Oui

The sign outside reads quite clearly, "French Bakery." If any doubt remains, a French flag is posted up above the letters.

I have driven by this bakery several times in the past few months on my way to the Bear's Gymboree class. Each time my thoughts stray directly to the mirage of a foamy rich latte and the flakey sweetness of a marzipan croissant. This week, my mother accompanied the Bear to class and I was gifted with fifteen free minutes. I strolled down towards the bakery with Cubby, describing in thorough detail, the joy of lavender macaroons and raspberry tarts. I promised him that once his teeth came in, I would introduce him to the baguette and a lifelong friendship would ensue.

We walked through the doors of the bakery, a small bell announcing our entrance with a satisfying chime. I had hoped to finish my BSF lesson for the week while sipping my highly anticipated latte, but I was in for a disappointment! I discovered upon walking in, an alarming absence of tables and chairs. Bummer. I shrugged this inconvenience off and moved to the glass counter with Cubby. The expected ganache cakes and glazed fruit tarts filled the cases. Before I could peek in for a close examination of the offerings, a small, dark-haired woman emerged from the back of the store wearing a black beret and a large white apron. I smiled at her and asked what kind of croissants they had. She stared at me with a blank expression on her face.

"Que?"

Not "quoi" but "que."

Hmm. I repeated my question in spanish, but with very little luck. This French Bakery had no croissants, in fact this French Bakery seemed unaware of the croissant's existence.

Latte? Nope.

Baguette? Nope.

Macroons? Dream on, sister.

She looked at me as if I were making things up, as if I had wandered into her store with the cruel intent of demanding dippernegging fifferfegs.

"What can you recommend?" I finally asked.

She pointed over to the largest glass case. I peered in and quickly realized that a mountain of Cuban treats crowded every tray in the display. Croquettas, pastelitos de guayaba, cangrejos, empanadas de carne y queso, pan de gloria, etc.

I looked up with a confused smile and asked if they had any french food in the store. She nodded and pointed to the last case, which was filled with cakes and tarts. She started describing them and I quickly realized that they were bastardized versions of french delicacies. Fruit tarts made with tropical fruit, chocolate ganache cakes stuffed with dulce de leche, eclairs laced with guayaba.

I ordered two pastelitos de guayaba and made my way to the door. With one last look at the giant Eiffel Tower stenciled on the back wall, Cubby and I departed the "French Bakery" under a cloud of confusion and disappointment and a latte sized hole in my stomach.

Why call yourself a French Bakery when you only sell Cuban food? Cast off your flag and your title and step into the light! Be proud of those pastelitos! They were pretty good. Maybe you can fill in the Eiffel Tower and add a few green leaves for a more truthful Caribbean look. Pick a favorite relative and splash their name up there. Carmelita would love having a bakery in Kendall named after her, I promise!

For the last week I have been walking around with a smile plastered on my face. More false advertising. I'm still sad. I feel the loss of that tiny life quite keenly. People usually say, "Life goes on" or "It just wasn't meant to be." I feel that my baby's life, no matter how short, was meant to be. I honor that life by mourning it and not ignoring it. I honor it by not moving on quickly or rushing to the next thing in life. It is a bittersweet honor, but I uphold it just the same, even under the guise of a smile.

3

Beyond the magic of a band-aid, or the healing of my mothering kiss.

You have slipped down and down and through my fingers.

I wrote down your secret name, folded it into tiny squares, and held it in hands that will never touch or soothe you.

Small and broken branch, I will mend you in my heart.

Piece together your body and remember all that could have been shared between us.

I love you deeply.

I love the laughter I never heard and the nose I never kissed.

I love the small hand I never held and the name I never called.

Some may see two, but I will always see three, for you are just as much a part of me.

Violation

Today the Bear and I went to his Gymboree class as usual. Most of the regulars were out of town and a few new visitors were in class. The Bear's teacher thrives on a high pitched voice just shy of vampire bat frequency. She is a lovely woman and really loves her students- but her vocal chords seem to be attached to her nasal passages, which results in a nonstop sing-song voice that sounds like drunk anime. The Bear loves her. Now that we are six weeks into the class, I can say that I definitely see the benefit in going. The kids get exercise and work on their coordination and listening skills. On most days, I would also add that they benefit from the opportunity to socialize. I would not say that today, however.

Today we had five little boys and one little girl in class. The age range being 6 months to 4 years old. Everything bopped along as usual until parachute time. The parents grabbed hold of the giant parachute and all the kids were encouraged to scoot under while we proceeded to shake the parachute up and down over them. The Bear wiggled his way to the very middle, lay flat on his back and enjoyed the sensation of wind being pushed down each time the parachute moved. It was all fun and games up until this point. And then she went for him. "She" being the only little girl in class. Thankfully this little girl was not a prostitot (definitition: a little girl whose parent or guardian has robbed them of a childhood by dressing them like a prostitute, pictured below)

See: South Park's "Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset" episode for more details

She was a normal, beautiful green-eyed little girl with a heavy dose of spunk...and a lot of nerve. This little girl crawled under the parachute, stretched herself out next to my son and held his hand. She giggled with him, tickled him, and kissed him. Then she held his hand again for a few seconds before the Bear pulled away with a gracious smile. Luckily I was on parachute duty so the chance of my storming over to break it up did not present itself. Her mother looked equally horrified, by the way. It really was an overly aggressive kiss for a preschooler to be wielding. Which brings me to another point, she is well over the age of three, almost pushing four I would say. The Bear is a mere 22 months old, which by Gymboree class standards made this little lady a veritable cougar.

I didn't think it was "cute" or "adorable" or "sweet." If it happens again I may contemplate wearing a referee whistle to class. Violation! Five yard penalty, please. My sweet baby boy does not need to have your feminine wiles foisted upon him during bubble time.

My mother, quite unfairly, pointed out to me that at the age of two I was running around our church forcing kisses on little boys. In my defense, I chose older men capable of defending themselves (they were at least eleven months older). It was not charitable of her to press such a point during my time of suffering. He is my little angel, my sweet little boy. I want to enjoy him and have him all to myself right now before I have to release and let him venture out into the world. I know that time will come, believe me I know. Its one of the reasons why I am trying to perfect my cooking, I want to give him one hell of a good reason to come home on the weekends and all major holidays. So please, little tiny Gymboree cougar, go play on the bouncy mats with your Mommy and leave my boy alone! Thank you.

A Good Day is Hard Work to Find.

After a whole weekend of solo parenting with J away at a conference, I really looked forward to a relaxing Sunday at home. I woke up early and made french toast with sausages for the boys, fed Cubby and started deep cleaning the family room, kitchen, and dining room. J went outside to finish painting the fence posts for next weekend (finally putting the fence in!) He came in at around 10:30 and told me I could have a whole hour to myself, he would take care of the boys and I could do anything I wanted! JOY!

I grabbed my gardening boots, straw hat, gloves, and marched out the front door for an uninterrupted therapy session with my garden. I weeded a few beds, mended the trellis fence, gave the seedlings a pep talk, grafted a gardenia branch and decided that with half an hour left on my clock, I need to do some major work on the back terrace. This little area of our backyard is covered in a really beautiful brick that has been sadly neglected over the years. Its one of many projects at the moment. I cleared out tons of branches and debris from the surrounding area and gave the brick a thorough scrubbing. Once garage sale season starts up again in a few weeks, I will be scouring the area for wrought iron chairs and an umbrella. I want to create a really peaceful spot where we can dine outdoors in the winter, twinkle lights and a tea cart are definitely on the fixer-upper menu for my tiny brick terrace. Today was step 1. Deep clean and meditate in the space and wait for brilliant decorating idea to strike. No lightning bolts yet, but static is in the air and my sister is coming down for a visit soon. She will know what to do.

I went back inside and shared the outdoor victory check list with J and the boys. A half hour later my Abuelo dropped by to help me separate the "hijos" from my White Bird of Paradise. We unearthed about five saplings and transplanted them to the south side of the garden. Hooray for free foliage. Once Abuelo was on his way back home and the boys went down for their nap, the arduous task of laundry began. I did six loads of laundry today. Bleh. I love cooking, I have a strange passion for cleaning, I like organizing things, but I hate, loathe and abominate laundry. Finding mates for lone socks is tedious. I also hate that things coming out of a dryer often require ironing, which I am terrible at. I did six loads of it today. But the doom and gloom clouds quickly parted when I realized that having so much laundry outside meant that I could reorganize our wardrobe, which has been sadly neglected since some time between baby #1 and baby #2.

Before the boys woke up I started my butter mixture for a cheese wheel I am bent on making this week, despite my lack of a cheese press. I will succeed and it will be fabulous. This is the cheer I repeat to myself while making the cheese. I'll let you know how it works out, we may decide that a serious relationship is just not in the cards for us. With phase 1 of Project Cheese under way, I had just enough time to finish off the 3rd quilt block I have been working on these past two days. I am making a quilt for J and I. I know...Project Quilt is also in phase 1.

The boys woke up after I had pulled the last stitch on the quilt block while wondering about my incessant need for projects. We went off to my Abuelos house for playtime, and had a marvelous time with Oreo cookies, three chihuahuas, and some mango smoothies. Many kisses and hugs from great-grandparents were the cherry on top of a great visit. We arrived home ready for some down time so that I could make dinner. J was still slaving away in the hot sun, painting posts for my white picket fence (which is now in phase 2, ta-da!)

Now I am pretty serious when it comes to Sunday dinner. There is just no messing around with the fact that I need it to consist of two things- good food and family. We usually share the meal with my parents, but today we were alone. My man had been working hard all day and he needed a good dinner as well. So I peeled and sliced the apples, made a lot of dough, and popped in an apple pie and 8 rounds of biscuits. Mashed potatoes and broccoli, especially for the Bear, served as our sides. I decided to make fried chicken, using a brand of breading that was foisted upon me by a fellow shopper at Milams. This lady, somewhere in her early fifties, was standing beside me as I was loading bags of flour into my shopping cart last week.

"Do you like fried chicken?" she asked.

"Sure" I said in a puzzled voice (Note to Northerners: People in Miami generally don't talk to you unless they are yelling at you, about to screw you over, or are under the age of 7)

" Well Child, let me tell you. You better not be using anything other than House Autry. It's the best. My Mama used it, my Grandmama used it and now I use it. It's not oily or greasy, and the chicken is just heaven."

I looked behind her to see if there was a camera somewhere, or a guy holding one of those giant shower loofah's on a stick in hopes of picking up sound. They were nowhere to be seen. I directed my attention back to her.

"That is great news" I said.

"Are you going to try it?" She asked.

"I guess I'd better."

I purchased a bag of House Autry that day and I have been eyeing it with great suspicion over the past week. Today was House Autry test drive day and it was....heavenly. No wonder this lady was out testifying! Preach it sister, I believe!

We ate a great dinner and had our usual half hour of bath time wonderfulness. I love bath time. I love how dirty and happy they look before getting in the tub. I love how angelic and sweet smelling they are when the emerge. I read the Bear four different stories tonight, including a new favorite "Where the Wild Things Are" and "Paddington" (Various British accents included). We prayed and cuddled and said our goodnights. I folded the remaining shirts and opened up eHarmony accounts for all the single socks in our home. I mended a bed sheet and an old shirt that I refuse to break up with. All done.

It probably doesn't sound relaxing at all, but days like today take the weights off my shoulders. I love working hard. I love working with my hands. I love spending time with my kids. I love that every inch of my home is sparkly and clean at this moment. I love that tomorrow it will only take minutes to become a beautiful mess once again. The best news about today is that it is now close to midnight, I have a rush of energy and story in my head and it's time to pull a Jo March and write into the early hours of the morning. Good Night and Good Day.

28

Back in the 80s, Mom wore her hair long and curly, halfway down her back, my sister and I thought she looked like a princess. Every Sunday she would put on a beautiful dress, jewelry and make up. We would watch in awe. In church we would feel proud to sit by her side. I would hold her hand during the sermon, and trace her long red fingernails with my finger. Then I would let my finger travel down to her wedding ring and pressing down, circle the protruding diamond with wonder. The wedding ring. Such a small item that meant so very many important things. We knew the ring meant safety and love for all of us. Daddy loved Mommy so much he bought her a beautiful diamond. How we loved to look at it! Our beautiful Mommy, with her long princess hair and a diamond ring to boot! Her rank among Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White was secured in our minds.

The role of Prince Charming belonged to only one man in our lives. Hands down, our Daddy won the title without question. Tall and lanky, with a wonderful smile and a great sense of humor. We loved him to distraction. He was our protector, our hero, our teacher, our friend. When he walked in the door at the end of the day, Mom would run into his arms and he would sweep her up in a great hug. It didn't matter that two little girls were giggling at them from behind the couch. Mom wouldn't leave Dad's arms until she had been thoroughly kissed. I'm glad that they always kissed in front of us. It made us feel happy and safe, knowing that they loved each other and that they loved us together. Its no wonder that whenever I think about them, in my mind, I see a happy couple, kissing each other in the doorway of a home brimming to the shingles with love and giggles.

I've watched my parents grow up together. I was six years old when Dad celebrated his 30th birthday. I watched them buy a home, build a business, struggle with finances, travel the world, and hold their grandchildren for the first time. I remember when my Dad left us for a few months to work in South Carolina after Hurricane Hugo. My Mom seemed so scared and worried. She knew very little about running a house and finances all by herself. But she did it. She triumphed over those months of single parenthood.

A few years later, Dad's business was just off the ground when Hurricane Andrew hit. We spent the night in the hall bathroom with our dogs. The next evening, huddled together at the dining room table, surrounded by complete and total darkness, Dad told us he would be very very busy for a few years. He laid it all out on the table for us, we knew what to expect in the coming months. It was a very hard time, but our little family pulled through. There was still laughter and love in abundance. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed when I think of all that they sacrificed for us. Even more so when I remember that they never lost sight of each other during even the bleakest of times.

My parents loved us enough to always put their marriage first. A great lesson for my sister and I. Today I am remembering you both. The way Dad would take Mom in his arms and dance around the kitchen, singing a romantic song for her ears only. Playing at the park with you both. Driving home from the beach in the steamy hot car, everyone's toes gritty with sand and our hearts humming the happiness of being together. Today in my mind, I am hiking up a North Carolina mountain with you. We are watching wales in Alaska. I am pretending to roll my eyes while you kiss in front of every major monument during our European vacation. I am watching you leave for your anniversary dinner date. Mom looks so beautiful and Dad looks so proud of her. I am watching you both dance at my wedding, with tears in your eyes, celebrating a job well done and years well spent.

Happy Anniversary Mommy and Papito. Thank you for the great love you have for each other. It has made our lives a joy.

My Sister

I am missing you. More and more with each day that passes.

Its hard not to miss you, when I am watching the boys tumble around the house all day. The little squeaks of protests when someone steals a toy. The cheeky giggle over a nonverbal secret they already share. They are playing games and laughing the way we used to.

Yesterday while cuddling in bed together, a feeling of peacefulness settled over the nursery and Cubby drifted off to sleep next to the Bear. For a few minutes the room filled with a sweet tenderness and the chaotic giggles were shelved for a small half hour. The Bear reached out and grabbed Cubby's little fist in his own and began tugging at his arm while he spoke in a little sing song voice. Then he reached over to trace Cubby's long lashes with the tip of his finger.

I remember walking over to your bed once, a long time ago. You were sleeping under a quilt of pink and white checkers, the whole soft mound of you moving up and down with every breath you took. I reached out for one of your long brown braids, held it in my hand like an artist's brush and traced the line of your face. Your eyes began to flutter when the wisps of hair tickled your nose. I wanted you to wake up so badly. I needed to tell you a secret, but somehow changed my mind in that late afternoon hour, while tracing your face with part of your braid. Memorizing your face in that moment was suddenly more important than any secret in the world. You woke up and gave me your crooked smile, and when I closed my eyes that night I could see your face as it was that very afternoon.

I am grateful that they have each other in the same way that we had each other.

So many things have changed in recent years, our childhood coming to the unexpected end we had been moving towards all our lives, the creation of new family units and the strange fact that we no longer share our days. I love my husband and children with a bone deep ache that fills every corner of my being. But you and I are of a different love. We are of the same ingredients and the same bones, the same secrets and the same daydreams, the same nursery rhymes and the same skipping ropes. We are the same snowball fight and the same echo of laughter after the crash of an ocean wave. The daisy chain, the ice cream sandwich, the dress up heels, the monopoly token, the wet bathing suit, the chocolate pudding cup and the missing puzzle piece, yes, we are all these things too. Is it any wonder that I miss you?

I spent my life learning things beside you. We learned that whip cream tastes better mashed between chocolate chip cookies. Swiss Family Robinson is a better movie when you watch it in your pajamas. Cancer can take away someone we love. If we hide the cookies underneath out mattresses, mom will never find them before we go to bed at night. Boys are horrible. When Daddy swims far out into the ocean and tells us he is never coming back, he is really only kidding, but we need to cry and go after him anyway so that he will give us our favorite smile when we catch him.

Suddenly I find myself learning more than ever and you aren't here next to me. Did you know that pregnancy stretch marks last forever? You won't cook as good as Abuela just because you got married? Having kids changes your life? Comfort tea and creative space goes a long way?Being far away from you really sucks?

After the boys got out of their cuddle tumble we went into the family room for play time. I walked away from the nursery knowing that these two boys would grow up to be friends and I felt such joy. Then I was seized by a sudden urge to find something. You know the feeling. When you suddenly think, "what was I looking for? I can't remember but I know its important." I looked in the cabinets, the closet, the basket of craft string. I peeked in the bowl of avocados and under the bathroom sink. I had no idea what I was looking for, until I passed by your picture on my way to the nursery. You were smiling at me in that self conscious way of yours. The same smile you gave me that afternoon long ago. Without knowing it, I was frantically looking for you. It made me realize that whenever I learn something new about my world, my children or myself; you are still the person I look for to share the news with.

I miss you. You weren't in the cabinet, the basket of craft string or in the bowl of avocados. It made me a bit mad. You are far away. And some small immature part of me is stamping my feet, pouting my lips, and asking in a whiny voice if we can watch Faerie Tale Theatre's Dancing Princesses together. Or at the very least, get lost in a golden afternoon of dandelions and play clothes as two small tumbleweeds of six and eight years old.

Come home soon.