Cómo Se Dice...

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked “Hablas español?”

It’s always the same. “Un poquito” I hesitantly reply secretly praying that whomever I’m speaking immediately gives up on me so my limited knowledge of Spanish isn’t put to the test. Most of the time I say it so quietly I’m surprised I‘m heard at all. Speaking Spanish I’m adorably shy, a far cry from my often brash and boastful English speaking self. I desperately want to be fluent. To feel the beautiful words roll off my tongue and see a light of acceptance in the eyes of a Spanish speaking native (instead of the polite giggles I tend to receive courtesy of my poor grammar and inability to speak in full sentences). You would think this desire was born of my Peruvian husband and recent love affair with Spain, but the seed was planted long ago.

As a child my family travelled extensively. What started with roadtrips across North America quickly became exploring the rainforest in Costa Rica and swimming in the ocean in Mexico. Together we were clearly tourists, my mother with her platinum hair and my brother peeking out under thick dirty blond curls, a fanny pack securely at his waist. But in the rare moments I found myself alone with my father we always managed to blend in. Although my features are clearly my mother’s I inherited my father’s mysterious cultural ambiguity. In all of our travels, both together and alone, we tend to be at home anywhere in the world. Of course this is ultimately worth the number of times I had to explain to old women speaking to me in rapid Hindi on the bus in Vancouver that I wasn’t actually Indian, or Greek, or Italian... you get the picture. Wandering through market stalls in Mexico people would approach my father and me with a barrage of Spanish lets-make-a-deals. Shortly after perfecting a lilting “Hola!” I quickly learned to say “Lo siento. No habla español” but I was always embarrassed by my inability to further communicate in the way everyone assumed I could. You don’t have to be a psychologist to see that Spanish is a obviously a signifier of my need to feel exotic and a reminder of the way it felt when people assumed I wasn’t just a farmer’s daughter from small town Saskatchewan. Yet in spite of my best efforts I find it impossible to make the language stick.

I dropped French in Grade Ten opting for whatever bird course was being offered in its place. To me French seemed terribly pedestrian. Who wanted to speak our country’s second language anyway? Of course, the fact I couldn’t grasp the concept of conjugating verbs and my French mark was consistently pulling down my average seemed minimal next to my developing high standards of cultural exclusivity. I had vision. I haughtily claimed I could see beyond Quebec and what I saw was sand and sun and salsa (the dance and the dip). I had a straight from the tourist brochures view of me with a permanent tan, a margarita and a mysterious dark-haired cabana boy. Spanish was meant for me. I could feel it with all the passion and naivety of a sixteen-year-old dreamer.

When I started my Bachelors at the University of British Columbia I was faced with the reality of my unfulfilled language requirement. I was sure this was my chance to really learn the language I knew was somewhere inside of me. I enrolled in Spanish 101 and predictably dropped out after just two classes. Undeterred I enrolled in the same class every semester for years. On my third try I made it to the midterm only to find the words swam in front of me, completely foreign. I failed. In fact I’ve never failed at anything as spectacularly as I failed at my academic attempts to learn Spanish. While I aced pronunciation and even managed to lock down an impressive amount of vocabulary, it was the sentence structure that inevitably tripped me up. Of course my failure caused excessive frustration and eventual surrender. It had become me against the Spanish language and the Spanish language was winning.

When I met Jose we made a deal that he’d help me with my Spanish if I always corrected him when he made mistakes in English. Unfortunately, Jose will always be a better language student than me. He eagerly devoured new words and grasped the random assortment of English language quirks with ease. Eventually he got so frustrated with my lacklustre attempts at learning that he started writing everything he said on post-its which he stuck above my bed. Of course, when I looked at his post-its all I could see was his beautiful face. It feels so horribly predictable to admit the brain space I’d reserved for new words became preoccupied with plans to make him fall in love with me.

Last Christmas, while visiting him in Peru I felt actual shame at not being able to speak the language. Not only did it feel disrespectful to be unable to communicate with my new family-in-law but I was driving Jose crazy with my constant insistence that he translate everything being said around us. I hated being left out of the loop and managed to conveniently forget it was my own fault. Obviously we have big plans to raise Gaia wholly bilingual. When Jose speaks to her he does so only in Spanish. Given that he’s not here I’ve been trying to do my part too. We read Spanish storybooks, my favourite being Margaret and Margarita/Margarita y Margaret where two little girls who speak Spanish and English respectively meet in the park and learn to play together in spite of their differences. “I like you. Will you be my friend?” Margaret says. “Tú me gustas. Te gustaría ser mi amiga?” Margarita mimics in my slow and accented Spanish. When talking to Gaia I use as many words en español as I can. “Say good morning Granddad, beunas dias abuelito” I say as we visit my father over breakfast. “Say Hello Daddy! How are you? Hola papi! Cómo estás?” I say as we greet Jose on Skype. Even something as simple as a baby sneeze is followed with a quick “Bless you baby girl, Salud niña.” At this rate Gaia may go through life thinking her every thought needs to be communicated in both English and Spanish.

Part of me feels like I should abandon my current attempts lest she end up with an accent as poor as mine but I have faith that Jose will be with us by Christmas which seems early enough to fix any bad habits I’ve placed in her baby subconscious. Although I know my Spanish is getting better all the time the progress is much too slow. I live in panic of the day I walk in on Gaia and her father making silly Spanish jokes and find myself left out of the world they’ll share. The more I come to terms with the fact I will likely never be fluent the more I find comfort in the notion that at least one part of my life has come full circle. While I was stuck in Saskatchewan wishing my father and I were exotic as everyone assumed, Gaia and Jose really will be. I know her Spanish will come as easily as her English and she’ll have the benefits of summers in Peru with her cousins where she doesn’t just look like she belongs... she does.

Actual Conversation

For those of who wonder what Jose and I talk about for two hours a day on Skype...

Me – Gaia and I went for a two hour walk this morning. It’s so nice outside baby... like 24 degrees.
Jose – Wow!
Me – I know! I had to cover Gaia head to toe in sunscreen just to sit in the stroller.
Jose – Baby? Is she very white?
Me – Yes baby, about the same colour as me or maybe a little lighter.
Jose – I was looking at the pictures of you both and she looked like a beautiful chubby vanilla ice cream.

Now you know.

I Am Mother... Hear Me Roar!

Gaia and I talk to Jose every day on Skype. It’s inevitable that at least once in our conversation she’s going to do something adorable. It’s also inevitable that when she does this adorable thing I’m going to proudly proclaim... “Look at her baby! Isn’t she beautiful/cute/smart/funny”... you get the picture. I like to gush. It’s become our routine that whenever I gush Jose responds with “Yes baby, she is sooooo beautiful/cute/smart/funny. Thank you.” For months I’ve vainly assumed his thanks were based on some belief that Gaia’s adorable babyness was in some way linked to my outstanding genes. As she grows older and starts to resemble him in every way imaginable I've been beginning to feel a bit guilty about these thanks. Last week I finally bit the bullet and said something.

“Baby,” I said “You don’t have to thank me... she’s really more like you anyway.”

“No baby,” he said “I thank you because you are the one taking care of her. You are feeding her and playing with her and making her happy every day. She is growing and healthy because of you baby. You are doing such a good job with her. So thank you... for that.”

Of course this got me thinking and you know what? He’s right! At this stage Gaia’s happiness is completely dependent on the care I give her. If she’s hungry I feed her. If she’s sitting in poop I change her. If she cries I soothe her. If she’s tired I help her fall asleep. I take her for walks and sing her songs and play games and teach her important things like how to cultivate a unique sense of style. I mean, it’s not as if those delightful baby outfits appear on her by magic.

See that smile?

I did that!

And this one...

All me!

I’m not just a grown woman sitting around in her pyjamas all day... I am Gaia’s mother! I have the most important job in the world! I’m the most important person in the world! I am the world! Gaia’s world. And with that I’ll leave you with this video... pregnancy is just the beginning.

Bye Bye Baby

Last night when I was putting Gaia to bed I noticed she didn’t quite fit into her Pack n Play bassinet the way she used to. “Hmmm,” I thought, “I don’t remember her feet hanging over the edge like that last week.” And it’s not just her bassinet that has me puzzled. It seems that I’m confronted with the reality of her growing up every day. A couple weeks ago I tried to put her in one of the stripy newborn onesies that were the only thing that fit her for the first month of her life. I should have seen it coming when her head could barely make it through the neck hole. Perhaps that was a clue they’d gotten a little small. Of course it wasn’t until she was snapped in with a killer baby wedgie that I gave in and dressed her in something else. The way she spills over the edges of the newborn hammock in her bathtub, the fact that she sits up and grabs for toys and makes noises... on purpose. She’s even wearing the second size of diapers already. Sigh. Frankly this rapid rate of growth has got to stop. I know, I know, it’s completely normal. Of course I know. But the fact that it’s normal isn’t the least bit comforting when I feel like I’m watching Gaia’s babyhood slip away only eleven weeks after her birth.

Logically I know I’m being silly. Logically I’m glad she’s growing up. Logically I’m proud of every accomplishment and encouraging of her development. Emotionally I wish she’d stay a baby forever. Every time I notice how much she’s grown her whole unlived life flashes before my eyes. Talking, walking, her first day of Kindergarten, boyfriends (or girlfriends... whatever), broken hearts, homework and soccer practice and art class. I see her grow up and I see her leave me and then I cry, which of course makes me feel ridiculous.

The funniest thing about these new emotions? I’ve always been terrified of newborns. I’ve jokingly stated more than once that I wish I could give birth to a three year old. I think I’ve even claimed I’d go through the process of carrying and birthing a toddler to not have to deal with a newborn baby. Of course, you know, I wouldn’t because that’s just weird. Anyway, after mocking them for years I now understand the women who keep having babies every time their youngest starts approaching toddlerhood. Last week I even tried to convince Jose we should have another one, like, tomorrow if possible. Of course his valid points about focussing on a) getting him into the country, b) us both finding full-time jobs and c) finding our own place to live hesitantly dissuaded me. Not to mention the fact Gaia’s not even three months old. Seriously people, what’s happened to me?

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: “Kids... (sigh) ... they grow up so fast.”

Now I’m off to take the bassinet out of the Pack n Play and weep.

Stupidhead Sillypants

Have you ever seen that episode of The Simpsons where Homer and Marge are trying to come up with a name for their unborn son? Marge keeps suggesting perfectly respectable names and Homer repeatedly shoots them down as he fires back possible playground taunts. The anticipation is palpable when Marge finally suggests Bart. I waited for the punch line that never came as they agreed on the name and left me screaming “FART... FART YOU JACKASS... BART RHYMES WITH FART!” Of course I realise the fact they completely missed something so obvious is the punch line but I never thought I’d find myself the butt of the same joke. I’ve worked in a childcare setting for the majority of my working life and if I’ve learned anything it’s that children are cruel. It’s true that at some point in life all children will be mocked, regardless of their parent’s attempts to prevent it. Still, I wanted to do what I could to insure my daughter was not an easy target. Unfortuntely it seems I have failed her.

When we finally settled on the name Gaia I racked my brain for months trying to figure out any possible associations or childish rhymes. The worst I could think of with was GAY-A (which she’s already been referred to by pretty much everyone who’s only seen her name in print). Frankly I’d like to believe she’d respond to something so unoriginal and inoffensive with the same casual eye roll I perfected after years of being called Reese’s Pieces. It’s a move that clearly states “is that the best you can come up with?” Then last night I was tickling her and calling her by the various pet names she’s becoming known as. It was all Gaia-bears and Gaia-roos when it came over me in a wave... Gaiarrhea... the kids at school are going to call my daughter Gaiarrhea. How could I not have realised sooner? That combined with her dramatic, if short, history of gastrointestinal distress and I’m more than a little concerned. I guess all I can do now is prepare her for the possibility and hope she doesn’t end up pooping her pants at her first day of Kindergarten. Although I guess if she’s a five-year-old pants pooper I’ll have bigger problems to deal with than her classmates realising her name rhymes with diarrhea.

"Gaiarrhea!?! OH SHIT!"

As far things go Gaiarrhea is pretty rough, but nicknames have special place in our family. I can count on one hand the number of times my husband has referred to me as Risa in the last year. As far as he’s concerned my name is Chancho. For Jose nicknames are the way he shows his love. The way you know you’ve been accepted into his world. Calling me Chancho seems cute when it was just the two of us, but when we were in public situations I can’t help but notice people cringing. For those of you who have no idea why, I’ll enlighten you. Chancho is Spanish for pig. Of course it doesn’t help that I’ll always be a little bit chubby. I’m sure most casual observers think Jose is being mildly abusive, but it wasn’t my ample hips that inspired the nickname, it was Nacho Libre.

TV on cruise ships is a funny thing. In addition to the regular circulating programming for the guests, the crew has three extra channels, my favourite being one that plays the same movie in a constant loop for weeks. Shortly after Jose signed onto our last ship Nacho Libre was this movie. I’m pretty sure he watched it upwards of two hundred times in the course of the month we finally became a bonefide couple.

For anyone who’s seen Nacho Libre you might remember Chancho, the chubby little orphan who looked up to Nacho. The nickname began innocently enough over an inside joke about the similarities between Chancho and me in my Adventure Ocean uniform. Shockingly the one-style-fits-all board shorts weren’t so flattering on my big-girl thighs. Not to mention the way my overstuffed jacket pockets made me look as if I had an oh-so-becoming beer gut that sagged over my waistband. I consider the fact that I wore this uniform day in and day out and Jose still managed to fall in love with me a testament to my awesomeness.

Before long the joke had morphed into an intellectual character study where Chancho’s ultimate belief in Nacho became a symbol for mine and Jose’s growing connection. Of course, I know it’s a little ludicrous to let two comedic characters from a ridiculous (if hilarious) movie be symbols for our love but so it is, and now that the name has officially stuck, so it always will be. That’s the thing about nicknames anyway; the good ones are always born from inside jokes and secrets and walk the line of appropriateness. Plus as far as I’m concerned Jack Black is my own personal cupid. In Jose’s mind things were rocky between us when I was Risa, and then he got to the Navigator of the Seas where I was re-born as Chancho and suddenly it was all rainbows and roses.

And it’s not just the nickname that’s stuck. Jose and I now celebrate Chanchoversaries and give each other Valenchancho presents. We share in the joy of a Merry Chanchomas and blow out the candles on our shared Chanchoday. We even have a Chancho theme song (in its original form and a dance remix). It’s been over a year since I’ve gone to bed without hearing him sing “Eres mi Chancho, mi unico, unico Chancho.” When we got married we automatically started referring to ourselves as Mr. and Mrs. Chancho. When we found out I was pregnant we were having a Chanchito or Chanchita of course. Now that Gaia is no longer a fetus as predicted he rarely calls her by her name. She started out as Gai-ita, a nod to Jose-sita, his mother’s pet name for him no doubt, but lately he’s been calling her Chancho-Mono, our little pig monkey, and I know it’s going to stick. Chancho because she’s ours, and Mono because of the way she bounces in continuous motion as we talk to him on Skype.

I’ve grown quite attached to being called Chancho and I hope our baby girl always feels as special as I do as an object of her father’s nicknaming quirk. The truth is, when you grow too old for childish playground rhymes that special feeling is the point of a true nickname. And if nothing else let’s be honest, anything’s better than Gaiarrhea. Can I get an Amen?

Art Prodigy

Lately Gaia has been talking up a storm. It’s all coos and goo-goo-gah-gahs of course but I like to think the prevalence of this baby talk in the last few weeks is indicative of some serious intellectual action going on in her little baby cranium. In reading about language development I’ve learned it’s important to encourage this baby talk and enthusiastically respond so Gaia learns about the art of conversation (speech patterns and the like). Given that I spend twenty-four hours a day with her and very little time with anyone else I feel pretty stoked that talking to my ten-week old makes me a good mother and not some crazy lady who has conversations with her baby. I started out simple, offering the occasional “Oh really?” “That’s interesting!” and “Tell me more.” Today I decided to go for the gusto and attempt some more meaningful dialogue. We went out this afternoon and saw the new exhibitions at the MacKenzie Art Gallery. Our conversation in the car on the way home went a little something like this:

Me – What did you think of the work we saw today at the gallery Gaia-bear?

Baby G – Well mother, I particularly enjoyed the Ted Godwin paintings. The pieces were so animated and intense. I can certainly see why he called the execution of these works “the big attack”. I think that phrase can have so many meanings... an attack on the accepted art forms of the day and a look towards innovation obviously, but also an attack on the senses, a nod to the experience of the viewer as they look at his work. I found they had great emotional power.

Me – Wow.

Baby G – Indeed. I also think it’s so inspiring, as a child growing up in Saskatchewan, to be exposed to such an important Canadian artist and see the work he produced right here in Regina. It makes me feel encouraged and reminds me that I don’t need to live in a major metropolis to make an impact on the world around me...

Me – I agree... I was thinking about that too and...

Baby G – Umm mama, I wasn’t quite finished.

Me – Oh. Of course. Sorry.

Baby G – As I was saying I think it’s so important to remember that you can be a part of something innovative no matter where you live. I look at the Godwin paintings and think about the Regina Five and I just feel so optimistic. It makes me think of Regina’s important place in Canadian Art History and about the gallery and what an integral role it plays in community education.

Me – Well yes. I’m glad you realise that. It’s just a shame that more people don’t take the opportunity to go to the gallery when it is such a great resource.

Baby G – Of course. I felt that went without saying.

She’s napping now and I’m left marvelling at the level of her observations. She’s obviously an art prodigy.

Ted Godwin: The Regina Five Years, 1957-1967 is on at the MacKenzie Art Gallery until August 30, 2009. Douglas Morton – Re: Surfacing, For Emily and Dana Claxton: Buffalo Bone China are also on for the summer. Please go see them. Admission is free and they really are inspiring.

Teen Mom

Today I was getting diapers at Superstore when I was approached by a woman with a clipboard. “Excuse me,” she said “I’m sorry to bother you but would you mind answering a few questions about your experience as a teenage Mom?”

That’s what I get for bringing back a hairstyle I abandoned shortly after my high school graduation.

Me at 18 - Not a Teenage Mom

Me at 27 - Still Not a Teenage Mom