Gran Bosque Urbano

Today was yet another Saturday that Mario had to work, so were we going to stay home and boo-hoo ourselves?

No way!

We had a lovely morning at the Gran Bosque Urbano (the Great Urban Woods).  We only stumbled upon this park a year ago when friends invited us for a picnic.  But in our defense, I didn't have much access to a car until a year ago, so our park options were limited to those within walking distance--the Alameda and Venustiano Carranza.

This prarie dog is the park's mascot.  There's a giant prarie dog right at the entrtance, and this one is at the entrance to the children's area.  Joey thinks he's the greatest thing ever and gets so excited every time he sees the prarie dog--both at the parking lot and here, before the playground.

As much as we love the Alameda, the Gran Bosque Urbano has replaced it as our favorite park in Saltillo.  Why?  For me, it's all about the trees and grass.  I'm still astonished by how many trees and how much healthy, luxurious grass is in that part--grass that we're allowed to sit on and walk in!  (As opposed to the Alameda and far too many other Mexican parks.)

For the kids, it's all about the sandbox.  Today, we didn't even venture out to the swings, slides or other play equipment.  A solid two hours was spent in the sandbox.

Heaven.

For those who have kids older than sandbox-age, the area with the play equipment is really well designed.  It's a fenced-in circular area, and smack in the center is a covered area with picnic benches, so parents can sit in shady comfort while keeping an eye on the kiddos.  There is a special area for very small children (which includes the sandbox) and this had an additional fence around it.  Very nice.  They even boast decent bathrooms which are almost always in service and drinking fountains which sometimes work.  And often don't.

The park overall isn't that big, despite its grandiose name.  A circle track winds it way through the woods, good for a walk or jogging, or frustrating a four-year-old who's not used to going up hills on a tricycle.  It boasts a teeny-tiny lake, which has a concession stand and picnic tables with which to comfortably view the lake.  Swimming, wading, boating are verboten--unless they do begin to rent boats in the future, which they've had rumors of at the Chapulin and Deportivo parks.  I've never seen it, but near the lake there is a labyrinth, which older kids seem to like to run in and out of.   One of these days we'll check it out.

If we ever get out of the sandbox.

Old Wives' Tales Taken Out of Culture

I've been meaning to confess this for awhile, so here goes:

My small children drink coffee.  *gasp*

In the US, we're fed on the myth that coffee is just for adults, that it will stunt kids' growth, they'll get all hyped up on the caffiene and won't be able to sleep, etc, etc.  All our predjudices about coffee are part of our culture, not entirely based in fact (execpt that the effects of caffiene are pretty well documented, I'll give you that).

When I worked at a chilren's home and new volunteers from the US would come and see the small children drinking coffee right before bed, they were all generally out of their minds concerned about this.  "I've got to put a stop to this!  Kids drinking coffee before bed!  Tsk!"

But trying to stand in the way of culture is like trying to stand in the way of a moving train.  One person, no matter how concerned, can no change someone else's culture.  Everyone does it.  Everyone goes to sleep at night.  The average Mexican is, indeed, usually shorter than the average American, but that's thanks to genetics, not the effects of early coffee consumption.

Clara and I spent a month with my mother-in-law when Clara was about a year and a half old.  My mother-in-law LOVES coffee.  She also has a collection of child-size mugs.  After a month with the abuela, Clara decided that she loved coffee, too.  (She got half coffee, half milk mini-mugfuls.)  At the time, I was more concerned about her sugar intake instead of her caffiene intake, and would give it to her without sugar.  She still thought it was a best thing ever.

And now that I'm more liberal with the sugar, she's still a sucker for coffee, anytime we make it.

The Boy, on the other hand, is against hot drinks of any form.

Ironically, or perhaps because of this early exposure to coffee, Mexicans in general don't have the same addiction to coffee that gringos do.  I could be mistaken, but the Mexicans I know best regard coffee as a nice treat (a daily treat, if you're my mother-in-law, but a treat nonetheless).  Starbucks and the Italian Coffee Company do abound here, but I can't say I've met any Mexicans who have the same dependence on coffee that so many gringos have.  That, "Oh-My-God-I-Can't-Function-Without-My Morning-Coffee" dependence.

You know what I'm talking about.

Witnessing these two cultural views to coffee, I think I'll stick to the safer, less addicting route, and give my children coffee early in life.  True, there's no gaurantee that their gringo side won't rear up and they will become addicts eventually.

But I'll take my chances.  

Baby School?

Every now and then I think about going out and finding a job.  Or, as I have the luxury to wait a few years and ponder this question, what is it I REALLY want to do once the kids are in school?  Here in Mexico my options are pretty limited.  Teaching English is pretty much the only option.  I like kids, often the younger the better.  So as I continued down this train of thought I stumbled upon the idea of "English Daycare"!   Hmmm . . . this has possibilities. 

However, offering daycare services wouldn't bring in much money.  A lady down the street was advertising daycare for about $125 a week.  That's in pesos, people.  Maybe $10 bucks a week.  The daycare behind my house offers FREE daycare (they're co-sponsored by a church).  Obviously, because I'd be speaking to the kids in English, I could certainly charge more.  But would it really be enough money to be worth my time? 

Then I thought about play dates or English Gymboree or something like that.  Therefore, I wouldn't be tied to the long hours of daycare and could quite likely bring in about the same amount of money.  But who would really pay me to spend 3 or 4 hours a week with their kid so I could talk to them in English? 

It turns out, there is a market for this!  (And not just way out north where all the richies live.)

The man who owns my tortilla store stopped me the other day and asked me how young is too young to learn English.  "The earlier the better!" I replied.  It turns out that his daughter is 8 months old.  I"m interested, he's interested (and willing to pay me), so we'll work something out.

Or perhaps we'll simply exchange services, as I've been wondering how much Spanish Joey really understands.  Maybe in exchange for English "lessons" for tortilla store man's daughter, I'll send my son over to his house a few hours a week so they can fill his head with Spanish.

And if others are interested, perhaps we'll grow from there!

Oooo--the possibilities! 

Parras Double-Take

Mario worked the last two weekends in a row and I had enough.  I needed to get out.  Anywhere.  The trouble is 1) I haven't had much practice driving on Mexican highways, therefore I lack the confidence to go much of anywhere, and 2) we live in Saltillo, so there are very few towns and cities within four hours of us (half of those nearby towns and cities are off-limits, thanks to narco-violence . . . *sigh*). 

For a weekend our options are:
    1)  Monterrey--but I refuse to drive there.  I just don't know it well enough and it just re-joined our "safe" list, but I'm not looking to press my luck.  We'll take a bus one of these days.

     2)  San Luis Potosi--four hours south.  Just farther away than I wanted to go.  Plus, it's rumored to be packed during Holy Week.

     3)  Texas--but my parents were visiting from the US.  Seems kind of silly to take them back there for a weekend.  Let's face it--Laredo isn't THAT interesting, and anywhere that is interesting (San Antonio, South Padre Island) is just too far for a two-day weekend.

      4)  Parras--two hours west of here.  Small town, achieved Pueblo Magico status, so it's charming.  Not much to do, but it's always a good time. 

At the Estanquillo with a view of Santo Madero

Being my first trek onto the highways, I decided to try the easiest and most boring road possible . . . Parras it was! 

My plan was to take the kids swimming at the Estanquillo La Luz (a lovely, shady reservoir).  When we got there, it turned out to be chillier than we anticipated, but the three of us with swimsuits braved the water anyway.  Then we had lunch at La Casona (basically the only place we eat in Parras . . . find the plaza with the big kiosk (just past the plaza with the clock, La Plaza del Reloj, creo) find the Neveria Chepo and keep walking in that direction.  Pass Hotel Santa Isabel and it will be on the opposite side of the street).  Amazing beef.  

I was hoping to stock up on wine at Casa Madero, but we left town at 6 and they had already closed.  Nuts. 

Enjoying the very slippery kiddie pool

Warming up with Grandma

The very freshly painted kiddie pool.  Clara's swimsuit is now coated yellow.

Since I wasn't able to stockpile wine, we returned to Parras with Mario this weekend (the day before Easter).  Stockpiling accomplished. 

The chapel at Casa Madero, decked out for Easter.

Note to self (and anyone else who reads this, of course):  Parras gets PACKED the day before Easter.  People were waiting in a huge line for Casa Madero tours.  Usually it's the tour guides who are waiting around.  Oddly, I didn't see much wine leaving the sale house. 

We were hoping to re-visit the Estanquillo, but given the crowds at Casa Madero, we figured it would be packed with people.  So we plunked ourselves at the Casona again, wandered town, drooled over fantastic hippie jewelry on the Plaza del Reloj, enjoyed some ice cream, and called it a day. 

So thanks again, Parras. We'll be back. 

I just couldn't get over the fact that there was a line for tours.  And that many people in the line.  Wow.

But not for another two months or so. 

Being good little Mexicans and playing in the water on Sabado de Gloria.

Thoroughly enjoying his ice cream.

Four Pounds I Won't Be Toting Across Borders Anymore

For years, when people would ask me if there was anything they could bring back for me from the US, I was ready with an answer--peanut butter.

Peanut butter is sold here:  creamy, chunky, and natural.  But almost always in teeny-tiny containers for prices larger than I cared to pay.  Moving to the north made a tremendous difference, the jar sizes are a good deal bigger, but still . . . I had already conditioned myself into importing my peanut butter.

However, when we went to Texas for Christmas, I failed to realize that we were almost out of peanut butter.  So it never crossed my mind on our stockpiling trip to HEB to get that 4-pound jar which would see us through another year.

What to do?  Break down and buy the expensive Mexican stuff?  Nah . . .

See, after every party we attended over the Christmas season, we were sent home with multiple goodie bags.  Of course they're always filled with candy, but to plump up the size of the bag (and maybe to provide some nutritional value?), everyone adds a generous handful (or three) of peanuts.  After February 2ed we found ourselves sitting pretty on a lot of non-salted peanuts.

Do you eat non-salted peanuts?  Neither do we.  (But if you do, good for you!)

Do you see where this is going?  No peanut butter . . . lots of peanuts on hand . . .

Blended without oil

Yep, Clara and I spent a chunk of an afternoon shelling peanuts (Joey tried hard to help).  Then we popped them in the blender, added a little oil and salt, and after plenty of scraping we had peanut butter!

Homeade, sugar-free, natural peanut butter!  Woo-hoo!

While I didn't measure exactly how many peanuts I had, my rough estimates are:
       1 cup shelled peanuts
       1 tablespoon peanut oil (we tried vegetable oil the first time.  Unsurprisingly, it wasn't that good.  I wonder what coconut oil would make it taste like?)
        1/4 tsp-1/2 tsp salt

        Throw it all together in the blender.  Scrape the sides down then the blender is just whirring on nothing (fairly frequently).

Blending with oil (I think I added a wee bit too much)

         The hardest part is shelling the peanuts.  But if you've got a willing 4-year-old who just wants to spend some quality time with you, this definitely counts as quality time.

And yes, peanuts in their shells are sold in massive amounts quite affordable.  We will be doing this again.  And not just because I'm stingy. (Really, I'm not.  Or, I try not to be.)  Just like with the homemade yogurt experiment, I just wanted to try it out, just to see if I could.  After it turns out, I'm kind of like Tom Hanks's character in Castaway when he first lit a fire.  "I've made peanut butter!!!  PEANUT BUTTER!!!"

But then I continue to make the yogurt and peanut butter from scratch because they just taste so much better than the store-bought kind.  And I know exactly what is in them.

Did I tell you that it tastes better?

Final product--on an Oreo knockoff.  Mmmm.

So, if you're like me and balk at the price of natural peanut butter (or, live in Mexico and balk at the price of peanut butter in general), I encourage you to make it yourself.  It's beyond easy.      

One for the Pooper

I never, ever do this, but this year I made a New Year's Resolution. 

I've either picked up a number of bad habits over the last two years or so or I'm just getting lazy or a combination of both, plus a number of other factors.  But after almost single-handedly polishing off a quart of peanut butter ice cream over Christmas, it was clear that I was in desperate need of some changes.  (In my defense, my father-in-law DID buy it especially for me, two days before we were to leave Texas and I couldn't let it go to waste now, could I?)

So I decided that my mantra could be Self Control.  In any given situation that might have tripped me up, I ask myself or, better put, chant to myself, "self-control, self-control, self-control." 

I started off with one area of my life that felt like it was sliding out of control, and before I knew it, it seemed that all my ducks were getting in line.  I paid attention to what I ate, did some exercises, started running again, weaned the baby, read my Bible regularly, did yoga, meditated . . . life was reaching a newfound level of smug perfection.   I was just about to blog about how stinkin' well this whole Year of Self Control was shaping up.

Then yesterday, I was informed by the landlord that I needed to wait around for the roofer.  OK, I'll put off my Monday jog around the Alameda until today.  Then this morning, unannounced, the roofer returned.  Plans shot for another morning.  He left for lunch, promising to return with the landlord, making sure multiple times that I would be around this afternoon.

He never came back.

No one called with basic courtesy to let us know that we didn't have to babysit the house all afternoon on the off chance that that might feel like coming back (like they said they would).  After he was all, "how can you no be here tomorrow morning and not leave me the key?  What about my work?"  (This is also not the first time this has happened.)

What about my work, eh, buddy?  Just because I'm a stay-at-home mom, it doesn't literally mean that I stay at home all the time.  Shocker, I know, but sometimes there are things I really do need to do OUTSIDE of the house.

Oh, and he speaks to me like I'm a five-year-old.  Word to the wise, just because someone has an accent, it doesn't mean that their intelligence is impaired.

Even after leaving a scathing message on my landlord's machine, my rage is still consuming me.   
 
Not very zen-like.  Not very self-controlled.  Not after yelling at the kids a variety of times for the most minor of infractions (I have apologized).  Not after sitting in front of The Big Bang Theory downing countless chocolate-covered almonds and plenty of pomegranate liquor.  So here's another day for the pooper and we'll start over tomorrow. 

Maybe I'll even get some yoga in to let go of some rage so I can possibly sleep tonight. 

But if that roofer shows up tomorrow at 8am (especially after a night of rage-driven insomnia) after specifically telling him that I will not be here (and will NOT leave him with the keys), he'll be getting a verbal lashing.

With very short words, so he'll be sure to understand me.

***************************************************************************

I do realize that my perspective is coming up short here.  I mean, I'm filled with anger because . . . my house is getting fixed?  (Granted, for changes that I would rather not see take place.) 

I do realize that so many people are going through so many circumstances that are so very truly stressful.  My source of stress?  The non-overtly disrespectful roofer. 

I do see the irony, as I am one of the least punctual people that I know.

So boo to that uncontrolled anger that takes my day hostage. 

There's a duck I need to get in line.  Didn't even realize he was part of my duck herd. 

Making the Cutoff

Since Joey's birthday is at the very end of July, I've often wondered--will he make the cutoff for school?  (Or, in my head, be forced to start school a year earlier than I'd prefer?)  Given traditional school cutoff dates, it's pretty much guaranteed he'll either be the youngest or oldest kid in his class.  I've known kids on both sides of the spectrum and they've all turned out well.  I know it's not a big, hairy deal. 

But I really, really wanted him to be older, instead of younger. 

So while we were signing Clara up for school, I asked the principal, out of curiosity, where Joey falls on the cutoff date spectrum.  Her answer rocked my socks. 

Apparently TONS of people were changing their children's birth certificates in order to get them into school early (or late, as my case might be).  So the SEP did away with the cutoff date and said, "if you were born in 2009, you're in the first year of preschool this year.  Born in 2008, Kinder II."  Bam.  So simple. 

So Clara--not Joe--will be one of the oldest kids in her class.  Joe will be smack in the middle. 

Gotta say, I never expected that. 

Way to make things simple, SEP!