For weeks we had been looking forward to my brother and his family visiting from San Jose, California. He has a 2-year-old that's four months older (and four inches taller) than K, and a first-grader. So we were certain that the two girls would get along just famously, besos y abrazos all over the place.

Wrong. I have no idea why we thought that. No idea. It wasn't fighting, per se, but there was definitely a lot of not sharing and 'oh no she didn't look at me that way!!!!' random screaming that went on, because you know, their language skills aren't exactly fully up and running just yet. It was just a lot of ignoring, in the way you ignore that friend-of-a-friend who you really don't like at all kind of way. You talk/play past each other. You don't really engage.

But, in a surprise move, the toddler K totally loved being with her older cousin, whom I'll call The Rocketeer. He's in first grade, an excellent reader who can read Dr. Seuss' Hop on Pop to her, and is just full of school-kid inquisitiveness and silliness. Silliness that tired adults can find annoying, and toddlers find crazy hilarious. She was totally like a mosca on a piece of pan dulce and just ate it all up. And when it came time to leave, she was completely overcome with sadness, cried and asked constantly (for about 20 minutes) for the Rocketeer, I want the Rocketeer! I want the Rocketeer! I want the Rocketeer!

It made me think back to visits from my own cousins when we were little. We grew up in a small town but many of our cousins lived elsewhere, so when they'd come visit the grandparents in the summer we'd have the most awesome fun time that would last weeks. Grandma would douse us with OFF and we'd play tag or three-legged races in the dark at night. On Friday nights, we'd watch Night Tracks on TBS, and when my parent bought a video camera we'd spend all day choreographing and filming music videos. And then the day would come when our cousins would leave, when the house was left with just me and my brothers, and we would all run to our rooms and bawl into our pillows, which smelled of our cousins. I remember it felt like I was being ripped apart inside.

The toddler K soon forgot about her sadness, but when it came time to telling my nephew goodbye he asked, "Am I going to see you again?" and I said he was going home, to which he replied, "I'm going to miss you." And in that moment I felt a little pang in my chest and remembered leaving my own cousins and I thought, well, it means he had a great time, and I hugged and kissed him and told him I was going to miss him, too. And I do miss him. I wish we all lived closer to each other.

So about the girls not getting along -- I have three brothers, no sisters, and I didn't see my girl cousins who were around my age enough to develop any rivalries, but I've heard stories from friends. Maybe not necessarily child rivalry, but parent rivalry?

Now it's back to no cousins, K. Enjoy your time alone while it's here.

So I'm kind of going to back into this story by starting with this picture my husband took of me and my new BF Juanes earlier this week. It was after a performance, and when I went up to him I said something like that it was such a pleasure to hear him or something very I-carried-a-watermelon-ish. As I'm saying it he's giving me this look. Juanes, Colombian roquero superstar, humanitarian, was giving me un look. And finally, he says to me with those squinty eyes you get cuando quieres reconocer a alguien: "Juro que te he visto antes." Red lights start flashing all around me: I'M MELTING. So hot. I'm totally and completely stupefied and smitten, just like that. I sort of shook my head like no, no we've never met before, and all the while I'm thinking waaaaay in the back of my head that I want to say, "Si, en tus suenos," but my mind is totally tangled and the words are not making their way to my mouth. Picture snapped, and I just sort of walked off in a total buzz.

Super babosa.

But all I can say is now that, ladies and gentlemen, is how major game gets played.

I've been a big Juanes fan -- of his music -- since the days of 'A Dios le Pido." But the school girl crush days are looong gone (okay except for Mark Wahlberg, I'll admit). Or were long gone. Damn you, Juanes and your jeans and your guitarrita singing songs like: Me enamora/ Que me hablas con tu boca me enamora.

So about how I came to meet Juanes -- This performance for was a Tiny Desk Concert at NPR. These are small, intimate mid-day performances for NPR's All Songs Considered, and the artists usually just play a few numbers. It's recorded, and NPR staff -- a crowd of maybe 30 people -- hang around and watch. My husband, who works there, called me last minute on Wednesday to see if I wanted to come over to see Juanes perform. Of course, I said Hell Yeah! Or I texted that, rather.

I got there a few minutes before while he was still warming up. He was on the electric guitar and had another dude playing the acoustic. At the request of someone, he played 'Camisa Negra,' and had a few false starts, as you can see in the video I posted below. Afterward someone asked, "So, he's like the Bono of Latin America, right?" You know, I guess you could say that. I mean, it has been said before. But to me, Juanes is Juanes. I think by now he's earned his own title. Of course, I could very well be biased <3 I drove away from NPR in my VW Routan (totally sexy, especially with the baby seat in the back) on a total Juanes high. Maybe I should stalk him, I thought. That would be very Pedro Almodovar-ish of me. I'll just settle for the Juanes high. I think I'm still on it. I haven't been this smitten in a very long time.

And she loves it. And she can reach into my make-up box and know which cosmetic is for what. It's insane how much they pay attention even when we're doing the mundane things. Note to myself, once again, to watch my mouth!

Something I never thought much about until I got pregnant was how people would offer to give up their seat for you. After I got to about six months this would happen almost every day on the Metro and bus ride to and from work. Maybe I looked tired. Or just grandulona. I had a high and very pronounced round belly that once prompted teenagers to point out to each other, "Damn, she is about to Ex-Plooooode!" Nice. I guess it didn't help that I had an obsession for hot dogs (actually, we pronounce them a la Miami -- fo-dog) when I was pregnant. Ikea fo-dogs, the Costco $1.50 special, Ben's Chili Bowl, street vendors by the National Mall in DC -- I hit ALL of them up **repeatedly** throughout my pregnancy.

My commute to downtown is short, so it's not a big deal to stand up in the metro, but it was kind of nice to get the offer. The gesture humanized my fellow commuters. Older women were the ones who were most likely to offer first. Their offer was often paired with a warm smile. Then it was the older men who offered. Gentlemen. Then the younger men. Their mommas taught them to open doors. Then younger women. Not often, too concerned with themselves. That was my experience, at least.

Sometimes in my head I would actually get mad when I wouldn't get an offer, like WTH don't these selfish people know I'm carrying a load here?

The toddler is now 19 months, and so there is something really wrong when I'm still getting offers. On my ride home today a total Kanye West disciple (same clothes to a T) offered me a seat offer on a packed metro. Crap! I sucked in my stomach and said, no, no, thank you that's very kind. I would've busted out boxed wine and some cigarettes if I could just to prove I'm not preggolicious.

I can't really think to before I got pregnant and whether I got seat offers. Maybe I did, or maybe I'm just too self-conscious now. I am totally paranoid. I don't know if they're asking to be nice, or because they spot a pooch and think I've got a bebito on board. I don't. Can I, should I say it? I look at their eyes -- are they looking at my stomach?

I exercise (I ran a half-marathon in November, for Chrissakes), try to eat right, but I've still got that post-mama belly -- the one that looks a little like a deflated beach ball. Sexy, I know. My mom always insists I try a girdle. A GIRDLE?!?! Or as my grandmother calls it, "una faja." I don't even understand the origin of that one. But girdle, that's some serious '60s and '70s business there.

I'm not ready to throw in the towel and go that route yet (not even Spanx -- which is basically a girdle by a different name). But I've taken note and my goal is to never get offered a seat on the metro again. And maybe just learn to love my soft middle a little.

It's becoming a New Year's Eve tradition in my house that my husband and I stay home, make a nice dinner, have some wine and decadent dessert -- then champagne and a dozen grapes at midnight -- then peace, lights out! We do the uvas thing -- or my husband does and I've adopted it now, too -- but I'm not wearing yellow underwear and I don't have new clothes on, or any other New Years-ish traditions. Champagne and grapes is enough.

It's T - 3 hours til midnight as I write, and the toddler K is already fast asleep in her room upstairs, so it's nice and quiet downstairs. No more child bouncing from couch to floor, throwing her toys over the baby gate into the kitchen, pulling the dogs' tails, banging on the laptop keys while she Skypes with the grandparents, taking food out of her mouth and handing it back to me all slobbery, telling me "no, no, no!!!" for every-friggin-thing. I miss her when she's asleep. But dinner will be good tonight ... no taking down bites between keeping the toddler K from feeding the dog from the high chair.

My husband made a pork loin with a grapefruit sauce, and I made an endive salad with dried cranberries and walnuts, and mashed potatoes with garlic, rosemary and brie, in lieu of butter. It smells delicioso :P

I've enjoyed these quiet evenings at home over the past three years. I'm sure it won't be this way forever. I mean, we sure do enjoy a good fiesta. But we have a toddler right now, so going out involves getting a sitter, etc., etc. Plus, we don't live too close to extended family and friends so if we went out it'd probably just be us two, anyway. So I'd rather stay at home and have some peace and quiet to think about all that's happened in the past year, and all that I hope for in the upcoming year. Many things, but I'll take it one day at a time.

Tomorrow we'll be going over to a friend's house in Philly for a New Year's Day lunch, which I'm sure will include black-eyed peas. Between the uvas and BEP's hopefully we'll have enough suerte to last us til next Dec. 31. Here's what Walter Mercado says we have in store. Always a good read.

I wish everyone a blessed, healthy and happy New Year! Y sobre todo, mucho, mucho amor!

Spending Christmas at home, or my "home" in South Texas reminds me of the details that I love and loathe about this place.

*** Stickers -- cadillos -- are everywhere. Como una vieja chismosa metido en todo. Get on your shoelaces. In the carpet. In the car. In the towel I am drying myself off with. In the toddler's pamper, what the? I thought cadillos were a fact of life everywhere in this world until I moved away from here. I always had a fear of running through grass because I thought it'd be like running through pushpins with all the stickers everywhere. Then, like three years ago, I realized nice soft sticker-free grass does exist in places besides golf courses.

*** Breakfast tacos -- and no, a flour tortilla with egg is not a breakfast burrito. It's a taco. Mmmmm, chorizo con huevo; bacon, bean and cheese; or barbaccoa + homemade tortilla de harina = felicidad. Salsa picante mandatory.

*** Living in a town so small you don't need a car to get around. Although growing up we thought walking four blocks was far. Guess under 100-plus degree scorchers it is. Am borrowing my grandpa's pick-up truck when wheels are mandatory.

*** Living in a town so small you can walk everywhere -- but beware of perros callejeros that will race up to you while barking like mad. Walking with a big stick or rock mandatory. And so is making rancho sounds like tch-ta! to shoo them away.

*** The sound of church bells ringing, beckoning is one of my favorite things in this world. In a small town that sound isn't heard by happenstance. It's clockwork.

*** Navy blue skies dotted with a zillion brilliant stars. Unless there's a storm, it's every night.

*** Spotting Bambi and his mom on the side of the highway. Or a million Bambis this time of year.

*** Space to run. Lots of wide open space. The toddler is having a blast testing out her new "running" legs.

Anyone else at home--loving, disliking all that you had forgotten about?

I was sitting at the bus stop outside the Metro tonight, the last leg on my daily commute home from work, when I started with the flashbacks. The first was of something that happened two years ago. I was six months pregnant at the time, and it was dark and cold outside as I waited for my husband to pick me up from this same spot. I was tired, so I sat on a bench with my purse and bag right next to me, and I focused intently on typing a message into my phone. From the corner of my eyes I knew the teenagers were there. They were being loud and boisterous, but at that moment their squawking was just white noise to me. Until the next second, when a  hand reached toward me, and this young mocoso grabs my purse and takes off, hauling ass across the commuter parking lot.

My instincts and adrenaline kicked in. I start screaming No, Stop, No, Stop Him, My Purse, My Purse, Stop Him! I am thinking about everything that is in my purse -- my house and car keys, checks with my address, my credit cards, my life -- everything. I start crying as I scream. I want someone to tackle him. I am running, hauling it across the commuter parking lot and I'm not too far behind this teenager. I might tackle him.

He jumps a fence, and I stop, because I am pregnant and panting, but I manage to yell between my pathetic sobs, "I'm pregnant, you asshole!" As I turn around and start walking back toward the bench where I was sitting I realize I am overwhelmed and really crying hard now. A man who was getting into his car in the parking lots comes over and tells me he's called the police, and just as he says  it I see sirens.

To make this long story short (because I want to get to telling you about the next flashback I had), the police caught the kid who stole my purse. And I got my purse back. It was perfectly intact, believe it or not. I couldn't believe that of all the crime that goes on in this city, they catch the guy who steals a pregnant woman's purse. I think that was probably karma at work there. The kid, a 16-year-old first time offender, ended up getting prosecuted but got probation and community service.

So remember, I said I was thinking about this tonight as I sat at the bus stop, clutching my bags and cautiously sizing up my surroundings. The kids sitting next to me suddenly got up and ran to a suburban that pulled up, threw their backpacks inside and hopped in. I don't see a lot of suburbans here in DC like I did when we lived in Texas, and suddenly I am remembering the suburban we had, for a brief period of time, in the mid-'80s. When I was in first grade, my parents bought a suburban because by that point we were four kids and we didn't fit in a regular car anymore. That suburban rocked -- it was brown and tan with tinted windows and a tape player (versus 8-track), and felt like a space ship because I could sit far in the back away from the parents.

I remember during the Christmas holiday season in 1985, my mom let me skip school so that I could go with her and my grandmother in our new suburban to Laredo -- the nearest big city to where we lived -- to go Christmas shopping. I remember drips and pieces of the day, like that my mom bought me two dark velvet dresses and patent leather shoes to wear to school for the holiday parties. I thought they were lovely, and couldn't wait to wear them. I remember being just small and short enough to hide inside the racks of clothes at the department stores.

I picked out a Cabbage Patch Kids set that had baby bottles and plates for pretend mom-baby play, and I remember telling my mom that it was what Santa who was going to bring those to me. It's that age where it's convenient to believe in Santa, even if you know he isn't real.

I think we ate at Luby's that day. Probably, if my grandmother was with us. Luby's is the shizzle to her.

We shopped the whole day and filled up the entire back area of that suburban. My mother had a blanket to cover up all the bags, just in case, I remember her saying. It felt as if we had our own Santa's sleigh.

I remember I was wearing a lavender coat throughout the day, but that when we made a quick stop at the grocery store that night before heading back home I left it in the suburban. And as we pushed the cart back toward the suburban I remember feeling cold, and when we got to the spot where we had parked all that was left was shattered glass on the ground. My mom started going in circles and saying she probably parked somewhere else, where did it go? Our suburban was gone. All the gifts. My lavender coat, velvet dresses and patent leather shoes. Party clothes for my brothers and toys for them. I probably started crying, but I don't remember. I remember being cold, and having no coat as the cops came to take information from my mom about our stolen car. I remember hearing them throw out the possibility that the suburban was long gone, crossed the border into the blackhole of Mexico just a few miles down on the freeway -- where stolen cars and Christmas presents never came back.

We never got the suburban back, and my parents managed to do all the Christmas shopping all over again quickly, somehow. They got me a red coat, with faux wool lining. And a white rabbit fur coat, to boot. Santa even brought me a new Cabbage Patch Kid, a bald premie boy named Isaac.

I don't remember the particulars of any other Christmases from when I was small. This is the one that branded itself in my memory. I guess the confluence and tangling up of these two memories in my mind tonight is just a reminder to beware of the grinches lurking out there. That Christmas where our suburban was stolen still turned out to be a good Christmas. Memorable for all the wrong reasons. But still, memorable and ultimately a happy one.

I have to give props to my fellow Latinas -- some who are also mamas -- who have done the full and half-marathons in the past few months. I've seen quite a few friends and acquaintances tell of their successes kicking asphault via Facebook, and it makes me totally happy to see it.

I really didn't have high expectations for running the Philadelphia half-marathon this Sunday other than to finish by any means possible, but it actually turned out better than I thought.

I WON!!

Kidding, of course. But I actually ran -- jogged -- about 95 percent of it. That's basically like winning it to me. I found my happy pace and kept it up without stopping. Okay, maybe I walked up two hills, but that was it. Had to conserve my energy.

I didn't get much sleep the night before thanks to having the toddler K sleeping in the bed with us and her deciding to breakdance the whole night instead of sleep. Plus, I'm still battling a cold and a really horrible cough so I kept waking up with a dry throat and hacking all night. So when my alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. I really hadn't even fallen asleep.

It was 38 degrees outside in the morning, so I layered -- three shirts and a jacket, including the shirt that I wanted and then found at the expo the day before the race. If found on the ground please drag across the finish line. Totally my frame of mind going into it. But I think it was a combination of the cold weather and adrenaline that pushed me through. And thinking happy thoughts about my little girl. After mile 3 I knew it would be alright. Especially with Lady Gaga and Ke$sha on the iPod mix. Don't judge me -- it'll light a fire under your butt and get you moving!

Plus, the race route for the half-marathon is simply fantastic. What a great and charming city to run in. You start out by the Rocky steps at the art museum -- and yes, the Rocky theme played as we took off. Then its through South Philly and a long ways up Chestnut. Right on 34th through the frat houses of Drexel where the college kids are blasting loud music and drinking beer and high-fiving you. Past the zoo, through some wooded areas, and back to the Rocky steps. Lots of people cheering on the sidelines. Totally feeling the brotherly and sisterly love.

Finally, after months of feeling completely blah about my running, it felt good to be doing what I was doing, even if I had a few cough attacks and had to stop to catch my breath. At mile 12, my legs were tired and my knees and ankles hurt. A lot. Then I reached the point where the half-marathoners and marathoners part ways. And I thought, I can't imagine doing another 13.1 miles. How on earth does a woman's uterus hang on for that long?

I have total and complete admiration for anyone who does the full marathon. It's an insane test of mental and physical endurance and will.

Now it's back to life without a running schedule! I'll be opting for yoga instead for a while. And enjoying the upcoming holidays with my familia.

And blogeando, of course :)

Oh yes, and Happy Birthday to my wonderful husband!! We had a great brunch after the run. Next year, I'll be watching him run the race as I sip my latte from the sidelines.

I remember seeing "I See Slow People" on the back of an older man's shirt while running a ten mile race last spring, and it made me chuckle. It was my first real race, and at that point, I looked around and realized that I was definitely a back-of-the-packer. And it was okay, because as far as I was concerned it's this group that wears the shirts with the most hilarious slogans.

A little self-deprecation does the soul good, right? I mean, I never aimed to be the fastest. My only goal was to finish and maybe enjoy it just a little.

This is a totally fitting shirt to wear for the Philadelphia half-marathon I'm doing this weekend, since this is where the Sixth Sense was filmed. I never got around to getting my own fun shirt for this race mostly because a lot has come up in the past few weeks and that fell to the bottom of the to-do list.

For one, my husband broke his collar bone while running. Yes, he took a brutal fall on the sidewalk and will be getting surgery next week. This was two weeks ago, which meant running this race this weekend was out of the question. He trained really hard, and really well I must say, so I felt really bad for him. Running this race was his idea. I had totally anticipated riding on his coattails of success for this race  because he way outpaces me. He's bummed, but there will be another race for him before too long. Now he's going to be on the sidelines with the toddler K cheering me on.

I've struggled with getting motivated to run over the past few months. I've sort-of stuck to my running schedule, but I just couldn't get enthusiastic. No endorphins going off like they used to back in the day. I always had too many other things on my mind. And then I got serious within the past few weeks, only to come down with a throat infection and cold last weekend. And I'm still sick! And coughing and hacking. And coughing after you've had a child -- not so fun. Three words: Brace Yourself Woman!

So I'll be running with tissue in tow. I'm hoping that I find enough humor along the half-marathon route to keep my spirits up and keep me moving. One More Mile has some great running shirts. These are totally shirts I would wear:

1. If Found on the Ground Please Drag Across the Finish Line (but seriously, this is the shirt I probably need to wear this weekend)

2. Dear God, Please Let There Be Someone Behind Me To Read This

3. The Older I Get, The Faster I Was

4. One Bad Mother Runner

5. I'm Only Doing This So I Can Post a Picture On Facebook

6. I Thought They Said "Rum"

Any others you've seen that made you laugh (while you were running or cheering someone on from the sidelines)? Let me know if you have.

Oh, and thanks to my friend lighting up their candles for me this weekend. I think it's definitely a St. Jude moment.