And we're off....

Los Pollitos at Target.com

Tell me what you think.

Oct 1 edit: Onesies Sold Out in one day! There will be more. Keep checking.

Gracias for the support. Seriously.

Buen Dia

We lived most of this past summer as people allergic to light, confined to the artificial cool of our highly insulated house. Outside was not fit for any kind of folk in this year of mind-melting heat and drought.

Today, however was our reward for surviving.

Here in the Boonies, we spent the day outside. It was 85 and clear. We watched the birds at the feeders and tried to teach Maria the difference between a chickadee and a titmouse. A sandbox cake was made and the four fish who just moved into our pond provided a calm only previously experienced with drugs prescribed by a very nice oral surgeon.

As the light went low and golden, we went to a nearby park and walked along the riverbank. Then, the kid jumped up and down on playground equipment.

At bedtime, she passed out. Cold.

Me, I am wondering how I will sleep. This happens tomorrow.

Another good day awaits.

The Announcement

Press release here

The kindness of children

I've mentioned this before: Maria is allergic to peanuts.

Sending her to a school where peanut butter is not banned was a leap of faith for us. But, after several conversations with other parents and her teacher, we trusted she would be cared for and protected.

The only time Maria's teacher speaks English in class is to ask the children who has peanut butter for lunch. If they do, they can't sit with Maria.

In the last week, three mothers have told me their children came home to say they don't want peanut butter in their lunch boxes. They told their mothers their new friend is allergic. The peanut butter could hurt her, they explained. And, they'd like to sit with her.

Filled my heart. I think it filled the mothers' hearts too, to see their children react with such compassion and open arms.

And a little child will lead them, si?

Pio Pio little Valentina Paloma

canada.com image

We Latins are all related, right?
Or, we have a cousin who knows a cousin who knows a cousin of the person we are tracking down?
Well, who here is related to the beautiful new mother that is Salma Hayek?
Valentina Paloma needs a Pollito shirt.
What do you think, Candela?

Ser Cubano, even in Nashville

Earlier this week, I attended the visitation of an 81-year-old local doctor, a Cuban who came to Nashville to study medicine in the 1950s and never left. He married a local girl, raised three children and took care of veterans in his medical practice.

There hardly were any parking spaces in the funeral home lot.

When we met in 1991, I had been here just a few weeks. He called after reading the story I wrote about going to Havana during the Pan American Games. He wanted to tell me about himself, about going to a Jesuit school with the boy who grew up to be dictator, he wanted to make sure I understood all that was wrong with the island nation.

He gave me a history book, invited me to sit in his comfortable living room. He told me about the small group of exiles living in Nashville since the ’50s and ’60s, distant not just from their country, but from the diaspora in South Florida. No matter, though. There were pig roasts in Music City and black beans and bailes. His daughter, just a little bit older than me, danced as if she had been raised attending quinces every weekend. Her daddy taught her. (There really are Cubans everywhere, aren't there? Madre Mia.)

What struck me most about this man - and the other Cuban men he introduced me to - was that he was as fiery and fierce about Cuba as any old guy in Miami or West New York. Though removed from the day-to-day habla habla of el exilio, he was right there with them.

At the visitation, a Cuban lady who had known him 42 years, said “El era vida.’’ He was life, or full of life.

When I learned the doctor died this weekend, I was saddened that this interesting and passionate man passed before he could see the change he so desired.

I also thought of him when my tia in Miami sent me the column below. It was written by my childhood pastor, and the man who pronounced me wife. It’s a beautiful essay on how things have changed, how he has changed. It is an acceptance that his island is one of his past. A memory. A dream.

It is too long to translate, but if you can read Spanish, I encourage you to read it. It’s beautiful.

I know my doctor friend would have loved it.

Los Tiempos Cambian
Por el Rev. Martín N. Añorga

Ya olvidé a quien le dejé mis libros para que me los guardara. La persona a la que le confiamos algunos preciados recuerdos de la familia, murió hace años; la casa donde pensábamos pasar nuestra vejez hace cuarenta y cinco años está habitada por una familia que ya ha echado raíces allí.

La mayoría de mis amigos han muerto o se han ido a otros sitios y sé que nunca volveremos a encontrarnos. Mis padres, gracias a Dios, llegaron a nosotros y hoy día descansan en un cementerio local, después de haber disfrutado de un ramillete de años de felicidad y paz. Mis hermanos y sus hijos y nietos viven tan cerca que nuestra comunicación con ellos es constante. En Cuba, sin embargo, nos quedan dos hermanos, achacosos y distantes, cada uno con descendencia que no hemos conocido.

¡Han pasado cuarenta y cinco años y los tiempos han cambiado! Pero permanecen la infame dictadura de Fidel Castro y su pandilla de facinerosos hincando sus botas manchadas de sangre el adolorido corazón de mi patria, la que a estas alturas de mi vida la miro con la resignación del viajero que no tiene boleto de regreso.

Los tiempos cambian; pero el recuerdo de las cosas que han pasado es inmutable. Hoy peinamos canas, nos molestan las dolencias, nuestros hijos han alcanzado la meta de la adultez y nuestros nietos adolescentes se desplazan en una sociedad y en una cultura que me los hace diferentes. En efecto, han cambiado los panoramas; pero me queda invulnerable e intocable el espacioso ámbito de los recuerdos.

Yo llegué al exilio joven, lleno de ilusiones y compromisos. Desde nuestros primeros días nos afiliamos a los que luchan por la reconquista de la libertad. Larga sería la lista de nombres si mencionara a todos los compatriotas que han quedado en el camino, atribulados por el dolor de no haber logrado la meta de una Cuba redimida. Es inspirador el hecho, no obstante, de que todavía quedemos muchos que no hemos abandonado el compromiso; aunque hayan surgido nuevas generaciones que optan por
métodos y metas que no nos son afines.

Lo que es decepcionante es que al final de nuestras carreras, el tirano Castro haya engarzado en su órbita de odio y violencia a varios gobernantes de América que enarbolan sus arcaicas tácticas de populismo anti norteamericano al tiempo que implantan en sus pueblos regímenes basados en el despojo, la opresión y el crimen.

Chávez "odia" a los Estados Unidos. Evo Morales se ha sumado al club perverso de los anti demócratas y ha creado una "república indígena" que maneja a base de extorsión y demagogia. Pudiera hablar de Argentina y de Brasil, de los riesgos que enfrentamos en Perú y Nicaragua y de la actitud extendida por el continente de hostilidad y desprecio para los cubanos exiliados que constituyen la única ofensiva que se mantiene en contra de Castro y sus neo seguidores.

Es cierto, los tiempos han cambiado, y para mal.

En Miami hablamos de transiciones, cambios y revueltas y muchos se han convertido en videntes que anticipan el proceso libertario de la patria. Quizás lo único que nos va quedando, son precisamente estas dos grandes virtudes que son el entusiasmo y la esperanza. Para nosotros, ya que el horizonte se nos hace estrecho, lo que cada día va importando más es la decorosa vigencia del pasado.

Un problema, más de índole psicológica que social, es el que muchos exiliados afrontamos cuando creemos que en el futuro puede insertarse la Cuba del pasado. Es cierto que hay valores imperecederos y normas permanentes que es de sabios usar; cierto es que de los errores y de las tragedias podemos derivar enseñanzas que nos impidan el próximo abismo; pero una cosa es todo esto, y otra muy distinta es que podamos injertar el pasado en las convulsas entrañas del presente.

Cuba no vuelve a ser lo que fue. Y no que le toque esa suerte por excepción, sino que esa es la ley universal del desarrollo humano.

Me duele confesarlo; pero a riesgo de ser mal entendido, para mí, hoy día, Cuba es la que dejé no la que nos han deformado. Lo comprobé hace poco, cuando la serie internacional de béisbol de la que participó un equipo de la más grande isla de Las Antillas. ¿Quién iba a decirme a mí que iba a desear desaforadamente que un equipo con el nombre de mi patria, perdiera todos sus partidos? ¿Es que he dejado de ser cubano? Pues sí, soy cubano de una patria que no existe, y extranjero de la que hoy padece bajo el poder destructivo del comunismo. Y no crean que estoy solo. Cansado estoy de oír a compatriotas que explican a otros su identidad: "Yo soy cubano; pero de los de antes, no de los de ahora".

Ser "cubano de los de antes" es una deificación del pasado y una abdicación justificada de los horrores del presente. Lo que queremos decir es que somos dueños de una patria que mantenemos intacta en el corazón, no siervos de una que nos han inventado a fuerza de paredones y atropellos.

Los tiempos habrán cambiado y hasta nosotros hemos cambiado, víctimas de los tiempos; pero lo que no ha cambiado es la Cuba en la que mecimos nuestra niñez y disfrutamos nuestra juventud. A esa le hemos fabricado un santuario en el corazón y cada día la adoramos con el fervor de un devoto creyente.

He visto a ancianos desvanecerse poco a poco en los rincones de un que otro asilo. Son cubanos y cubanas que dejaron pedazos de su alma en Cuba y hoy viven anegados en la tristeza de la soledad y el abandono.

Me compadezco de los que ya no tienen ni siquiera acceso a sus recuerdos; pero me engalano de orgullo cuando oigo a la ancianita de 90 años cantar una estrofa del himno o a un encorvado viejecito de casi un siglo de existencia, hablar de sus indestructibles vivencias de antaño, en una Cuba en la que quizá fue pobre, pero ricamente libre.

Para mí, mi Cuba es la de mis recuerdos. ¡Qué bella la noche que me arropa de quietud y que me sirve de escenario para que goce de mis benditos recuerdos de la gloriosa Cuba de ayer!

Anoche, entre despierto y dormido sentí sobre mi frente un beso de mi madre y recorrí en veloz vuelo los sitios que una vez me fueron propicios. En el Monumento al Apóstol volví a depositar una flor blanca, de la playa de Varadero me salpiqué de espumas. Volví a ser niño, volví a ser hombre.Cerré lentamente el imaginario álbum de mis recuerdos, y como si se tratara de una oración, me dije a mí mismo:
"¡Hasta mañana, Cuba !

Yes, we are learning more Spanish at school

"Mami, if you have a skirt on you can twirl and make it go around and up. But only if you have shorts underneath. (Teacher) says no con un vestido.''

And there you go. Showing your panties is not acceptable in any language.

Word of the day:
Vestido = dress.

A weekend of D.C. and the D.R.

The familia was in D.C. this weekend, a business trip with side benefits that included exploring the Mall, marveling over the dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History, and visiting with a dear cousin and her husband.

I like D.C. I enjoy the bigness, the great museums, the variety of food and the multiculturalism that is the norm. My husband, who used to live there, is not so fond of it. Too many pointy-headed know-it-alls, he says. I'll always rally for a trip there though, especially if it includes a chance to eat at Jaleo.

Anyway, my reading material there and back was not about D.C. but about The D.R. Junot Diaz's new book, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, rocks it. That papi can write. I found myself nodding at the descriptions of his characters. If you're a caribense immigrant's kid, you probably know these characters. You love some and, maybe, don't like others. If you're not an immigrant's kid, you'll still appreciate the writing and the history lesson. (There was a tyrant over there before The Bearded One was The Bearded One.)

Deservedly each review I have read is glowing.

Go get it. Now. Apurate.

(and hey, nobody pays me to say these things, by the way...)

The girl's baby curls

(photo removed)

There are so many, many, many real and pressing things to lose sleep over: Global warming, terrorism, Darfur....

And yet, here I am near panic that the haircut Maria just got, in which we lopped off about 6 inches, means her ringlets are gone forever.

Ridiculous. I know.

But, can I tell you the glory that is this child's hair?

We cannot walk five steps in a public place without someone commenting on the ringlets that have framed her face and hung just above her waist. When her head is sweaty, the little baby curls tighten up, framing her smiley eyes and round face. When I pile her hair on her head, she is an insta-princess.

Until she was about 5-months-old, her hair was stick straight and formed a perfect and hilarious mohawk, so the curls that sprouted just past her first year were a sweet surprise.

I saved a snipped ringlet for her baby book and held a pile of her soft, brown hair in my hands at the salon. The stylist -- a friend for 16 years -- said she was reluctant to sweep up the rest while I still was there. (Wow still talking about hair...I really am a Mommy Blah-ger, aren't I?)

So, why the cut? We've been spending way too many moments detangling. Hair-washing days have only one soundtrack: "Ouch, MOM!" with a chorus of "That HURTS!"

I just washed her hair before bed, and it was so easy. As I dried it, I finger-curled it. The rings didn't really stay. I'm so anxious to see what her head looks like in the morning.

There are pictures, but I am in no condition to download them. Will attempt that in the next 24 hours and update this post.

At dinner, just after what will be forever known as the Chopping of '07, my husband said the new 'do makes Maria look older.

Maybe that's my problem. The baby, nearly 4, is not so much a baby anymore.

Thursday morning update:
She's a Breck Girl. Lots of wave, but ni un ringlet. (Tirabuson, if you want to know the Spanish word.) We'll see if they ever re-appear.

World Wide Pollitos

So, I am over here measuring and weighing packaging boxes, measuring the depth of a bib (yes, they want to know these things) and filling out more paperwork than required for a multi-million dollar real estate transaction. But, whatever. I'll tattoo their logo on my bottom if they ask, as I am insanely happy that the e-mail I got several weeks ago from Gigantic National Retailer was neither fake, nor false start.

If all continues to move as expected Los Pollitos Dicen, our very own cha cha children's t-shirts en espanol, will be on a national retail website before the end of the month.

Holy pio pio.

So, stay tuned for the announcement and gigantic link.

In other news, when I am not packaging and pureeing, I am listening to Maria sing new songs in Spanish, songs learned at her new school. A favorite seems to be Itsy Bitsy Spider.

La arana pequenita subio, subio, subio
Vino la lluvia y se la llevo
Salio el sol y pronto la seco
Y la arana pequenita subio, subio, y subio

Yesterday, she also made us play "Veo, veo'' -- a game in which she says something like "I see the color green'' and then we guess which item. The whole event was conducted in Spanish and her father and I giggled with joy the entire time. It's rare she is so fluid with her lengua.

And perhaps the most fun of all was when I asked her something in English and she shrugged and said: "No se.''

Ah grasshopper, but you do...

Puree (de papa) for picky palates

One evening when Maria was barely 1, she ran circles around the dining room table holding an asparagus spear.

I was the proudest mother, watching that fat-bottomed, wild-haired, semi-toothless creature enjoying a green vegetable, something that did not easily pass my lips until adulthood. My little child ate well. Beets, black beans, tomatoes, avocados. Not lentils, but who cared, she ate mushrooms and tofu and pasta filled with spinach.

It was the breastfeeding. It was the early exposure. It was her father's genes. It was fabulous luck.

And then she stopped.

And while not going all modern-mommy crazed and obsessed about it, we have been concerned about her abject refusal for much beyond oatmeal, quesadillas and bug-shaped pasta in cheese sauce. Organic, yes, but asparagus, it ain't.

So, I bought The Sneaky Chef cook book.

It arrived a few weeks ago and I instantly took to pureeing carrots and sweet potatoes and spinach. I snuck the orange puree in her quesadilla. She figured it out. I made meatballs stuffed with green goodness puree. She turned up her nose.

Had my daughter been born during my peak child-bearing years, my grandmother -- my Mama -- would have been alive and I would have learned to make puree the Latin grandma way. You see, my grandmother -- and countless abuelitas on this planet -- have been the sneaky cocinera for generations. Puree de Papa, anyone? There really wasn't much sneaky about it, actually, as you had no choice about whether you would eat the grayish-brown stuff that came from their blenders.

I lived with my grandparents for a year when I was 8. I was esqueletica, as they said. Skeletal. All pall, no pink. Within a few short weeks I was all gordita and glowey. My grandmother sat me at the kitchen counter while she threw meat, rice, papas, malanga, and who knows what else, into her blender, and when it was all whipped up, she stuffed me like a Christmas goose. There are stretch marks on my hips as evidence of that year.

If you read this blog with regularity, you probably know I think about my grandmother, whose name was Evelina, a lot. Motherhood prompts me to think back about how she did what she did -- seven kids and constant mopping. And when I flip through the Sneaky Chef during meal planning, I can't help but think of her and laugh. This is nothing new. Women have long figured out ways to sneak nutrition onto picky palates. My grandmother did it. The difference is, she didn't need a cookbook and she didn't need to sneak it. I knew when that spoon came at me, I'd better open my mouth.

Around here, we'll likely continue to sneak. I like the recipes and my kid does not believe she has to open her mouth when I ask her to (she also doesn't close it when I ask her to) and the spoon-as-airplane stopped working long ago. So, tonight she gets some bug-shaped pasta with orange-colored puree.

Now, I just have to convince my husband that the brownies I sneak are good for me. Yeah really, they've been fortified with purple puree. Yeah, honey, seriously.

(Do you have an abuelita puree recipe? Share, por favor...)

Faith and polling...not faith in polling.

Many thanks to those who voted in the "How did you find this Blog'' poll.
I learned I should say a big "Muchas Gracias" to those who link here, suggesting that I have something to say that's worth your valuable time.

Gracias.

But today I don't have much to say.

It has rained -- finally -- so it is a bit of a gray day. It is inspiring me to drink a soothing little tea and think about this article a lot. (I've already cleaned out a closet and done some work.) Anyway, I read the story on Mother Teresa's crisis of faith about three times yesterday. Will spare you my own take on faith and longing, as I am not really sure this is the place for that conversation. But, if you're looking for something to make you go "Wow," that story just might be it.

Here are the poll results before I hit the "remove page element" button:

How did you find this Blog?

Una amiga told me	2 (6%)
I bought a Pollito tee	1 (3%)
Followed a link	19 (61%)
Googled "Hot Latina Babes''	2 (6%)
You told me, boba	7 (22%)

Votes: 31 (Minus a few spankers, guava recipe searchers and Latina lovers)

Adding on to the resume

I have a lot of jobs: Wife, mother, cook, driver, sock finder, cat litter cleaner upper...You know them all, I am sure, because you have your own countless, often thankless, jobs.

In the last few days, I have added a couple of more: Seamstress and Viral Marketer. (I am a bit of a masochist.)

First, the sewing. There's a shiny new Singer, a cheap one, in my office and it was purchased for the sole purpose of sewing in the care labels on each of our tees and onesies. I usually outsource this, but it causes me great consternation and constipation. It isn't cheap and it is very easy, so I finally am doing it myself.

Add one more job to the hen's chore list. Before yesterday, I had used a sewing machine just once. So far, I've only had to rip out one horrifically sewn label. Vamos a ver how this all goes. You may find the machine on eBay soon.

And about the viral marketing. My best friend, a smart former reporter herself, insists I need to add some schtick to YouTube to get the word out on the business. All the cool kids are doing it. Look here and here if you want to see.

So, the above video is a 20-minute effort and the slow beginning of more videos to come.

Soon.

I will attempt not to bore the hell out of you.

Of course, after I stop ripping out seams.