Edición dominical

Two days with a baby

paula

PAULA ARRIVED Friday evening. She brought Margarita with her.

Margarita, 23, is her mother, the daughter of one of my child bride’s many siblings, the sister who lives in the state capital.

Paula, being just eight months old, had to bring her mother along for the ride because Paula does not do much without assistance.

I’m not really a baby sort of guy. They make lots of noise and generally disregard all rules of hygiene and proper behavior. They think the universe revolves around them. Everyone knows it revolves around me.

I’m so not a baby sort of guy that I got a vasectomy when I was just 24.

But Paula is better than most babies, and has created little inconvenience. She does not cry. She does not howl. I’ve seen no evidence of poop or pee since she arrived, though I suspect we must credit her mother for that. Paula minds her own business, but your company is always met with a smile.

If you’re gonna have a baby in your house, invite Paula. She behaves herself far better than your run-of-the-mill kid, and she grins a lot. She is a good-humored child. I even held her a time or two, and it wasn’t that bad.

As I write this Sunday morning, we are preparing to drive to the state capital for shopping, eating at a restaurant and hauling Paula (and her mother) home to their small apartment. The two of them enjoyed a couple of nights at the Hacienda, and I rather enjoyed it too.

Mexican life

Fooling God

plants
Saturday morning on the veranda

THIS SATURDAY is somewhat different than most, so I thought I’d gossip with you about it.

Normally, Saturdays are identical. My child bride is in her private kitchen out by the property wall, preparing her pastries for the afternoon sale on the big plaza downtown.

But not today.  She’s going to church this morning.

But first, here’s what I’m doing, and it’s not much different than what I do every Saturday morning. I make rounds under the cursed peach tree scooping up fallen peaches to toss out.

Then I sweep the veranda. I hear the shower running in the bathroom, and I hear a lively Mexican tune blaring from the backstreet neighbors. I also hear the electric pump that’s sending water from the underground cistern to the tank atop the roof. And I hear birds. Lots of stuff to listen to.

Soon I’ll be hearing the lawnmower and weedeater because Abel the Deadpan Yardman arrives later to trim the grass.

The sky is blue. The air is crisp. The lawn is wet because it rained quite a spell last night, making sweet sounds.

Now here’s why she’s going to church. It’s to fool God.

Relatives often ask us to be godparents to the endless array of babies they birth because we look like the best deal going in the family. Problem is that our marriage was only a civil one, not a religious one. A judge connected us, and that’s not good enough to be godparents. I suppose we’re seen as living in sin.

There has been a recent spate of new babies among the bunny-breeding kin, so we received at least two new invites to godparenting. I pass. But my child bride really wants to. There’s nothing she loves more than babies.

This morning, she’s pretending to be single to get the proper paperwork, so she can be a godmother without me tagging along. The proper paperwork requires a three-hour instruction from a priest. She’s doing that in a church downtown.

I hope she remembers to remove her wedding ring.

This amuses me while I sweep the veranda and wait for Abel to cut the grass that I’ve already liberated of fallen, rotting peaches.

It’s a lovely morning.

Edición dominical

Paula comes calling

Who’s the Gringo with the camera?

OLE FELIPE’S not really a baby person, but sometimes you gotta make allowances.

The second generation of the Mexican relatives are mostly in their 20s, so they’re breeding like hamsters.

A baby slept here last night with her mama whose name is Margarita, just like the beverage, frozen or otherwise. This kid is named Paula, and she’s about a month old.

Paula brought her mother from the state capital yesterday due to a baby shower held last night for yet another niece who’s about to deposit yet another Mexican into this world.

For a baby, Paula is remarkable. She is nice and quiet. She sleeps through the night. She minds her own business. If she poops, I have neither seen nor smelled it.

Gracias to Margarita.

I scratched Paula’s head occasionally so she knows she’s not alone in the world. She held my finger.

Paula doesn’t howl. She doesn’t barf. She meditates.  If she keeps up the superlative behavior, she can visit again.

When she starts walking, we’ll have to renegotiate. Ambulatory humans below the age of 7 are nuisances.

But I own rope.

Mexican life

Dos vistas, again

new-image

I CALL MY wife a child bride, but hereabouts some people take the phrase more to heart and actually do it.

Walking around the main plaza the other day, I couldn’t help but notice this young mama for two reasons. One, her youth, and two, she was decked out like a banana.

The age of consent in Mexico varies by state, and can be as low as 12. In the State of Nayarit, it’s set at puberty.

Between 12 or puberty and 16, 17 or even 18, you’ve entered a nebulous zone, depending on individual states.

The entire matter appears to be legally muddy or, as Wikipedia phrases it, complex.

It was her attire that made just a black-and-white photo unfair. I wanted both views, and here they are.

color