Wally World

With less than one short week left in our stay in Guanajuato, it seemed that a family day was in order. After talking to various locals — both gringo and Mexican — I decided that a trip to a local hot springs was in order. I was told that it was family friendly. That it has thermal waters, to the tune of 95 degrees. That we need take nothing but our towels and sunscreen and rely on the local cafe for food and water. That it's less than an hour away, and more than worth the drive.

What I didn't know was that the trip would end up taking half a day, the thermal hot springs were actually a small part of a giant water park with 4-story slides, waterfalls, 2-story roller coaster like tubes of fun, and that I would love it almost as much as I love my Kindle.

In the past, I had written off water parks as the destination of people who stop at every Walmart on cross-country trips — they mark each one on the map ahead of time to ensure that none are skipped, and have photo albums of the family in front of each one. I had visions of tattered wife beaters on beet red bodies and trucker caps turned sideways, rusted RV's filling up the parking lot, kegs strapped to the back. Little did I know that here in Mexico, at least in the state of Guanajuato, it's actually a little bit of paradise for families with small children and college students with a need for speed.

To get to this still-unknown paradise, however, we needed a driver. The first driver I hired showed up in a Honda sedan, after assuring me he had seatbelts for all.

"Oh, you can put both kids in the front seat - it's just wide enough for them. No worries - I'm a good driver!" After explaining to him that the kids can't ride in the front, with or without the ONE shared seat belt he offered up, I had to break the news - Xote was a no go, at least with Ramiro.

"We NEVER do ANYTHING FUN!" yelled Shawn Joaquin, forgetting the many trips to museums, parks and trampoline camp every day. "You are NOT MY FRIEND!" yelled Madelena. "You are not my friend and you are NOT my Mama!"

Gregg simply hugged me, possibly to pin my arms down to keep me from striking anyone.

Within minutes I had Maria de Jesus on the line, asking if she could come from her ranch to take us to Xote....immediately. No problem, she replied, she'd be here in an hour.

Two hours later she arrived in her dusty, giant and completely safe Suburban. We all piled in and set out for Xote in high spirits. Two hours after THAT we had completed a full circle around San Miguel de Allende, Dolores Hidalgo, and various pueblos that had but two cows and a dusty shack to their name. On our insistence, we finally stopped to ask for directions, only to learn that Xote was a mere 2.5k from where we were. As we drove down the dirt road to what we hoped was mecca, we saw the tall slides...dry, empty of water or patrons. We saw an empty parking lot, and closed gates.

Holymotherofgod, this was our Wally World.

As I prepared to get all Clark Griswold on someone's ass — having checked the website that assured me that Xote was open 365 days a year — we saw a small gate open at the far end of the lot. There we learned that A) it was open and B) it had no food but chips, sodas, and beer. Fine. We were here. And damnit, it was going to be FUN.

And indeed it was; Shawn Joaquin surprised everyone with his whoops and fist-pumping as he came down the fast 2-story tubes in our laps, and Madelena surprised us with her caution and desire to hang out under a mushroom waterfall. The attendants turned on the massive four-story slide, and the adults took turns driving water painfully up their noses upon landing at the bottom. All in all, we spent four hours swimming, sliding, splashing and eating nothing but junk food. The families around us, all with complete picnics and gear, were kind and normal and seemingly amused by the one semi-gringo family with the aging adults who raced up the slides past the college students.

Best of all, I learned — once again — that Type A has no place in Mexico. There is a need to go with the flow, let go of expectations, and to let go of preconceived notions of what is or what will be. That the only thing one needs for fun is an open mind, a happy family...and sunscreen. The rest will take care of itself.

Shawn Joaquin is a worrier. A fuss-budget. A worry wart. Filled with angst. In constant trepidation, ready for flight at any moment. He must know what happens next and next and next, and then be reassured that the path laid out will indeed be followed and that no danger is involved. While this will most likely ensure his sobriety and cigarette-free high school years, it can be a real bummer in our day-to-day lives. 

This morning I decided to take on the daunting task of shopping at the Mega before work; this was once a great source of joy, but the mile-long walk to get there, the need for extreme focus while selecting any meat or produce, and the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride home in a taxi have taken the shine off my former Mega-love.  A new neighbor had told me that instead of walking down the steep hill on on the gravel and broken glass-covered sidewalk, I could take a path through the chaparral behind our house, as long as I didn't mind the occasional cow patty or, in the gloaming, partiers towards the end of the path near the bridge. At 8am the likelihood of partiers seemed low and the sun high enough to help me avoid any cow gifts. It sounded like the perfect start to the day, until Shawn Joaquin volunteered to come. 

"Why are we going this way? This looks dangerous! Why are you letting me trip? THAT'S NOT THE PATH! THAT'S JUST DIRT! I need to tinkle...no, what if I get it ON MY SHOES? What? There's no bathroom here? WHY NOT? You're fibbing to me, I know it. THAT'S NOT THE WAY! THAT'S NOT THE WAY!"

Madelena's contribution to the walk was simply to trip twice and say, both times, "It's all part of the fun, right mama?"

In the store, Shawn Joaquin worried that someone would take our cart when we put it at the end of the aisle and walked away from it. He worried that I was buying the wrong milk. That the crackers were not the right kind of crackers. That I would forget to buy salami. That we would lose Erika when she went to get the carrots I had forgotten. That the check stand I was going to was not actually open and we would never be able to pay. That the cab that was outside, with no one near it, would be taken by someone else and we wouldn't be able to get home. That I would leave groceries in the cab, as I did a package of chorizo last week. And that I wouldn't have the right change to pay the taxi, and the driver would be angry. 

As my frustration level with the incessant questions and anxiety about everything reach a peak level, I was hit with a thought that had somehow escaped me before: it's very, very hard to be Shawn Joaquin. To live with that worry and to be only six, without the tools to recognize that which should be anxiety producing and that which is merely a different brand of crackers. 

In all my concern about protecting him from other kids and labels and predators, I had failed to think about protecting him from himself...and from me. My sense of adventure and hyper-competence, as it has been called, comes with much less worry about intangibles and a much higher level of risk-tolerance.  His worries are so foreign to me that I have failed to give them their full due, to understand that right now he is no more able to stop those thoughts than he is to breathe.  Instead I answer him with "you're right, we will never get home and will have to live at the Mega" or "if it's the wrong kind of crackers, everyone else will eat them and you can choose to be hungry." My complete lack of empathy (at least after the fifth worry) has done nothing to provide him with the tools he needs now or in the future — I now understand that this is not a phase but as much a part of him as his beautiful dark eyes and incredible loving spirit. 

While Shawn Joaquin excels at worry, I excel at guilt when it comes to my children. This new guilt, however, will drive me to find those tools I need to give him the tools HE needs to best be able to handle the worry...and to know that no matter what, the one thing he never needs to worry about is how much his mother loves him with all her heart. Of that, there is no question.

Holy Crap, Parte Dos

The last week has had no end to travails, from a serious GI bacterial infection, a head injury and a bad case of strep to a lack of power, frozen debit card, and various other everyday challenges common in Mexico but just enough to push me over the edge. After telling Gregg that this is the worst trip of my life, I decided that I had to change tack: I need to spend more time doing adult things, spend more money — at least as much as is required to make the first thing happen — and start drinking tequila earlier in the day. And to make any time I had with the kids be good time and mutually pleasurable.

With all that in mind, I decided to take the kids down to El Central and have brunch, then wander over to Alhóndigas, a museum we've been meaning to see since we arrived. We had a lovely brunch in which I perfected my deafness as it pertains to a whining tone, and then made our way to the museum. Per usual on this trip, it was closed indefinitely. No problem. A kind gentleman directed us up the hill to the wax museum, filled with 30 historical figures. Both kids, upon hearing "figures", started trembling and saying "no! no mummies!" I reassured them that the figures were just made out of wax, were like dolls, and had never, ever been alive. That we'd see people like Hidalgo, Pipila, Don Quixote - it would be tons of fun. So we paid our $50 and entered the first room.

Holymotherofgod. Not again.

Sure enough, Hidalgo was there. At least his decapitated head. As was Allende's, the head of Jimenez and others who had had their heads displayed in cages outside the Alhóndiga many years ago. Large as life and twice as bloody, in an environment just intimate enough that there was no escape. As the student tour guide attempted to speak, the kids began to shout "no! no more dead people! I don't like this! This was not! A! Good! Idea!"

We shuffled into the other room, only to be confronted by a wax.....MUMMY.  Are you sh*tting me? We scrambled out of there amid wails to find Jesus, who I was sure would be more comforting. Not so much. This Jesus had something of a serial killer expression vs one of benevolence; perhaps he had been borrowed from another wax museum featuring the likes of Dahlmer, Bundy and other notables. Put a trucker hat on him and a bowie knife in his hand and you'd easily cross the street to avoid him.

Surely, there had to be some redeeming quality to this museum, other than the cheerful woman who manned it. We moved on to see Don Quixote, a welcome respite from the killers and the killed.  As we admired the Don Quixote and pretended that nothing had come before it, a sudden loud noise and terrified screams interrupted us. Apparently the NEXT room was booby trapped to scare the crap out of adults and kids alike. I needed no more prompting, and we fled the museum as Shawn Joaquin yelled "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!" and Madelena started pounding me with her little fists and yelling "BAD MAMA! BAD MAMA!"

Now that I have ruined all museums for my children, for life, perhaps I have contributed to my first goal of spending more time doing adult things - the kids will no longer clamor to go to any museums, and will in fact prefer the half-darkness of our TV room where they can enjoy more suitable fare like The Heffalump Movie. And I can avoid additional therapy for any of us, spending my money on my new hobby: tequila. ¡Salud!

Momias v Mama

The trip to Guanajuato was arduous - 5 days of delays, 15 hours of travel, three planes, a Suburban and a cab. But finally we landed in our gorgeous home with the view of the bluffs, sick with exhaustion but ultimately happy to finally be here. Shawn Joaquin wanted to go to the mummy museum immediately, after having all of three hours sleep. Madelena wisely chose to nap and then was ready to rumble. Instead we all rambled, learning the way to the not-so-close funicular and how to dodge cars on the main boulevard, feeling like captives in a Frogger game. We had Michoacán ice cream — the best ice cream in the world — in El Jardin, surrounded by swarms of Mexican tourists and vendors. We found the Museo de Diego Rivera, where Madelena raced from floor to floor, shouting in Spanish "come on, guys, we've got an appointment upstairs!"

Finally, day two, we made our way to the Museo de Mómias, the kids unable to contain their excitement. It was long cab ride and line for the tickets, but $20 and 30 minutes from departure, we found ourselves in the anteroom of the museum. As the film about the museum started, so did the shrieks. 

"This is not a good idea! I don't want to see people die!" wailed Shawn Joaquin and "I don't like skeletons - they are mean persons with no bodies!" from Madelena and, from both, "I wanna go hooooooooome!" I tried to calm them both, as a black and white film with Dia de Los Muertos played on the wall, complete with haunted house music. I assured them if they didn't like the mummies themselves, we'd leave. Just one room of mummies. The mummies they had been begging to see since touch down.


And then we entered the first room. Holy. Crap.

In the realm of "things to do to permanently damage your children" I had hit paydirt - an event so horrific that my contributions to the "Future Therapy Fund" would have to be doubled. These were not mummies. There was no wrap, no neatly packaged corpse that appeared to be as inanimate as a shoe and just as threatening. No, these were dessicated bodies that appeared to have died in the throes of agony. 

Both kids were immediately inconsolable, and as they screamed I promised to get them out STAT. Mexican tourists looked on with interest, apparently unfazed by the horror before them but slightly annoyed with the interruption my children provided. I swept them both up and looked for the exit. 

Holy. Crap. Again. 

There was no way to go but forward....through five more rooms of mummies. 

 

As I attempted to race through the maze-like museum, the wailing continued and all I could do was push Shawn Joaquin's face into the folds of my dress and Madelena's into my shoulder. Finally we hit the bright sunlight and both were able to breathe again. As was I. 

Later that night we called home to tell Gregg about our adventures. Madelena claimed she had laughed at the mummies and Shawn Joaquin said they weren't scary at all, but really he wasn't "really a fan of mummies" anymore.  And we are left with a haunting memory and a lingering fear that forces Madelena to ask every ticket taker at every museum, "There aren't any mummies here, right? My mama doesn't like mummies." 

The new rules

With both kids testing us daily and constantly challenging, we felt that an old-school, new-agey family meeting was in order. Both kids are very well-behaved at school, where the kids create and adhere to their own rules. So Saturday morning we sat down to create our family rules, to be posted on the fridge with their corresponding consequences, also agreed upon by the family. As we began, Shawn Joaquin was quick to fire off the first few:

• No fibbing
• No pushing or hitting
• No laughing when you're in trouble
• Listen when you're spoken to
• Be kind to your family

Madelena, eager to get in on the list, began her contributions, equally rapid-fire:

• No smoking
• No drinking wine
• No taking off your shirt in the movie theater
• No throwing people off the balcony

We were able to quickly come up with corresponding consequences for Shawn Joaquin's list - time outs in a new spot, with minutes corresponding to one's age - but Madelena's was more difficult. At least until I get my hands on the California penal code.