It's a Small Town, After All

Last week, Clara and I walked downtown and took a long detour to the Plaza de Armas. Often I circle the plaza, sitting on a bench, just wishing I had someone to sit down and chat with. This time, lo and behold, as I neared the fountain I immediately spotted my friend, Gayla with kids in tow. Awesome. The kids fed the pigeons while Gayla and I talked and kept the strollers from blowing away--who knew these were the things that dreams were made of? But yes, it was a moment a year and a half in the dreaming.

Running into acquaintences and friends unexpectedly cements the fact that Saltillo really is a small town. For instance, take yesterday. I was on my way to brunch with my ladies' book group (wow--I think I just hit middle-age somewhere in that sentence). However, it was held at a woman's house out by the country club. Not having a car at the moment, I take the bus to the church we normally meet at. Taking a taxi all the way out to the country club seemed a little extravagant for the occasion. But, since I really wanted to go, taking a taxi from the church sounded like a more reasonable compromise.

The trouble was, once I got off the bus, there wasn't a taxi to be found.

Doesn't it always happen that when you don't want a taxi, they're always there, honking? But when you desperately want one, they've all misteriously disappeared. Such was the case yesterday. As I was waiting at the bus stop for a taxi to come by, my friend's husband drove by instead. He even stopped at the bus stop to pick up his niece, and being the great guy he is, offered me a ride as well. Swearing that he was in no rush, I took him up on the offer. After all, my options were limited and shoot--it was nice to talk to Herme. I haven't seen him for a few weeks.

Two signs in two weeks that Saltillo is becoming home for me. It really does feel good to put down some roots and stay somewhere longer than a year.

About to Get the Ax

For a solid year, I adored our pediatrician. He was Clara's favorite mustachioed man. He was there when Clara was born and the one person that I liked in the delivery room (Mario was not there). And I genuinely like the guy.

But as soon as Clara turned a year old, I've felt that his childrearing advice has turned shady.

When she was little he pounded home the message that I needed to nurse her. It's the best thing for her. "You're nursing her, right?"

"Yes, sir. This kid is getting nothing but booby." He always seemed a bit taken aback that I was actually following his advice.

When we came for her 12-month checkup he asked again, "You still nursing her?"

Very proudly, I answered, "You bet!"

"You need to stop now."

WHAT?!?

While I didn't initially have plans to keep nursing her past a year, it happened. And lots of childrearing books say that's just fine. Not our pediatrician, though. We just went back for her 15-month checkup (yeah, she's almost 17 months). He was much more adamant. I'm just blowing him off.

Furthermore, at the 12-month checkup, he was already concerned that Clara wasn't walking. I assured him that she would most likely not walk for quite some time, given our family history. Despite the fact that babies that walk at 12-months are early walkers, he was convinced that she needed to be walking into her next doctor's appointment.

Obviously that didn't happen. And if it doesn't happen for another two months, she's still well within the range of normal. Not according to the doctor. Seriously--do I know more about child development than my pediatrician?!?

Final straw: Clara weighed in at 9 kilos exactly. (I'm quite sure she was a good 300 grams heavier when she got vaccinated the last time, but the IMSS scale tends to run heavier than the doctor's scale . . . now I'm convinced that his scale is miscalibrated.) Anyway, being nearly 17 months old and weighing only 9 kilos officially places her off the standard height/weight curve chart. Keep in mind, she has been hovering around the 10th percentile her entire life, so falling off the curve doesn't take much doing. The doctor was very, very grave about this.

He prescribed her medicine to increase her appetite. Mario and I would rather give her as little medicine as possible, so a regimen of appetite inducers three times a day sounded like a terrible idea. Like a good Mexican (or Hobbit), I am now introducing "second breakfast" (or almuerzo) to her eating schedule. I'm betting that this will put her solidly back onto that 10th percentile.

Appetite inducers . . . por favor. Let's be reasonable, doctor.

Having blown off all our doctor's advice, we basically just went to get her weighed and measured. We can do that at the IMSS. For free. One more visit full of crummy advice and we'll may just start making our taxes work for us.

And that could turn out to be the second time that I've preferred treatment from the IMSS than from a private doctor.

Go figure.

The Perks of Living Near the Street

The other day I was checking out expat exchange and came across advice given to someone about to move to Mexico, strongly suggesting living in a gated community "so you don't have to deal with people knocking on the door all the time--selling brooms, looking to do odd jobs, or asking for handouts."

Now, this is one of the reasons that I love NOT living in a gated community and refuse to ever do so. For example, I just bought potting soil out of the back of a truck parked in front of my house. Potting soil--delivered to my door! How cool is that?!?

And have I mentioned how much I enjoy the accordion music that wanders the street?

We're not obligated to answer the door at every knock. Sometimes I don't. But then I wonder if I didn't just turn away my fruit man. (I can't explain how much I love getting phenomenally fresh strawberries delivered right to my door. And he lets me sample them before I buy!)

So, NewtoMexico--or whatever your name is--don't listen to that advice! Live outside the gates! It's really not that scary. Rent is cheaper here. And the strawberries are so much tastier.

Gloria

[Note: I feel like a big gossip writing this. However, this woman has a fascinating story, and I've been thinking about her a lot lately.]


Pushing the stroller down the street one day, I stopped short upon hearing a woman ask me in perfect, clear English, "are you an American?"

The question didn't startle me as much as the woman who asked it. Slightly hunched under layers of dirty, threadbare clothes, her wiry gray hair was pinned up under an old crocheted cap. Gazing at me with piercing eyes and asking again with mouth full of worn teeth, she asked again, "are you an American?"

This lady that I would have mistaken for a bag lady turned out to be the owner of the house that sported a rusted sign advertising "English lessons--all levels". Since moving to the neighborhood, I had been intrigued by the sign and the person who wrote it, but doubted that anyone currently lived beyond the exterior crumbling wall. Then one day I saw the door close. I had not seen the person, but it must have been Gloria.

Her son is my age and lives with her as he suffers from what sound like severe psychiatric problems. She also has a daughter named Clara. However, her Clara lives in the US. As she was unable to renew her student visa, she hasn't been able to visit her mother in years, afraid that she wouldn't be able to enter the US again.

While snacking on Christmas cookies last winter, Gloria told me more of her story. She grew up in Ciudad Juarez and went to school in El Paso--no wonder her English is impeccable. When she was in junior high, her family moved to Chihuahua. Most of the time her father was well employed, but when times were tough, he'd sell peanuts at sporting events. He did what he could to make sure his family was provided for.

But, more often than not, times were good for them, and Gloria was able to attend university in Mexico City, studying journalism. After she graduated, a friend of her family had some contacts so she was able to intern and work for a year or two in Cologne, Germany.

How on earth did a woman who has a degree, impeccable English skills, and a clear thirst for knowledge (she's forever lending me books) end up in a dilapidated house, scrounging the streets for sticks or fallen palm trees to burn for a fire to cook her food on? Between caring for her son and ailments of her own, she's not able to work. As time went on and she was less and less able to care for her house, she has nowhere to hold English classes, if she were to find some prospective students. She explained that she hasn't been able to get her pension from the government in a year. I don't know exactly how government pensions in this country work (for seniors and the disabled), but I do know that they provide minimal funds, around 100 pesos a month. And she doesn't even have that anymore.

A few weeks ago, when I saw her on the street with a can in hand, asking passerby for change, I don't know who was more embarrassed--Gloria or myself. Now I know, I was the one more embarrassed. I had no idea things were that bad. After all, when I was new here, she was one of the first people to introduce herself to me. While, on the outside she appears more needy, at the time I met her, we may have been in equal need. Other people may see Gloria as a charity case. I see her as my friend.

Yesterday was the first time that I had seen her in months. We chatted for awhile, and she mentioned that she's writing some stories that she's like to get published. I told her that I've got a market guide for publishers in the US, and she jumped on that. However, she's got it in her head that she can get published within a few months. I've tried to let her know that getting published could be a very, very long process.

But she really needs the money. And as she said that she's had a cookbook in the works for awhile--she's already shared with me some fabulous, from-scratch, traditional Mexican recipes--I'm hoping to help her self-publish a small cookbook within a few weeks. I normally hate selling things (there was a year when my brother sold Girl Scout cookies for me), but when I believe in something, I can get over my insecurities. And I believe in Gloria.

So--coming soon--Good Food by Gloria! (I'm sure she'll come up with a better title.) Think about it. I'll be more than happy to sell you one!


[Another note: I know, I know--I may be getting in over my head. I'm aware of that. And OK with it. But, if I have skills to partner with this woman to help her earn a living, I feel that I need to use them. We'll see where this goes.]

Where's Your Please?

I had always thought that infant sign language was a bit goofy.

Then I had a daughter that thought it was cool to bang her hand on the tray of her highchair to demand more of anything.

Maybe baby sign language isn't that goofy after all.

However, the week I began to teach her how to say please (touching your hand to your chin, and then lowering that hand slightly) must have also been the week that I tried to get her to show me where her nose is. Therefore, Clara says please like this:



OK, so nobody besides Mario or myself will know what she's indicating. However, she is consistent, so it's clearly cemented into her head as the way to ask nicely for something.

And mercifully, it's cut down on the table-smacking.

Finding Friends in the Most Curious Places

And here I am again . . . wasting far too much time on the internet. But, if you're reading this, you are also probably wasting far too much time on the internet. So at least we're in good company.

For well over a year now, since I formed my pathological facebook addiction, I've asked myself what facebook (among other internet toys) is doing to the way we communicate. I think it's wonderful to be reconnected with real friends I would have otherwise never heard from again. I also think it's pretty entertaining to be connected with people I went to high school with--many of whom I know better now, thanks to facebook, than I ever did when we were forced to interact daily over the course of 10 years' worth of formal education. Now, thanks for groups and discussion boards, I'm finding that some of my most meaningful conversations take place with people that I've never actually met. (Keep in mind, I do spend the lion's share of my day alone with a pre-verbal little girl. It's great, but meaningful conversations do not abound.)

Then, to cement my internet addiction, I began a blog. I wanted to use it as a kind of letter to friends and family to let them know what was going on in our lives and my impressions of Mexico (as most people I know will never get the chance to visit me here). Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, thinking, "Ooo--I'll have to blog about THAT!" My apologies if you've read my poem about chilaquiles.

Then, I stumbled upon blogs from other gringas living in Mexico. Oh, dear heavens--my universe expanded exponentially. My husband will soon be sending me to Internet Anonymous. (Keeping this in mind, I do try to limit my internet hours to the time when Clara is napping or those nights when Mario decides to go to bed at 9:30. I am determined that I will NOT be one of those people who list facebook as a reason why their marriage failed.)

But really, how would I be getting along if I didn't have this monster in my living room? It makes me think of my professor, who moved to Mexico in the 1950s, when even long-distance phone calls were an inconceivable luxury. How on earth did she do it? I'm so grateful that I can keep connected to my family and friends, but if I were connected a little bit less to the US, would I be better connected in my neighborhood here?

That's a question that really doesn't have an answer, as I'm not giving up the internet any time soon. [My mother just heaved a sigh of relief.]

Furthermore, two of the few friends I have in this town are thanks to my amazing stalking abilities--blog-stalking and facebook profiling. (Yes, I'm shameless.) Without this wonderful tool, I'd be stuck thinking that I was the only gringa that had tried living in Mexico and navigating its frustrating waters. Now I know, that's so not the case.

So, to all my new blogger buddies--thanks. I love hearing your stories and just knowing that you're out there. To Sheila and Missy--thanks for not being weirded out by me. I am that much saner by having real friends I can see in person.

To all those family and friends in the US--I miss you! But I'm so grateful that we're not complete strangers for those first few awkward days I come back to visit.

Que viva el internet!