Family Traditions

Coming from a diverse family, our traditions are a big deal: besides our SciFi Christmas, we all try to participate in Tamale Day. Usually between Thanksgiving and Christmas, we gather at 6:00am at an aunt or cousin's house to go to task and make at least two dozen tamales per family.
In order to do this, every person over the age of ten has a specific job.
The first thing anyone learns to do is how to spread masa evenly over the oja and to do it quickly. Everyone who comes to tamale day must at least learn this task, if not spend the entire time doing this. These are the "spreaders" and it's usually made of children, teens and women.
The men over the age of 16 get the job of preparing the masa by constantly kneading boiled lard into it until a piece floats in a glass of water. Women and children are not "kneaders".
The eldest brother and only sister are in charge of the kitchen. She is the "cook" and is the only one that knows the recipe for the pork and chile spices, handed down by Grandma, and she will hand it down to her eldest daughter. He is the "filler" and has the job of placing the right amount of meat in the ojas before handing them to an optional "olive placement" person (who may just be taking a break from spreading or otherwise can't be trusted to do anything else) and folding then placing them in large pans for cooking under the watchful eye of my aunt.
As of last year, I had been a spreader for 21 years. I am so quick with the ojas: the masa is even, not too thick, not too thin, and I clear out my pile of ojas in quick succession. I have watched my cousin move into the kitchen, my brother become a kneader and last year, in a shock that he bypassed his own son, my dad tapped my husband to be a filler. We all gawped until my dad asked him about photography stuff and we knew then that is the only reason my husband owns Nikons, to be out of spreading and onto filling. I may have been a little jealous. I have steadily complained about spreading for the last, oh, decade.
This year I showed up late because the preschooler had dance class and most of the spreading was done. I was at a loss for what to do. I knew I couldn't help I'm the kitchen and just before I started washing dishes, my uncle asked me if I'd like to be a filler, with olive placement as well.
I jumped at the chance, literally. I squealed and hugged him and jumped up and down and shouted through the whole house, "I'm a filler! A filler! Olives, too! Screw you, spreading!"
I sat at the table, watched my uncle make one, and with some encouragement from my brother's girlfriend, I embarked on my journey of being seen as an adult on Tamale Day. I grabbed an oja and it was lumpy. The masa had stuck to one side and left a section bare, it had a split down the middle, it didn't go up high enough. I had to respread it. I looked through the pile and it was more of the same. Subpar ojas, and I was devastated. I wanted to make tamales but I had to redo so many I worried I would be blamed for the sorry state of the remaining ones yet to be folded. Instead I complained out loud about the crap I had to deal with as a first time filler and I was met with a chorus of well wishes. No one would be upset, I was doing great, blame another uncle- he can't spread for his life.
Then I realized, as I spread and filled and olived and folded, "I'm a spreader. I have to be. I'm damn good at it."
So next year?
I'm Head Spreader.

Cuts and Scrapes

Ask my friends, I'm great in emergencies. I've been to all the CPR and First Aid classes. I have a sense of what needs to be done, and who's going to do it. I am quite, let's say confident, in a not-scary, domineering way. I will spring to action and remember all my training whether you or your child, or even a stranger needs help. I am at the ready, with a first aid kit, and CPR mask in the diaper bag.
I have called 911 so many times, I think the CHP is tired of the sound of my voice.
Until it comes to my daughters. Then I am a squawking, arms flapping, chicken with the head cut off, mess. I screech and panic and freak out and can't make a decision and yell and cry and then hyperventilate.
My only thought at these times?
"I made this, and she's broken and I can't make a new one and I need her fixed and I needsomeonetofixHER! Don't touch her, give her to me, I'll fix this, I can do this, where's my whatchamacallit, the thingy-withthestuff, the thing I NEED, Where Is It?! Is she broken, is she bleeding, what happened? Call a doctor, no let me see it, does she need a doctor, call an ambulance, does she need a- NO! Don't do that! Don't scrub it, don't wipe it, that looks like you're hurting her! I made this, IWILLFIXIT!"

Ahem.

Tonight, such an episode occurred. I remained true-to-form and still feel sick. My husband kept his calm and took care of the baby.

The picture shows how bad it really was.