Love and Lessons in Mexico

Stellar views aside, the highlight of the room was that blessed, blessed blast of frigid air when we entered. I squealed with delight but watched with dismay as the children’s little fingers quickly formed icicles. Now, there are times in a parent’s life when the best interest of their children is of the utmost importance.

Our sole purpose of this trip was to expose the kids to the water. Unlike our usual adventure-travel itinerary, we did not attempt any excursions. We just ate, swam and slept. And then ate some more.

Even in my sand-repugnant state, I envisioned burying Jamie in it, building sand castles and searching for sea shells. All of this would have happened had it not been for The Pool–touted as the largest in Mexico. The same hallowed structure that, with its waterfalls, waterslides and caves, became The Hurricane’s obsession. Any mention of the beach brought about tedious tantrums; not so much because it was the beach but because IT WAS NOT THE POOL.

In her defense, she learned how to swim in that pool and could go for several yards underwater. I should know. She yelled at me to watch her a minimum of 3,602 times.

While Bubby loved the water, he enjoyed being the Don Juan de Mexico even more. It was rare for us to pass even one Senorita who did not coo and paw at him. He would always recoil in shyness and clutch me tightly, which would endear him to his admirers even more. They would approach him, smash their bosoms into his face and a devious little smile would finally emerge. The kid had a system.

So did I, only mine involved tapping into my airheaded Polish roots (which, incidentally are naturally blond so I really don’t stand a chance in this life). When packing to go home, I painstakingly ziplocked all our liquids and carefully placed them in our main luggage. And then took our Mexican vanilla gifts and absentmindedly placed them between a stack of diapers…in our carry-on.

I just hope the mean men in Dallas’ airport security are baking nice cakes right now.

And then there was The Camera. I won’t expound upon the amount of digital cameras I have destroyed this year. Nor how at the last minute we had to take one with film, something I haven’t used in seven years. This would explain why I foolishly opened the #$#* camera before it had rewound. Rumor has it that film does not like to be opened prematurely and rebels worse than a toddler on the beach.

But airport security and film aside, the most important thing I learned was this:

If you don’t like sand in your bed, don’t go to bed sandy.

Don’t say you haven’t been warned by this blond Pollack-Canadian airhead….