One thing I miss about California

Not being Catholic, I don't know much about patron saints except that they are associated with certain life situations. They intercede to God for us. We can take our special needs to them and know that they will listen to our prayers. I have one of those in my life and her name is Maria de Jesus Flores Sanchez. But everyone who knows and loves her calls her one of two things: "Mami" or "Chuey". I don't think she qualifies as a "real" saint though, as she is still alive and is raising for children of her own. (But, I think that sort of qualifies anyone for sainthood, don't you?). She likes a beer once in a blue moon, has great taste in clothes and furniture and can make a meal to feed twenty out of a few grains of rice, a tomato and whatever else might be in the fridge. She sings while she works, can get any stain out of any piece of clothing (and I am talking black magic marker on white jeans ... I have seen her do it) and can fold three loads of laundry while cooing a fussy baby on her hip. Her only dreams are to steal away to a beach in Mexico where no one can find her for a day ... or four ... and to send her children to college. And for two amazing years, she was my son's nanny. People used to ask me how I found her. My reply was always the same. "By the grace of God," I would say. And it was true. There is no other way to explain it. She and her sister showed up on my doorstep offering to clean my house for a great price and I took them up on it. I asked the sister, who spoke fluent English, if she knew of anyone who would take care of children and she looked right at Maria and said, "She can and she needs a job." The first day she came to work, I was dead tired. My 3 month old wasn't sleeping through the night, much less a few hours, and I was starting back to work at my marketing job that I did from home. I knew she was experienced. Her four children were well dressed, well behaved and seemed to be doing just fine. I also knew that her oldest had been born at 2.5 pounds, several weeks premature, and was expected not to make it. He was now in junior high and dreaming of joining the high school footbal team in a couple of years. I must have looked like a wreck in my mismatched pajamas stained with breast milk and my hair uncombed. I nervously handed her the baby and said, "He doesn't sleep and he hardly naps. I am just warning you." She said, "You no worry" and she wrapped him up tighter than a tacquito, pulled him to her chest and began singing to him as she disappeared into the livingroom. I didn't know what to do with myself, so went into my office, shut the door and booted up my laptop. After checking email, I fell asleep in my chair. Almost three hours later, I went out into the livingroom to find my entire house cleaned top to bottom, the second load of laundry in the washer and my son happily napping in his crib. Maria looked bored sitting on my sofa leafing through a magazine. When she saw me, she jumped up and asked, "You hungry?" "Uh ... I don't know .. I mean, yes. But there is no food in the house." 15 minutes later, I had a plate with a quesadilla, fried potatoes and a neatly sectioned orange on my desk. Had I just died and gone to heaven? I remember being warned by my more childcare-savvy friends not to let her children come to the house. But it turns out they were as fabulous as her, treating my son as if he were the fifth duckling. Teaching him how to play soccer, sharing their candy and letting him have a turn at all their toys. He soon began going to her house every once in a while. It wasn't long before my son was calling her "Mami" and me "Mama". Her husband became "Papi" while my husband was "Dada". He even had a surrogate grandmother who loved him like he was her own. I remember picking him up at their house and seeing him perched on "Abuela's" hip while she sang a Mexican folk song and stirred a pot of chicken stew. One friend asked me, "Aren't you jealous when he cries for her?" No, I was not jealous. I was elated. So it went for another year and a half, like a very sweet dream. Not only did she take impeccable care of my son, she did ... well, everything ... and never once raised her voice or was in a bad mood. The one time she couldn't work (her daughter had broken her finger) she sent her sister in her place. I felt like I was experiencing what a close knit family was really like. Something my husband and I had always wanted for us and for our son. And, then, I learned I was pregnant with my second child. Maria couldn't have been happier for me and began cooking more and more meals and urging me to keep my feet up. I wasn't even allowed to get my own water. On the morning when I miscarried the baby, I couldn't stop the bleeding. My bathroom looked like a murder scene. Every towel and rug had been soiled, so I shut everything in the bathroom door before I left to go to the doctor. "Please don't go in there," I said to her, sternly. When I came home, there was a giant plate of my new favorite food, potato tacos, on the table and a very worried Maria sitting on the floor playing cars with my son. I immediately went to the bathroom to start cleaning only to find it spotless and all the linens washed and put away. "Maria! You shouldn't have done that. It was awful in there." She looked right at me and said, "For you .." That was all the English she knew to explain her actions, but I could complete the sentence for her ... "For you I would do anything." And the feeling was mutual. During those two years, there was almost nothing we didn't do to help each other. Sometimes we even cried together, and many times we laughed together. We hit all thre thrift stores and garage sales together, but no one could possibly understand how we could sit for an hour (when I should have been working) engaged in deep conversation when neither of us spoke the other's language. And to be honest, not even I know how we did that. She helped to give my son the best start in life possible. And she took care of his parents too when we most needed it. I paid her as much as I possibly could, translated for them, wrote her husband's resume and remembered each of her children's birthdays. At Christmas, we all baked cookies together and exchanged gifts. We were family.When it came time for us to move across the country, it was telling Maria that would become the hardest part of the process. I was worried for her. I offered to find her work, but she refused. She said she couldn't take on another nanny job because she just got too attached. All she wanted were some pictures and a chance to see him again. I promised her both. The pictures are in the mail and we just spoke on the phone for the first time in two months about some potential times to visit each other. Then I passed my son the phone and he talked to his "Mami". He was so excited and when she said his name the way she always said it ... like no one else could, he patted his chest, jumped up and down and said, "Yes!!!! That's me!!!!" We all exchanged heartfelt "I love you's" and hung up the phone. I can't wait to see her again.