Where Cultures Rock the Cradle

Motherhood in San Diego: where white noise machines blend with neighbors’ reggaetón

Being a first-time mom in San Diego means I carry two cultures in my diaper bag. On one hand, my dad reminds me with love, “¡Ponle calcetines o se va a resfriar!”—even on an 85-degree day when my baby is napping comfortably, little toes curiously wiggling, catching the light of the sun. On the other hand, my pediatrician tells me, “Let those little toes breathe.” Somewhere between those two voices, I find myself smiling, because that’s what motherhood feels like here: balancing tradition, doctor’s recommendations, and love.

I used to think borders were only about Mexico and the U.S., but motherhood has shown me there are many kinds. In healthcare, family wisdom and medical advice often pull in different directions. In culture, old and new traditions blend in everyday life. And in the heart, doubt sometimes rises, but love always rises.

I once saw a Haitian mother at the Department of Motor Vehicles, cradling her two-month-old while effortlessly switching between Creole, Spanish, and English with the clerk. Her baby cooed softly, and I thought: this is strength. Different language, different journey, same determination; in her, I recognized my own family. It reminded me of my own mom; at 30, the age I am now, she had four kids, two in elementary school, a toddler, and a newborn. As a newly arrived immigrant in the Bay Area, she had to learn a new medical system while ensuring that we were all fed, healthy, and loved. This reminder had me look back, and I understand her strength in a way I never did before. At that moment, I understood the concept of resilience. For me, resilience looks like walking to therapy with a stroller, baby tucked close, as I learn how to care for myself while caring for him. For that Haitian mother, it was standing tall with her baby in her arms, relying only on herself. For my mom, it was holding four kids together in a place that didn’t yet feel like home.

These are the quiet ways we, as Latina mothers, show our empeño, the tenacity that runs through us like a lifeline. Sometimes it’s in small choices, like whether to keep the baby’s socks on in the California heat. Sometimes it’s in blending cultures, like serving caldo de frijoles alongside a slice of pizza, or rocking your baby to sleep with the sound machine’s white noise while Bad Bunny plays faintly from the neighbors’ apartment. And sometimes it’s in blending traditions, when family says a little chamomile tea or home remedy will calm the baby’s tummy, while doctors say to wait until they’re older.

When I say my baby is “cradled between borders,” I don’t just mean the San Diego/Tijuana line. I mean, he is held by all of us, Latina mothers past and present, who carry our babies forward with persevering hope, ay no mishaps, and an unshakable love that flows freely, no matter the sleepless nights, the endless consejos, or the baby socks that disappear in the dryer. Because if borders mark where things end, then love is what refuses to stop “donde come uno, comen dos,” a reminder that in motherhood, cariño always multiplies.

And as I raise my son between two cultures, I hope he carries forward the same tenacity I’ve inherited; love that endures, adapts, and never lets go.