The themes in the stories we read are children are often universal, so even if it's about a little bunny wanting to run away from his doting mother, we can still see a little bit of ourselves in the characters. But once in a while you'll come across a book that is more than just something we can connect with. It's a direct reflection of your life, or your family's life. My mom gave me a copy of a children's book by Chicana artist Carmen Lomas Garza this weekend, Family Pictures, or Cuadros de Familia, and I was just so happy to see a book that captured life in South Texas --mostly as my mother knew it, and a bit of how I knew it, too. Garza, who is Mexican-American, says on the first page of the book that the "pictures in this book are all painted from my memories of growing up in Kingsville, Texas, near the border with Mexico." She says she grew up dreaming of becoming an artist, and with the inspiration and encouragement of her family she finally realized that dream. The book is of family pictures, and each painting tells a little story, in English and in Spanish, about life in South Texas.

  

 

We usually eat at home for lunch, but my stomach was rumbling when we were out and the child had it on repeat asking for chocolate cake, chocolate cake, chocolate cake -- an obsession since I bought one for my husband's birthday two weeks ago. She really just means frosting. Or frosting-like substances like Nutella.

So we went to Whole Foods and I got her a chocolate cupcake, got myself some sushi, and some noodles for her. She ate the cupcake first, por supuesto, then put down her fork and asked for chopsticks. She saw me eating with them and she wanted in. She always does this when we eat at Noodles & Company.

So I gave her a pair, and lo and behold, my finicky child ate! You have to play Jedi Mind Tricks as a parent sometimes to get your way.

Earlier this month I picked up a few children's books about Dia de los Muertos from the library. This one, El Dia de los Muertos by Ivar da Col, is in Spanish, and I love the illustrations. It breathes life into everything about Day of the Dead: papel picados, calaveras, pan dulce, cempasuchil, fruta, altares, cemeterios and more than anything else, celebration.

A few days ago I ran across these calavera iron-on appliques as I was cruising down the sewing/crafts section at Wal-mart. I was shocked, **shocked**, when I saw them just hanging there, completely out of place at this random Wal-mart in Maryland. I probably wouldn't have been surprised if I had been in South Texas or California, but in the DC beltway? I think visitors to my house think my La Catrina dolls are Wiccan or something. Anyway, these appliques are very cute and only cost about $5 so I had to buy.

I picked out the appliques with pink in them and decided to go with a heather purple American Apparel track shirt that I got for under $10 through Amazon.com. I placed the calaveras on the front and the pink flower on the top back of the shirt (near the neckline). All I had to do was whip out the plancha and ironing board -- and it took all of two minutes to do this. Now that's what I call a project fit for me!

The appliques I bought are from a company called Next Style Fashion Art, but I can't seem to find any online. Etsy to the rescue! You can find other calavera appliques here.

When we traveled down to Nicaragua and Honduras last year when the toddler was 9 months we left our regular stroller at home and instead took the Bjorn baby carrier and another baby sling I got from Target. It was an easy decision to make -- all I had to do was imagine the route from my husband's grandmother's house to his aunts' and uncles' houses about two blocks away. Okay, there are steps at the front door of abuela's house, a street that may have been paved at some point but that is now mostly dirt and rocks with charcos and perros callejeros crossing your path. I should probably also mention the pig tied up to the neighbor's fence -- which forces you to walk mid-street, just to be safe. Sidewalks? Ha, maybe there's one here and there but any sliver of concrete is basically a mirage that suddenly ends just as you're starting to enjoy its smoothness.

In other words, this is stroller HELL. Even a jogging stroller with its inflatable bicycle tires wouldn't last a day in these dusty streets. It would be an exercise in frustration managing it. So the Bjorn and my brazos were all we needed. And with so much family around to carry baby, who needed a stroller anyway?

I've mentioned it in this blog before, but the decision for me to use a baby carrier or sling when the toddler was a wee baby was always a practical matter  -- because sometimes it just makes more sense to have the baby tied close to you when you need to have free hands and the ground underneath isn't compatible with a stroller. So it was pretty interesting to read this piece that aired on NPR's All Things Considered two weeks ago about Bolivia's younger generation rechazando the sling, or the aguayo, as they call it in Bolivia, in favor of the more western stroller. Here's a snippet. Lourdes Condori is a young woman they interviewed:

That's because in La Paz, carrying an aguayo marks people as indigenous — and Condori wants to be considered more Western, more "modern."
Condori proudly shows off the stroller — a secondhand blue canvas one. But the surrounding neighborhood is full of puddles and potholes, no sidewalks, and a lot of stray dogs — not good terrain for a stroller.
It takes almost 10 minutes just to get it out of Condori's house, with lots of lifting and some three-point-turns.
Condori's mother, Patricia, thinks strollers are ridiculous.

The line in there -- carrying an aguayo marks people as indigenous -- is interesting food for thought and me stop to think about who the baby-wearing set is here in the U.S. and in Latin America. What does a Bjorn mark its wearer's as? Stretchy slings? Or for that matter, Graco strollers? Jogging stroller? Maclaren stroller? Chicco stroller?  What do they say about the parent? What does it say about you?

Let's face it, I see lots of slings at the farmer's market or the food co-op. Not so much at Wal-mart or Dollar Tree (where they don't know what BPA-free is). I've seen men wearing their children in slings here in the U.S. -- on just a few occasions, I might add -- but I'm pretty sure that's not a common thing in countries like Mexico. Or for that matter, not all Mexican women are walking around in Mexico with rebozos. I have an image from my childhood of the poor working mothers who sold their artesanias on the sides of the street in the border towns. Sometimes they had a baby held close to them in a sling. Sometimes their older children hawked Canel's chicle for a few cents a pack.

In any case, I wonder what other Latinas here in the U.S. think about baby-wearing. Are crunchy Latinas rare? If you look at the stats, most Latinas have their babies really young, and I wonder how much economics or even maturity plays into the decision to be a more attached parent. Or even cultural attachment, and by that I mean wearing a sling as a way to connect to our forebears. My mother didn't use a baby sling. Heck, she didn't use a car seat either. I'm not sure she even used many strollers because even after a hundred times of explaining to her how to close the stroller, she STILL would rather put it in the car unfolded. Aye mi mama.

Back to the NPR piece, I like the way it ends, and the way the young girl reconciles her decision on what to use is not too different from my own reasoning. We live in a world where both a sling AND a stroller have their place. And we can use both, and not be defined by either.

So I was about to do a search for "Why do Mexicans like burros?" as in pinatas and burrito sabanero, etc. etc. to research the post I was about to write -- and I know, that's probably not the best way I should've asked the question anyway, but I was thrown off track by the Google's suggestions for finishing my query of "Why do Mexicans ..." The responses are based on what people are searching for on Google, and it assumes it might just be what you're looking for, too. Unless you're a Mexican. This is Google Autocomplete FAIL. Check it out, so per Google, people want to know:

Why do Mexicans ... come to America.

...have so many kids.

...say jaja.

...stare.

I wasn't surprised by the first two, but the next two left me like seriously?? That's what people are searching for? Why do Mexicans stare? I just had to follow through with that search to see what came up. And big surprise, it's a Yahoo question.

Why do Mexicans stare?
Ok so im not racist at all...I even grew up in a latino neighborhood....and know a little spanish, but why do they stare?
I mean I go into say the market to get food and if there a mexican guy with his family and his wife rite there they stare....they even say nasty things in spanish! Is this considered sexy in there country because my father is from Venezuela and he said that's why he thought they did it. But my aunt said it was because I have blond hair and green eyes!
It just bothers me sometimes. 
Harry the Hispanic
PS. I have nothing against latinos......ive been around wonderfull latinos all my life!

**eyes rolling**

Jaja. Let's move on. There's obviously some ignorance and other stuff driving these questions. Still, its interesting in a voyeuristic, I can read people's minds kinda way. So that got me wondering what the all-knowing mind-reading Google is saying about other Latinos. So I switched it up to Cubans. Google's suggestions:

Why do Cubans ... come to America.

...vote Republican.

...drive old cars.

...hate Che.

Well, I dare the Googlers who typed that last question to stand up in Cafe Versailles in Miami and ask it. ño.

Okay, let's move on, Puerto Rico. This was now getting to be like turning up the Magic 8 balls.

Why do Puerto Ricans ... act black.

...look black.

...say bendicion.

...like Betty Boop.

Betty Boop? Serious? I had to go and look up this Boricua Boop craze was true, and the answers left me totally unsatisfied. They're most people talking out of their rears, and are not nearly as amusing as Gustavo Arellano's Ask a Mexican column which appears in the OC Weekly-- which, in my humble opinion, is the gold standard for Q&A's that deal with stupid/awful/funny/true stereotypes. He can take an acerbic question based in stereotype and hit you back with smart, snarky, funny and well-researched answers. I've been reading it for years now, and I can honestly say he serves up a good education for Mexicans, Latinos and non-Latinos alike. Love it. In case you haven't had the pleasure of reading for yourself, here's a taste from his most recent column:

DEAR MEXICAN: When I was in high school, my social-studies teacher and leader of our school's MEChA club had deep resentment toward the Spaniards/conquistadors who killed hundreds of thousands of Aztecs. He went so far as to deny that his own heritage comes partly from Spain, and he hated it when people would refer to him as a Latino/Hispanic. He would get so mad and say, "I'm not Spanish; I AM CHICANO!" What's your opinion on the subject? Do you feel hatred toward the Spanish?
DEAR WAB: I LOVE the Spaniards! Their adorable lisp! Their great porn! Dalí! (Wait—he's Catalan.) Guernica! (Wait—that was about the Basques.) The Alhambra! (Wait—that was Moors.) The fact that so many Mexicans wore Spain's jersey as it wound its way through winning the World Cup last year! The only Mexicans who hate Spaniards are of the yaktivist type, and the best commentary on the matter is the great Mexican muralist José Clemente Orozco's Cortés y la Malinche, which depicts a naked Hernán Cortés and his Indian concubine, Malintzin (popularly known as Malinche), looming over their dead mestizo son: The father and mother looking down at their defeated Mexico. Honestly, what is there to celebrate about a civilization that enslaved foreign lands, killed thousands of innocents and plundered to their desire? We're supposed to celebrate the Spaniards why? All of this said, for a Mexican to deny he has any Spanish blood in him when he's sporting a mustache as thick as Zapata's is as ludicrous as the Mexican who says he's pure-blooded Spanish despite having a nopal en la frente.

If you haven't read Arellano before, catch up by getting his book. And stop being like me and wasting time (and basing all your knowledge) on Google!!! Unless you can't resist, then just cut through it all and go to AutoCompleteFail.com and laugh your rear off.

And if you know anything about the Betty Boop thing -- or any of other Latino autocomplete fails -- drop me a comment.

The toddler K loves horsies, can't get enough of them on the carousel at the National Mall, or the bouncing one she has in the living room, or seeing them in her picture books or pulling a princess' carriage. They're her favorite--except when they're real. Then they totally freak her stuff out. Literally, like she's clawing away at you to get her the hell away from them. But no matter, I knew she'd love it if horses were the centerpiece for her 2nd birthday party. So that meant we just had to do a cowgirl birthday party. And I'm not talking Gretchen Wilson or Carrie Underwood cowgirl-ish types. I'm talking about opening up your Texas and California history books and check out who really got this party started. I'm talking about taking it back, vaquero-style. Check out how wikipedia breaks it down, nice and simple:

The vaquero is the original cowboy of the Americas, developed in Mexico from traditions brought to MesoAmerica from Spain.

And if you wanna dig into this a little deeper, according to this in the late 1800's one in every three cowboys was a Mexican vaquero, and everything cowboys know today came originally from the vaqueros.

Vaqueros were proverbial cowboys—rough, hard-working mestizos who were hired by the criollo caballeros to drive cattle between New Mexico and Mexico City, and later between Texas and Mexico City. The title, though denoting a separate social class, is similar to caballero, and is a mark of pride.

The vaqueros have a long and proud history among Hispanics in Texas. This party was a nod to our roots, even if the only horse in sight was a huge cardboard horse I bought online and some little plastic ones from the dollar store -- all Made in China, of course.It was the first kids' party we've ever put together so of course my husband and I were pretty babosos about knowing what sorts of things to do and not do. We had haystacks to sit on, pink cowgirl hats for the girls, blue ones for the boys, fake sheriff's badges,  horseshoes and pin the tail on the burro. I also gave all the kids water guns. Yeah, I'm obviously not one of those moms who thinks about not giving toy guns to kids. It's water, people. And it's just Coke, and chocolate and chips. The effects wear off eventually.

For drink and food I got some bottle root beer and I ordered two gallons -- yes, I know that's chingos -- of chili from Ben's Chili Bowl and we made Frito pie and chili cheese dogs for everyone. The toddler LOOOOOOVED the Frito pie. If you don't know what it is, you need to run to your nearest 7-11 and buy some Fritos and a can of Wolf Brand chili, go home and feast on this salty perfection that is the food of choice at Texas football games. I can seriously be sitting at my desk at work on a random Wednesday and think of Frito pie and my mouth salivates. It's that awesome.

And as for the music -- Pandora on George Strait radio all the way. Because in the end, George Strait really does have a vaquero heart.

It was a pretty good fiesta, even if we didn't get a pinata because I refused to get a pitiful Party City one which seemed to be the only real option in this area. I remember as a kid all the little grocery stores in my hometown had pinatas for sale, hanging from the ceiling. They were imported from our neighbors in Mexico, and they were humongous burros or estrellas that would break by the time the ten-year-olds got around to beating the crap out of it. Now those were good parties.

So my toddler K, a big pinata blow-out party is what's up for year three -- when I hear you'll really become a bad child (the terrible two's are just the warm-up, parents of 4-year-olds tell me with a sadistic laugh). We'll welcome it with a bang. I'm gonna say just once more and then el famoso cumpleanos that we talked so much about is over til next year. Happy birthday once again, mi muchachita.

No little princess crowns in our house. If the toddler K wants something on her head, it's gonna be this big ole thing. Nothing says good Mexican like a mariachi sombrero.

When I remember how we spent Easter as children, I remember that weeks beforehand, we'd make the trek by foot across the big international bridge that shoots over the muddy Rio Grande into Nuevo Laredo. It was less than a ten minute walk across, but as soon as we passed the Mexican authorities on the Mexican side of the bridge it was like a whole other world to me, full of bustling shoppers, women and children hawking toys or chicle on the street, honking cars crying out with banda or ranchera music, snowbirds from el norte drinking up their Coronas and tequila in the open bars that lined the streets. There were farmacias with stark flourescent lights that dispensed antibiotics or Retin-A just as easily as they gave away the Vivaporub or aceite volcanico -- which my grandmother still swears today is good for rheumas. There were the funerarias on the edge of the street that freaked me out, the shoe stores that sold good leather shoes -- but not the kind I wanted to wear to my school. The sidewalks always seemed to have their cracks filled with water, probably from the daily drenching-of-the-floor-with-water mopping that every shop did.

Sometimes I got a embroidered Mexican dress to wear for Easter, and at least once I remember my mom buying white huarachitos for me. We'd buy candy and a pinata for Easter day, and always, always, ALWAYS we'd buy a big plastic bag filled with cascarones. They were cheap, I can't remember how much but cheaper than the time it would take a mom of four to save five dozen empty egg shells, dye them, decorate them, fill them with confetti, cover the cracked part with paper mache and hide -- so the kids won't crack them over each others' heads before Easter.

So here's the thing about cascarones: they're uber fun because it keeps you on your toes all day. The way it works is you take a cascaron and sneak up to someone, or catch them off-guard, and crack it on their head and a shower of confetti comes raining down.

The cascarones got hidden along with all the other chocolate eggs and candy on Easter. On Easter Day we always got the warning to NOT EVEN THINK of cracking cascarones in the house, which sometimes made it difficult to be spontaneous in cracking it over the adults because you had to convince them to follow you outside for some unspecific reason. They usually played along. It was always the best when we celebrated at el rancho because there we were free to go crazy with the cascarones, and we'd chase each other in circles around the mesquite trees, nopales and chaparral -- and once in a while you might catch a glimpse of a bonafide south Texas bunny, una liebre. Which is to say, a jackrabbit with big long ears.

I live in a place now where no one knows what cascarones even are, so fat chance of finding a place that sells them. So reminder to self, my husband and my mother -- who does most of the breakfast cooking for the toddler: crack the egg shell gently from the top to make a small hole in them to let out the egg. Then rinse with water and let them drain and dry. Gonna work on amassing a few dozen eggs in the next few weeks so that we can have a good amount of cascarones to make at home for Easter. To me, its what makes the difference between a good Easter and a truly joyous one filled with laughs. I'm certain the toddler will go crazy with them. Will update later with my finished product.

Here's a video from the Brownsville Herald on how to make cascarones. It talks a little about the dying tradition.

Oh, and if you don't have time to make them, you can buy them Gracie's Eggs, an Etsy store!

We just got back from a week-long trip to Miami to visit the in-laws. We totally overindulged in things like the sun, pork, empanadas, jugos, cortaditos, Pitbull on the radio and Xuxa. Yes, Xuxa, as in the Brazilian bombshell actress, singer, performer for children but whom dads really, really like too. Thanks to Youtube and the toddler's tia's, Xuxa, pronounced Shoo-Sha, in case you don't know who she is, can be reincarnated for children of today with a few strokes of the keyboard.

Y la cancioncita de Xuxa, well, the toddler loves it, does her little merengue dance move to it.

Ilari, Ilari, Ilariê ... Oh, Oh, Oh! ... Ilari, Ilari, Ilariê ... Oh, Oh, Oh!

I was a little too old by the time la Xuxa hit the states, but I hear younger chicas' fond memories of her show and especially their Xuxa sandalias, which were the ultimate jelly shoe. I'll bet the toddler K would love those. It seems as if they still sell them -- but maybe that's only in Brazil. I definitely haven't seen them in the states. The toddler has a hideous pair of wool-lined crocs with Dora on them, which she picked out herself and her grandma bought for her, that she would wear every day if it were up to her. Her little feet hit the floor and she is literally already asking for us to put on her "totas." Her papa just bought her a pair of havaianas sandals -- also Brazilian -- but the toddler refuses to keep them on. Think she hates the material between her toes. I got a pair for myself and they actually bother me, too. Where's a Xuxa sandalia, child and adult size, when I need it?