Childhoods fascinate me for two reasons. First, in American society, the desire for our responsible-free era corrupts adults well past their thirties. Everybody fondly recalls their youth, forgetting the tribulations of adolescence and missteps along the way. Second, our own experience of childhood is inevitably corrupted by the biases of the only witnesses with a firsthand account: our relatives. In the simple act of deciding to take a picture or not take a picture, we lay the track for how our children will perceive their own past. What will they see? Why? How.
Thus, this blog series on my son’s inevitable rise to the top of Real Madrid poses a query – up until now, it has been entirely honest sin pelos en la lengua. But Junito is quickly mastering his abecedario. He can sing the Spanish language burrito-vocales song all by himself. How much longer before his readership forces me to pull punches? Or should I teach him to develop thick skin?
I, of course, have opted for the latter option. If Junito is going to survive the paparazzi pandemonium of European soccer, we might as well get the juicy cats out of the bag right now. Including what happened this past Valentine’s Day with a certain lovely gordita lady.
Before I spill the juicy beans on last Thursday, I must admit that I have done little to prepare Junito for his future P.R. necessities. In fact, I have done him some disservice. While my daughter chirps Spanish in a beautiful Central American cadence like her mother, Junito’s Spanish is best described as mocho. Actually, re mocho. Despite having spent his young life in Managua, Nicaragua, his male role model’s acento has rubbed off.
A disclaimer. In grade school, I had to taken English language speech therapy for my s’s and th’s. It did wonders for my use of synonyms. My tutor would ask me to identify pictures, flashing a drawing of soda. I would reply “coke”, “pop”, or ” carbonated beverage.” She would ask me to describe a person that wanted to drink. I would say “somebody who wants something to drink.” And so on.
In terms of the Spanish language, I learned the dirtiest of the Mexican border variety from a young age. However, I never paid too much attention to my “r’s.” Sadly, my linguistic achille’s tendon has transferred to Junito. My wife laughs to herself as I sing the “r con r cigarro” song to Junito. The blind lead the blind.
Thus, my approach in most speaking situations is simple: less is more. I like to sharpen Occam’s razor and/or daydream while politely letting other people finish their sentences. Junito? Para nada. He has inherited the gift of gab from his abuelas. And keeps talking and talking and talking and….
On the other hand, I can’t fault my little guy for being super social. Even if he may reveal all his cards too quickly, he has amassed a small army of friends that regularly come over to jugar pelota. And, despite the allure of a certain Chanel Totti, he has faithfully spent his recreos at pre-school with the gordita Marial Gabriela la pequena. And he even got her a regalo for Valentine’s Day!
Yes, Junito Don Juan Chele Chulo brought her a lovely little box of caramelos. But what did Mariela do, that coquettish teaser of toddlers? She rejected it. She stared at the box confused, and refused it. She insisted she could not take it because it was not her box. Junito was heartbroken, but not me.
A disclaimer: most of Junito’s friends are nice enough. But a few have sticky fingers. We always see a toy or two missing after a pelota session, raising red flags. Even Junito will concede this: when one of his friends came over, I saw him dash to hide his favorite carros. Thus, while Junito saw the non-acceptance as rejection, I smiled and saw a good upbringing – a girl that respects private property! She clearly did not fall into the category of Pato ex-wife alimony leeches.
Still, Junito could only see the trees, not the forest. He was crestfallen, and he only half-heartedly chugged his leche con chocolate that night. The next morning, he sluggishly got ready and went to school. However, that afternoon upon arrival, he glowed like a supernova. What did he carry in his hand? A gift. A gift from la Mariela Gabriela la pequena!
Apparently, her parents had explained to her the concepts of gifts and St. Valentine’s Day. They also had purchased a gift for her to give to Junito: a spider-man toy. And we all know that Junito loves espider-man. Still, I cautioned reason and temperament. Never let a loss beat you twice or a win render you conceited.
Little by little, Junito has grown into his own skin. He likes the gordita, but doesn’t let his youthful and fleeting feelings run the show. It’s not that Junito is off the market. Oh no – at age four, that would be both premature and postmature. It’s just that he’s spending more time with family before plotting his next move.
“Y ayer, La Mariela Gabriela me dijo….”