Urban Mama

Time Out For Camping

After a February trip to Disney World, our vacation fund is pretty much tapped out, so we've decided to go car camping more often. I know that to some of you that sounds about as fun as picking the lint out of your belly button, but I'm a family camping convert. We haven't mastered cooking with a cast-iron dutch oven or figured out how to use a pie iron for more than grilled cheese, but we have had two lovely weekend camping trips so far, and plan to go on at least a couple more before the end of the summer. So far, we've been to Deep Creek Lake State Park(pictured, with our palatial REI Kingdom 6 tent) and to Little Bennett Regional Park, both in Maryland.

Highlights from our back-to-back trips to the great outdoors include watching the kids make s'mores, enjoying our good friend Dave's campfire lattes, using iPhones to look up lyrics to Broadway hits (so we could have a proper sing-along), catching up with Jen, letting the husbands cook (I highly recommend marrying a man who's an amazing outdoor chef), and allowing the kids to catch, stare at and then release a lovely spider we later realized was a black widow (who knew?!).

Mami certainly didn't raise me to appreciate camping. Her idea of camping was staying somewhere without a full restaurant. It's not that she was a snob who only stayed at the Ritz (no offense to those of you privileged enough to stay at 5-star hotels on all your vacations), she just wouldn't have wanted to dress down, sleep in a tent, and sweat/get dirty unnecessarily. I, however, roll up a bandanna, cover up the frizz, wear lounge pants and plain T-shirts, and just kick back on a camp chair. There's something pretty magical about unplugging (OK, except for the iPhones) and just hanging out with your family and friends.

I know that before I was born, Mami and my father took my siblings to cabins in the Catskills with a half-dozen other Colombian families in their circle of friends. There's even video footage of those vacations, where my mom is shown looking like one hot mama in a black one-piece, lounging by a pool. I wish those trips were part of my history too, but I grew up with Widowed/Remarried Mami, not Married-to-Papi Mami. Oh what I wouldn't give to see my mom in a cabin!

So to all of my girlfriends out there who think they're too princessy to enjoy camping -- try family camping. It's not at all as difficult as backpacking, and your family *will* love it. You will too.

Pixar's Marital Advice

One of the things I loved most about UP was its opening sequence chronicling the friendship, romance, and marriage of Carl and Ellie. In just a few minutes Pixar's latest animated film captured the essence, the intimacy, the dreams deferred but not forgotten, of a long and loving marriage. Most of the sequence is wordless, and I couldn't hold back the tears by the end of it.

My husband and I were also best friends first. He was not my Edward*, my obsession-at-first-sight. He was my Ron, my Harry, my close-and-then-best friend I went to cafes, movies, plays, restaurants with all.of.the.time. When our romantic relationship finally began my sophomore year in college, we already knew all the secret-handshake stuff about each other -- like the fact my husband recoils from the film adaptation of Cabaret, because creepy Joel Grey in full-on Weimar costume and make-up freaked him out as a kid. (That's about all I can share without being considered a turncoat). 

In UP, life (mostly bills and other mundanities) gets in the way of Carl and Ellie's lifelong dream to visit remote Paradise Falls together. In my marriage, our own bills multiplied by our three loved-but-unexpected children have made it difficult for us to fulfill some of our dreams, to go on certain adventures (say, traveling extensively), but in the meantime, like Carl eventually realizes, we have had so many other adventures together. And no matter how long it takes, we'll make it to Paradise Falls one day. I know we will.

*Yeah, I read the Twilight books

A Pox On Our House

Our oldest son has a case of breakthrough chicken pox. I knew there was a small (10-15%) chance he could still get it despite the vaccination, but I didn't imagine he would contract it, much less during the penultimate week of first grade. Of course, knowing our family's history with odds and percentages (we're the couple that conceived three babies while using three different forms of birth control), perhaps I should have expected E to get chicken pox.

On the bright side, post-vaccination cases are milder than regular cases. E doesn't have any pockmarks on his face and isn't scratching wildly the way I remember from my own case when I was 12. He's still fairly miserable, but he's not nearly as hysterical his mama was as a tween. I got mine nearly exactly 20 years ago, the summer after 7th grade, and was doomed to spend 10 days stuck in my house -- a real prison sentence for any Florida kid who'd rather be pool-party-hopping.

I allowed E to konk out in my bed. We watched Shrek The Third together and then he drifted off into a four-hour, Benadryl-induced deep sleep. Watching him sleep (yes, that's him in the picture but he was only four then), I remembered that Mami let me stay in her room too, mostly because I had to stay away from my beloved grandmother, who was dying of pancreatic that summer in her own room across the house. It was pretty traumatic for me.

I'm thankful that E's chicken pox doesn't seem nearly as upsetting as mine was, and even though he's missing all but the last two days of first grade, I am determined to make the best of our in-home seclusion. I just PRAY that baby J is spared, because THAT would be traumatic.

Wish us luck, friends. But don't stop by unless you're willing to be exposed to the pox.

Grief and Its Many Triggers

Last Wednesday, as I was driving to pick-up my daughter from her after-school gardening class, I heard a story on NPR's "Tell Me More" about Gabriel Garcia Marquez' biography. The author, Gerald Martin (a British professor of Latin American literature at the University of Pittsburgh), was discussing various milestone's in Garcia Marquez' life, and how One Hundred Years of Solitude is considered the quintessential Latin American novel. After the segment, I reached for my Blackberry and put my finger on the "M," which was my speed-dial for Mami. I stopped before the number dialed, and I began to weep. Mami wasn't going to answer, nor was my late aunt Ele, who was also a huge Gabo fan. I actually couldn't see for a second until I dropped the phone into my minivan's center console and wiped my eyes.

Eventually I called my brother Jorge, but he didn't answer, so I ended up leaving a teary message on his voice-mail. In an instant my drive went from routine to impossibly upsetting. I had no one to share the story with at that moment. I felt angry and sad and putting the link on Facebook wasn't in any way equivalent to calling Mami or Ele up and telling them about the interview or pre-ordering the biography for them on Amazon.

I thought the grieving had slowed to a point where the triggers were manageable. But it's not true. Since Mother's Day, the triggers have surfaced more and more: the recent Times obituary of Colombian vallenato balladeer Rafael Escalona; the grandmother's at D's little ballet recital; the word "Guayabera" on the Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee; playing card games with my firstborn; the damned petites section at Macy's, etc. etc. etc. Everywhere I look, there's another reminder of my mother -- another cruel awareness of her physical absence from our lives.

Prompted by the NPR interview and the memories of my mother and aunt, I began re-reading One Hundred Years of Solitude this weekend. My aunt's handwriting is inside the front cover (it's the same paperback I had in 12th grade, when I first read it in IB English), providing a few biographical details about Garcia Marquez. I remember Mami telling me that she and my late father had a group of close friends who called themselves the Macondo circle. I'm not sure if they sat around and talked about Garcia Marquez, because it seemed to me that they just partied Colombian style (drinking aguardiente, eating, and dancing late into the night), but it doesn't really matter. I still see my mother, my aunt, even my father, on every page.

Good Food & Great Company

It's hard to impress me with a burger. I've some awesome burgers in my life -- Burger Joint, Island Burger & Shakes, Shake Shack, Good Burger, Jackson Hole, Pop Burger -- you name it. So when Devra & Sarah invited the DC Metro Moms and other area blogger pals to hang out at Top Chef contestant Spike Mendelsohn's Good Stuff Eatery in Capitol Hill, I was game to try yet another renowned burger place.

Thanks to Jess' mad driving skillz, we were two of the first ladies there, and after some catching up with the other moms, it was finally time to order our food. I had the Smokehouse burger and Village Fries with a chocolate shake topper. It was beyond delicious, and surprisingly the burger wasn't a giant, greasy mess. Definitely ranks as one of the top five burgers I've eaten -- ever!

The real treat, however, wasn't the amazing food but the awesome group of ladies I got to reconnect with. Along with the crew of DC moms I already knew, I got to meet Sue from My Party of 6, JJ from Caffeine and a Prayer, the adorably pregnant Diana from Diana Caffeinated, Claire Jess from Crunchy-Chewy Mama and a gaggle of very cool Amy/ie/s.

As most of you who are reading along know, I've had an awful year. I'm sad a lot. I cry a lot. This Mother's Day is shaping up to be the worst day ever, so getting out and just having fun was simply the best.

Thanks to Devra & Sarah for hosting the event, Chef Spike for the memorable food, and especially to Quaker, for sponsoring it and donating to the Capital Area Food Bank in our honor. 

The Bubba Keg

Before I start my post, I want to thank Beth and ruby & roja design for the much-needed facelift. After five years of the basic red and white, it was time to let a professional take control. I highly recommend Beth's services if you're in the market for web design.

Last night, I took the kids to California Tortilla for dinner. On Mondays they offer a wheel-of-fortune spin with your purchase, which the kids love, and twice I've gotten a free burrito out of the adventure. 

The four of us sat in a corner by ourselves until an elderly gentleman sat down next to us. At first I didn't notice what he was carrying, but when he placed it on the table, there it was -- a green Bubba Keg.

Within seconds, my eyes began to well with tears. I looked down at my food, but it was too late. The kids had caught me during a grief trigger. "Why are your eyes red?" E asked. "Why are you sad, Mama?" D demanded.

I just shook my head, not wanting to reveal something the older man might overhear. He was busy swigging water (at least I hope it was water) to down about a dozen pre-dinner pills. 

Anyway, what was I going to say: "Hey, your Bubba Keg is exactly like the one my dead mother kept by her side while she was dying!" 

But that's exactly what the Bubba Keg was -- the cooler my sister Diana bought our mother, so she'd always have ice water on her bed-side table. During my many visits to my sister's home before Mami died, I filled it at least once a day with water and cubed ice. If you didn't screw the top on just right, it was likely to cause a major spill. Mami reminded me of this fact every single time she asked me to fill the big green cooler. In fact, I can picture pretty much every single member of my family -- even my nieces and nephews and my two older kids -- with the damn thing.

I don't know if my sister took it to the hospice center where Mami spent her final six-and-a-half days, but it was in Diana's house when I arrived. Seeing it then, it was impossible to imagine anyone else every drinking something out of it. It had been Mami's.

But there was the nice little old Jewish man, reading the weekly Forward, telling me the baby's name was the same as his rabbi's, asking E if he'd share his favorite jokes from the kids' joke book he was reading, complimenting D's cute sundress ... and drinking out of Mami's Bubba Keg. It was hard not to stare, not to remember, not to burst into tears.

That green Bubba Keg. I think of it and can still hear her say "Traeme mas hielo, mamita."

Take This Sinking Boat and Point It Home

This week, American Idol contestant Kris Allen sang "Falling Slowly," a song many viewers had never heard. About five weeks after Mami died, the husband and I caught the independent film Once on HBO. I knew about the movie, the Oscar-winning song, and the Irish-Czech duo, but I had never actually seen it. When "Falling Slowly" started playing, I just started weeping. I couldn't stop. It was so, so beautiful.

*I* felt like a "sinking boat" unable to fully emerge from the depths of my grief. Despite my faith, I did not feel like I had a home to point to, because my mother, my home, was gone. Fast forward to Easter weekend, when I visited her (and my father's) grave for the first time since her ashes were buried. I still felt that numbing, drowning feeling.

It's a sobering realization. You. Have. No. Home. Yes, I have an address. Yes, my children have a home that my husband and I are creating day by day. But me? No. Because your home is also your history, and your history changes -- gets fuzzier --  when there's no one left to tell it the way it was. I have no one to tell me about what kind of baby I was; no one who worries about me every day; no one who can answer my questions about family minutia; no one who, as someone once said, has to take you in when you have nowhere else to go.

So here I am, a sinking boat, but I desperately want to raise a hopeful voice. I pray I can raise it soon.

Rest In Peace, Maddie

I've written a great deal about grief this past year, and so it is with my grieving heart that I share with you tragic news about a fellow blogger.

Heather Spohr, a mother who writes for DC Metro Moms' sister site in Los Angeles, lost her precious baby daughter Maddie yesterday. From what I've read about little Maddie, she was born 11 weeks premature and had congenital lung problems. Still, Heather's blog makes it obvious that Maddie was full of life and growing up like a healthy toddler.

In lieu of flowers, Heather and her husband Mike have asked that people contribute to the March of Dimes, an organization they feel strongly about and for which they are vocal advocates. So for Maddie, for her heartbroken parents and family, for a life cut way, way too short, please consider donating to the March of Dimes.

Page to Screen

Ever since the Where the Wild Things Are trailer was released, I keep thinking about other film adaptations of my favorite children’s books. Those that got it right, like the sweet Bridge to Terabithia or the amazing Lord of the Rings trilogy are as good as a fan of those books could've hoped. Other adaptations have fallen short and made me wish they'd never been turned into movies in the first place.  

I know I'm not alone in wishing some children's books (and books in general) had been left alone, or at least for a better writer or director to reimagine. Adaptations offer a unique opportunity for us to talk to our children about the many differences between literature and film. The books that delight us can easily be movies that disappoint us; it's a valuable lesson for any media-savvy child to learn. 

Personally, I’m wishin’ and hopin’ Where the Wild Things Are is true in spirit, even if it isn’t (nor should it be) exactly like Maurice Sendak’s classic tale. From the little that the trailer depicts, Spike Jonze seems to have captured the story’s ethos without straying too far out there.  

This year also brings us the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which was originally supposed to hit theaters last fall and is finally gracing the screen this July. And I know more than a few dazzled mothers, not to mention tweens, who are salivating for New Moon, which is currently filming and comes out in November. Both movies have a massive audience of die-hard (or should I say Twi-hard) fans who expect a faithful, mind-blowing adaptation.  

As excited as I am about all of the movies I've mentioned, I'm also a little nervous. I'm always a little bit anxious that my favorite lines or scenes won't make the cut or that an actor won't honor the beloved character he or she's playing. I know my nieces and nephews will be pretty devastated, for example, if the Volturi sequence in New Moon doesn't live up to their expectations. 

What are your favorite page-to-screen adaptations? Which books are you dying to see made into movies?

Six Months Later

This morning marks the six-month anniversary of my mother's death. I'm marking the occasion by sharing 67 (one for each of her years of life) of the infinite reasons I miss Mami.

I miss the way you always blended two shades of lipstick, leaving bi-colored tips on all of your tubes.

I miss the way you said "Claro" 100 times per phone call.

I miss the way you idolized Vivien Leigh's portrayal of Scarlett O'Hara.

I miss your lasagna, which no Italian would find authentic but we loved anyway, with its mix of ground beef and shredded chicken.

I miss your many shades of hair color, because it was always a surprise when you came home from the hairstylist's.

I miss how you made friends everywhere you went, and how loyal a friend you were -- even to people who didn't deserve you -- until your dying day.

I miss your beautiful, precise cursive handwriting.

I miss your phone messages and hate that AT & T Wireless auto-erased my last message from you.

I miss the way you forwarded every email anyone ever sent you.

I miss the way you talked to and adored my children.

I miss the way my children talked to and adored you.

I miss the way you would warn me that a wife has a responsibility to keep herself beautiful for her husband, even though it annoyed me.

I miss how you would make everyone wait for you to freshen up and take off your glasses before we could take family photos.

I miss how you would bug me about not wearing makeup, even after I had actually applied it.

I miss how you kept all of your jewelry in its original little boxes stashed in dozens of drawers and bags.

I miss the way your feet were the opposite of mine -- so small and narrow and with high arches.

I miss your insistence on a regular manicure to disguise the fact you had fragile nails.

I miss how you saved shopping bags, especially the fancy kind with ribbon handles, "just in case" you needed somewhere else to store your stuff.

I miss how you sang "Duermete niño/niña, duermete ya" to all the babies.

I miss staying up into the wee hours talking and watching TV with you.

I miss the way you dished about everyone you knew, not (usually) to be mean, just to let me know what was going on.

I miss your friends calling and asking about you.

I miss getting reminded about important events now that the responsibility has fallen to me.

I miss the way you would sigh "Ay, Hans!" whenever Hans said something crude or stupid or silly.

I miss your throaty laugh.

I miss having a reason to shop in the "Petites" section with you.

I miss your love of potato-bread rolls and seasoned white rice.

I miss watching '60s movies like "Where the Boys Are" and "Rosemary's Baby" with you.

I miss you criticizing the Oscars fashions.

I miss your countless chancletas, some beaded, some Chinese, others ballet style.

I miss being yelled at for not dressing the kids warmly enough.

I miss how fearless you were in every situation.

I miss how you weren't afraid to make a scene when you deemed circumstances demanded it.

I miss your arepas and doubt mine will ever come out the same.

I miss your platanos and think of them every time we eat Latin American food.

I miss your picadillo and can't stand when someone makes theirs too sweet, because yours was so savory and chock-full of olives.

I miss the way I felt safe in your slender arms, even though I had been (much) bigger than you since I was 10 year old.

I miss the way you lost your glasses so much, because you refused to wear them regularly.

I miss your illogical inability to drink anything but instant Nescafé.

I miss the way you kept us connected to our first cousins, second cousins, third cousins and beyond.

I miss seeing your puffy coat out of the corner of my eye, knowing it was way too warm for it, but that you'd be too cold without it.

I miss the way you would get excited every time your father's beloved British National Anthem was played, even though you really only knew the "God Save the Queen" part.

I miss catching you curled up in bed with Elias, because even after we'd returned him to his bed, he'd go to yours.

I miss living in New York with you.

I miss hearing about your life in Colombia before you had kids.

I miss telling you about my kids' accomplishments and antics.

I miss listening to your end of dozens of phone calls every day and trying to figure out with whom you were gabbing.

I miss how you could fall deeply asleep in the tiniest of spaces without moving an inch.

I miss how you were the one-woman grapevine for my siblings and me.

I miss being comforted by you.

I miss knowing you were out there, worrying about me and mine.

I miss being told the backstories behind old photos.

I miss calling you two or three times a day.

I miss you stroking my arm when I sat next to you.

I miss being assured I was a good a mother.

I miss being assured I had great children.

I miss the way you and Hans always got along like old friends.

I miss hearing the phone ring after 10PM and feeling certain it was you on the other end.

I miss the loud and annoying toys you loved to buy the kids.

I miss telling you what was going on in the lives of your favorite celebrities.

I miss going to see a sappy tearjerker with you.

I miss how you had to drink orange juice every morning.

I miss being called "Mamita."

I miss the way you always smelled like Opium, Passion or L'Air du Temps.

I miss having a mother.