Un pasito pa'delante

Madonna was speaking to me from the dashboard, telling me to get into the groove. The sun was shining and the tushy was enjoying its new best friend: the seat warmer.
From the backseat, Maria informed me that "some dogs can't find their way home.''
You are right, I said. That's why we rescue some of them and help them get home.
Some dogs can't fly, she added.
You're right, I said. And they can't ride skateboards either.
Funny, mom, she said and moved on to tell her stuffed panda a story about a bunny who eats grass and grows very, very, very, VERY big.

This week marks the second anniversary of trading in the writing of simple sentences for the daily newspaper for 13-hour days of simple sentences with my daughter.

It has not been easy, or completely fun. Modern Mommy World, to me, is a little mind-numbing, a little insane, muy competitive and a whole lotta "Now what the hell do I do?" The age of 2 is made to test mother mettle. (Thank goodness she's 3 now!) I will spare you the details and whining and let the untold number of Famous Mommy Bloggers fill you with minutiae. So, let's leave it at "yeah, whatever she said.''

But, allow me this...In the last seven days I have made homemade Play-doh, food-colored rice, gone to the zoo, and made necklaces from beads shaped like dogs, cats, turtles and bears. How cool is that? And, I have been afforded many quiet and simple moments with my daughter, tender moments that make the exhaustion and head-banging (mine, not hers) worth it.

It never was my intention to step away from my career. But, rare was the evening I did not come home to a child who was ready for bed within an hour of my re-entry. I used to tell my husband my role in her life was to wipe her butt and give her to the nanny and then wipe her butt and put her to bed.

I cried the day I walked out of the newsroom. Sobbed, actually. I felt like a sell-out, like I couldn't be the Superwoman I was supposed to be. I still miss my colleagues, miss the energy and passion of daily newspapering. (I won't tell you what I don't miss. Too long to list.)

Of course, Maria would have been fabulous whether I quit or not. She was happy and loved and she partied all day with an amazing nanny who we still miss. I quit for me. To ease our life, my life.

And then we launched the business. And my kid turned 2. And The Mommies could be scarier than working a midnight shooting.

So "ease" would not be the word I would use to describe the last two years.

I would use rich.

And blessed.

And I've also learned that whether one is a "working" mom, or a "non-working" mom, there is a pricelessness in simple sentences shared from the backseat.

Cheating never tasted so good

My drive to the grocery store is mostly on country roads, all tall trees, grassy fields, horses and houses atop tall hills. It's beautiful and relaxing.

But, today was kind of gray and windy and the salsa on my car stereo, all hot and tropical, just seemed so out of place. I kept changing the station and going back, changing and going back.

You see, I have a new car. Got it last week, actually on Valentine's Day. It's a humble, yet fierce road-killer of a Honda with XM satellite radio free for the next three months. Of course, I quickly tuned it to salsa and classic dance music. My husband is not sure he ever wants to get in the car again. My previous Honda had a dead-beat antenna and the only station it tuned in was vanilla Country, but at least it fit the scene.

And then after the grocery store...

I made Marta's quickie guava pastelitos. Oh my goodness. I also used left-over picadillo to make pastelitos de carne. Again, oh my goodness. What glory puff pastry is. What joy guava and queso crema are. Who needs masa?

So, when I hopped back in the Honda to pick Maria up from pre-school and Ismael Miranda was belting out Asi se compone un son the salsa didn't seem so foreign as I backed out of the drive. No so out of place at all. I even danced in my seat -- my brand new heated seat.

Gracias, Marta. Gracias.

Oh, the things she says...

Maria was a little sleepy.

"Here, mama, rest your head on my lap.''

"No. I need something flat, not round.''

Pre-school and pagan rituals

So, the other morning I said a prayer to the Goddess of Good Behavior and walked into an "informal playgroup'' at the pre-school we would like Maria to attend next Fall. It's the mucho expensive Spanish immersion one. We did drink the Kool-Aid. This was Step Two of Three in the application process.

When we got there three other little girls were there with their parents. Maria was greeted by the awesome Catalana who would be her teacher. La Catalana invited Maria to join her on a mat to play with some interlocking building blocks. "Um, no thanks,'' Maria told her. Well, at least she was polite. Better than the "Don't talk to me!'' she has yelled at strangers on lesser days.

Off she went to stick plastic coins in a small slotted box. The Catalana moved on. She chit chatted with us and with the other families. We made nice nice with the director of admissions while Maria kept sticking coins in a slot.

I used to laugh at people who put themselves through this popularity contest of sorts. My god, she's only 3. But again, there's been Kool-Aid and the realization that I need help and community if this bilingual thing is going to work in the long run.

Maria eventually moved on to the Play-Doh. She turned to me and said: "Look Mami, I made a mountain.'' The Catalana said: "Maria, como se dice mountain en español?'' She asked her a few times. Maria looked down at her mountain of pink. I held my breath. I think my husband did too.

"Montaña,'' finally came the reply.

Score!

Despite our daughter's genius, beauty and bilingualism, there is no guarantee she will be admitted. They told us they got an outrageous amount of applicants for the immersion class.

My husband does not share my doubt. He is certain Maria will be accepted.

"Hey, don't worry, I threw the coconuts. We're in.''

I didn't teach him that.

Yee Haw Y'all

While the comebolas who voted for an English-only bill in my adopted hometown were wondering whether the mayor would veto their short-sighted bill, I was at a newly-formed Spanish mamasita playgroup. The mayor came through and we mamis had mucho fun en español. A good day for all. So, take that, ridiculosos.

Here’s the story, just in case you missed it.

By ERIK SCHELZIG, Associated Press Writer

Mayor Bill Purcell vetoed a measure Monday that would have made English the official language of Nashville, saying it was unconstitutional, unnecessary and mean-spirited.
"This ordinance does not reflect who we are in Nashville," Purcell said.
The measure passed 23-14 last week by the Metro Council required all government documents to be in English, except when multilingual communications are required by federal rules or are needed "to protect or promote public health, safety or welfare."
Opponents and supporters of the ordinance agreed it was largely a symbolic slap at illegal immigration that had no significant effect.
Purcell said his legal staff had advised him the bill violated the U.S. and state constitutions and would be costly to defend.
His veto seems likely to stand. It would take 27 council votes to override it.
Councilman Eric Crafton, who sponsored the measure, said it would offer an incentive for immigrants to learn English. Opponents including the Chamber of Commerce worried it would hurt the image of Nashville, which bills itself as "Music City USA."
Several smaller communities have passed similar laws or resolutions, including Pahrump, Nev.; Taneytown, Md.; and the Dallas suburb of Farmers Branch, Texas.
Nashville, a city of more than 600,000, is home to the nation's largest Kurdish community and has been a resettlement site for refugees from Africa and Southeast Asia. The Hispanic immigrant population also has boomed.
Researchers say Nashville's foreign-born population has grown 350 percent since 1990.

Feb. 23 Follow-up: An editorial column worth reading. Muy fun.

Ghosts and Gators

Each visit to Miami for me is about ghosts. I search people's faces hard, just in case I may have known them once. I take off and drive around by myself to look at store fronts and make sure places I loved still are standing. (Yes, on the Morro Castle on North West 7th). I meander down the aisles of mercaditos, touching tropical produce, inhaling violetas cologne and buying .39 cent coco-leches.

Because it is home, there are memories everywhere, even when I am not actually looking.

On the day we hung out at the Seaquarium, I looked to see if per chance the boy I loved in 4th grade still was working there as a dolphin trainer. I haven't spoken to him since pre-puberty, but spotted him as an extra in Ace Ventura Pet Detective. Talk about shock. (And no, I didn't see it at the movies thankyouverymuch. I was sick on a couch.) No sighting of the boy, but we found this gator. It's the same damned gator that graces my childhood photo albums.


That sucker has survived more than 30 years of being climbed on and stormed on. Seeing it was, for sure, like running into an old friend. It also was a thrill to watch Maria climb on him, though despite much encouragement, she refused to stick her head in its mouth. (The boy in the picture circa January 1974 is an old neighbor my family still keeps in touch with).


This may not be the most post-appropriate pose, but whatever. It was a moment of juvenile bliss, even when my father said: "Se conserva mejor que tu!''

Juan Pirindingo-ed out

We returned home to Tennessee having just missed a cold snap and a sprinkle of snow. Thank you, South Florida and your warm February breezes. I never will like snow nor any temperature below 72 degrees. DNA, I guess.

While I gather my thoughts to write something you’ll actually care to read, I will share this quickie. My father taught Maria this little Cuban ditty. They sang it for two days straight. It came home with us. She spent the day today singing it:

“Tingo Tilingo, mañana es domingo. Se casa la gata con Juan Pirindingo.”

Where do they get this stuff? It's about a cat marrying a guy named Juan, for those of you who no habla.) Does it bring back memories for some of you?

Lucy, I'm hoooome!

We spent the day at the Miami Seaquarium. Me, in fantasy-mode about my next career as a dolphin trainer, and Maria and my dad running through the place like two crazy people. It was a bright blue and beautiful day -- the kind of day when I want to shout at some of these rude and aggressive natives that they don't know how lucky they are to be wrapped in silky warmth in January, so be nice, already.

Maria, as hoped, completely passed out in the car on the way home. Her mouth hung open just like my Abuelita's used to. So, I reclined my seat and tried to take a snooze in the driveway. I don't wake sleeping giants.

But, across the street, the Argentinian guy was yelling. I think at his wife. Next to his house, the Jamaican woman was screaming. I think at her daughter. And, next door to our house, the Cuban lady was shouting. I think at her grandson.

No snooze, but I smiled at myself.

I am home.