The Toddlers' Playground

That January morning was moderately warm, and to everybody's surprise, it induced a miracle. January's days are usually frigid and folks take advantage of the mild climate either by walking, jogging, biking, reading, or any other relaxing activity. My daily routine was almost a ritual, most afternoons I took the two toddlers to Forest Park, Queens. This park was flanked by two busy roads: Park Lane South and Myrtle Avenue. Forest Park is centennial and it's densely populated with wildlife and vegetation, and unlikely many parks in the city, it was in a decaying state; it was also customary for newlyweds to take a stroll through the flowery garden beyond the Buddy Monument which was built in remembrance of the soldiers of Richmond Hill who served in the Korean War. The Buddy Monuments depicts an American soldier in mourning prayer while gazing down at children of war and pondering over their fate more than his own.

Even though the weather looked promising enough, occasionally I peeked through the glaring Venetian blinds and by then it was already late afternoon. I noticed the thick clouds being swollen and dull ready to burst and evade the park below with the coldest and whitest snowflakes of winter's most gelid month. I felt a penetrating feeling of choking sadness as I stared at the darkening sky in absurd disappointment while the stubborn sun shimmered attempting to break through the reluctant clouds. I turned on the portable radio and the weather report was lousy, there was a possibility of a snowstorm ascending on the Victorian Richmond Hill Town notorious for its elegant and grotesque homes with well-tended lawns spawned with pretty flowers and sheltered by tall pine trees I thought to myself. " If those stormy clouds gave in, the kids would be miserable and so would I be, but a rush of curiosity flowed through my whimpering spirit," It sure would be a grand and spectacular scenery in this notorious town: snow glittering on rooftops and oak trees. " Oh, poor children as mischievous as they are, they have to stay indoors; I dreaded such a thought, but I groped in resignation. Suddenly another preoccupation rushed to my pounding head as a leaping stallion sneering and halting at the sight of someone crossing in his path, I protested rebelliously at the menacing sky " The bored toddlers will nag me to the point of exasperation, and I couldn't imagine them missing their favorite playground. I felt so helpless...yes, I never let rage control me, I looked so overwhelmingly disappointed, I sat down and took the longest breath to decrease my fast heartbeat. After the sunset, the sweeping snow came with humongous snowflakes that were breath-taking and like shiny water bubbles dancing, floating, twirling; shouts of joy filled the warm and cozy house; we all rushed to the front door to witness the splendor of winter's greatest miracle.

Being a great uncle to them was a very thrilling experience for me, and definitely, an unforgettable experience so extensively felt and shown by me. In my opinion, uncles may never replace fathers, even in the most imaginable ways, but their feeling is equally rewarding and satisfying. I became a foster parent in circumstances not very pleasant, and I would never regret it. My kindness to them had to be extended beyond the point of urgency and decision-making; beyond the heart-warming understanding of one of life's worst tragedies that occurred in my early forties.

When my niece dropped out of Junior High School, and eventually got in trouble with the Law, I had to make the quickest decision: either keep her two children or have them placed in a foster home which was an idea contrary to my beliefs. It would have been unforgivably inhumane and cruel to let them experience the horrors of foster care.

I vividly remember the police officer, an Irish man in his early fifties asking me with a sensitive approach, " Would you take care of them?" I sensed he had the intuition of a shrewd detective reading my inner thoughts. My response was, " I surely would, officer. " then, his pale blue eyes flashed a satisfying smile. Another incident that that did not sway me from accepting to taking in Crystal and Christopher was the emotional and affectionate way their mom hugged them before leaving for Tyrone Home for Girls in the Bronx.

Crystal was an energetic child with fine features and had a passion for children's books and it suggested she had good qualities she would develop into real talents and excel at them. Christopher was an outspoken, imaginative, and playful child who acted very mature and had the distinctive capability of narration: explaining actual stories, or mere incidents with precise details. I was stunned, delirious, frantic, and speechlessly amazed...bursting into hard laughter. Anybody who had never seen these two adorable and clever kids couldn't take notice of the immense energy they displayed so spontaneously and gallantly. Their curiosity was more extensive than that of adults, more inquisitive than a scientist, even mire insatiable than a historian. the behavior of a dog approaching a stranger puzzled them; the swift take-off of pigeons feeding on scattered breadcrumbs excited them; the sheer beauty of a butterfly flying among the swaying oaks and suddenly land on a sunflower to seep nectar incited them enough to want to catch it, but to their surprise, the cautious butterfly was too astute and watchful not to get caught by capricious kids like them. they were screaming at me, " Uncle Andrew, please catch it for us, we like to play with it. " I corrected them saying, " Butterflies are delicate insects useful to Nature and us: they are not toys or pets. " And staring at them with an explanatory smirt, " If you don't hold it properly in your palms, there's a chance that you will damage its wings and it won't fly anymore; and after a while, they will die! " My answer seemed too complicated for them to understand, but it worked well with my example of easy explanation. They nodded and gladly said goodbye to the wandering butterfly.

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