In which Mothers' Day almost goes south of the border.
Sometimes it's hard to come back. Especially, say, if you've just spent five days in Mexico visiting Abuelito Paul and Abuelita Pamela, basking in the sun and focused on nothing more important than happy hour.
Not that happy hour isn't mission critical in Puerto Vallarta.
One of the many great things about Robin is how well she takes care of me. A single complaint about my year without a beach vacation and she's trundled me off to the sands for a long weekend.
It would've been more fun if she and Owen could have joined us, but I can't say Mexican karaoke at midnight would be the same with a two-year old. We have every plan, however, of remedying Owen's exposure to Latin culture right after Thanksgiving when we go back for visit number two.
In the meantime, suffice it to say I had a wonderful time learning to curse in Dutch on the beach with Paul-- it's a long story-- and getting sunburned by the pool with Pamela. They seem very happy in retirement and I miss them already.
Back home, we celebrated Mother's Day a bit early with a trip to the City Market. We indulged Owen's love of all large vehicles by taking the bus downtown to the river front. He was very helpful, alerting the other passengers, as loudly as possible, that they were on the "BUS! BUS!"
At each stop, he also ordered them very purposely "OUT!"
When we got to the market, the O-boy had a terrific time dodging his parents and grandparents through the crowd, pausing only briefly to dance for one of the street musicians or to try to steal candy.
I now completely understand those parents who leash their children. It's the height of reasonability.
Apparently everyone had a nice lunch at the local French restaurant afterwards. Owen and I wouldn't know. We went home to feed the grilled cheese sandwiches I made to the dogs and then have a nap.
If you're wondering why we celebrated Moms' Special Day early, it's because the in-house Mom had an important work gig in Chicago and, as her present from us, we sent her up early to enjoy a showing of "Wicked" Sunday night.
As I type this, I'm on day two of bachelor fatherhood. Day One went pretty easy, thanks to the grandmothers. So far Day Two's also fine, but the night is not yet over.
Do I sound nervous? Probably because I am. Owen's hit the full blown terrible twos. Here's my evidence:
We pick Owen up from daycare around 5:15 p.m. and he's ALWAYS starving. As a result, you don't dare go without a sippy cup of milk at the ready for his majesty's ride home.
The other night I swung through McDonald's for the cow juice right before I nabbed Herr Puppet Master. He slugged that down immediately.
"MORE MILK!"
"Sorry, Owen. That's all I have until we get home."
"MORE MILK!"
"I don't have any."
And that's when the empty sippy cup bounced off my head.
That's gratitude for you, huh? It's enough to make you want to head for the border.
