Saturday, January 28, 2012

Splish, Splash



Bath time!

Our sweet Rafa Rubio is an incredibly easy, peaceful, and intelligent baby. I joke that with the help we have and her incredibly mature and sweet demeanor we are raising a part-time baby. We have all the good of a baby and none of the bad. She sleeps through the night (only waking up at about 5:00 am for her "tete" and then right back to sleep until anywhere between 7:00-8:00 at which time she eats and goes back to sleep.) Did I mention she's 3 and a half months... and that she has basically been sleeping well like this since she was 3 weeks? She eats like a champ. She's not at all fussy about her food. She cries for two reasons: she's super tired or she's super hungry and even these cries are more of a warning cry and not a full on savage beast war cry. She smiles and coos and loves company but if I need to do something I can put her in her little rocker or on her play mat and she'll entertain herself.

So now that we've established that she's pretty amaze at everything I could say that what she's best at are her baths. Our part-time baby is a full-time bath LOVER. Maybe she's so comfortable in the water because of her Cuban roots (sorry, I couldn't resist that joke)? She kicks and laughs and almost sings in the bath, but beyond enjoying it, she's just relaxed. It is definitely her favorite time of day and dare I say the ONLY time she forgets she's hungry. Bath time trumps food time which if you've ever seen this little piggy eat is a top priority time.

As for Mike and I, bath time might be out favorite time too. We have a rhythm, an effortless synchronization. We move with ease and have our routine down like a pair of synchronized swimmers. She may not always like bath time. One day, when she's older, she may not even want to shower, but for now, no one could take bath time from me.

On her way to bath time
Bath time suit
She's going to kill me when she gets older.
She has such intense eyes... they follow everything!!

She even poses for the camera
I told you... those eyes are intense
Pouty mouth
How many hands does it take to clean a baby?
Bubbles and feet
All clean

Friday, January 27, 2012

Happy Birthday, you Fabulous YOU!


Happy Birthday, you Fabulous YOU!

Yes, you are correct. I am referring to myself when I say "you" and also when I say "fabulous." So fabulous you is actually fabulous me.

And why not? This year I turned 32 and I have it all. And isn't that the definition of fabulous??? Extremely pleasing or successful - that is the definition - at least by the Free Online Dictionary.

So, yeah, fabulous me who has it all!

And you could have it all too. Whatever you want. The secret? That's easy. Go get it.



I'll be honest... I was really excited to find out that I was getting out of the house for a 5 hour spa day. Here is my day from the beginning:

After being escorted to the locker room to change into my spa robe.

In my robe, awaiting my first treatment.

At the jacuzzi


So relaxed after my salt glow scrub and water massage.


Lunch: Caprese salad (and reading my O Magazine.


After my jacuzzi, sauna, steam shower, salt scrub, facial, massage, manicure, pedicure, wash and blowdry. Who has the best husband? I believe I do!
Speaking of which... there he is. The most terrific husband who supports, loves, takes care, and inspires me.
I was thrilled to share in a deliciously cheesy sausage and eggplant pizza with my husband at Angelo's... a yummy spot in Plaza España in the Colonial Zone
But Chinola Margaritas trump pizza everytime.

Did I mention Chinola Margaritas??


And just when I thought the surprise was over... He checks us into Nicolas de Ovenda - one of the best hotels in Santo Domingo!
He even packed for me! Seriously - he packed for me.

For that evening we were a couple again. Just us.


We sat by the pool and talked like old times when conversations didn't involve questions like "What time did you feed the baby?" and "did she poop yet today?"
Some of the hotels beautiful scenery. And yes the trees and background are pretty too!
Second wedding site???
Looks like something out of "Lost"

We walked along the old streets of the Colonial Zone holding hands and talking and being romantical. Keep in mind, as much as I baby blog, this is my first year as a Newlywed.
The entrance to our hotel.
Streets of the Colonial Zone


We had a lovely dinner without worrying that the baby in the stroller next to us was going to wake up. And then in the same plaza was a free outdoor concert!
CZ shadows

But by the end of the night, something was missing...

Turns out that I missed the little Rafa. That little stink pot whose fat neck rolls hide day old milk and whose hands swallow enough of my hair to make a wig. I missed her. Not in a "we need to leave now and not stay the night" kind of way but in a "something's missing" kind of way. Yet I still know that everything in life is about balance. I would be with "Sparkling Angel Face" soon enough... tonight we were going to enjoy sleeping the WHOLE night without the anticipation of little sleep peeps. Tonight we weren't parents. Tonight we were something else, something we used to be and will slowly no longer be - just the two of us.



Although my day was allllll about me, as you can see in my pictures, it was a little different this year because this was the first year that I celebrated my birthday as a mother... and that changes everything.


(oh yeah... it was my first birthday as a wife, too!). I love you, Meeks.









Monday, January 23, 2012

Helping Hands

When I first told my mom I was pregnant and the news of us moving to a different country was already on the radar, my mother said, "You're going to need help."

And I said, "Mom. Plenty of women before me have had babies and raised them and didn't have 'help' - I'll be fine."

Fast forward: November.
We had Rafaella October 7 and my mom's helping hands had been here over a month. At the end of October she left back to NJ leaving us with our maid/nanny, Shelley. Thanks to her, I don't remember the last time I cleaned... like really cleaned. I organize. I am a master organizer. And due to my OCD, I make our bed most days. But really cleaned?? Can't tell you. With the help of Shelley, we don't clean and we barely cook. And to allow me to work on my book, she takes Rafaella for a little while everyday. Now I'll say, plenty of women before me have had babies and raised them and didn't have help, but being on the other side of that and having help, I must say, it is quite nice.


Fast forward: Today, January 23.
It has been a week since Nana came to visit. And as if Shelley's helping hands weren't enough, having Nana's helping hands has truly allowed us to move to that next phase in having a baby. The "we have our routine set and we know how to be parents, but now how do we begin to be ourselves again" phase. This phase includes things like going to the gym, going on a date with my husband - remember, we're still "newlyweds", getting back to Yoga, really getting serious about my book writing. Following the always inspiring words of The Alchemist, "When you want something the universe conspires to help you achieve it," I think the universe is helping me become all of the things I want to be without feeling guilty that I'm letting a part of myself down. I can be a good mother and still take a few hours off during the day to be a writer. I can write a book and still spend time with my baby. I can be a great wife while still finding time for friends. I am still an intellectual that can act like a babbling fool the second my Rafa wakes up and smiles at me. I can be it all.




When I was still pregnant, one of our good friends uttered the first half of the African proverb, "It takes a village..." as he handed off his adorable daughter to Husband to hold and watch for a moment. We thought it funny at the time, but have now truly internalized what that means. And what's beautiful is that when I now really think about "helping hands," I see that everyone has had a [helping] hand in raising our Rafa.

"It takes a village to raise a child" is right. And I'll say again, plenty of women before me have had babies and raised them and didn't have help. This is true. And the fact that I would be fine without help is true too. But at this point in my life "fine" doesn't cut it. I want to be whole and surrounded by people who have not only had a helping hand with our daughter, but who I know love her too.

So to all of you who have held her, clothed her, kissed her, sparkly angel faced her, asked about her, changed her, "Dios la bendiga-ed" her, helped install her carseat, were concerned about her weight, were concerned about our weight, offered to watch her, checked out pictures of her on this blog with your daughter who says, "Mom... look it's the baby Rafa" - to all of you who have had any part in this baby Rafa - you have changed our lives and become our village.

Thank you.

Legra's Law - * 16 * - Jen*a*Mite

This is a true story, (as I remember it) of one night’s events.


Over a few summers, I had the opportunity to work in the best career field... camp counselor. Attached to the all ready great opportunity of working at camp was the package deal of living at my boyfriend's lake house. One weekend, in particular, some of his friends came up and as such weekends go, we started happy hour a few hours early. Add to this that I hadn't been drinking like I used to in my college glory days and I should have known I was headed for disaster.

Noon: “CrAaaCk. I open a beer.

Fast Forward to midnight: I was drinking wine out of the bottle. No glass needed, thank you. What?! I never said these were classy stories…

We were sitting around the firepit playing Charades and after hours of adult drinking, I was starting to get tired. I was no longer guessing rational answers, I was no longer participating because moving seemed like a superflous activity that I didn't want to partake in. I told Mike that I was going to the bathroom. A half truth, really since my real intention involved using the bathrrom excuse as the way to take a nap on the couch. I never came back out.

After years of adult beverages and Jenanigans, I knew it was time to be done with my day. I thought I was making a good adult decision.

Fast forward: Next morning's conversation:

Mike: So, babe. Do you remember last night?

Me: Sort of. I don't remember getting home though. Why?


I could tell by the look on his face that this conversation was about to take a turn for the worse.


Mike: Well, apparently you fell asleep on the couch. So, when we were ready to leave we had a search party for you.


Not so bad i thought. Big deal?! With any light detective work, I would have easily been found.


Mike: When I found you, I tried waking you up which was a feat in itself, you were out! So I took your feet and put them on the ground. You put them back on the couch. I put them down again. You put them up... again. So I took your upper body and lifted you up. This must have worked because you started coming to... and then proceeded to talk trash to me.

So I asked you "Jen, do you want to go home!"

And you responded, "Yes, I want to go home!" as you were trying to lay back down.

FINALLY, I got you up and was forcing you out the door when you turned into a defensive tackle trying to get to a quarterback. You were literally doing rapid breaks left and right to break away for a touchdown or something all the while yelling, "Mike, I wanna go home."

Me: You are lying!!!

Mike: Absolutely not! and I’m not even close to done.


I shuttered in embarrassment. Well, no. I shuttered in something but embarrassment has long since been an emotion that I feel… I tend to not be surprised anymore.


Mike: I decided just to wrestle you out, so I got low in your core area around your rib cage and began tackling you out of the door.... And then you bit my head!

Me: WHAT?! I did not.

Mike: Oh you did! You started biting my head and my side to get away from me and back into the house. I swear I almost punched you in the face just to get you to the car. Eventually, I had gotten you far enough from the couch that it was a distant memory and closer for you to walk to the car.... Then you snuck into the front seat where Conor was supposed to sit.

Me: Wow! I can't believe that I resorted to biting.

Mike: Yeah, and it hurt. You know… you're a lot stronger than you think.

Me: So you finally got me here though?

Mike: Well…

Me: Really? This story isn’t done?

Mike: Well, once we got here, you didn’t want to get out of the car.


Images of my childhood appeared front and center. Falling asleep in the car and not wanting to wake up and my mom or dad carrying me inside was typical as a kid… but now I was in my late 20’s. I doubt I was liftable anymore…


Mike: Conor figured out that implementing your name into things makes you happy, like weirdly happy.

Me: What do you mean?

Mike: Well instead of singing "cause we're TNT, we're dyn-o-mite!" Conor sang "cause we're TNT, we're Jen-o-mite! TNT she’ll win the fight". You loved it so much that you danced the whole way down the driveway begging him to sing it. Eventually, you got into bed and fell asleep singing it.

Me: (thinking pause) Ooooh. I like that song.

Mike: Exactly.



Moral of the Story: If you have a girlfriend that gives you lip once in a while, remember... at least she doesn't bite your head off!

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Hearts Buried in Cuba

This is the beginning of the book that I will finish writing. I sent this into a writing competition. I lost. Well, let's say I didn't win. But it's ok. It got me started on one of the most important journeys of my life, a journey I always wanted to travel but never even got around to packing my bags for...until now.


Sitting at a Cuban restaurant, celebrating my anniversary with Mike, I could not have realized that my own Mecca of self-discovery and family was unfolding. As we waited for our meal ofvaca frita and platanos maduros, the restaurant was alive with sounds of a duo band playing near the table. Then, it grew silent. An old lady, “corto” like un espresso that looked like my “abuelita,” was escorted to a seat with the band. We were told that she was the owner’s mother and that she would be performing a Cuban classic. As the band began to play, the song sounded like a familiar lullaby that I’d heard many times. And then she sang:


Nunca podré morirme, ((Never will I be able to die)
mi corazón no lo tengo aquí… (I do not have my heart here…)
Cuando salí de Cuba, (When I left Cuba)
dejé mi vida, (I left my life)
dejé mi amor (I left my love)
Cuando salí de Cuba (When I left Cuba)
dejé enterrado mi corazón (I left buried my heart)

My eyes wet with tears, my throat dry, I watched this fragile abuela singing to a country that escaped her. She missed it. You could see it in her eyes that sang a song to a place long lost to her; a place she would never get back even if she physically returned. Her song reminded me of so many sadnesses sung by my relatives through stories and memories. My mind wandered, as it often does, to thoughts of how many Cubans hold these same feelings of los.

It took me back to my own mother’s story of when she left Cuba. “Family in Cuba wasn’t just the nuclear family, ees all the grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunts, y ‘fulano.’ Primos aren’t couseens that joo saw on holeedays – they were who joo were raised weet – joor best friends. Tia isn’t just joor aunt, she’s joor role model and caregiver.”

So when my mother had to leave Cuba, she wasn’t just leaving her country, she was leaving her heart.

“At that time, when you left Cuba, joo where leafing forever. There was no ‘goin back.’ I felt like we where enterando la familia entera – burying the whole family.”

Maybe it’s because of these stories that so many children of Cuban exiles feel a type of nostalgia for a place they’ve never set foot, a homeland completely foreign to them. Maybe this nostalgia is why for so long I have felt as though I was Cuban by name but not by rite. I have always been proud to grow up a Cuban American, but there has always been a disconnect, with a pull so strong to this country that I have often felt like maybe, in a previous life, I also grew up aCuban in America. How undeniable is the bond between heart and country that the nostalgia in the exiles is so strong that their kids feel the connection decades later?

There was only one way to find out. I had to go – not just to discover my roots but to dig them up.




As the wheels of the small plane land on the runway of this mysterious island, I am in a dream-like fog thinking only one word… “finally.” Generations of stories ran through my veins at that moment resurfacing like an old floor and tiling themselves in my mind like a new mosaic, piecing together a past - dating generations back - with my present. It’s quite an uncanny feeling to land somewhere completely foreign but already feel home.

Looking out of the airplane window at my first view of Cuba, I was saddened at all the people I couldn’t share this with. My parents weren’t with me to share the experience. It was something I had dreamed of for so long but, because of complications, my choice was either coming without them or not coming at all. I had thought about giving up on the idea and doing it “another time” but after the sudden death of my primo/hermano (cousin/brother), I thought about advice my mom had given often, “Mija, en life there are no guarantees.”My abuelita, on my father’s side, was no longer with us and though she had many times yelled about the Castro regime and her non-existent interest in going back, I know she would have been proud of me.

Minutes away from touching Cuban soil for the first time, I was proud to be able to physically put a face with a name. Cuba would no longer be an elusive idea, but rather a place with streets and corners and history that I don’t have to read about or be told about. I was, however, also very afraid that I might not live up to being “Cuban.”

I had so many questions that needed answers:

Would I be the runt of the litter that grew up with all the same values and culture but just didn’t fit in?

Would who I was be clearer because of this place?

Would my Spanish be Cuban enough?

Would I stick out like an all-American hotdog at a pig roast?

As I stepped off the plane and entered the first section of the airport, which reminded me more of a holding room, I noticed the workers with masks on their faces as if avoiding an epidemic. It wasn’t until after I filled out the arrival card that I realized they were all on high alert from catching any outside disease being brought in, in this case, the swine flu. I could hear my mom’s voice now, “What good is free healthcare when you have no medicine?”My mom loved her old country, but like many that left because of la revolucion, she is disheartened with what has become of it.

When I was allowed through the holding area and into the main section of the airport, I gathered my suitcase and myself. The suitcase was enormous for my 4-day stay and to the untrained eye, many might think I was a high maintenance girl, but to the trained Cuban eye, they know that 98% of what I’m bringing to Cuba is staying in Cuba. Calzoncillos (underwear) for Barbarita, perfume for Yulisa, zapaticos (little shoes) for Ernestico. I wheeled my 50-pound bag to the bathroom where my stories of Cuba would come in handy. Stories of what to expect in Cuba for an American girl used to American amenities were abundant (and offensive at times), but having heard them prepared me to handle life here without such amenities. So I was not really surprised to find that the bathroom attendant was rationing out toilet paper and even less surprised to see that the toilets had no toilet seat.

Having had no real communication with my relatives, there was no set time or place where my family would be or if they would even be there on the right day, so I exchanged my American dollars into Cuban pesos and walked outside preparing to wait for a while. “In Cuba, you had to wait for hours just to get a bag of rice,” my mom has often said during bouts of my teenage impatience.

As the opaque sliding doors opened and the famous Royal Palms came into sight, I felt like I was being cordially introduced to Cuba herself, “Hola. mucho gusto, Americanita,” the breeze whispered.

And instantly after my introduction, I saw the army, walking towards me with a mission – here came the family. I felt silly for even thinking they might not have been there. I should have known that they probably had relatives on every entrance with walky-talkies and binoculars similar to that of a stealth recon mission team picking up the package. I was valuable stuff.

Nana, la comandante - the commander - a tall and athletically built woman, paved the way. She was like a bull with only red in sight… and I was the red. Being the only one I had met before, she recognized me right away. The rest of the cavalry, right on her heels, said they recognized my mother in me immediately. I’d been compared to my mother before, but there was something uniquely special about being told that now. Like I was taking over where my mother had left off so many years back. They looked at me with the same look I had seen in my mother’s eyes when she told her stories. Bittersweet. Even as life slowly allowed my mother the sweetness to be reunited with her family through the years, the sadness in her face so many decades later was still evident. Always grateful for the life she had, my mother knew what the United States had given her, but there would always be a feeling of sorrow, too many moments had been missed; too much time had been taken.

Make no mistake; these relatives had already answered one question… I might have been the runt of the litter, but I was a part of them. That was already clear.

We piled five people and two enormous suitcases into a small 1960’s Peugeot that was meant for three comfortably and made our way to Pablito’s house, passing cars from the 1950’s in top-notch shape and billboards boasting the faces of la revolucion: Jose Marti, Che Guevera, Fidel Castro. Although I doubt Marti would have welcomed the association. Pablito, a brilliant man and doctor, had cerveza Cristal and a delicious spread of food, that no doubt required bargaining and trading, waiting for us. Because of his luck in having a car, he and his friend Leo were able to use this luxury as a way to make extra money. As most ingenious Cubans, they find ways to make more out of the little they have.

Our next stop today was to Nana’s house. We knocked on the door and heard hustling, whispering from the inside. Alejandro, my 6-year-old cousin, excitedly opened the door ajar, peering out of the slit with his Caribbean Sea colored eyes to make sure who it was. When he was certain it was us, he jerked open the door to a room full of cousins and decorations. Apparently, he had spent all day after school preparing for our arrival with balloons and streamers. Twice in this day, I was honored to see the giving nature of people that I knew didn’t have much to give.

After dinner, I took my first Cuban stroll around the streets of Havana. It was rundown and the houses were in need of paint but you could see the architectural beauty that once reigned in this city. My stories, again, did not fail me. Just as I had been told, people were outside socializing and taking in life rather than sitting alone watching television in their homes. Like many Cubans, I was a social mariposa (butterfly), a name my grandfather has called me. Did I get that trait from my ancestors, I wondered?

As with Pablito’s car, another friend made extra money with a spare bedroom that was rented to tourists. For a cheap price, Mike and I had an air-conditioned room on el malecon – Cuba’s most recognized trademark, where people go to romance their dates or hang out with friends to the sound of crashing waves. That night we fell asleep with the window open, overlooking Havana, listening to el maelcon and an improvised one-man band playing his guitar for friends and passersby.

We awoke early the next morning and walked along el malecon to breakfast at Nana’s house. It was 8:00 a.m. but the Cuban sun was already a scolding cup of café con leche. Yulisa, the youngest of Nana’s daughters, was already there waiting since she had taken the week off of work to spend with us.

It was a city of great beauty and history that had been sandpapered away after decades of neglect, made to look rough. But it was still a city of great hope and laughter. And in that thought, my second question was answered. Who I was was becoming clearer because of this place. I was like Havana. Although time might have worn me down and roughed me up, I was full of hope, great hope... and always laughter. And although things were rough at times, I, like Cuba, could usually find strength in pain. “Joo haf to trust that God knows what hees doing,” my mom has said more times than I could count.

In the days that remained, I discovered parts of the island, but even more indispensable were the new stories that gave me more insight about why I came. Nana, the family historian, knows our family tree and history better than anyone. She told us of Isabel Rubio, a fiery woman who had clandestine meetings with Jose Marti and fought for an independent Cuba. A fighter, like me, I thought.

Nana continued, “Jennyni (her nickname for me), todavia sigues con el periodico?” (“Do you continue with the newspaper?”)

“Todavia,” I responded (“Still”)

She went on to tell me about the many people in my family that were writers and newspaper people, some who not only worked, but also started some of Cuba’s newspapers.

There was something magical about walking around La Habana Vieja listening to these stories. Eating at La Bodeguita Del Medio where Hemingway would stop for lunch and drinks, finding a layman’s version of Buena Vista Social Club playing on a street corner, watching the teenagers dive off el malecon to escape the heat or the fisherman waiting patiently for his catch was certainly tiling the mosaic in my mind. Up until now, there was always something missing. I couldn’t figure out where I belonged. I wasn’t Cuban. I wasn’t American. But this trip was laying out the groundwork to connect the Cuban to American.

On our way back to our room that night, a young guy asked us for a light for his cigarette. Mike, who speaks a little Spanish, said we didn’t. Immediately, the boy knew he wasn’t a local.

He stopped in his tracks and walked backwards alongside Mike, “Hey men, you no fron here?” he asked in broken English now turning directions and walking with us for the moment.

Although I didn’t feel like we were in danger, I also didn’t want to call attention to two tourists walking around at night. Being anywhere this could spell trouble.

“Pero yo si soy de aqui,” I quickly jumped in (“But I am from here.”)

As if instantly he knew to back off, he pointed at me and said, “Tu si eres,” and walked away.(“You definitely are.”) You might outsmart a tourist, but not a Cuban woman.

My last questions at that moment were answered. My Spanish was Cuban enough and although I hadn’t been born in Cuba or grown up there, I was Cuban enough. I wasn’t a hot dog in a pig roast. It seems silly to think that my little trick made me feel accepted to a culture that had always been a part of me, but it did. I felt like I did my mom, dad, grandparents - everyone who had a hand in raising me – proud.

When we arrived at the airport on the last day, everyone had come to see us off. Family who accepted and loved us as though they had known me from birth surrounded us. They had known me through pictures and home videos for 28 years up until that point, but that didn’t matter because we were family. Walking through the opaque sliding doors again I turned around one last time to see the whole army standing together waving goodbye before the doors closed. I had come full circle.

I now understand what it means to leave your heart buried in Cuba.



The Family seeing us off...


Nana and Pablito have a drink of his bootleg rum.


My uncle in one of the cars he's working on



My Cousins Yulisa and Adela Tania


Yulisa.


In "La Bodeguita del Medio" (Made famous by Hemingway)


Cars of Cuba Present



View of Habana Vieja


A Normal Day at the Beach


"De estos hombres hace un pueblo"


The Old Man and the Sea


Teenagers Swimming off el Malecon


My Cuba





Some of the people of Cuba