Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Et Voilà... I'm a French Parent

Illustration by Maximilian Bode


Is it safe to come out yet?


Although quite Cuban in heart, body, and soul, for the last handful of years I have felt an affinity for the French culture (and apparently last name - Legrá is a French last name I've been told) 

I fell in love with Paris when I visited after college and have since to make my way back. The city's mixture of city and suburb, old and new fills its streets with the exact romantic charm that you see in any movie about Paris. Some of the small streets look like my favorite streets in Manhattan, lined with  cobblestone, trees and cafes. Pointed signs that look more like a movie set than real directions point to different streets and to the Eiffel Tower. I love Paris.

But besides the quaint city appeal, what is it about Paris, about the French culture that draws me to a place I hardly know? Let's state the obvious so we could move on. Wine. We all know that I revel in that vice on occassion. Apparently, so do the French. Guess what else they love... cheese. Me too! The stronger and stinkier the better. The French are also bon vivants (this is a waaaay fancier word for "big time Foodies"). And I want to note here that they are not just foodies for foodies sake. They are picky about what they put into their mouth. They hardly snack. They don't eat while watching TV or sitting in front of a computer (did you know that this makes you more likely to overeat since you are not paying attention to what or how much you eat.) Mike and I are the presidents of Bon Vivant Inc.

But again, this isn't the main allure that I have with France. The main attraction comes from their way of being. Their laissez-faire attitude about life and living. So they drink, smoke, and eat happiness. They are satisfied. And that's a big word, satisfied. Think about what that really means. Satisfied comes with a sense of fulfillment, of being content with what you have and not dissatisfied with what you don't. It is this lifestyle that calls me to this culture. And recently I have read that it is this lifestyle that allows the French to raise well-behaved, independent, gourmet eating, night sleeping by two months, nature-loving, contentedly sitting and enjoying their own company babies. Yes I said well-behaved, independent, gourmet eating, night sleeping by two months, nature-loving, contentedly sitting and enjoying their own company babies. 

I have currently been recommended and am now reading "Bringing up Bébé" a french type parenting book. It is not a "What to Expect when Expecting" type book that dictates feeding times, birthing plans, or appropriate meals but rather as the title suggests, one American mother discovering the wisdom of french parenting. 

Before I continue, please DO NOT be offended or think that I am undermining American parenting or how you choose to raise your babies. I am simply saying that the life and child rearing I imagined but thought too "out there" to exist, actually does exist. And it seems that the French and I agree.

"In the U.S. sometimes I have the feeling that if it's not difficult for you, you have to feel bad about that," one character in Bringing up Bebe says. I don't think this is a pressure that is purposefully put on mothers but I do think there is some truth to it. I know even before I became a mother it seemed that in order to be a good mother you had to give up things, you have to sacrifice in order to be doing it right. This has often made me feel, especially in Santo Domingo with an easier lifestyle (having help and taking time every day to write and work), guilty. Mommy guilt kicks my ass. But not all moms meet guilt in the parking lot after school. It seems French mothers feel that there is no need to sacrifice but to balance being a mom along with all of the other things you are. Balance, for them, is one of the most important things you could do as a mother and as a woman not letting any one thing in life take up your whole life; not your work, not your marriage, not your kids. Whew! What a weight off my shoulders. All of this time, I have subconsciously thought this this but up until this point I was feeling horrible about not devoting ALL of my day to our baby. I felt terrible that I wanted my time, me time, while other mothers were so happy to be with their kids all of the time. I looked at myself as doing something wrong (remember... guilt kicks my ass daily) although the French have opened my eyes to the fact that as long as you're doing what is right for you, you can't be wrong, just happy.

It talks about how babies are much smarter than we think, how they can rise to meet our expectations, how we have to let them learn to sleep (or do anything, really) on their own, and how even babies enjoy their privacy. How would you feel if every time you went to sleep and woke up your mother was hovering over you? It says that the French build confident, self-reliant babies who enjoy their own company because babies who learn to play by themselves during the day- are less worried when they're put into their beds alone at night. 

All of this resonates with my philosophy of how I wanted to raise a child but thought it was me being selfish and still wanting a life that would no longer be mine Because most of what I ever heard about being a mom started with, "It is the most amazing gift but be ready to give up (fill in the blank). And my favorite part of the book so far is the one that reads, "The Frenchwomen I meet aren't at all blasé about motherhood or about their babies well-being. They're awed, concerned, and aware of the immense life transformation that they are about to undergo." This solidifies it. I am completely aware that our baby is priority. I am dizzy with how much I love her and obviously concerned, otherwise I wouldn't question myself everyday. I am aware that my life has become different but doesn't mean it has changed.

I don't have to be a different person. I don't have to sacrifice everything in order to be good at this. And I don't have to let guilt bully me around about still wanting to be who I've always been. I can still be a balanced woman, a loyal friend, a happily married wife, a struggling writer, a solid flirt, a constant photographer, an animal avenger, but now I just have to make room for one more... a French mother. 

Et Voilà, I'm French. Wine drinking, cheese eating, child rearing and all. 

And balanced. Definitely balanced.

Little Miss in her stripes



Our three babies


Smiling because she just finished eating... our Gordi


Rafa loves her sister, Olive


Olive's not quite sure about Rafa yet


Rafaella and her papi... they're both adorable, right?


She already knows how to pose for the camera


Papi Lovings for his sweet girl





Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Food for the (proud parent's) Soul


Each mom has something that they feel especially proud of as a mother, something that they did that they will and have remembered fondly through the years.

When I was pregnant, many veteran moms shared with me their amazing journey with breastfeeding and how it was the best thing they did for their child. They raved about the effects of breast milk and the bonding that ultimately came from spending so much time with their baby.

This was not my experience. I will not go into the disastrous details of my journey with breastfeeding and will simply leave it at I'd rather stick a nail in my eye than go back to the first month of breastfeeding.

Other moms share how they love staying home with their baby and seeing them take every breath, make every move. They set up their play space every day and just sat and marveled. They were there for every nap, every cry, every nap that resulted in a cry. They went with them to baby play classes and  stood outside the room watching them play because the thought of leaving them for even a moment was unbearable.

Again, this has not been my experience. Don't get me wrong, I love watching Rafaella play and discover and - on occassion -  sleep. We listen to music together: Buena Vista Social Club, Springsteen, Otis Redding. And I feel happy and satisfied when an hour of The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Fats Domino, Queen, Perez Prado has passed and she is enjoying the music as much as I do. This is definitely one of my proud mama moments. But staying at home all day and not writing or creating, even for one day, makes me batty, and I imagine, a total hag. Ask Mike.

My very proud mama moment is more of a shared proud parent moment; something shared not only between mama and Rafa but with papa also. Maybe it is the foodie M.O. that Mike and I have in common, but each week before we go on our family shopping trip, we decide what vegetables and fruits Rafa will be eating that week. This in itself is fun! Pears? Carrots? Pumpkin? Apples? The doctor gave us so many choices.

After we've decided and bought it, it's time to cook it up a la Latino. Peeling, coring, chopping (onions, garlic, etc. - think your own broth) and then we plop the vegetable of choice in to boil with the broth we've created. The fruit is a little easier with just peeling, coring, and steaming in a separate pot. When the veggies are soft we strain the broth and then put the them in the blender (think puree). This makes her food for at least a week if not longer.

Since eventually this would go bad, we scoop this puree into ice cube trays and freeze them. Then, transfer that to a bigger container for easier access. Every morning when I wake up to get her food prepared for the day, I take out 7 cubes and put them in a container to defrost and Wala! (is this how you spell Wala?!) (Added edit: Thanks to some readers, I am correcting that it is most certainly not "Wala" but Voilà. Thank you.)  By 1:00 her lunch is ready to be eaten. It takes a little bit of work on the front side but it is so easy in the mornings to put a few cubes into a plate.

And the part that feels really good, really proud parent, is that we, her proud parents, are really nourishing her. I have back up fruit compotas (baby food) in the fridge, just in case, but knowing that what we are giving her is straight from the ground to her mouth (with obviously some washing) feels amazing. Feels Superwoman (umm... Superparent) ish. And by saying this I am not saying that if you don't boil, puree, and bottle your own baby food you are not a good parent. I am simply saying that this happens to be our thing. This is our breast feeding, our stay at home all day and never get tired of it, parenting thing. Food. That's our thing.



Carrots and potatoes this week.



Peeling the carrots. Invest in a good peeler.






Potatoes and Carrots in broth, boiling


Carrots and Potatoes to freezer. Plastic wrap around trays to avoid gross freezery things


Carrot and potato cubes - Take out as many as you want to defrost


 To the mouths of babes... well face.



Monday, March 26, 2012

You Can't Win


I knew going into motherdom that I would probably be a worrying wreck of a parent. After all, my genealogical roots show a long line of worrying wreck parents. To add, I suspect that mothers tend to be more worrisome and dramatic... after all we are women.

The first few weeks after Rafaella was born proved that I inherited this trait. If she slept for a long period of time, I would glue my ear against her door to try and hear her. When that didn’t work, I would go in to see with my own eyes that she was breathing. When I couldn’t tell to my heart’s full comfort, I would gently place my hand on her stomach or under her nose to feel her breath moving throughout her tiny frame.

The last few weeks, Rafaella who was consistently sleeping well and longer each night decided that she would no longer be doing this. She begins to stir at 2:30… and then 3:30 which gets solved with placing her tete back in her mouth but then wakes herself up entirely by kicking her thunder legs violently and robustly like she’s at New York Sport’s Club’s Kickboxing Cardio class. I know the difference in her murmurs, her degree of whimper. And I know that if I go in there there’s no turning back. I will have to pick her up and rock her back to sleep and possibly sleep with her unless I want the fury of God, disguised in Rafaella’s cry, unleashed upon us at 4:30 in the morning. When I think that she is finally asleep, I gently place her in her crib and substitute small body pillows where my arm would be, constantly rocking so that our baby doesn’t notice the difference between my arms and her crib. Like she doesn’t know the difference? I drop to the floor and crawl out of her room Navy Seal style and I tell myself that I’ve won. I tell myself that I’ve tricked her into sleeping. And moments later, she reminds me that I haven’t.

UGH!!!! Why won’t this baby sleep?!?!? I can’t sleep if she doesn’t sleep. Why won’t she sleep?

These nights… these nights make me wonder what I was thinking getting into this parenting thing? I’m not cut out for this. I’m no good at this. I’m not patient enough or selfless enough or awake enough.

But it’s not consistent. There are nights that she sleeps well, only slightly stirring at 5:30 a.m. that is again easily solved with plopping her tete back in her mouth. Instant relaxation. And then she awakes at 7:00 a.m. for her routine morning feed. These night… these nights… I still wake up at 2:30 and then 3:30 and then 5:30, not because she is stirring but because I am wondering why she is not stirring. The worrying wreck root from that genealogical family tree starts to grow sprouts in my mind and asks me all types of crazy questions. Why isn’t she making noise? Why hasn’t she woken up? Is she breathing? Did she smother herself in her baby rolls? Is it too hot and she overheated? Did someone sneak in and take her?

The line of questions grows more absurd and illogical with each passing sleep deprived moment. I start convincing myself that I need to check on her. And then I start telling myself that I need to stay calm and not get so irrational. My brain has to actively persuade my body not to go into her room and watch her breathe.

Most of these nights I tell myself, “You can’t win.” When she doesn’t sleep through the night, I would give almost anything for her to sleep. When she does sleep through the night, I would give almost anything for me to sleep.




Friday, March 23, 2012

Leap...and the Net Will Appear



After blogging for a couple of months I realized something. A change was coming.

When I first started this writing venture, I had just come out of the hospital from having our baby. Literally, I got home on Sunday and started designing, building, and writing - completely shocking Husband at the amount of energy I had that first week with a newborn baby.

I knew there were things that I was going to want to change, I knew there were things that I was going to need to learn, but being who I am, I needed to leap - cannonball into this thing - otherwise I would forever stand on the platform, debating the height of my free fall.

I started designing, building, writing, and teaching myself about Blogger and blogs and googling answers to things I had zero idea about. Before I knew it, "Our Buena Vida" was up and running, as well as FOUR other blogs.

A few months later, once I got the hang of this blogging thing, I started to read other people's posts and not surprisingly, took note of things I liked from their blogs. After all, "imitation is the highest form of flattery" and all that. I wanted a more organized, cleaner looking page, so the face of "Our Buena Vida" changed.

The more I invested into blogging, the more ideas I picked up and the more I wanted to change. I realized that my original direction of having 4 blogs at once was too demanding and not at all practical. I wanted a more central location and joining all of my blogs, each showcasing a different aspect of my life, could be accomplished with just a few simple changes. But one change that was not simple was the title of "Our Buena Vida" would have to be changed. It didn't encompass ALL of the things that the new blog would be.

The problem was that I was now very invested in "Our Buena Vida". It had come to be a part of my vernacular, a part of my everyday vocabulary. And although I tend to be a leap first, ask about the net later kind of person - most of the time - (don't let me fool you... I can contemplate a leap a good amount...especially when I am emotionally committed) this time I stood on the platform pondering the questions we all ponder before a leap. Will it be a hard landing? Will I regret leaping? Will I be turning my back on what I knew before? Silly how I could be that emotionally attached to a blog name, right? But emotionally attached is what I do. 

As usual, I go to my support group consisting of one - Husband - whose suggestions are always more clear, concise, and uncluttered than any suggestion I could ramble up in my head. And this is what he said:
"Just change it. It was a good title. And this will be a good title.
And once you change it you'll be happy you changed it."

Sometimes, you just need to hear something, you know?

"Drinking the Whole Bottle" was the title of one of the other blogs and one that made more sense with who I was before (drinking the whole bottle of wine) and who I am becoming now (drinking the whole bottle baby style). I would say that I meet both of those bottles in the middle.

For a good part of my life now, when I am not sure about the newest decision I am kicking around, I try to remind myself of the saying, "Leap and the net will appear. " I have made some decisions that many people might not have seen as reasonable or responsible but I know me and I know God and the Universe are working to help me land on my feet. Well, sometimes I land on my ass but the fall is never hard enough that I can't get up and keep moving forward.

So, I finally made the jump, moving all blogs into one big blog, one big bottle, I guess you could say.

Sometimes, leaping is the most natural thing in the world; sometimes it just makes sense. And sometimes you have to think about it for a bit before making a decision. But make no mistake the longer you take to leap the longer (and harder) the fall will appear.  I can't tell you that either is more right than the other. Right is whatever feels good at the moment. But what I can tell you is that I have never regretted leaping...ever. I have leapt... and the net has always appeared.

Happy leaping!




Wednesday, March 7, 2012

What's a Rubio?


When we named our daughter Rafaella most people knew where the origin of the name came from. Rafael is my dad's name and while I don't like "family" names - I knew too many families with everyone sharing the same name that they had to be distinguished by size. "Oh Mario. No not Big Mario, Little Mario. No not Little Mario, Lil' Mario. And don't forget Baby Mario. Baby Mario who will grow to be 6 foot 4, 205 pounds and will always be called Baby mario. I digress.

For this reason I don't like identical family names. The exception being girls named after men. To add, I like old Spanish sounding names (Cecilia, Valentina, Penelope, Francesca, Cecilia, Isabella, Sophia). So Rafaella descending from the name Rafael was perfect. The cherry on top of Perfect was that when my mom gave me the voluminous family tree book belonging to her ancestors, I realized that Rafael on the part of my mother's side was also a family name, as close as my grandfather's brother. Not only was Rafaella taking the name of her grandfather, but she would also be borrowing from her grandmother's side.

But when we told (and tell) people Rafaella's middle name, it would be an understatement to say that people are not sure sure where it comes from. It would be dead on to say that people have no bloody idea what a Rubio is.

THEM: Doesn't that mean blonde in Spanish?
ME: Yes
THEM: Oh. That's pretty?
ME: That's not where her name comes from.
THEM: Oh...

I like names that are different (no not Apples or Coco) and that have meaning, a story behind them. Once we had a first name picked we wanted the middle name to be from somewhere, preferably someone we respected or admired. Maya was in the running for a long time (Maya Angelou) but in the end it didn't quite ring. We thought about Isabel or Isabella, a name that I have always loved, and was also my mother's middle name. What I really loved next was that it also came from my grandfather's great grandmother.

Isabel, my grandfather's great grandmother, was Captain of the Cuban Liberation Army in the Independence War of the nineteenth century. A Cuban heroin and martyr, she was a nurse for the rebels fighting against Spanish rule. She has been called "wise, tender, loyal, arrogant and sympathetic." She was a liason between the Cubans living in the United States and those in Cuba. Joining forces with Jose Marti, Maximo Gomez, and Antonio Maceo, her home would become "the seat of conspiracy". She organized hospitals, was considered a radical writer and political activist. She was tough shit. And famous for her words, "I need to practice what I encourage."

From my mother's province of Pinar del Rio, she was born in a town named Guane, now named after her. A street bearing her name also lays in the town named after her. A museum and statue in that town celebrate her contribution to the fight for Cuban independence.
This is my family legacy. 
And how do you not pass on such a thing, even if only through name.

My grandfather, who loved to tell stories about our ancestors, filled my life with hundreds of hours of family stories. And this story of his great grandmother, Isabel Rubio, always stood out. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention her last name Rubio? My bad.

And so although I have loved the name, Isabel for quite some time, I had met too many girls with that name (working in a school and daycamp will do that to many names you love) and I wanted something more distinct. How could I honor that rich history and the other most important man in my life from whom so much of me comes from, from whom my gift of writing and need to tell stories is inspired by? Hmmmm...

What if we named her Rafaella Rubio? It had such a poetic sound and made immediate sense to me.

So I re ask myself the title of this blog - what is a Rubio? A Rubio is "candela" (fire). A spitfire who leaves comfort behind to do what she believes to be right. That was my grandfather. I'd like to believe that's a little me too... okay, Mike, maybe a lot of me. A Rubio is a fighter.

A Rubio is my daughter.

Kick ass and take names, always, Rafa. Don't back down.


... Ever.


Before Mike, these were my two favorite men. Now there's 3 favorite men.

Me and Abuelito Rolando in Aruba

Me and abuelito for Christmas 2005

Me and daddy when Derek (first nephew) was born

Me and daddy Christmastime

Friday, March 2, 2012

The Dawning of Time

Since we made the decision to try out this teaching and life abroad thing, I have felt myself consciously appreciate what our life has to offer in a way that I never could in the states.

We have so much family time, it's insane. Whole afternoons to sit around at the park with friends, weekends full of excursions and get togethers and laughter and good people. I get weekly massages. And I know I have mentioned Shelly, our nanny/housekeeper with whom most of this is made possible. Our life here is a party where our venue is paid for the booze is chilled to perfection and all we have to do is show up.

This past weekend in particular, highlighted how grand our life here is. Invited by a parent of one of Mike's students, Parent Amaze asked us what we were doing for the long weekend. When Mike answered that we had no plans, she offered her house in Casa de Campos, La Romana without thinking twice. We packed the whole family in a rented car: a newlywed couple, a nurturing aunt, a too old for her age baby, two rescued, loyal friends (Jersey & Olive) and left for Casa de Campo as soon as Mike got out of school.

Even though a migraine tried to stop me Friday night, by Saturday morning nothing would stop me from enjoying our weekend away.

Each moment was a delectable sugary treat and we would all find ourselves thinking How did we get here? Mike would say to me We must have done something right. I would tell Nana (my aunt staying with us from Cuba) that never in my craziest ideas (and trust that I have MANY) did I imagine myself in such a place. And Nana? Nana would look at both of us and say Tu? Y esta Cubana? If you never imagined yourselves here, what do you think about me?!

We had this conversation over our steak dinner bought from an amazing butcher in the city with an incredible Argentinian Shiraz Malbec red that I found at the Italian Specialty store down the street from our apartment that costs less than $10.

It dawned on me that we were all thankful for the life we are being fortunate enough to live. I find myself not taking so many things for granted here. I find myself having a clear picture of what matters the most to me in life: this family (dogs and all), our time together, the memories we're making, friends - good, true friends in which life only offers a few - writing, creating, delicious food, music and laughter... lots and lots of laughter. And wine. But most importantly what we're being offered here is time. Time to be with this family, time together, time to write and create and fulfill the part of myself that makes me whole, time to make the memories with good friends while eating delicious food and listening to great music and laughing until you pee on your pants.

Time for wine.

Damn straight.... this is Our Buena Vida.



Now if I could just get my mom to move in with me ;)