Numbero Tres: Become a Cook!

“Cooking is like love; it should be entered into with abandon or not at all.”
-Julia Child

As the youngest person in a very large family, your jobs as a child consist of the following: playing, watching TV or generally entertaining yourself in the next room when all of the adults want to discuss adult things, playing (also known as taking care of) younger relatives and being the permanent table setter, food chopper, and pitcher filler. Growing up in my house there were many Cuban mamas that filled a very small kitchen so there was never enough room or time to teach me the fine art of mixing garlic, lemon and cumin to create myriad Cuban delicacies. Many times I sat in the kitchen watching my mother mix, blend and magically deliver any number of dishes, cakes, and general yumminess. She was like a Disney heroine floating around the kitchen adding a pinch of this and a dash of that. It could also be that the cooking gene skipped a generation or the fact that chemistry was not my best subject. I am still in awe of shows like Chopped—how did they think of putting together those ingredients to make that?

I quickly realized as I got older that this whole not cooking has horrible, adverse effects on my thighs and my bank account. There were many nights of Chinese takeout, pizza and burgers in my past. I actually think back and wonder what I ever bought at the grocery store beyond breakfast foods?!

I embraced my non-cooking status.

My old school family members thought I would never find a man. It was as if I had some sort of terrible affliction like leprosy. No man would ever dare come close! I proved them all wrong by falling in love with a man that loved to cook.

Hmm….I could possibly be rewriting history.

I may be conveniently leaving out the fact that I did try to cook in the beginning of our relationship but I felt overwhelmed by the pressure of having to do all that working, figuring out what and how to make difficult dishes like you know…chicken.

Me and the kitchen broke up and in the end the Big Puerto Rican became a chef.

That is a happy ending.

For the past 8 years I have been a blissful patron of my husband’s cooking. I am his biggest fan. I offer up his services like they were my own. I make requests and proclaim how our children will go hungry if he doesn’t leave some sort of easy to create breakfast on weekends. You could say it was laziness or that I was spoiled or that the craziness of work and two children made it impossible for me to think about one more to-do.

I won’t play the busy working mom card here because I know that many of you are in the same place. So I will tell you a secret…..I was not interested. Cooking was fun when I was eight and it was forbidden and a pretend past time where I was Betty Crocker with an apron and stuffed animal children. I was not interested because I just wasn’t good at it. And everyone knew it so instead of getting better, I embraced and joke about my lack of domestic ability. I was a modern woman who could not deal with silly things like dinner.

The time has come for me and the kitchen to become friends again. Today we had a date. When we were here alone, I had my way with the stove, the fridge, a cutting board and some white wine. It was a wild and crazy time. By the time the BPR got home with the girls, dinner was ready, dessert was in the oven and I had a minor steam burn. The result was chicken and mushrooms in a white wine garlic sauce with brown rice. And it was good. I was so inspired that after dinner I asked the kitchen for another date. I promised my BPR at least two nights off. That’s when number 3 hit me. I will become a cook. It won’t be easy and it’s not earth shattering and I imagine there will be many more steam burns or knife cuts but I know my inner Betty Crocker is was way, way, way, down deep in there and I am on the road to bringing her out.

So watch your inbox for a dinner invite from me and Betty soon.

Eat well lovelies!
Me.

Sleepless in Ohio.....

Last night I put my sweet, chubby faced baby in her crib, and listened to her cry for fifteen minutes before I dashed up the stairs, scooped her into my arms for a minute or two, and gently placed her back in her crib. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she was wailing again. I pushed back the tears and turned up the TV as I settled back into a comfy spot on the couch. This is what Doctors call sleep training; also known as torture.

You see, since the day my little girl was born she slept curled up beside me. I loved hearing the hum of her breathing, feeling her little heart beat when she curled close to me. This was precious time together. As a working mother, I spent the majority of my day without my girls. I sit and imagine what funny things they said, what milestones I may have missed as I negotiated deals, had endless meetings and listened to the frustrations of my staff, all the while longing for the moment when little faces light up and endless kisses get planted on my tired head as the round of evening pick-ups begin. I will also admit that letting my little ones sleep with me also helped my paranoia about the myriad terrible things that could happen in the very next room, while I lay 20 feet away in my room. I had terrible thoughts of the ceiling fan crashing down, or babies getting tangled in blankets, or choking on some foreign object that missed my careful inspection of their beds. I heard of terrible stories of strangers coming in the night and taking babies and imagined that clearly we were at the top of the list. It seems paranoia has a name also known as co-sleeping, which experts are split on but I found glorious. I was like a mama lion out in the wild, while my cubs slept curled beside me and nothing bad could ever happen.

There are side effects if you are wondering….like cramps in your neck or arms, or the fact that there is no blanket big enough to cover an entire family of sleepy Padilla lions. There is no cuddle time for Mami and Papi, no time to practice just in case we would like to add to our pride. Most importantly, I realized that I want brave strong girls that can face the world alone and when you’re a baby or a toddler the first obstacle to overcome is that big cold bed without a mama to keep you warm. I realized this when my oldest who is turning four started to not only hate her big girl bed, but also hide behind me when meeting new people or act shy when entering any of her classrooms. Sure it’s a phase many kids go through, but my child is outgoing and outspoken and never one to shy away from anything so this phase worried me. I was inconsistent with her routine of when she could sleep with us and when she could sleep in her room, partly because of her and mostly because of me. Without those precious hours, our days would be reduced to an hour before drop off and a measly 2-3 before bedtime. I realized that I had to make those hours count more. No matter how tired we are, we play together, eat dinner as a family at the table and always read books and discuss our day.

When our younger daughter came along I could not bear to part ways with her in the evening either. After 15 months, I realized that it’s time to take the training wheels off and put her in own bed. So last night it began. I missed her so. By 3 am both kids ended up in our bed. So this isn’t a total success story but a good compromise and hopefully a glimpse into our future because hopefully they know that mama will always be pacing the floor ready to stand guard whenever they need me or if the bed get a little too cold.

Number 2 is going to be EPIC....

This is my favorite part of the day. Everyone is tucked away warm and snuggly in their beds with the hum of deep breathing creating a symphony in my heart. This time of the evening gives me the same satisfaction as pulling a warm delicious cake out of the oven and sitting back and admiring your work. After a long day I love this quiet time to myself as the longing of needy babies, noisy toddlers and the smells of the Big Puerto Rican’s magic kitchen creations. It doesn’t happen every night but the past couple weeks have been restful since I decided to take a much needed break from work.

I had a 5 am epiphany the other day. I don’t mind growing older as much as I mind the fact that time seems to be escaping me and I am not in control of how I spend my time. What seems like a century ago I found my purpose in serving others. I have tutored, mentored, face painted, encouraged and in that “I have a big heart and want the best for you kid” loved other people’s children. I built playgrounds, cleaned other people’s houses, created parks, renovated housing, served meals, and helped people find their voice, power and strength. Somewhere along the way I lost a little bit of me. I weaved a little bit of my heart and soul into every project, every kid and soaked up a little bit of each of them too. It has been a wild ride but everything changed the day I created a person.

I have been bought in to the idea of being a mother since I was five. When I played house it was like the old lady who lived in a shoe. Hasbro, Playschool and whoever else made baby dolls in the 80’s had me at hello. I became an aunt at 8 years old. I was in heaven. I gladly babysat and sat at the kids table. These little people were like living dolls who I took responsibility for. I happily played big sister, mom, bully and caretaker. I didn’t become a real mom until shortly after my 30th birthday by that point I was bursting at the seams to have a baby. I had been with the Big Puerto Rican for years at that point and I knew in my bones that he was my forever love—so let’s get to it! I was pregnant by the summer after our first anniversary. I will admit it was a tiny bit quicker than we had anticipated.


When Eva was born it was as if my heart had tripled in size, grown legs and was now curled up in my arms. She was amazing.



I didn’t want to sleep. I just wanted to watch her. We were in awe. Everything she did was amazing. Look at her smile! Look at her blink! Look at her poopy! Because yes even poopy is amazing. I constantly woke up to make sure she was breathing in her bassinet until I couldn’t take it anymore and just put her in bed with us. I slept like a mama bear with her cub curled up close to her. Twelve weeks at home with my tiny little baby was just not enough. I left my baby at my mother’s house with a set of instructions. My mother was understanding but let’s be clear, the woman has great grandchildren and is from the old country. Iin other words this ain’t her first rodeo. It was traumatic. I cried on the way to work. Three years later the same scene played out as I left my second baby girl with my mother and cried myself to work.



While there was a part of me that enjoyed being showered and dressed in something other than sweats and actually having adult conversations instead of one sided arguments with the ladies from The View, I missed my girls. I wondered what I might be missing, what milestone might be happening as I was working to make the world better for them.




Then it hit me. These beautiful little girls have become my purpose. While I couldn’t imagine myself being a stay at home mom what I can imagine is being a mom that is much more available than the mom I was six months ago. I am thankful that I can continue to do the work that I love and be the kind of parent I want to be.
This is just the first part of my epiphany.


For the second part let me channel my inner Sophia Petrellio….picture it…. me many years ago…I used to go to the hair salon and nail salon weekly. There was never a stray eyebrow hair, no remnants of a stache. I was 40 pounds ( or more) smaller. I wore makeup every day. I was a fine, dime piece, a hottie, a hot tamale, una mamacita buena….get the point? I got tired of all the maintenance. I snagged a fine Papi and slowly…slowly…gained weight, broke up with my hair dresser and got too busy for makeup. I look at pictures and cringe. For a while everyone complimented my years old Facebook profile pic and took me how young I looked.

I still wear a pair of my maternity jeans (at least they have a real waist!).

I have hit rock bottom.

It was a slow spiral. But here I am….listen closely….hear the echo?

So number 2 on my list? I know it’s a timely cliché and it may not be exactly new but this is my blog, my crisis and so I get to make up the rules…..now back to my announcement….MY NUMBER TWO IS….Join a Bootcamp.

Yep. A hardcore BOOTCAMP.

This is going to be epic.

Especially because the most exercise that I have gotten in five years is childbirth. I don’t even have sneakers! I am scared.

No pain no gain right? I should probably stop writing and start looking for the heating pad.

Wish me luck lovelies....

There's No Crying in Baseball...

I am a swallower. I am that last little crumb of your cookie that hangs out in your cup no matter how many drinks of milk you take. I am that girl in every movie, disheveled, unbathed with a pint of ice cream, surrounded by tissues, pizza boxes and The Way We Were blaring on the television.



During one chapter in my life I was infatulove (infatuated + love) with a very tall brown skinned boy who had dreads spilling every which way out of his head. He was from here and there and was funny and charming.
He took my heart and pumpkin chucked it across three football fields, through a valley into a river where it hit a patch of rocks and fell down a waterfall into a deep chasm.

I thought I was dying.

On one particularly difficult evening after many glasses bottles of red wine my roommate put on a record (yes a record).

“Now you say you’re lonely….You cry the whole night through…Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river….I cried a river over you….”

It spoke to my broken heart.

That evening I cried many rivers. Over and over my roommate and I listened to the record a million rotations plus one and cried our pretty little selves to sleep.
Crying has never been a side effect for me. It is the effect. It is happiness, nervousness, sadness and despair.

It is my best emotion.

It’s a cleansing of my soul and you are the unfortunate audience. I’m probably an ugly crier which makes for an even more unfortunate situation.

I have embraced my affliction. With reckless abandon I have cried a river in a room full of strangers, to my boss, bill collectors, while giving speeches and sometimes alone in my car during the slow jams hour or when Delilah is on (who I am pretty sure has made more people cry than Barbara Walters).

I no longer try to fight the tears back instead I give it all I got. I am a surrogate crier for my Mother who sometimes can’t cry for herself. I have probably cried for you or someone you know. I happy cry. I angry cry. I cry out of frustration. If crying were a sport I would be LeBron James, Michael Jordan or Mia Hamm.

Like an athlete, at some point you don’t play the game as well. Your knees give out. You become slower. You don’t throw as fast. Pretty soon you find yourself on the bench--watching someone else play.

I started to notice the tears don’t come as easily anymore. That it takes just a little more effort or maybe that I put more effort into not letting the emotions show. I notice that I started to care more about what others thought instead of how I felt. I decided to be polite and not make others uncomfortable. I decided that maybe I needed to be a big girl.

Then one day it happened - one day my little girl took a spill. She was airborne and fell on the playground. In front. Of. All. The. Big. Kids. I could see that look a mixture of pain and embarrassment and a touch of confusion not quite sure which of the two emotions she felt more. I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. I saw the pink spreading across her round cheeks. Her eyes darted down and she quickly moved her little legs towards me.

“Are you okay?” I asked cautiously in almost a whisper.

She buried her little face in the crook of my neck and mumbled “Uh-uh”. I scooped her into the car. No tears yet. She wouldn’t even make eye contact. As soon as the doors closed from deep in her belly the tears came out like a roar.

The roaring continued for a good portion of the trip. No reassurance from me would comfort her.

Finally, it was too much. At first it hurt my heart, now it was hurting my eardrums.

“Eva, it’s okay sweetie. Let’s stop crying now, it’s not going to make anything better.” Slowly the cried hushed.

As I caught her eye in the rearview mirror she looked at me determined and answered….
“It makes me feel better!”

And just like that my little one reminded me that this life, each moment is mine to feel and love how I want.

So cry on, laugh on, rage on my lovelies because this is your world to feel as you will.

Just remember to pack some tissues!

Love,
Me.

Experience #1-Super Short Hair

“So are you going to write every day?”

“Um…no…well I mean I guess I can. I haven’t been. I guess I could…” This was my answer to the super hip Aveda girl completing my head and neck massage.

My idea behind blogging this year was purely to keep me real, to put out a public promise to my tribe and to have them keep me to it. I didn’t think about how this would work…details…details. To be honest there is a constant dialogue in my head—a rewind of my day complete with all the witty comebacks, the assertive statements, the blow up your theory in five words, thoughts that eluded me between the hustle and bustle of the day. So in an effort to release the “voices in my head” I bring to you…ta..da..da..da - regular blog posts. This particular announcement coincides with my 35 Project First—read on…

My father is loud. He is loud and jolly and has super rosy cheeks and a big round belly. I swear he is not Santa. He just has an indescribable joy for life and he doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Ever. He doesn’t care when people can’t understand his accent or that his cars sounds like a jet coming down the street. He is passionate about everything he exerts the same passion talking about politics as he does when he tells you about sale prices at the grocery store. He is telenovela loud, dramatic, passionate and a bit macho. He has been my hero since the time I could remember. Growing up I called him Daddy never Papi. I ran to him when I was hurt, sad, tired. It was a party when I was with my dad; all yes’s almost never no’s, only go ask your mother. When I was a teenager we were Clash of the Titans he thought his way was the only way and I of course knew everything. My mother said we were too much alike me and my father. Cut from the same cloth. We even looked alike. Everyone commented about how I was my dad through and through, same round face, same round nose and maybe something similar in the eyes.

Imagine my surprise when yesterday I looked in the mirror and saw my mother staring back at me. My mother with the long oval face and long sharp nose and dainty features on my big round face. Then I realized it was my hair. I cut it short. Really. Really. Short. The shortest it’s ever been. Under all of that hair lays my mother.

Suddenly I felt warm, salty tears rolling down my chubby cheeks. It’s not what you think. This was pride. The same way that losing all those layers of hair revealed a piece of my mom, years of experience helped me really appreciate my mother. All of her sacrifices, her strength, her selflessness. I realized in that moment that I hoped that I didn’t just resemble her but that I could BE like her. I will admit that I have taken my mother for granted. I don’t just mean the little things. I mean the big things the fact that my mother doesn’t lie…can’t lie or that she is always polite to everyone and that she opens her home to everyone. She stills gets Christmas cards and phone calls from people who she met 30 years ago and barely speaks to.


I love that in her early seventies she plays on the swingset with my daughter and gets down in the garden with her to plant flowers. I love that she almost never wears makeup and has the softest most beautiful skin. I still need her when I’m sick and she coached me through my first labor. She doesn’t always say the right thing in fact sometime she’s either Yoda or “I told you so” but the kiss and hug that follows is filled with the love and understanding that I was looking for.

As a mother and a wife I understand her in a special way. It’s like looking back on that bully from grade school and understanding that there was much more beneath.

The day after I got my haircut a friend called me by my mother’s name and jokingly asked if I cut my fair to look like my mother…with a must be crazy look I answered…”Are you crazy?! Who would do that?!”

I would.

Why oh why?

I cut off all my hair. It was a gradual process. It went from long Kardashian locks to shoulder length, to a bob to a shorter bob to a pixie-ish cut. I shed my hair like a snake, I slowly dipped my toe in the short hair pool when really I wanted to make a drastic change. I wanted to jump head first into the pool but I held back. I can’t articulate why--maybe because the world convinced me that I would regret the aftermath of all that hair on the floor. The more I think about it the more it pisses me off. Who are all you people sharing your unsolicited advice and getting into my head creating doubt and insecurity. And why am I listening?

A paragraph about my hair seems so shallow but it’s just a metaphor for what has inspired this blog. In September I turned 35. I wanted to love it and embrace it. I wanted to be all confident and womanly and announce to the world that this is the best time of my life!

But all I can think about is that I. Am. 35.

Middle-aged.

I am closer to 40 and just getting older.

I don’t know why. It could be because of the pesky 40 extra pounds I long to lose, or because I was supposed to be Diana Ross by now or that life is never what you expect it to be and after a series of unfortunate events effecting people around me I feel like I should have reached a certain level of greatness that seems to elude me.
People take note I am naked, exposed, giving you the ugly truth of my insecurities. I felt compelled to write this blog so that I could begin to explore my own insecurities and yours through the lense of age. Maybe age is nothing but a number or maybe to you it is everything and a number! Either way I pledge to look 35 in the eye and embrace it.

Throughout this next year I pledge to try 35 new things anything from skydiving (<- that word is clearly an example—I would like to embrace 36 and have no desire to pee at 40,000 feet) to trying a new food or learning a new language. Big or small it doesn’t matter what matters is that I want to get out of my comfort zone, off my couch and spend a little time on me which I believe will make me a better friend, sister, Mami and wifey.

Secondly, I want to learn from you. I will interview 35 amazing women of all ages about their own milestones, insecurities and other cool shit that they wish to share. This is my gift to the world. It is my 35 project. My attempt to give to the world as I take and hope that somewhere along the way someone learns something, or starts to think of themselves or their age in a new way.

It’s a long way to September 21st, 2012 but we’re on this road trip together. I hope you enjoy, I hope you post comments and fingers crossed I hope that on my 36th birthday I can in the words of 50 cent “Party like it’s my birthday and I won’t give a %*&# cause it’s my birthday” or something like that. I hope you will be partying along with me.

Love--Me and my pixie-ish cut