dedalus_1947 | Cosas Maravillosas

Toma el llavero abuelita
Y enseñame tu ropero.
Con cosas maravillosas
Y tan hermosas que guardas tú.

Toma el llavero abuelita
Y enseñame tu ropero.
Prometo estarme quieto
Y no tocar lo ques saques tú.

Bring your key ring, granny
And show me what’s in your wardrobe.
I know it holds all the marvelous
And beautiful things that you save there.

Bring your key ring, granny
And show me what’s in your wardrobe.
I promise to stay very quiet
And not to touch what you bring out.
(El Ropero/The Wardrobe – Francisco G. Soler: 1935)

When I babysit my granddaughter on Thursdays and Fridays, I don’t have fixed objectives or goals for the day. I follow a flexible pattern that allows for playtime, exploring, napping, and eating, until she gets fussy or bored. However, that was not the case on May 12, the day Sarah Kathleen turned 6 months old. On that bright and sunny Thursday morning, I definitely had two goals I wanted to accomplish. The first was to introduce Sarah to Spanish, by singing aloud the cradlesongs I learned as an infant, and the second was to memorialize and record the route we took on our daily walks. The first task required considerably more thought, research, and preparation, than the second.

As I’ve mentioned in previous stories, I was born into two Mexican families: my father’s in Los Angeles and my mother’s in Mexico City. In both, Spanish was the language of comfort and choice. As an infant, all the rhymes, lullabies, and songs I heard were in Spanish, and I did not speak English until I had to, in Kindergarten. The words and music of my infancy were in Spanish, but that was not the case with our own children, Toñito and Prisa. Although I incorporated a handful of Spanish rhymes into their routines (Papas, papas, para su mama, los quemaditos para su papa!), they learned all of their infant songs in English. I suppose I didn’t mind this so much, because I was physically present to remind them that they were American children, born of two fine and culturally rich, ethnic traditions, Irish and Mexican. This would not be the case with Sarah. I knew that Joe and Prisa were correctly excited at the prospect of teaching her the songs and rhymes of their infancies, and had already started. The only language alternative they had was a singing “Abuelita” doll, which played recorded snippets of Spanish songs when a button on her hand was pressed.
“Shouldn’t I be the one singing songs to her in Spanish?” I found myself asking, as I pressed the Abuelita’s button. I had already started singing a few American songs to her: the Sesame Street Theme song as we opened the window shades to let in the morning’s sunshine, and It’s Raining, It’s Pouring, from Peter, Paul, and Mary, when the days were overcast or rainy. But the only Spanish song I sang was Duermete Mi Niña, a Spanish lullaby, or cancion de cuna, which I found remarkably effective at getting her to fall asleep. I was almost tempted to just go along with this lazy pattern until I rediscovered the songs of Cri-Cri.

Cri-Cri: El Grillito Cantor (“Cri-Cri: The Singing Cricket”) was the stage name of Francisco Gabilondo Soler, the Mexican composer and performer of children’s songs during the 1930’s and 50’s. He wrote and recorded countless songs with simple and repetitive vocabulary, catchy tunes, and important values. He was a musical equivalent to Fred Rogers, of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, on PBS, and he was equally popular among Mexican children. I remembered hearing and singing his songs over and over in Spanish with my mother as a child, mimicking the Spanish pronunciation of vowels, the rolling “r’s”, and the soft consonants. My iTunes library contained seven of my all-time favorite songs: Los Cochinitos Dormilones (The Three Sleeping Pigs), El Raton Vaquero (The Cowboy Mouse), El Chorrito (The Little Drop of Water), La Patita (The Little Mama Duck), La Marcha de los Vocales (The Parade of the Marching Vowels), El Baile de los Muñecos (The Dance of the Toys), and El Ropero (The Wardrobe). After listening to them again, and downloading the lyrics to refresh my memory, I decided to start singing and teaching these songs to Sarah at the first opportunity. My chance finally came on May 12.

When Prisa and Joe left for work, I put Sarah down and let her roll around on the floor mat for about 15 minutes, watching and cheering her on as she flipped over from back to stomach and stomach to back, while reaching, grapping, and manipulating toys, as she covered the wide area of a quilted blanket. After a diaper change, I placed her in the Baby Einstein Exersaucer for 25 minutes, and watched her bounce up and down, while screaming her delight, and moving from one manipulative station to another in a circular fashion. After all this activity I decided it was time for her to meet Cri-Cri. I placed Sarah in a swinging chair, and situated her on the floor in front of me. I adjusted the iPod player on a table to my right, positioned the printed lyrics in my left hand, and began singing all seven of my favorite songs with Francisco Soler’s vocal accompaniment.

Sarah was an enthusiastic listener, especially when I performed the songs with exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures. I kept her attention for 20 solid minutes. Her blue eyes popped open in wonder at the pitch of my voice, and the volume from the musical device on the counter. Her lips, tongue, and mouth moved in mimicry of my facial gesticulations, until she began laughing and giggling, as I moved my hands up and down, and used my fingers to point at her head, nose, and mouth. If I lurched at her to emphasize a dramatic part of the song, she squealed with delight. It wasn’t until I tried replaying the songs again, that Sarah became distracted, turning her head from side to side, and failing to make eye contact. The Spanish lesson was over. I lifted her out of the swinging chair, telling her she had been a wonderful audience. I felt that this new language experience had been a great success, and I congratulated her as we walked around the house. When her head started drooping against my shoulder, I suspected she was getting tired and I started crooning a repetitive lullaby, swaying her gently as I sang:
“Duermete me niña, duermete me amor. Duermete pedazo de mi corazon. (Sleep now my baby girl, sleep now my love. Sleep now, little piece of my heart).
When she emitted a surrendering exhalation of breath and relaxed in my arms, I carried her to her crib where I laid her down for a nap. She had outgrown sleeping in the middle of her parent’s queen-size bed where I could stay and watch her dream. Now I had to be satisfied with occasional peeks through the slightly open doorway to see how her slumber progressed during the quiet mornings.

Thirty minutes later, I heard Sarah’s solitary murmurings and what sounded like laughter coming from her bedroom, and I geared up for the second phase of the morning. Questioning her about her sleep and talking sounds, I changed her diaper and dressed her for the day in a onesy jersey and pants. I was a little nervous that morning because I was feeding her cereal for the first time, but she proved to be an excellent (or hungry) solid food eater, and the bowl was consumed quickly. After topping off the meal with a bottle of milk, we sat for a while on the front porch greeting pedestrians and neighbors who walked by, and watching cars motor along 162^nd Street. When she became restless, I returned her to the floor mat and Baby Einstein Exersaucer for the rest of the morning while I watched and laughed at her antics.

We usually take our constitutional walk at noon. A diaper change signals the beginning of the transition, and Sarah’s facial expression changes when I place her in the car seat that attaches to the stroller. Her blue eyes widen in anticipation and she tracks my every action: backing the stroller out of the corner, packing it with a blanket, cloth diaper, pacifier, oversized, plastic chain, and rattle. Then she watches me roll the carriage carefully out the door, returning quickly to pick her up, and carry her outside. Snapping the seat onto the stroller, and arranging the toys, diaper, and blanket at her feet, we begin our journey. Our conversation is limited, and I do most of the talking. Once the stroller wheels begin rolling eastward along 162^nd Street toward Gardena, Sarah turns silent and leans forward in her seat. She alertly inspects the colorful houses, green lawns, and purple trees on one side of the street, then turning to the other side to follow the sounds and sirens of passing cars, ambulances, and trucks. The only interruptions to her visual explorations are my exclamations of “Nena Chula, Nena Chula”, which make her smile. On this trip I also brought my camera, taking pictures of Sarah and the scenery as we went along. It had occurred to me that Sarah would one day ask, “What did we do when you babysat me, Poppy?” I wanted to be able to give her a comprehensive answer, while showing her pictures of what we saw.

Sarah lives at the easternmost part of Torrance, right on the border of Gardena, and near the Gardena Civic Center, with many commercial enterprises nearby. Reading the signs, billboards, and lettering on buildings, restaurants, and even homes, one is immediately struck be the rich Japanese-American traditions that are connected with Gardena. It is a friendly place to live and explore, and I never tire of walking its streets, seeing the sights and greeting the residents. However, the best part of the walk is having Sarah seated in front of me for the entire trip. I love seeing her manipulate toys with her hands and fingers, biting and gnawing her teething rings and rattles, and staring at the objects we pass. Watching Sarah is the best part of the walk, even when she falls asleep. Rather than time or distance, I’ve come to associate specific buildings and landmarks along our route as signals to Sarah’s actions on our stroll, and today she was very predictable.

When we reached the Japanese Cultural Institute, Sarah stopped reacting to the ambient noises and the people we passed. She listlessly held her rattle, making no attempts to shake it, and started turning her head from side to side. She stared hypnotically at the lining of the seat, pressing her lips against the fabric, as if wanting to taste the material. By the time we passed the VFW Hall, near Crenshaw Boulevard, she was struggling to keep her eyes open, while flexing her hands and fingers in slow motion. Walking through the long stretch of buildings in the Civic Center complex, her eyes would slowly close, unless an unexpected sidewalk bump, or jarring noise from passing vehicles, startled her awake for a second or two. The P.E. fields and crossover bridge of Peary Middle School marked the eastern limit of our route, and the point at which Sarah was always deeply asleep. Still grasping the plastic rings she had been biting, her head was slumped down and turned to the side. I heard long, luxurious breaths escaping her relaxed form. This was the part of the walk I loved the most - looking down on this beautiful baby, so chubby and peaceful in sleep, as I walked past the long classroom building. This was the part of our walk where I could long for the impossible, and wish that Sarah would never change. That she would remain a baby of six months, so I could carry, feed, play, and sing to her twice a week, for years to come. But reaching the Gardena Public Library always brought me back to the reality that babies grew up, became little girls who would talk, read, and go to school, and then turned into young ladies who went away to college.

When I experienced these same magical moments with Toñito and Prisa when they were babies, I didn’t have the wisdom to realize that they were merely thoughtful pauses in my mind, as ephemeral as mist. In those youthful days, I just took it all in - our surroundings, their smiles and faces, and the tangible connections of our love. I thought I could remember those moments with the same clarity as the air I breathed in and held, in that extended period of reality. But those memories faded as both infants moved on to other moments in time that I also wanted to breathe in and remember. I’d be alone with my private thoughts of infancy, time, and change, until I passed the vast expanse of the Crenshaw Lumber Company on 166^th Street, and Sarah start awakening. First a hand flexed, then an armed raised, and finally her head began turning from side to side until her sleepy, blue eyes slowly opened. She never cried or complained, simply moving her eyes to get her bearings. This orientating silence continued until we reach Lincoln Elementary School and I finally greeted her aloud.
“Hello, Nena Chula,” I said softly. “You had a wonderful nap, and now it’s time to go home!”

On the journey back, Sarah’s eyes became more and more alert and alive. It was as if she had crossed a bridge from dreams to the present, and was still trying to figure out which place was real. I sang two songs to her as we walked along - my version of Frank Sinatra’s You Make Me Feel So Young, and as much as I could remember from Cri-Cri’s song, El Ropero. As we quickly crossed Van Ness Boulevard, Sarah leaned forward to reach a rattle at her feet. She held herself in that position, with back straight and head erect, for the rest of the trip, and it dawned on me that she was outgrowing this seat. Very soon I would need to discard this seating capsule and sit her correctly in the stroller, facing forward. My days of eye-to-eye contact with Sarah were fading even as I finished singing in Spanish. Sadly, I knew Sarah would continue growing and changing, and yet, in the deepest recesses of my heart, I hoped that she would remember these first six months of her life. I knew that was impossible. She couldn’t remember them as I did, but at least she would see the pictures, and hear the stories of those days: stories of her loving parents, and her crazy Mexican-American grandfather, who sang songs to her in Spanish, and took her for long walks in Gardena. Those tales would form the first chapters of Sarah’s life - chapters of language, of love, and of songs during her first six months on earth.