, after one such outburst, I was ready to go Mufasa on him: “Zazu, take Nala home. I’ve got to teach my son a lesson!”

Gulp!

The Lion King has become such a parallel in my life these days. Yes, the 1994 Disney movie about a lion cub and his pops. The movie has resonated with me from the first time I saw it. The powerful opening sequence, the lessons throughout about life’s decisions, the strong relationship between Simba and his father in the present and afterlife, all make it such a wonderful flick and Ezra loves it too. He sings along to the Circle of Life, Can’t Wait to be King and of course, Hakuna Matata.

Beyond that, Ezra recognizes his ABC’s and can count to 20. Name a nursery rhyme in Spanish or English, he can probably belt it out. The dude is a performer. He’s also extremely independent. He doesn't want help with anything and let’s you know he’s not happy if you try. I wonder where he gets that from?

Everyone always says Ezra looks like Candace. If they only knew that it doesn't stop at physical appearance. He embodies his mother’s spirit. The most independent, driven, determined person I know is my wife and I’m so grateful those qualities have transferred over to our son. The stubbornness, hard headed, short-tempered stuff, he gets from daddy – not so grateful.

Even with all the craziness Ezra brings to our lives I wouldn't have it any other way. The responsibility is daunting and at the same time easily manageable as if parents were given a gene that is activated to handle the madness. The struggle with this balance is visible and some how I know Ezra understands by the way he looks at me. I need to set an example and be his guide. In other words, whenever Ezra loses his mind, I need to find mine.

I think back to that sky in Santa Monica and it reminds me of when Mufasa tells Simba to look up at the stars.

“The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars,” Mufasa says, “...So whenever you feel alone, just remember that those kings will always be there to guide you. And so will I.”

Happy Birthday, son. I’ll always be here for you. Always.

Sleep Fighter Part II

THE LITTLE GUY stumbles out of the bedroom, hair curled up in every direction, hands rubbing the corners of his eyes, looking for something. He heads for his toys, maybe glances up at the television. He lets out a halfhearted cry. If he was an old man, he’d check his wristwatch. It’s past bed time but he likes to fight the Zs. At the same time, he wants to be put to bed and so he finally accepts his fate, crawls on me, lies on my chest as I rest on the couch.

He looks up at me before he dozes off as if to double check I’m there. Or is it that he thinks I have a magical power that lulls him to dreams. Maybe he sees me as reinforcements in his epic battle with those heavy eyelids and he can now surrender with grace. A few wiggles and a couple moans before the snoring kicks in. Out.

This is when my therapy starts. To watch him breathe peacefully, slobber pooling on my shirt, is heavenly. I’m reminded of love and sacrifice with every breath he takes. It soothes me, makes me forget my pain, my worries. Nothing can compare to this connection. I’m sorry but nothing. And I hope you understand. Then again, I’m quite sure you won’t because although many of us have children and can relate, the actual bond we share with them is unique like a finger print. No two are alike. It belongs to us and only us and because of this we are special.

There is a line in the poem “Our Deepest Fear” by Marianne Williamson in which she writes, “We are all meant to shine, as children do.” Ezra shines so bright that my heart squints; his light emanates through the walls of our apartment, down the stairs and into the courtyard, sliding into the garage where it illuminates even the dampest of places.

So much innocence deserves leniency but I scold him for being a brat sometimes. Discipline is a tight-rope walk, 20 stories high with the wind blowing. I seek delicate balance not always finding it. I catch myself as to not hoist the frustrations of my world on him. He has other challenges to tackle. His repeated ear infections are one. What "Cat in At" book he should read is another. Counting to “Eeefteen” is one more.

Ezra is almost two years old and I still can't believe it sometimes. Then I see my wife stuff bag after bag of clothes that no longer fit; each shirt or pajamas representing an hour, a day, a week, months, years. The little time I can grasp is fleeting, disappearing faster than milk from my refrigerator. It's all he ever wants at night, his Lechita, gets those saliva glands nice and replenished. And that's OK, I won’t ever complain. If you're tired and sleepy, lay on my chest and drool away son, I have plenty of T-shirts.

The Mysterious 58-year Case of Ricardo Sanchez Sr.

The image is vague and almost gone. I recall the scene only because it lives on a Beta video tape. I see a shaggy-haired three year old running toward a man. He's tall, wearing a tight t-shirt, shorts and a thick mustache, a poster child for 80s fashion. The boy reaches him and punches him in the stomach. The mischievous smile on the brat's face is wider than the street they are walking down. Both seem pleased by the playful interaction.

I remember watching the footage years later as a young man, creating the memory I’m drawing from now, a memory of a memory. The film has since been misplaced, shuffled somewhere between VCR tapes and mom's old nick-knacks. What isn’t lost is what that glimpse into the past represents. Proof, captured at its most innocent state, that something powerful exists. Something those two souls have been fighting over, sharing and longing for all these years: a connection between a man and his son; a man and his father. 

Walking the streets of Germany...

He lies in bed with a small wet towel over his forehead to quell a fever. Eyes deep in his sockets, a defeated stare on his face he can’t hide. Trips to the hospital, blood work, IV’s, tests, and medicine. Mom is stressed, thinking about what could be, tired of seeing her partner suffer but also of his dramatic declarations made with signature Latino machismo: “I fought Death himself in my dream… and won!” Nonetheless, these are unfamiliar sights and sounds, ones that took 58 years to materialize. It's my dad’s birthday today and it seems diabetes and the ill affects of an unknown cardiac condition are crashing the party. But even as those physical handicaps creep into his psyche and try to break him down, they will not define him or tell his story. 

My father was born on Oct. 4, 1954. A snot-nosed sipote from San Pedro Sula who went from playing in the Rio Blanco to swimming in far-off oceans courtesy of the U.S. Army. A young man who emigrated from Honduras then assimilated to a new culture, one that would promise hope, tease him with missed opportunities and present him with many others, countless of which he fought hard for. The kid who witnessed extreme nationalism by his father, inherited the same passion for the people, and ascended to mayor of a small city near the big city in a foreign land of dreams.  

My father is 58 years old today but in his mind he is still 21. He once copped a major attitude when we put 44 candles on his cake. The man refuses to be called abuelito or grandpa. He insists on “Tito” and so that it is. All the qualities that make him great – strong beliefs, pride, stoicism, loyalty – are what form a wedge. My father and I don't see eye to eye on 100 things but there is something he’s given me that connects us today and for eternity: the importance of family. He didn't sit me down and tell me. He showed me every day. He worked hard to provide. He took night classes at Compton College. He was determined to be his own boss so he started one business after another, unafraid to fail – that takes courage and intelligence and vision. It also means he had to take heat from everyone including family. It didn't matter. He made it work always, even if it was by the skin of his teeth. I see the family bond again with my son, a kinship they’ve solidified over the last 18 months. There is a renewed hope in how he looks at Ezra, a pride only grandpas have. He once looked at me the same and from time to time probably still does. He is, after all, the man who put his hand on my chest, closed his eyes tight and asked God to allow his little boy with bronchitis to breathe. The disciplinarian who caught his son throwing fireworks in the air after one got stuck on the roof, then proceeded to teach the naive boy a lesson with the spanking of a lifetime- in front of the neighborhood kids!

My father has done countless other things that sound like urban legend but they're true. Like the time he was sprayed in the face with a can of soda by a cholo then jumped out of his car armed with a screwdriver to get even. Or the day we witnessed a drive-by shooting and sped after the car so he could catch the guy himself... June, write down the license plate! Or when his car was stolen, he and his brothers drove all of LA to find it, and when he miraculously did, he caught the guy too, standing on the street corner wearing his jacket -- a belt was used in the ensuing beat down. Or the time he ran into the Imperial Courts projects after a guy snatched my mom's purse at a red light. She was pregnant at the time. Or the year he started a Block Watch because our home was broken into twice then realized instead of fixing this neighborhood, I’m going to fix this city and ran for city council, won and became mayor of Lynwood. What!?

Sanchez men love to eat

We are extremely different but can't deny we are cut from the same cloth. We share similar mannerisms and, man, are we stubborn. My mom and wife have said to me “you’re just like your dad” a million times. But the truth is I am nothing like him. He is better than me. He constantly reminds me “Call your mom, check in with her. See how she’s doing. Me? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. But call her.”  Inadvertently teaching me to see him as invisible allows him to fade into the background, almost nonexistent to each other, connected by a third party. I know its wrong and it must change but sometimes recognizing what we feel and acting on it are separated by an ocean. He lays there, towel on his head:

“How are you feeling?” 

“Not good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to the doctor?”

“Tomorrow”

“OK”

Short, simple to the point. He knows I love him. I know he loves me. It’s all we need and all we’ve ever needed. No camera to record, no tape to replay, just what's in my mind and in my heart. And we’re fine with that because there’s so much more life to live, so many stories left to tell.

"Drake meets Jon Travolta"

"You betta pick you Afro daddyyyy, cuz it's flat on one side." - Erykah Badu

I doubt Erykah Badu was thinking of Ezra when she wrote that line but, man, does it fit. Ezra's curly top definitely has a life of it's own, almost like a Transformer, changing it's shape and size on command. The guy who opens those Halloween shops in October would pay good money for Ezra's crop, recreating it to put it on the shelves. Baby Afro for the kids! They'd sell like hot cakes.

The beauty of being a kid is the saving grace of not knowing when you look absolutely crazy. That's the parents fault and Ezra's hair takes on many forms. It's like Drake meets Jon Travolta, meets Questlove from the Roots, meets Colangelo from Bronx Tale. It's the Black-Hispanic mullet: business in the front, party in the back but then does a complete 180 in the afternoon/night. Party in front, the side, the back, basically, Party Rockin! I'm waiting for him to pause, stare at me and blurt out: "Everyday I'm Shufflin." LMFAO would be proud.

It doesn't help that Ezra actually picks his hair with his hands unwittingly. When we sing the song "5 Monkeys Jumping on the Bed" he knows to "bump" his head with his hand at the right time. Of course, this causes his hair to react like a squeezed sponge expanding. I love the bunny rabbit tail "poof" in the back sometimes. I mean, is it 1981? He plays with it, pulling one side out when he's tired. Bed time: Yes put that hair to sleep!

I love walking in the door, Ezra in arms, hair puffed out from the sweat of the drive home -- we wake up with "Bed head", he wakes up with "Car seat head" --  and his mom looking at him squarely saying "THAT BABY LOOK CRAZY!"

Yes is does and he's all ours.

The Ultimate Assist

"I wondered why somebody didn't do something. Then I realized… I am somebody." ~Unknown 

Family and Friends, as you all know, basketball is one of my passions so I have decided to take my love for the game and use it toward a great cause! I'll be playing for 12 hours straight as part of a charity basketball game to raise funds for the Sihanouk Hospital in Cambodia, a training center for medical professionals that provides 24-hour health care to thousands who are medically under-served. By playing in this 12-hour marathon of a basketball game, I'm sacrificing to help someone else in need. I feel like I'm making a difference but I can't do it alone. Will you help by donating to my cause? Go here and click on my name: HOOPS FOR HOPE

From 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., I'll be giving it my all on the court. I ask that you give a little something as well. My goal is to raise $1,001. If I can convince 2,002 people to donate 50 cents, I'd make my goal. However, it's more realistic to start with a $25 donation. This contribution will allow me to achieve my goal of helping someone who needs medical attention but simply can't afford it. Can you help?

If you'd like to come cheer me on, you're welcome to stop by! You can't put a price tag on Encouragement!

This is my challenge, will you help me?

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Hoops for Hope is a sports endurance adventure created for the purpose of raising money and awareness for the Sihanouk Hospital in Cambodia. Hoops for Hope is 24 men pledging to play 12 hours of basketball to raise a minimum of $24,000. It is a chance for you to generously give your money to help a heroic hospital staff serve people freely. The event will begin at 8 a.m. on Saturday, May 26th and end that evening at 8 p.m. The contributions can begin now. You can select the player you want to sponsor by going to their personalized page and clicking right now on DONATE. To find out more about Sihanouk Hospital Center of HOPE, click here. To find out more about HOPE worldwide Cambodia, click here.

The Tooth of the Matter: Ezra is 1

Let me tell you about the top tooth. The thing is really half tooth, half gum, staring at me when Ezra smiles.

I eye it back, my attention focused squarely on it waiting for it to show itself. It’s like a game of peek-a-boo, only the tooth is paused somewhere between peek and boo.

The tooth and I have an understanding. I’ll make sure to brush it and keep it clean and it's agreed to come in straight and strong. The tooth reminds me of Ezra. How it sits there, showing its potential, not exactly where it needs to be yet but growing stronger by the day.

Today, my son turned 1 years old and part of me wishes he was still all gums. My other half can't wait for those teeth to come in and make him a big boy. In other words, I've learned being a parent comes with a lot of mixed feelings.

  

The top tooth is there...can you see it? Happy Bday Z!

The other day on the train I saw a women give her thirsty child some Coca-Cola. The kid had to be no older than two or three years old. I winced and nearly stepped in. To me, that was Ezra she was giving soda too. I wanted to say something. Tell her she was wrong. I realized how when you have a child, suddenly every child becomes your own. You see your son or daughter in them. They make you laugh and cry. You want to celebrate their successes. You want to help them when they're in trouble.

Ezra turns 1 today and in essence, I turn 1 too. When Z entered this world, I became a new man and because of that he’s changed me in a way no one else could. In one year Ezra taught me what 31 years before him couldn't — how to love unconditionally.

Today I celebrate my baby boy, my wife who gave him to me and the Lord for determining I was worthy of both blessings. This past year has been the greatest of my life and I have the privilege to watch him grow until the day I take my last breath. Or as the great philosopher Winnie the Pooh once said…

“If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live without you.”

Happy Birthday son, Daddy loves you.

"Z" is for Ezra

I remember when life was easy and dreams felt like reality, attainable merely by looking up to the stars and speaking them into existence.  Some of those have come true. Others have fizzled out, falling by the wayside. There are those that still remain, shining bright, waiting for me to board my rocket ship and capture them. But in truth, they are trapped in time, so far away it feels like they never existed.

Then there’s Ezra or as I call him now... Z. I think about how Ezra looks at me sometimes, studying my face, dissecting my every move. How he observes me when I’m happy, laughing at my silly faces. How he gives me a blank stare when I’m mad, yelling because something isn’t going my way. I worry because I don’t want him to be like me. I want him to represent his curly top, bushy eyebrows, two buck-bottom teeth and belly to the fullest. I want him to create his own identity but I understand it’s my job to help shape it and that’s terrifying. I call him Z because of the z in his name but also because Moose A. Moose’s best friend on Nick Jr. is named Zee, a little blue bird who buzzes around, doesn’t say much and always has Moose’s back. I love how it teaches him to sing, how to count, to recognize shapes and colors, even though he might not know exactly what’s going on just yet. Even more, I love how Zee represents friendship. I see that spirit in Ezra, a type of aura that shields him from outside anger and disappointment. It’s the same force field that somehow protects him from physical harm no matter how many times he hits his big head. I wonder how much of me lives inside him. I’m scared the worst of me will be transferred, finding its way to his heart. I pray the little black cloud that follows Winnie the Pooh around never finds him, although I know Ezra’s umbrella of innocence blocks the rain for now. I see his personality forming before my eyes. I envision his future. What can I provide for him? Will I be enough for him?

"Z" and "Zee" with me...

I remember when life was easy, when I could look into the sky and manipulate those stars into whatever I wanted. Ezra will do the same only he will take his hands and mold his dreams into beautiful sculptures of reality. He will explore the sky and jump from star to star and make anything possible. He will believe in himself, even when no one else does. He will believe in those dreams that now sit there in the sky waiting for him to get on his rocket ship and start his journey to greatness, a journey that brings me more happiness than any dream I’ve ever dreamt.