Baby Blue Comes Round Again

We called her Belkis Baby Blue. Sometimes, when we were mean, we called her Bulkis. I was almost four when she was born, and on that 23rd day of May, we became a trio, Andrea, Belkis, and I.

Belkis was our little doll. We loved kissing her cheeks because they were so soft and chubby, even when she was a grimy ten year old. We told her she had "mushy" hands because those, too, were unbelievably soft and malleable.

Things weren't always so precious, though. We made her believe she had broken the television by turning off the cable box, then we faked ratting her out to our grandmother. Once, I pushed her off the bed as we played G.L.O.W. (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling, remember that show?) and she landed on her knee and it grew the size of her head.

It's what you get for being the youngest, I suppose.

She was the last to believe in Santa Claus, the last go through the rites of First Communion, the last quinceanera, the last to get married, and the last to get pregnant (though not by much!). Last and youngest, but never, ever, least.

On the 21st of March, another trio was born. Allison and Penelope were joined by Mia Andrea Lora to form their own little triumvirate of cuteness. And I can't help but fantasize what it will be like when they believe in Santa, dress in white for their Communions and quince anos, their wedding days and their own babies, however far away all of this is right now.

And I just KNOW that little Mia will be as mushy and kissable as her beautiful mother.

For Belkis, Alex, and Mia, a big MWAH from your cousin. I love you.



Hello, world, 'tis me, Mia!

p.s. and a very Happy 3rd Birthday to my goddaughter, Jaina!

At What Price Internet

I haven't had my computer for five days. Five days! And it felt like someone chopped my arms off. No email, no blogging, no visits to my favorite (and often fantastically subversive) websites, no way of tracking my husband's flight as he came home from a conference.

Because my laptop petered out on me, I missed out on blogger Fausta's blogburst for Cuban journalist Guillermo Farinas, who has been on a 58 day hunger strike for free access to the internet.

Let me burst away tonight, then, a day late, pero con todo sentimiento. You might ask if it's worth it to die for the internet. After all, what is the internet for most of us but a flurry of annoying forwards from our friends, inaccurate stories, and lots of self-aggrandizing websites. But, hell, I can get to all those sites freely. No one is stopping me.

Is internet access an inalienable human right? I'm not sure, but history shows us that the repression of information and education is the best way to keep a group of people in the dark about reality, and the justification for such an act is never a benign one.

Nothing irks me more than when people defend the Cuban government with the line about how great education is on the island. The strength of this myth assures that Farinas' story won't be running on CNN anytime soon. Sure, all levels of education in Cuba are free, but a pedagogy that does not include FREE critical thinking is a worthless one. The same applies to journalism. Journalists who cannot access ALL information can only tell half-truths. Log onto the Granma for a grand example of this.

"If God wants me to die, I will die. I will be a martyr for the free information in the world" said Guillermo Fariñas Hernández when he had the strength to speak, and I share his words so that at least some people will have heard it.

Japan vs. Cuba

So, the irony of the World Baseball Classic Finals tonight, Japan vs. Cuba, is that I've actually seen Japanese baseball in action, in Tokyo, and that I've never seen ball played in Cuba.

The Japanese love baseball. I remember how the stadium was packed, the fans wore head-to-toe gear. Fans sat in bunches. The north side of the stadium was for the Swallows. The south, for the Hanshin Tigers. At half-time, each side carried out a ritual. The Swallows fans held up green umbrellas. We Tigers, since that is where I sat, blew up long balloons and let them go, whistling into the sky.

I wonder what baseball is like in Cuba. It's a shame that I have to wonder. It's a shame that I don't know who to root for tonight.

Part of me wants to root for the Cuban team. Why deny them that joy, joy that is seldom seen on the chained island? They are talented, possibly the most talented in the world. What an accomplishment.

And then, there's the part of me that would rather see the Japanese team win, with all their quirky passion for the sport. Because a Cuban win means more than just a game. Just log onto the Cuban national paper, Granma, after a Cuban win, and they will undoubtedly refer to the protesters in Puerto Rico who were ultimately denied their "Abajo Fidel" signs. They will use loaded words like "triumph" and "victory", words that in a revolutionary country carry a different, darker significance.

I am a conflicted fan. I wonder if there will be any protesters in San Diego, at the finals. I wonder if they'll even be allowed to hold up a sign. And if they aren't allowed, I'll wonder when it was that California became Cuba, when freedom of expression became verboten in the Golden State.

Then, feeling angry at baseball, at the media, at fidel, at the world, I'll be reminded of what it must feel like to be a Cuban on the island.

An Excuse to Post Another Cute Picture

Now we know who Prince's TRUE inspiration was...

"She wore a
Raspberry beret
The kind you find in a second hand store
Raspberry beret
And if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more
Raspberry beret
I think I love her..."

No One Tells You

No one tells you that sleeping one hour at a time, for over a month, makes you SO crazy that you imagine you actually have triplets, and that delusion lasts for longer than is considered sane. Seriously.

No one tells you that being puked and peed on stops being disgusting when it comes out of your baby.

No one tells you that you will SUDDENLY HAVE SYMPATHY for those harried parents with wailing babies in restaurants.

No one tells you that it would be best to remove the word "fiction" from your blog's title since you are confident you won't have time to write. ever. again.

No one tells you that watching the news will become unbearable all at once. News stories that even hint at a baby being hurt or killed sends you and your over-active imagination over the edge.

No one tells you what a blessing a baby swing is. It is a baby narcotic.

No one tells you how a baby who seems completely asleep will wake up the very moment her back touches her crib.

No one tells you how you and your spouse will argue endlessly over who is more tired. And yes, the one with the boobs is infinitely more tired. So there.

And yet the last month has been glorious. Gloriously exhausting. Gloriously emotional. No one could tell me any of this. It's one of those things you have to experience. Go ahead. Try describing love to someone without referring to another emotion, to something abstract. You might refer to your heart, but that's just this globby red organ in your body. You could say that love is all in the brain, or a marketing concept developed by the Hallmark corporation. You'd be wrong on all counts.

And I can't explain it to you now, because it's one of those things, beautiful, heartwrenching, that no one tells you.