Mix and Match Mom

Lime and Hot Sauce: The Blood of the Mexican

So, sometimes I made dinner. Sometimes. And when I make dinner, there are three things that my husband always seems to say when I make dinner:

1. It needs salt.
2. It needs lime.
3. It needs hot sauce.

If not, of course, some devilish combination of all three. Today, though, I will leave the salt in the cupboard and focus primarily on the green and red. After all, those two ‘staples’ basically have their own food budget.

Have you ever seen blood-red mashed potatoes? Or added lime and Frank’s Red to your nice, warm bowl of chicken-flavoured Ichiban noodle soup? Or eaten Cheetos with Valentina Hot Sauce as a flavour-enhancer?

No? Then you must not be Mexican – or related to one by marriage.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying any of this would taste bad. On the contrary, my husband has effectively turned a number of my family members and friends into avid lime and hot sauce users. I often feel as though he should be offered compensation from Frank’s and Valentina for all the free marketing he gives them.

And it’s not just him. Hot sauce is readily available at every Mexican get-together I’ve ever attended. I have grown so used to it that it’s now actually strange to me to go to a restaurant and not see hot sauce on the table. Because, just…why wouldn’t it be? Don’t you serve Mexicans here?

And so, while I understand the allure (Valentina’s is actually really tasty), I grew up with so much food variety (all hail multiculturalism 😀 ) that I would literally not be able to stomach all that lime and hot sauce all that often. It would probably end up giving me an ulcer at some point. The truth is, I enjoy bland-tasting foods as much as I enjoy rich flavours. It’s like slow classical vs. house music: they both have their time and place. But not according to Humberto. In his view, every food is enhanced with acid and heat. He and I have been together for about three and a half years, and, although I will – on occasion – dabble in his culture’s fire gravy, he still has not been able to lure my taste buds that far over the wall.

At the end of the day, despite all my incredulity, the next time we sit down to a meal with friends and I watch him squeezing fresh lime or pouring hot sauce onto some obscure and unsuspecting food, I will shake my head in disbelief and watch in amazement as our friends decide to follow suit – becoming a little more Mexican than they were before – in drizzling the blood of the Mexican atop their own meals.

Seriously, though, Cheetos and Valentina. Go and try it. You can thank me later.

-Jen

My Two-Minute Opinion on Mariachi

Mariachi. I don’t like it.

Unless I am in Mexico or celebrating something – usually with Mexicans.

As a side note, my husband has informed me that there is mariachi…aaand then there is Mexican music – which is basically singing with mariachi somewhere in the background. For the sake of this post, I will lump these two together, as I am not a huge every-day fan of either of them (and I can’t quite tell the difference – except for the singing lol).

I could try to make it more complex than simple distaste, but it’s not. In my house, I tolerate it at times, for my husband’s and daughter’s sake. After all, they are both entitled to like it and listen to it if they choose to. But sometimes I can’t bear it and I simply have to ask him to change the music.

Here is how I feel: Mariachi (and Mexican) music is meant for very upbeat celebration (mostly), and there is a time and a place for it, and that place is not in my home at any hour of the day. I refuse to celebrate mundane, and often tedious, household tasks and childcare with a fiesta of trumpets. It does not make the environment better and more lively for me; it just makes it louder and more difficult to deal with said mundane tasks.

But, come the time that we go visit my husband’s family again in Mexico, in the warm, peaceful nights or in the blessed heat of the day, I will once again allow those tight-pantsed, sumbrero-clad men and their trumpets and guitars back into my heart.

Until that day, I will enjoy the quiet of my home – mariachiless.

And that is my two-minute opinion on mariachi.

-Jen

Language Issues in Our Marriage: When ESL Mistakes Get Frustrating

Where to begin.

Now, let me start off by saying that I love my husband, and his English is off-the-charts amazing for having picked it up so late in life. Trust me, sometimes the quality of the things he says shocks me. And let me also state that I, really, am in no position to complain about my husband’s English-language skills when my Spanish skills are so sub-par. Ever. I never have that right.

And yet…

Well, I still have to live with him, don’t I? And communicate with him on a much-more-regular basis than with anyone else in my life, excluding my daughter and my dog (whose English skills I actually can’t complain about, even if I wanted to).

Honestly, who needs to speak when you’re this cute? #jindo #thankyoukorea

There are simply moments – moments that are mostly unseen by others outside our relationship. In those moments, I get frustrated, stomp my feet a little, he waves it off, snaps back, – or, by golly, he corrects himself – and we get on with our lives.

But, on the rare occassion that someone else gets an earful of my frustration as a response to the way my dear husband says something, I suddenly sound like a heartless, impatient wife from hell. Which I’m not…

Not usually.

It is often those moments that torture me when Humberto says something that he has learnt to say improperly because he thought – and still thinks – his way sounds better or more correct, even after being told otherwise. So in his head, it is correct even when incorrect. To which I say:

On the other hand, it could just be a difficult concept to understand or put into practice. Some languages have structures or words that don’t exist in English and vice versa.

So what’s the big deal, Jen? Why can’t you just let him be? I clearly understood him, and so did you. Give the poor guy a break!

Sometimes that’s just not the point. Anyone who knows me knows that I have been learning and studying foreign languages for more than 15 years, and I have never once decided to change the structure of a sentence in a foreign language, even if I felt it sounded better. That’s ridiculous – to me. And I am entitled to my potentially-equally ridiculous opinions.

That being said, I do find my husband’s reasoning hilarious and quite endearing…until I am frustrated and he lays that messy sentence structure down in front of me (that we have talked about at least 1,000,000 times prior) like thumb tacks on the floor.

Putting us and our relationship to the side for a moment, let’s get real here. Frustration at someone’s language skills – or lack thereof – is normal and happens all the time. It is frustrating and difficult to speak with someone at length who you are having trouble communicating effectively with. That is the same reason why many toddlers throw fits (one big reason). To be unable to properly communicate your thoughts and feelings, or to feel misunderstood, can be terribly discouraging and drag up all sorts of emotions. But this is never an excuse to disrespect a second-language-learner. So don’t.

My husband’s English is absolutely riddled with mistakes, big and small, as is similar with most second-language speakers. Some mistakes are the same kinds that native English speakers regularly make, and some are clearly derived from his understanding of his first language – and that’s okay.

Luckily, our quabbles about his English (often precipitated by me) have nothing to do with intolerance or my judgement of his language skills. People mistake this a lot. Rather, because I am such an avid language-learner, it is the disconnect between his and my approaches to language mistakes that gets me going. In my case, once I have found I have been making a mistake, I focus on it, practice it, and try to fix it, whereas, with certain mistakes, my husband brushes it off nonchalantly (which, I admit, I should probably do more myself) and continues with his story.

He is not wrong to not place too much weight on his mistakes. The entire point of language is to be able to communicate effectively, which he does, and then some, about 97% of the time.

And I am also not wrong (well, not necessarily) to want to help him prevent a breakdown in understanding with others. When mistakes are causing confusion or less-than-effective communication, sometimes it stands to reason that one should work to correct themselves.

And therein lies our ESL issues; no more, no less. A language is a terribly difficult thing to learn, nonetheless to master, and (despite what my frustrations may seem to communicate to outsiders on occasion) I have the utmost respect for the proficiency my husband has attained.

And how could I complain when its an ESL learner who always beats me at scrabble? 🙄

-Jen

Having a Mixed-Race Child: Who Does She Look Like?

When a baby is on its way, there is usually quite a bit of excitement in the air. After all, who wouldn’t want to see a tiny version of themselves learning, blunderingly, how to be a human and to function – more or less – in the society we know?

At some point, talk will begin to circulate about potential characteristics the baby might inherit. “Will (s)he get my hair colour? Will (s)he get your eyes? I only pray (s)he doesn’t get your teeth!”

Or something like that. But I found that, considering I knew my husband’s darker features would probably overrule my own much fairer skin, hair, and eyes, I wasn’t really sure I should expect a baby that looked anything like me. Looking back, I am relieved to remember that it didn’t really bother me all that much. Besides the fact that I have seven siblings (yes, you read that right) who look MUCH too similar to me, I was much more interested in what her brain would be like. Yeah, lame, I know 🙄 But it’s true.

Did I care at all, though? Yes, I guess I did to a point, particularly because I had spent so long making her that I felt it was only fair that a trace of me should be left on her.

So, when the day came that I evicted her from my womb, I looked down at that scrunchy little baby that was placed on my chest… and she looked nothing like me. At all.

Truth be told, I’m not sure she looked like anyone at that point. New babies often look more like mushrooms than their parents for those first few days – at least in my experience 😄

Prior to that moment, I thought I might have been a little disappointed if I didn’t see a resemblance, but I wasn’t. To be honest, I didn’t feel much other than exhausted and relieved to be finished with labour. Can I get an amen? 🙌

Later on, when I got a better chance to inspect this new little person, I felt she looked quite a bit more like my husband, but I was content to see a couple traits from my side had forced their way through 👍🏻

What we found in the first year of her life was that which parent Valeria looked more like would go in cycles. Sometimes her skin appeared darker, her nose broader, and her face rounder, like her dad’s, and other times her skin lighter, her bottom lip bigger, and her eyes scrunchier when she smiled, like mine. Now that she’s over a year old, who is she starting to look more like?

The short answer to this question is… I have no clue. Both of us? Neither one of us? Who cares. In the end, what she is is a perfect mix of me and the man I love, and anything that is a product of love is bound to be beautiful.

-Jen

To The Moms Still Awake

Prolonged blinks, deep bags under your eyes, and an even deeper yawn… but at least no one needs you “right now.” You’ll be tired in the morning, there’s no doubt about it, and you’ll be tired most of the day through… but at least right now, in this moment, all is silent and peaceful.

You are a mom and you are awake.

The rest of the house sleeps peacefully, free to dream what they will. But not you. Oh, you could go to bed now as well, to be sure. You could have gone, two hours ago, and surrendered yourself to the restful nothingness, equally as peaceful. But you wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

You want to remember the silence.

And so the seconds turn to minutes, the minutes turn to hours, and before you realize it, Witching Hour has come and gone, and you know that if you don’t sleep soon, you will become a witch yourself. You don’t want that.

But you stay a few minutes more – in front of the TV, on the computer, writing, journaling, reading a book, having a snack, excercising, laying on the couch, thinking, listening to music, studying, learning a new skill, cooking, cleaning, painting… whatever you feel like.

These little- these brief moments of reflection, of clarity; of remembering who you are and what you’re all about at the end of a day where nothing at all is about you – these are the moments worth losing sleep for.

Because that’s not something you get to do anymore, ‘whatever you feel like’. No, such freedom is reserved for the childless and the irresponsible. Or the lucky ones; you remember there are some of those.

And so you stay, just a few minutes more. You will be tired, to be sure, and your family will not understand the deliberate abandonment of sleep. But you will smile when you’ve done what you set out to do, uninterrupted, untouched, and untethered. And you will feel your mind breathe a sigh of relief to find that you are still in there after all; that you are still you.

That you are still you.

And, above all, you will always remember the silence.

-Jen

Mix and Match Welcomes You

Hello, people of the world, and welcome to the glorious beginning of our Mix and Match Family blog. We are so excited to start sharing the ups and downs of our unique life with you, and we are hopeful that our story may have a positive impact on you as you are travelling on your own journey through life.

So then, please let me introduce myself.

My name is Jennifer – Jen, if you will – and I am proud to say that I am a wife and a mother and, on most days, a ridiculous language enthusiast. That means I like languages very, very (way too) much. But I digress.

My husband, Humberto, by birth and by right, is Mexican, hailing from a small city in Northern Mexico. I, on the other hand, am staunchly Canadian, with many terribly cold winters of experience under my belt. Through sheer chance, he and I met (twice), grew closer, and did what any sane couple who wants a baby would do: we had one 🙂

And so, out pops little Kiara Valeria (this wasn’t so quick as I made it sound, I assure you), and the journey of our lifetime begins. That was just over a year ago, and the trek into parenthood for us wasn’t easy, as is similar with most first-time parents. Valeria was a feisty baby, but she taught me (drilled into my skull) that there is nothing more important in life than her, and she would be proud to tell you that mommy has finally accepted that fact into her soul.

So now here we are, with a just-as-feisty toddler, sometimes feeling overwhelmed by the speed of her progress and always feeling overjoyed by it, if not a little bit tired because of it (practically debilitated), and every day with her is a new adventure.

Being a racially-, linguistically-, and culturally-mixed family, our day-to-day experiences can sometimes be funny or frustrating or hilariously entertaining in ways I would never have expected, and we found it only fitting to open our home and our internet connection to anyone who wants to share our experiences with us. So join us in this silly little thing called life, and we would be happy to show you around.

-Jen