Backyard Godzilla

Our day started out in normal fashion. Breakfast and playtime went by quickly, nap time coincided for both boys and I was able to clean the house from top to bottom AND do laundry. I prayed for this to happen and God decided to shower mercy on my husband's sock drawer which was in low supply. The boys woke up and we played together a bit more, ate lunch and started our quiet time routine. The Bear "read" quietly in his library, Cubby was in his walker by the window, looking at the tree, and I was kneading dough in the kitchen. 

Do you ever get the feeling that something is not quite right? Well I got that feeling as I was forming the pile of dough. I couldn't shake the feeling. I dusted off my hands and peaked in on each kid. No missing diaper poop disasters, no ink pen tsunamis, no baby powder explosions, nothing. Hmm.  

Then I looked out the window. 

Our dog, a small west highland terrier with more diva attitude than Diana Ross, was locked in a death grip with what appeared to be a small alligator. Cardiac arrest is putting it mildly. I freaked out. I ran to the stove top, turned off the pots and pans, and ran like a madwoman for the backyard.

It wasn't an alligator. I almost wish it were. There's only one kind of alligator. The kind with teeth. You beat it with a stick and call critter control and get your dog back inside. Frankie was wrestling with some monstrosity of an iguana. Between 3 and 4 feet in length, long creepy fingers with even longer, creepier Elvira Mistress of the Dark-like fingernails. Worst of all, it had a beard. A disgusting pointy, feathery Ramses Pharaoh of Egypt beard. Holy shit.

My husband insists that Frankie is a hero. That he was trying to valiantly protect his home from this giant lizard. I am not so sure. I have yet to read on the local news any headline even closely resembling: "GIANT LIZARD ATTACKS AND KILLS FAMILY OF FOUR, DOG ARRIVED TOO LATE."

We have tons of iguanas and lizards down here. They don't bother me. They hang out by the canal or in palm trees and sun bathe. I've never encountered an aggressive iguana. I'm pretty sure this dude was hanging out in our backyard and Frankie decided to drag him out by one of his long toenails and have it out.  What's scary about the lizard, to the point of my wishing it were an alligator, is that I have no idea what kind it was. People have a nasty habit of ordering exotic animals from Internet sites and trying to domesticate them as pets. Three months later they realize that their brand new Saudi Arabian Lizard of Venomous Excruciating Death is probably not the best pet to keep with Fido and the kids around. So they drive to the Everglades and drop them off. Or even worse, they open up their back door and turn them loose on society. I have no idea what this exotic animal is capable of. This lizard could have a seriously venomous saliva that will kill my dog or burn my lawn or both. 

 When I arrived at the scene of Diva Dog vs Psycho Lizard, I discovered that they each had a lock on each other and no one seemed willing to let go. The iguana was hissing and making all kinds of noise. I've never heard a lizard make noise before. 

I ran back to the house, got a broom and came back to the fight. I literally had to smack Frankie over the head three or four times before he let go of the iguana. When he finally did, the iguana tried to retaliate with its jaws open and its nails scratching. I grabbed Frank and ran for the house! Frankie maimed Ramses' right front leg. He had lizard goo all over him but otherwise, Frankie appears to be fine. He did have a nightmare tonight, he was whimpering and crying in his sleep, but at least he gave that lizard what for.  

I looked online to see if I could find out what species Ramses is. I could not find him, but if you take these two iguanas and put them together, you'll get a pretty good idea of what Frankie had his mouth on today.

He was about this thick, with fingers like that but add another inch or two worth of actual nail.

This is what his face and jaw looked like. His beard was closer to the tip of his jaw. 

Before I close, I'd like to send a personal thank you to the Trekkie, Dungeons and Dragons, live-in-my-parent's-basement, douche bag that ordered this mini-Godzilla and then released it into our neighborhood, I hope your Game cube blows a fuse and your favorite 7-11 shuts down you irresponsible, disgusting mouth-breather, hacking loser. 

Food Fight

My eldest son is an Italian through and through. At the beginning of my pregnancy with him, I had quite an insatiable craving for raw garlic. I literally purchased 5-6 heads a week and would eat them straight up. I remember going to the grocery store and keeping one out of the bag that I could peel in the parking lot and eat on the way home. My poor husband would say, "I can smell it through your pores!" It seemed that a very hungry little Italian was in my womb, demanding ingredients for a Sicilian feast. 

Thus my little Italiano was born. My boy loves his marinara sauce. Pasta, garlic bread, meatballs, lasagna, mozzarella and above all PIZZA, are his favorite foods. I love to cook and I make almost everything from scratch. The past few months have allowed me the opportunity to learn how to make really interesting Italian foods. The Bear loves it and I love learning new methods of cooking.

Like most toddlers, I usually have to hog tie him during the day to get a full meal in his tummy. He is so busy most days that he barely eats until 5 or 6pm, at which time he literally eats his body weight. Unless I am serving up Italian food or some Cuban food, its a challenge to get him to eat during the day. But this Mama can only eat so much Italian food and as of the last few weeks, the fight is on!

Today Team Mom scored a few points. You will remember that I am a sucker for creative food. I discovered last week that my son shares the same weakness. I have started to decorate his food. Sandwiches with a smiley face cut into the bread, letting jelly eyes and a jelly smile peak through. Macaroni and cheese with a broccoli forest of little trees standing on it. A Spanish treasure ship that looks suspiciously like a small baked potato skewered by a toothpick with a white paper sail. Today I made a pirate face on his snack plate, with an eye patch made of black beans. He laughed when he saw it, and gobbled it right up.  Note to Self: when toddler acts up and refuses to eat, get creative!

This was a major victory. Especially since we had one very messy food fight yesterday. I served up a bowl of oatmeal and as I turned my back I saw it go flying right past me, propelled by the echo of a stubborn "Noooooo!"

Some days are really tough, but I love this age, even with the coming of independence and the stubborn fights that inevitably come with it. I love that I can have conversations with him. Mind you, here is what a conversation sounds like.

"Morning sweetie! Can you say good morning?"

"mo-gide"

"Thanks baby. You want some breakast?"

"Nannies. Chee-chees." (bananas and cheerios, please!)

"Ok, lets go find Frankie and then we will eat breakfast"

We walk into the room and Frankie comes running up to us.

"Gankie! Hiiiii Gankie!"

"Yup, there is Frankie. Ok now, here's your breakfast."

"Yaaaayyy. Mama, nannies?" (he offers me one)

"Mmmm" (Mommy tries not to cringe while choking down squashed up baby bananas)

"I love you baby boy."

"Dove, doooo"

A little bit later....

"Want your lechita and a nap sweetheart?"

"NO!"

"Ok" (I start walking away with the bottle only to hear him chase after me)

"mooooo"

"All right. Here is your bottle"

Seriously. These little conversations are starting to kill me, very slowly. What a way to go. Every day it seems like he has learned a new word, a new trick. Last week it was learning to spin in circles until he fell down dizzy and playing with trains on the coffee table. This week its throwing a ball and chasing after it.  He loves to bring me shapes and say their names (oh-val) and their colors (bluuuuuuuu). 

I gave him a buttermilk bath tonight and treated him to a little massage with my favorite lavender cream afterwards. He smelled (and looked) like a delicious little angel. I sang to him in the rocker and he played with my face and hair. He kissed me on the lips with a big "MWAH" when I said goodnight. 

I felt terrible all day. If I had a regular job, today I would have taken a sick day. But being a Mom, there is no such thing as a "sick day." I do wish I could have had an undisturbed day of sleeping, drinking OJ and broth, and resting my cold away. Instead I had a day filled with sticky jelly kisses and small train cars. 

Today I was a pirate and a bear. I made 400 animal sounds and colored with chubby crayons. I folded laundry, watched it get destroyed by a giggling tornado and folded it a second time. I nursed a baby 13 times and made 5 fun meals for a 19 month old boy. I read "The Cat in the Hat" and helped someone brush their very tiny teeth. I had the best medicine in the world today, because even when I am sick, I still get to be a mom.

Six months

Tomorrow is Cubby's 6 month birthday. I look back on his birth day and feel enormously proud of myself and of him.

I gave birth at my parents home, in a big blue tub filled with nice warm water. The experience I planned for 9 long months had a fairy tale ending. I know most women don't enjoy the labor and birth process, but I loved mine. Don't get me wrong...there were plenty of tears and frustration on hand, but the actual process and how it took place--perfect. I can't imagine ever going back to a hospital to give birth. After the horrible miseries we all had to endure for the Bear's birth, which was essentially the fault of one very cold and callous man, I had a chance to reclaim one of my basic human rights. I was told that I could not have a baby without a hospital, without a trained medical staff, without intervention. I told myself, I can do this. Instead of going to a building full of sick and dying people, controlled by OBs (mostly men) telling me with every injection, intervention, forced starvation and IV tube that women do not know how to birth children; I chose me and believed in my natural ability as a woman. 

I chose my parent's home. A place filled with magical childhood memories, familiar smells, and most importantly unrestricted access to my family and food.

When I arrived at my parents home, I was free to roam around the house as my contractions began to intensify.  I could use the restroom, eat anything my heart desired, and drink plenty of water to keep my energy flowing for the tough marathon ahead. What a stark contrast to being wheeled into a cold unfamiliar room, all but strapped to an uncomfortable bed, having needles forced into my veins, denied access to a bathroom and deprived of food and water for 24 hours.  In every country around the world, midwives are valued, loved, respected members of the social and medical worlds. Here in America, they are shunned, oppressed, legally cornered and abused by the majority of OBs. OBs that don't want to lose customers, insurance money, etc. Ultimately birth is a business (Check out Ricki Lake's The Business of Being Born, or for a more in depth read, "Born in the USA") and midwives cut in on that business considerably. The Bear's birth cost a whopping 50k+, that package included 6 months worth of 18 appointments that each lasted 5 minutes, extreme abuse and neglect and as you know, one very horrific and scarring hospital experience. Cubby, born at home and under the excellent care of a trained midwife, received 28 prenatal visits each lasting 30-45 minutes, one beautiful home birth and 6 WEEKS of post natal care for mommy and baby. That package cost 4k. TOTAL. Covered by insurance, we had to pay only a fraction of that. (Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Obama). Midwives are slowly beginning to see an increase in patients. My home birth cost Baptist hospital 50k+...no wonder they feed us all such drivel about home birth and midwives, they want their cut!

If you have a mind to, read up on midwives and the horrors they have battled (and continue to battle) here in the US. Read about their courage and dedication to women. Its a beautiful and inspiring legacy.

 

I developed a great relationship with my midwife (her assistant at the birth was also lovely!) and I felt completely loved and supported by my birth team. I handled the contractions well, they really did not hurt until the last 15 minutes of transition. Cubby was on track to be born before dawn but he refused to stop sucking his thumb, which made progress down the canal quite slow. He decided to make his grand entrance at almost 6 PM! 

At the Bear's birth I had a labor nurse screaming in my ear to bear down and PUSH!  At Cubby's birth I had two gentle women at the foot of the tub, speaking to me softly and encouraging me to breathe the baby down. My husband had put on his swim trunks and crawled in behind me. I curled up between his legs and proceeded to birth our son, while he held me in his arms. When Cubby crowned they told me to feel his head. Just touching that beautiful tiny head encouraged me to keep going. He came out so quickly and peacefully, submerged in water and quite cranky to have left the womb. The midwife made sure his neck was free of the chord and then she said "Reach down and pull out your baby." And I did! I pulled him up out of the water and onto my chest, where he stayed, undisturbed for 3 hours. What joy! Bringing my own baby into the world and holding him, as it should be, completely undisturbed.  The Bear came over and got in the water and watched as we announced, "Its a boy!" Our little family of four huddled close together in the water and felt peace and overwhelming happiness in that precious moment. I felt no pain, no discomfort, just a tremendous wave of love.

At the Bear's birth they performed an episiotomy, though I begged them not to. After they cut me and I tore again, they wrenched him from me and separated us for hours. They wouldn't let me hold him or bond with him, I thought my heart would break. I was forced to call the nursery 6 hours later and threaten them with bodily harm before they consented to bring him to me.  I had to stay hooked up to machines and remain on my back for days and was in a tremendous amount of pain. I wept uncontrollably when I came home and it took months to recover physically. 

After Cubby's birth I ate a large meal, took a shower, nursed him, played with him, watched his physical exam and welcomed the entire family over to sing Happy Birthday and cut a cake for him. Approximately 4 hours after giving birth, we rode home as a family and slept comfortably in our own beds.

I will always give birth at home. Hands down. No one can tell me how to give birth. No one. Keep your drugs and your medicines and your hideous interventions. I want to feel my children come into the world. I want those precious first hours of intoxicating love and bonding without interruption from a medical health professional and without feeling paralyzed from the waist down. 

Cubby is a miraculous baby. He is evidence of my dreams and hopes. He is the product of bravery in reclaiming my ability as a woman. We are knit together from the experience so tightly, I feel it tugging at me from time to time, that beautiful bond of love at first sight. 

Six months old today. A sweet blue eyed boy with a smile and a giggle for everyone he sees. I love nursing him and seeing the absolute delight he takes in it. The moments we share throughout the day when he eats are precious to me. He is watching the Bear closely. Learning how to talk (Mama and various consonants are all ready distinguishable) and even trying to crawl. The next six months will go by faster than the first. 

Happy Birthday, my sweet little boy. I love you with all my heart.

Comfort

The past three nights I have been unable to work on my book. This is due to one night of exhaustion and two nights of one or two cranky babies in need of constant attention. This lack of creative outlet brought on no small amount of gloom from me. 

I'm continually surprised by how much I crave writing. I need it in my life every day, it restores me. I am currently working on four different writing projects. Rather than feel scattered by that number I feel relieved, because I am free to pour creativity into a specific venue depending on where I am on that particular evening.  I clean the house, put everyone to bed and go to my little corner of the home and write. Write write write write. Write until a satisfied warmth spreads all over my body that I have created something. Truly, a deeper warmth than a cup of frothy cocoa on a cold night. Writing comforts me.  Comfort. What a deep and abiding life long need. Comfort from the familiar, comfort from something special, comfort from companionship. How many forms it can take but what singular result of peace and satisfaction it always brings.

Something rather extraordinary happened on Friday. My mother had left for a long trip and consequently asked her cleaning lady to come and help me at our new home. I was excited to have M. come to my home since she is a cleaning miracle worker, to say the least. M is also a beautiful person and I love talking to her. She has had an incredibly hard life and currently endures a great deal of hardship. 

While she was here we started talking about an old friendship she had lost. M. seemed to still be grieving over this loss, the lady had been a true and loyal friend to her and they had lost touch through happenstance and not by fallout or argument. She desperately tried to locate her friend once M. moved to the United States, but she had no idea where in the world (literally) this person might be. My heart broke for her and I told her that I would try and track this long lost friend if I could. I walked her to the door, talked to her about some gardening plans I have and watched her take off down the path. I watched her leave and thought to myself, "how in the world am I ever going to find this person? I shouldn't have said anything at all!"

Can you believe that I managed to find this woman not three hours after M. left my home? I sent ONE email to SIX people, and before I went to bed on Friday night I had all ready corresponded via email with M's long lost friend. They were happily reunited on Sunday by telephone.  

I do not believe that it is a small world. I believe our world---our great, vast, delightfully ordered, meticulously planned world---is lovingly held by a personal God that wanted to bring tremendous comfort to a small, poor woman by reinstating a lost friendship after twelve years.

 

Rumpus

Indeed.

Let the wild rumpus start.  If you had called my home today at around 3PM and asked "How ya doing?" I would have whimpered out a terribly pathetic, "miserable."

At this point in the day I began wondering when it was that the boys had called for a secret meeting. Perhaps at some point in the night they had crawled out of their beds and signed to each other a malicious plan with their chubby baby fists and then giggled with a sneaky delight. They had ganged up on me for over 5 hours of nonstop crying and screaming. The Bear started right after his morning nap, woke up on  the wrong side of the bed and never righted himself. Then Cubby head him crying and that set him off.  I went into the nursery to calm the Bear with no luck. I tried everything. Books, puzzles, milk, broccoli (his favorite), spinach (his 2nd favorite) trains, lions, NOTHING WORKED. So I figured he just needed a good cry. I gave him a chamomile teething strip (just in case) and went off to nurse Cubby. But by this point Cubby had worked himself off and didn't want to nurse or stop crying. And.....well you can see why I would have said miserable. 

Days like today wound my motherly pride. I know my kids inside and out, so when something is amiss and I can't comfort them, I feel terrible. It took hours to calm them down and when I finally did I sat down on my bed and felt a bit like crying myself. So I sat there and thought about my own mother and all the miserable days I put her through (particularly in high school, I was a nightmare). Then I thought about the good days we had. Ok. 

I got up and made a great loaf of beer bread (using the Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, it was amazing!) and a great big pot of beef stew for dinner. I dragged out everything that the Bear and Cubby love to do right now and when they woke up we had a blast! In fact, we had a rumpus. We raced around the house and danced to Fleet Foxes. We ate cheerios and colored together. I nursed Cubby for a good thirty minutes while the Bear leafed through some of his new train books. We played a very primitive game of hide and go seek and laughed together. We had a great- big- loud- destroy- the- room rumpus. 

The truth about my life right now is that I have two babies, twelve months apart. Its not easy,in fact it is almost never easy. Most days are hard days..but that doesn't mean that I have to keep myself from finding joy in even those very hardest of days. I used to wonder what the words happiness and joy really meant and if there was any great difference. I think there is. For me happiness is a feeling and joy is a condition of the heart. There are many days when I am happy, but its a fleeting emotion that comes and goes. Where as with joy....well, there can be joy even in sorrow. I think of the Bear's birth as a perfect illustration of this. What a painful day I experienced, physically and emotionally. Truly one of the worst days of my life. I felt abandoned and abused. They took my baby away from me and wouldn't let me hold him because of "regulations." I felt deep sorrow. 

But then that moment came, at 4 AM. I called the nursery and DEMANDED that they bring me my child, enough was enough! The rest of the family had gone home. My father never left my side, he slept in the corner of the room. When the nurse came in with the Bear, my dad stood up and came over as well. The three of us huddled together and shared whispers of welcome and a priceless moment of loving a new generation. I can remember that day with great joy, despite my unhappiness over all that had happened and my sorrow over what I had lost. 

And so there are days, like today, when happiness is flung from the windows of the house and tantrums and frustrations have taken over. But there is still joy. Because our home is a simple home built on peace, joy and love. I am blessed with two healthy boys that can experience the world around them and have the ability to express what they feel, even if it is anger or frustration. 

Its late now and everyone is asleep. Well almost everyone. Cubby is lying between J and I, swaddled like a burrito and watching me with bright blue eyes that are nowhere near close to tired. He is ready for a rumpus and I am filled with joy. 

Hands

I really love to look at people's hands. You can tell a story from a hand. Our new neighbor has rough old hands, work worn and full of wrinkles.  My mother has beautiful hands. When I was a little girl I loved holding her hand and feeling its soft, smooth skin. I love looking at my Abuela's hands when she holds my youngest son. His skin is incredibly porcelain and hers is so dark and weathered. The two together are beautiful to me. Mostly because I know of the struggles her hands endured to secure the roots of my family in a new land that made the small life of my son a possibility. Her hands can now hold the product of her hard labor and courage. Her hands say comfort and healing, just as my father's hands say protection and love. Hands can say so very much. 

Today I took the kids and went to our local grocery store for a few items. The Bear sat in his shopping cart, pointing to all the animals on his cart seat cover and making the coinciding growls and chirps. The baby was in his little Ergo carrier, strapped tightly to my chest. I was looking down at his soft red baby curls when a hand came into my peripheral vision-- a very old, very shaky hand.

I had seen this hand twice before. I recognized it because the pinky finger is gone and so is half the pointer. We have met this cute viejo twice before in this grocery store. His name is Fernando and he is very sad and lonely. I know this because he tells me each time he sees me.

"I am sad and lonely."

But he loves the Bear and the Bear loves him. I saw Fernando's shaky hand reach out to touch the Bear's curls. I looked up and said hello, the Bear did the same. For some reason, Fernando is always close to tears when he sees us.  "So beautiful" he says. "He is at the very beginning. So beautiful. He looks so much like him."

I don't know this man. He is honestly a bit too old and incoherent to ever answer any of my questions. He mostly talks to the Bear and I suspect that he can not hear or process things very well. My heart breaks for him.

Today he left with these words. "The last time I saw you, little boy. I felt happy for so many days. I hope I can see you another time."  

I doubt I will ever know anything about this man. I wonder what sort of things brought his hands to this present state of extreme sadness. Judging by the missing fingers and extremely shaky hands its not hard to think of accompanying stories that might be his. He says that the Bear, "looks like him." Perhaps he lost a little boy once. I hope not. 

I left the store today hoping and praying that when Fernando went home that there would be someone waiting for him, with hands that could soothe him and bring him some comfort. 

A White Rose

A White Rose

by Jose Marti

I cultivate a white rose

In July as in January

For the sincere friend

Who  gives me his hand frankly.

And for the cruel person

Who tears out

The heart with which I live

I cultivate neither nettles nor thorns

I cultivate a white rose.

A Walk in the Mangroves

My first grade teacher Mrs. Davidson once said, "If you want to see a whole world of busy in one small spot, look under the limbs of a mangrove." We were on a field trip the day she said that. We all peered over at the long spindly legs of those beautiful trees and chattered excitedly about what type of animals might be living in there even as our boat sailed past. "Sharks! Snakes! Spiders! Goldfish!" Everyone piped out an answer for her to hear. We loved Mrs. Davidson. She had a no nonsense manner about her and at the same time a kindness that leant towards letting 7 year olds behave like 7 year olds.  A quality that is surprisingly rare amongst first grade teachers. She was the tallest person I had ever seen, with a fluffy poof of salt and pepper hair perched on her head. She loved flamingoes. They covered our classroom, she used them as examples on every subject imaginable. She even had a furry flamingo and a plastic flamingo to pass around for the story of Jacob and Esau. We would always try our best to learn things that would please her. 

When I was 7, I was something of a tiny Dr. Dolittle. I loved animals, all of them. Whenever it rained during our morning lessons, I would dash out of the classroom as soon as we were dismissed so I could collect all the earthworms that had ventured onto the sidewalks. I would stuff as many as I could into my pockets to keep the boys in my class from killing them.  This was probably the biggest reason why the girls in my class tended not to befriend me, I carried those worms in an empty potato chip bag all day long until I felt it was safe enough to release them somewhere. I still remember the substitute teacher that barked, "no food in class!" and grabbed my bag away from me, she turned positively green the moment she peered into that squirming bag of Lays. I believe that was the moment when my love for torturing substitute teachers was born. But back to Mrs. Davidson.  

She not only understood why I saved earthworms, she liked me for doing so. We went on another field trip later on in the year to an amphibian farm. No one was allowed to touch any of the animals. But Mrs. Davidson called me up to the front and let me hold a big bullfrog in front of the class because she knew how much I would love it. No one else got to hold it and I felt so special. 

So when Mrs. Davidson told us about mangroves I was nearly jumping out of my skin to tell her everything I knew about them. If I remember correctly, my Dad had to physically restrain me lest I jump overboard to explain that mangroves were nurseries and not a place where sharks and snakes were likely to hang out.  I have had a life long love of them since. I always think of her when I see them too. Mangroves remind me of little families and protection. They remind me of very tall teachers with souls that understand the imaginations of children.

Today we went for a hike. A sweaty, dirty, miserably hot, mosquito infested hike that would have been horrible except that we journeyed through a veil of mangroves. We each strapped a boy to our bodies and headed down the long path with thousands of mangroves huddled around us, arching their legs and standing on their tiptoes.  I would stop every few minutes, peering into the salt water hoping for a glimpse of something tiny and miraculous. The genuine discomfort almost melted away in the face of so much natural creativity. One of my favorite things about God is the way that he chose to delight us with creation. It could have all been very slap dash, minimal effort, just get the job done. But the intricacies of Earth are a love song for His beloved children. Anyone that wants to understand this world as a loud bang and a bunch of monkeys, you go right ahead, I won't even bother to argue with you. I prefer to look at a mangrove and the small universe it holds in the safety of its roots and feel loved. Cherished, by all the bother and planning around the planet meant solely to please and delight His children.  

   

            J and the Bear hiking through the mangroves.

 

Inside a Garden

I still remember the first time I read Robert Louis Stevenson. We selected a poem of his, "The Swing," as my recitation piece for my first Language Arts Festival at school. I loved that poem. I would practice it at home so often that even my sister knew it by heart. A week after the Festival, I entered the school library with my class for story time. Before we left, I approached the librarian and asked her if the library had any books with poems like "The Swing." She smiled and took me to a stack of books and said, "Here is a garden of verses just for you."

I never forgot those words. She was, of course, referring to RLS's poetry book "A Child's Garden of Verses." I devoured it. To this day, RLS remains one of my favorite Scottish poets.  He is in my box of "World Treasures I Can't Wait to Share with My Kids" along with things like dandelions, tree climbing, pirate ship adventures, fishing with a cane pole, puppy breath, and growing vegetables.  Those verses echoed my first-grader imagination, thought for thought. I felt limitless whenever I lost myself in those verses. My creative world blossomed around me at the turn of a page, the memory of it still sends my heart soaring. 

We are building a little white picket fence. Yes, the story book kind. On one side will be our city and on the other will be my garden and all the imagination and flowers you could want. The boys will still be preschoolers when we move away from our little home. Which means that they will never be taller than our fence while they live here. Wonderful. Wonder-full. The garden I want to create will be a hedgerow of imagination. The border to some foreign land they can get lost in completely, I plan on joining them there. The whisper of the child I was growing louder with each hour that we lose ourselves inside the little fairy world of a garden. I leave you with one of my favorite verses:

To Any Reader

By Robert Louis Stevenson

As from the house your mother sees,

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look,

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden play,

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear, he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book,

For long ago, the truth to say, 

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air,

That lingers in the garden there. 

At Last

This evening I went into the Bear's room a few hours after he had gone to bed. He was standing in the crib calling for me with his usual chant of "Maaa---ma! Maaa-ma!" (each syllable accompanied by knee bends). I scooped him up and headed for the rocker. Six months ago he decided that cuddling was no longer for him. But as of the last few weeks, cuddling is back on the menu, which is fine by me! I sat him on my lap, facing me and he proceeded to grab my nose, touch my mouth, poke my eyes, pull my ears and tug at my hair, all the while cooing and smiling. He kissed me a few times and put his head on my shoulders while his hands patted my arms. Finally he looked up and did something new. "ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo." 

I looked at him and he smiled. "When did you learn to sing?" I asked. "Ooooooooooooooo" was the response.  So we sang together. His favorite songs all hail from classic films. I've been singing them to him from the moment I knew of his existence. He really loves "Moonlight Bay," "O What a Beautiful Morning" and "Moon River." But the all time favorite good night song is Etta James' "At Last." I sang it for him this evening as he held on to me with his head on my shoulder. Only this time he sang along with his newfound trick, his little fingers tickling my arm as he "ooooo"d his way through. Each time we finished a song we would both clap and smile at each other.  I wouldn't trade that one moment for a million dollars. 

Earlier today we decided to show the Bear his cabinet, which he had yet to discover. When unpacking our boxes we deliberately opted for an organized row of baby-proof drawers under the island in order to leave one cabinet open and completely filled with safe items that the Bear could take out and play with. When he realized that there was an unmanned drawer brimming with tupperware, lids, and nalgene bottles he let out such a squeal of delight! He took out the bottles and pretended to drink. He pretended to feed the baby with a plastic spoon and a tupperware bowl. Then of course it was time to put everything away which he did quite methodically. When it was tidied up, he toddled over to me with big smile and a hug, as if to say, "Thanks for working on your controlling neat-freak habits Mom, I had a great time!"

(You're welcome Bear, it wasn't easy!)

After a swim in the pool with Daddy, we stripped him down to a diaper and plopped him down for the evening meal. If its one area where I don't obsess about cleaning its dinnertime. I want him to enjoy his food. Not just the taste but the feel. He can discover so much by having free reign of his eating habits. We can work on manners once he is old enough to remember them. Right now I love watching my clean little boy sit down to dinner and end a half hour later with a beard of beans, rice in his hair and avocado all over his fingers. What a sticky mess! Bath time is twice the fun after dinnertime. 

New Word Potentials:

"Ah-do"= avocado?

"woosh"= toilet

"Poom"= spoon

"RRRAAAGGGRRRIIIUOOOOOPPFMMMM"= The baby has my toy and I want it back NOW.

Speaking of the baby (Still haven't picked his blog code word, any suggestions?) He comes with his own set of stories and we are bonkers over him. Really. This baby is made of cloud fluff and angel whispers. I never thought I could be so mushy about a baby, I never wanted to be THAT mom. But the thing is... he is the sweetest baby I have ever seen. Right now he is tucked between J and I, looking around our room while he grabs his toes and talks to them. This morning I woke up and looked over my shoulder to find him already awake and waiting for me with a big smile on his face.  He looks so much like J at times that it takes my breath away.  I love watching all three playing and interacting, which is happening more and more these days. This causes me to daydream with great anticipation to the rapidly approaching boyhood phase of our home.  

Everything about a little boy is dirt and discovery, robbing such a boy of his childhood is criminal. Childhood is a Basilica dome of wonder. You have to crane your neck back to examine the beauty around you, the depth of it is immeasurable from where you stand. When I was a little girl I desperately wished, in classic Jo March fashion, that I could be a little boy. Boyhood seemed like one great dirty pirate adventure and I was stuck on the shores of Doll land. I definitely did things my own way ( Bug boxes, mud, and pranks galore) but I always wanted to get away with things that only boys could get away with. Now I see the wheels turning in his head, and I am so excited for that first bug hunt. The lizards, snakes, toads, earthworms, spiders and all other forms of creepy crawlers waiting to be discovered and examined under a glass. The mud and grass stains all of his clothes are begging for. Science projects and tree houses; sand castles and slingshots. I am aglow with excitement and wonder for him. 

Campesina

I did not have much time to write last week. A rather fragile goodbye was at hand for my 92 year old Great Great Aunt. She is not the fragile one, by the way, we are the fragile ones. 

Her life is the stuff great novels are made of. Not just because of the suffering she overcame, but because of what she was able to bring to the world.  Antonia was born on a poor, rural piece of county in Cuba. She was blessed with a horribly large nose, raspy voice, and squatty body shape. She stands at about 4ft 9 inches these days. Her hands now are crooked and wrinkled to the point of looking like origami. But they are unmistakably hands that heal, plant, and work. They are the earthiest hands I have ever seen. Finger built for raking soil and palms made for soothing others. Her silver shot white hair reaches well below her waist. There is no mistaking the fact that she looks like a very sweet Troll doll (ironic because she once worked in a factory that made them). If you were to see her you would probably imagine that no child would ever come near her, she has the appearance of someone the Brothers Grimm would have penned for Hansel and Gretel to tango with. But you would be wrong.

I can't even produce an estimate of how many children she has raised throughout her life, her own and just about everyone else's. My own children love her. During her two month stay at my grandmother's home, the Bear would toddle in and make a straight shot for her. I loved watching him kiss and hug her leathery skin and touch her huge nose with his small finger. She is, I suppose, that timeless cliche of "Don't judge a book by its cover." But that saying is really so much less than she is. By standards of the world she is no one. She is uneducated and rough, easily overlooked. But how to describe the pure wonder of truly looking at her, anyone who has ever taken the time to do so has never regretted it.  

Tia Antonia eats like a horse, even at 92. She can pack away more food than my 17 year old cousin, who could probably eat a dining room table if he needed to. This old bird knows how to eat. And while she eats, she knows how to tell a story. Stories from Cuba that will make your heart race or your sides split from laughter. Strong women, drunks, childhood adventures, animals with a mind of their own, evil men, deep rivers, snakes, and dirty whores you end up cheering for.  Ask her to tell the story again and it won't be the same. She is a true storyteller at heart. 

She is also the bearer of a painful love story. Her true love dying by her side as they slept in the country they had found refuge in. She awoke to discover his lifeless body. The shock of finding herself completely alone and the panic of trying to find help when she couldn't communicate with those around her, bore down on her all at once. The mention of his name still brings a depth of sorrow to her face that is immeasurable. Sometimes I wonder if she is in a perpetual state of saying goodbye to him, she must be, because each day I can see that she loves him more than the day before.  

We've been saying goodbye to her since the late 80s. We pack her bags and take her home. Our cars drive away and we watch that squatty old woman wave goodbye, we stay silent for a good while, contemplating life without her. The next year she waddles back into our lives with her raspy words and soft hands making food we believed we would never taste again. This last goodbye, she reached up and gave me a deep hug. She barely managed to say, "You are my girl. You will always be my girl."  Its strange that she never said goodbye to her husband, and yet everyone else has been saying goodbye to her for twenty years. 

  

Rose Petal Sauce

I have a beautiful friend. Our friendship is something that I treasure in the deepest part of my heart. This friendship is the stuff of Anne Shirley and Diana Barry, or Elizabeth and Jane Bennet.  Yesterday we celebrated her 25th birthday with great joy and happiness. I put great thought into the evening's menu and came up with various goodies that I knew would bring a smile to her face. The main dish served was Quail in Rose Petal Sauce. If anyone wants the recipe just let me know, I'd be happy to share. Or you can go to your local public library and pick up a little book by Laura Esquivel entitled, Como Agua Para Chocolate, the recipe is included.   

Quails in Rose Petal Sauce

Happy Birthday