During my childhood years, and all the way into my high 20’s  I lived in the same house. I never once experienced a change of address. That dance didn’t start until I moved to the  States: I am now in my 5th address since I moved to California in 2001.

Building a house wasn’t something I ever envisioned, for several reasons: there are thousands of nice houses already built, big, small, old, new,  one story, 2 story homes, white, yellow, beige, gray (in terms of color that is about it- most people are afraid of color in this Country). Additionally,  there was always another reason in the back of my mind: absolutely unaffordable.

I remember some 6 years ago, when my sister and her family bought an older house and remodeled it. It all sounded so grand: choosing tiles, kitchen appliances, bathroom and light fixtures. A lot of work but in the end, an enormous project that changed their lives and that resulted in a beautiful house that they now enjoy so much.

About 2 or 3 years ago, my husband and I were determined to move to a newer and slightly larger house. Our current neighbors aren’t exactly friendly, our street is too busy and noisy, and we needed extra room for guests that come visit. During the 11 years we have lived in this house, we have never felt a sense of belonging to a neighborhood, a closer tighter group of families, a  community.  Added to that,  my mom moves around in a  wheelchair: it is hard to accommodate her comfortably in this house. And that is something that I have always wanted, to have her stay with me instead of a hotel :(.

The fact that the kids don’t have a play area,- but take over our living room instead- doesn’t help either. So the search started for a larger house: we wanted  something not so old (our current home is almost 20 years old) in a decent neighborhood and a good school district, on a cul de sac and close to town, and one story of course, because we are tired of the stairs, and with a spare room for guests and room for my home office, with a nice big kitchen…Now, since my husband was raised in the Midwest, he wanted  a nice big lot, with room for fruit trees and maybe a chef’s garden! …a piece of land big enough  to not have the neighbors 10 feet away on either side, but a nice buffer instead, surrounding our house.

Slowly but surely, after months of house hunting we realized our list had too many requisites; it seemed like what we were looking for did not really exist…within our budget anyway. I personally gave up on it, and resigned to live in our current house for at least the Elementary School years.

Some 4 or 5 months into the search, my husband and I  found exactly what we were looking for. A 5 Acre lot (a bit over the size we intended) in an agricultural zone where only groves and homes are permitted. No large buildings, no commercial zone, no traffic. It overlooks rolling hills covered with rows of citrus and avocado trees. It sits atop a hill, which allows for an ocean breeze, a beautiful sunset view and, yes, it is on a small street that dead-ends.  The drive to town, is only 12 minutes. The nearest hospital, 20- yes, I always think of the hospitals because of my son’s Peanut allergy :(.

While I have never imagined myself living in what will feel the “country”, I have to admit I am excited about the privacy, the silence, the views, the fresh unpolluted air that will surround us. The space, which for me, means relaxation and even meditation.

I am not entirely sure how our children will take this change, if they will embrace it or hate us for the next 10 years.

We purchased the lot in April 2014; it had 200+ avocado trees, most of them neglected and sick, yet bearing fruit. Also, along the front fence, some 50 very healthy grapefruit trees. The type of grapefruit (Ruby Star) that is so sweet, they have asked me if I inject it with sugar.

My husband had to read up on avocados, citrus trees, water management, disease, and who knows what else. It has been a year of dealing with the business of selling the fruit, managing the irrigation system, with some help from a neighbor. Me? from the moment our neighbor-to-be warned us about rattlesnakes in the area, I have tried to keep a distance and watch my step when I go pick grapefruit for myself and friends, who love the fruit as well.

I decided to read to the kids (and myself) about rattlesnakes, what they look like, so not to confuse them with the type of snake that is GOOD for the land (gopher eaters and such), how to react and how NOT TO react, etc

That same week we all read about it, my son and I encountered a good sized snake at the park, we were walking on the sidewalk, and it just stuck out it’s head a bit and stared, and we both did exactly was the magazine said not to: panicked, screamed, and took off running with our backs to the garden snake.

So, I guess we are still not ready to respond appropriately.

The plan after we purchased the lot, was to build a home a year later. The financial responsibility was huge, so taking it in 2 steps would help us plan better and save up.

So now, a year and a half later, this adventure is about to begin.

With the help of some friends, the help of our own 2 kids and the amazing speed of a chipper we rented, we cleared out the area where the house will sit.

After many hours of extenuating and back breaking work, in cruel summer weather, about 60 avocado trees were cut down and shredded to make way for the tractor to come in and start grading.

A week later the area was graded and I got the real feel for what we are about to begin: a life changing event, a project of our own, a dream come true -as cheesy as it sounds.

My eyes got a bit teary as I took pictures of the views and of the kids standing next to the tractor.  A couple of will-be-neighbors have stopped to look, to say hi and to welcome us to the area.

It has been a bit stressful: applying for a substantial loan, making changes in our current budget in order to accommodate what is coming, making important decisions about the floor plan, size, layout, etc

Some of the decisions we are making now will have an impact for years to come,  some huge some minor, still- they make you hesitate and wonder- did I choose right? Was that a good idea?

The fact that our economy – as a country- has been a bit unstable, not to mention the Real Estate Market, adds to the pressure. But the fact that both my husband’s and my job have been stable, provides peace of mind and confidence. Everything will be ok, we can make this happen, we will do it, and in the end we will love it.

The estimated time of completion – according to our carefully selected contractor- is 6 months.  Therefore, we will be moving before the school year ends.

I am thrilled, I am nervous, I am stressed, and I am super super happy and grateful about it.  Grateful that while I have close friends that have lost their homes or don’t have the certainty of keeping the one they live in, or extreme cases like the millions that live in tents in the other side of the world- displaced from their homelands, I am stressed about which tiles to choose for my new bathroom.

My intention is to document every step with pictures and writing on my blog about it.

Happy building to us

🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About 6 months ago, after strong encouragement from my husband,  I took advantage of an irresistible airline sale and bought a ticket to go visit my mom…alone…with no kids…nada…solo.

The date seemed so far away back then, and suddenly…like an avalanche, time closed in on me. I never even discussed the trip with the kids (I always give them a fair warning when I leave for a trip).

I also forgot to put it down on the family calendar on our bulletin white board…where all important (and some unimportant) events are announced.

My daughter had her birthday a day before my trip, so the idea of packing and running last minute errands was out of the question. Instead I spent all afternoon assisting in a Paint your own T-shirt project, setting up a dance performance (with young judges critiquing and announcing if each dancer passed the test or not), making bacon wrapped hot dogs and finally, cutting cake.  There were gymnastics and Krav Maga lessons to end the afternoon; when I took a deep breath at 7pm and felt the itch of starting to pack, I realized there was no milk, ham and cinnamon rolls that I had promised my daughter for the weekend…the weekend I would be gone.

I ended up going to the store that night. My husband helped out with dinner and the evening routine, so I was able to start packing at 8pm.

When my kids saw the suitcase sitting on my bed, they were close to offended because this time they were not invited to come with me.

I explained that this time I needed to go alone to spend some quality time with my mom.

I was done packing in an hour, after my daughter came to offer help packing. She said “the faster you finish the more time you can be with me”.

So we watched TV for a while and we chatted and we said prayers.

She thanked me profusely for her little birthday party and though a little bit sad, she was content when she went to sleep.

The next day I woke up at 6:30am, same as my clockwork son.

I left my room to snuggle up with him and as he made a tiny sliver of room in his twin size bed for me (he and his 3 ft. Teddy bear uses up most of the space), he said…“you can’t just suddenly leave, you know”. He demanded a 10 minute back rub, which I happily delivered, and afterwards he appeared to forgive my sudden trip and asked for a “private breakfast”. This is what he calls a very early breakfast in which only us two are invited.

We had eggs, bacon and chocolate milk and talked about the video games on his new 3ds (which he purchased with his cat-sitting money). I normally understand a third of his very animated conversations, in which characters, health, power, accessories, decor, team members and loyalty are talked about. All these, within the confines of his little screen worlds.

I arrived in Monterrey that evening, and the moist hot air hit me the moment I stepped out of the Airport. My Dad, at 71, still makes me nervous with his fast driving, but he refused to let me drive. So while I appreciated the warm welcome and the ride home, the 45 minute drive was a bit stressful.

I spent the next 4 days so leisurely it was hard to sit still. I am just not used to it, not having a routine, a plan, a meal to cook, some chores to finish, kids to deal with. I have to say, I really enjoyed it.

Every visit to the home where I grew up brings back many, many memories. The very smell of the house, of the kitchen. The sounds the dining room chairs make when we drag them to sit or push them in after a 30 minute chat when the meals are over (“sobremesa”).

This family time which seems to drag on after lunch and dinner, was what I enjoyed and miss the most.

Whenever we visit, we still do it: we eat dessert with all the calm in the world, we drink coffee as we swat persistent blood thirsty mosquitoes under the table, we reminisce over childhood memories, we pick on the variety of cookies, pastries or regional desserts my mom ALWAYS has, occasionally a family friend will stop by and visit, if not we eventually give in to our aching backs that are screaming for a break.

I don’t ever remember a lunch or dinner when right after we ate, we stood up to leave. It was almost rude and only acceptable is someone was sick or in a rush to get back to work.

Lunch break in Mexico can be anywhere between 1 and 2 hours, so the “sobremesa” is almost part of the lunch break.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to implement this at home. I try, but it is not so easy when your kids are still young and jumpy and they spend half the time arguing and competing for attention.

My daughter takes quite a bit of time to start her meals; then some more to eat, and some more to finish up and clear her place.  This stretched out meal time, serves the rest of us to chat and talk about our day, but it is more a consequence than a planned savored deal.

Back to my trip, I went to have coffee with my mother and friends (average age 68- I was the baby). I almost always go with them when I visit. I do enjoy listening the perspective of women that have walked the path I am headed to, that have traveled quite a bit, that have lost loved ones, that though live in a modern and affluent society, still have the customs and values of the 50’s and 60’s.

It amazes me to see them on their smart phones, showing each other their grand kids, their travel shoots. How much that generation has seen, learned and how many technological obstacles overcome!

Sometimes I try to understand how the Morse code translated into messages that were to be printed into the form of a telegram, or how the screechy sound of a fax is able to transmit an image.  How DVD’s contain a movie or how a chip the size of my Pinky fingernail can hold as much information as a computer.

During my stay, my parents and I went to our favorite Lebanese Restaurant, which only serves on Wednesdays and Sundays. It is Buffet style so the amount of food that I put in my mouth is usually sinful- and I never regret it.

This food reminds me of my Grandmother’s Sisters who prepared all these Lebanese delights every single Sunday; all those summers I spend in Chihuahua, were marked as weeks that ended in this Family Sunday, where abundant food, abundant noise and plenty of cigarette smoke where all part of the feast. And not to forget, the coffee cup readings that my Aunt Jeannett did for family and friends.

The smell of Turkish coffee is sealed in my mind almost as heavily as the cigarette smoke.

So I wonder, if it’s the Lebanese food that I love, or the memories attached to it that bring such pleasure. Judging by the number of Stuffed Grape Leafs I had, I have to say, I do love the food.

I only get the luxury of visiting my parents 2 or 3 times a year, so the signs of our aging (theirs and mine) are more evident. Just like the house itself, crying for paint here and there, or a loose wood plank begging to be replaced, both my parents and I show our signs, in our own way. My mom used to to marathon-shopping and back to back movies in the Theatre. My Dad used to be able to walk for quite a while at the mall, the park, anywhere. He used to walk so fast, I had a hard time keeping up.

I used to go out and party ‘til the sun was coming up. I used to sleep in, soundly.

Now my mom’s eyes are like windows that show you exactly how tired she is every moment. My Dad’s pace when he walks begs you to slow down for him.  His driving, though fast, is more reckless.

Me? I went out on 2 occasions with friends, once ‘til 2 am another ‘til 3. After that, my voice sounded hoarse like I was sick for almost a week and I could not stop yawning for days, despite the copious amounts of coffee I drank.

The city itself also shows signs of aging. The streets and avenues clearly cannot keep up with the population’s growth. The excessive rain takes a toll on roads and buildings, but also has made the parks and mountains more lush and green. The mountains in Monterrey are majestic and imposing; I have to see them with my own eyes to remember this. No photo does justice to their beauty.

The small skinny trees that were planted in the park across from my parents’ house have grown taller and thicker, providing the park with a welcoming shade for joggers and children. One afternoon, observing the park, I couldn’t help but remember one hard fall I had while riding a bike, when the park was still bare and we considered it “off-road”. There were dirt ramps that my cousins and I would ride really fast in order to go airborne and land a good 5 feet below. I realized that I was more of a tomboy than I thought. 🙂

I remember landing on my face after jumping off the ramp, on a purple bike NOT made for off-roading. I still remember the stinging when someone at home cleaned the dirt off my cheek and forehead with antiseptic. I must have been 10 or so.

Every time I visit I wonder if I could ever go back, for good. To live there permanently with my husband and kids. Unfortunately my answer is always no.  One gets used to everything, they say. Wherever life, work, or family takes you, you survive, so yes, we would all survive, but the longer I live in California, the more foreign I feel in my own hometown.

I see too many people trapped in a social stereotype, in a shell they would love to break and can’t. Trapped in a life style they can’t afford or in a set of values they don’t necessarily believe in.

Trapped in a corrupt economic and political system they despise and yet, either don’t care to change or have tried fruitlessly, or are too afraid because of fear of reprisal.

I see a county with poverty that breaks me to look at, so I choose to help form a distance. I see a country with millions of people still carrying the oppression of the Spanish Conquistadores in their attitudes, in their insecurity, on their lack of self-esteem.

About a year ago, I stood in line for 90 minutes to cross the border by foot. Almost when I was reaching the US, a group of teenagers cut the line and stood just a few feet in front of me. Just like that. I felt my back pulsating in pain after all the time standing, and my feet swollen, and could not believe my eyes and how ballsy these people had been. I looked around me to see if anyone reacted, nothing…

I started yelling at them, demanding they got out of the line and calling them names. Then I looked at the people close to me, who had clearly seen it all, and questioned them. “Why don’t you say anything? Why do you allow them to do this? Is this what you are teaching your kids?”- some adults had kids with them.

No one spoke. The kids eventually left the line and I was enraged by the lack of backbone of the crowd. I finished by saying to them “That is why Mexico is where it is, you need to speak up!”

A minute later I plugged my headphones in and decided to shut up before I got shot by a Narco from Tijuana. I had kids waiting at home, but I had made my point.

The days that followed, this haunted me and saddened me; I realized that Mexico carries history heavily in its current generations, carries resentment and the feeling of abuse and inferiority.

The higher, affluent class, can feel otherwise because “things” can be bought, rules don’t necessarily count if you have the money.

But I also see hope. And optimism and a fight for justice, from a class that is empowered and that is tired of the abuse and the lies. An educated group of young individuals who are willing to sacrifice a lot to defend the rights of the people. I just hope these leaders don’t give up.  Mexico is a beautiful and rich country – it deserves better.

During this trip, I took the time to visit my Mom’s sister. She is one of the most generous women I know, generous with her time, her heart, her whole person. I admire her greatly and felt fortunate to get a couple of hours of her undivided attention. After catching up on family matters, we walked through her library (she is a writer, editor, publicist and who knows what else I might be missing) in search of a book she wanted to give me for my birthday. Along the way, she showed me a phrase I hand wrote and glued on a cutout cardboard for her; it spoke about the art of redacting, as in composing. The ink is fading, but I recognized my 20 year old handwriting. I don’t remember where I copied the phrase from, but it really moved me to see that in the busy life, busy house and busy library of this amazing woman, there was room for a 20 year old simple gift. It made me think of how easily I let go off “things” (I fear hoarding and hoarders). It made me realize how little things can mean something bigger later in life.

Back to my trip again, I felt grateful for these 5 days with my mom and dad, for their time, for their love and their foot and back rubbing (my Dad gives the best foot rub).

For the memories that almost come back to life. For the faithful cook, Licha, that has been with them for over 40 years. For those friends who show such affection and interest in my life and my family, and make an effort to come see me when I am in town.

I left on the 6^th day, early in the morning, with the much hated sound of my suitcase rolling out of the room. I really do hate this sound. It means good bye. It means lump in my throat. It means my mom trying her best not to cry. It means too sick to my stomach to eat breakfast, even though I am hungry.

I flew back tired and yawning but with a rested and happy soul, and was greeted at home by my kids with Welcome Home paintings (that was my daughter, of course) and unusually tight hugs and kisses.

My heart feels divided sometimes. Times like this.

It feels good to be home, and to be back home.

Eleven years ago,  when my husband and I choose the house we now live in, we liked the idea of having an elementary school just blocks away from home. We didn’t even have kids back then; we were clueless about many things that were headed our way,  because having kids had been in our plans ever since we were dating.
A year later our son was born; 16 months later our daughter was born.  I never stopped working my full time job; this was accomplished with the help of my husband, full time daycare for four costly years, and of course. .. hard work, good will and lots of patience.
I remember during those day care years,  taking long walks, pushing our enormous double stroller close to the neighboring school. I would look at my babies, making baby noises, grinning big at me while I sweated and panted trying desperately to loose weight and inches around my disappearing waist.
The principal’s voice through the PA announcing what was for lunch that day, then reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, then making final announcements to those stay at home moms that still lingered leisurely on the school grounds chatting in small groups.
I get ridiculously emotional sometimes for random events that deep down move my soul and my most inner self. This was one of them.
The voice of the Principal, calm and cordial, brought tears to my eyes…because it made me think  that before I knew it, I would be walking these two babies that sat in my double stroller, into that school.
Just imagining that picture made me teary eyed, proud and extremely happy.
In the afternoon, I would see dozens of kids walking back home through our front window.  And I wondered, what will our babies look like at that age? Will they walk alone? With friends? Will they do well with homework and all the busy goings on of school? Will I?
Five years later there I was, walking our son to school, who was thrilled not to be wearing a Montessori uniform anymore. There were moms in tears, while their kids (some of which had never left home) were thrilled to be with so many little friends, having their own set of crayons and a desk!
Because of potential anxiety attacks (from kids and moms) all parents were asked to stay that morning. But by day two, the real thing started.
I left the school with a very heavy heart, refusing to cry a river, I let out only a couple of tears, which that seemed to have emerged from my tight and pained throat.
A year later the same happened with my daughter’s first day.
We were fortunate to have the same teacher for both kids. One of the most compassionate,  patient and empathetic teachers I have met so far. The phrase “She was born to be a teacher” fits her to perfection.

One of the next milestones was when they each reached the minimum weight required to ride next to me as opposed to on the back seat.
No more looking through the rear view mirror to check if the tiny thing is breathing,  or choking, or to see the tiny faces as they chat away non stop with their endless questions about life. No more nursery rhymes to tolerate just to hear them sing a little.
The side by side conversations started taking place in the car. The more serious questions about how to drive, when to signal, when to stop. What is that man there doing pushing a shopping cart with clothes? Why is that building yellow? What is that crane carrying?
And then more challenging like…why are you taking this way home? Why are you looking at your phone?   Or the more mature ones like,  how was your day Mom? or That is where my friend lives!
Moving to the front seat is, I guess in a way like, opening a huge window before their eyes. A new piece of the huge puzzle that is life.
Yesterday, for the first time, we gave our daughter the key to the house, so that both kids could walk home after school. Something I said I would NEVER do. Being the paranoid person I can be, I have always feared suspicious black vans snatching kids from the sidewalk, or the house catching fire while the kids are home alone.
Last year proved to be a difficult one with the children maturing into more challenging little persons, that are more confident on what they want, what they believe in and what matters to them.
Their overall behavior -while showing more responsibility-  has been also been harder to deal with…because of one simple reason: they think they’ve got it all figured out. This pre-teen attitude, while it annoys me greatly, has also revealed that they can perfectly manage on their own for a couple of hours. During this past year, we have taken the time to teach them how to make their own school lunches, how to do their laundry and put their clothes away,  how to load and start the dishwasher, how to feed and bathe our pet lizard,  how to make popcorn and toast; taught them which afternoon snacks are OK and which ones totally require an ‘OK’ from their Dad or me and last,  how to lock and unlock the front door with a key.
Typing this feels easy but it was all accomplished after many months of whining,  spilling detergent, washing with no soap at all, burning several bags of popcorn and many slices of bread, wearing very wrinkly clothes because they weren’t retrieved from the dryer while they were still warm, but the day after instead.
Now I can proudly say we are sowing those seeds.
For several years the kids have complained about going to After School Care. As a working mom, I carry the guilt of having to leave them at school for several hours until their Dad picks them up.
Just recently I discussed with my husband the possibility of letting the kids walk home, do their homework and chores,  and cancelling daycare all together.
We both realized that the kids would be absolutely fine. While happy inside, I felt the milestone heavy on my shoulders.  One more step…letting go one more inch off the “Independence Rope”.
So yesterday was that day.
My daughter called minutes after getting home just to say they were home and to ask…Can I have a fruit roll up and a juice? ‘cuz I am pretty hungry.
Thirty minutes later she called and said I am still hungry, can I have more snacks?
As I was driving back home, I thought of how unaccustomed she is to being home alone yet so “trained” to ask before eating anything,  it will take her a while to relax and have a bite without calling me first. It was adorable.
My son on the other hand, found no need to call me.  By the time I got home he had raided the bagels,  Gatorade stock and who know what else. He has the appetite of a teenager already.
I fear our College fund contributions should be temporarily shifted to a new Growth Spurt Pantry Fund.
Another totally unexpected milestone fell in the cracks of these past days too: during an off road day trip last weekend, my husband decided to let our son behind the wheel of his very big pick up truck. I didn’t believe either of them until I saw it on video. My jaw dropped as I saw him driving alone, slowly turning the wheel as directed; I looked at my husband with questioning eyes and he just said …it was all sand..nothing to crash against…all open space.

When I asked my little man if he got nervous he just replied No Mom! I was happy.
In my mind I screamed…he is only 10!!!!
It is these little but big steps that I want to remember, the steps that make the stairway to adulthood. I hope I am there to see them and enjoy them all.

A long awaited 4 day weekend just passed. A break I desperately needed, and the kids just wanted for the simple and obvious reason  : NO SCHOOL. It was a break  during which -like most weekends and other Holiday Weekends- I was looking forward to family time, to fun and yummee cooking and playing games with my kids.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, the almost instinctive behaviour of cleaning and finishing neglected chores takes over me gradually but surely. No matter how hard I try to keep in mind, with bright yellow mental POST IT notes: “I want to relax and have fun”- my motherly and housewife responsibilities win the game in the end.

I looked up a recipe that looked (initially) simple and delicious -Cannon does wonders with photos- and realized I had all the ingredients it called for.

I spent, all in all, a good 2 hours in the kitchen. So what exactly determines the “Preparation Time” in those impossible recipes??? I wonder! From the time you start taking out the ingredients, ’til you are done cleaning up the kitchen, (not including doing dishes of course), it is invariably, over an hour.

During the time I was in the kitchen, standing with both my back and legs hurting (I am definitely getting old fast), my kids were mostly alone, watching TV, playing Chess or just picking at each other out of boredom. The day was beautiful, so I felt even more miserable inside the house just peeking through my kitchen window.

Dinner was served and to be honest, the flavor wasn’t that great,  it just “filled the hole”. My poor husband, who is recovering from a nose surgery, could barely taste anything those days, so whatever resulted from my recipe, wouldn’t have really mattered.  At the end of the day, just to get out of the house I took a walk with the kids and went to shoot some basketball. I wondered, is cooking really worth it? That afternoon, actually that whole weekend, the answer was: NO!

All I could think of was my brother and sister  in Mexico, who both have live in help and realized that I would give an arm and a leg to have someone cook us some decent  meals while I play with my kids, or watch a movie with them or exercise with them, a goal I’ve had in mind for years now.

I already spend too much precious time at work and commuting to/from work, so the hours I have left at home I would very much like to spend them relaxing and building nice memories with the whole family. I see both my kids stretching by the hour, so tall, so grown up, and it makes me miss the toddler days sometimes- just sometimes.

They are at the age when you can have all types of interesting conversations, almost like an adult, an age in which they still let you inside their thoughts, their fears and anxieties without feeling prejudiced or embarrassed.  An age that will soon pass and I will miss and could regret for having spent half the time cooking and doing dishes.

Middle School is fast approaching and I have a feeling my son could easily shut down when feeling lonely, sad or -even worse- angry. I am trying to build a very strong bridge between us, that he can walk to and fro with all the ease in the world: to come to me, and let me come to him.

The only times I can say “YES It was worth it!” with confidence, are the times I have sat on the floor to build a toy ,  played a board game or gone for a walk or hike with them. Or the times I have engaged in a 20 minute conversation with them , about something they did not understand and needed to be explained. Just recently they both asked me about Home Loans, Credit Scores and Credit Cards. At 8 & 10 years old, I had to keep it simple with very basic math, explaining that the Credit Score was like our Report Card with how good or bad we behave with our money. It lasted 10 minutes and the next day, my daughter decided to open a savings account with  her $5.40.

Was it worth it?  Yes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

Some say, cities have their own scent, or a fragrance if you find it pleasant. I have found this to be truth, probably not for every place I have been fortunate to visit, but definitely true for Chihuahua. My parents’ hometown, a city where I spent countless summers and Christmases; a city that, though I will never call it my own hometown, has always offered a certain feel of coming home.

It does have it’s own sweet scent. I am not good at describing what my nose clearly recognizes, but it certainly is unique. It could be its soil, it’s trees, the scarce humidity in the air. Whatever it is, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. A scent that dominates my nostrils as I disembark the plane, just before the smell of fuel plane hits me hard. The day Chihuahua’s airport is developed enough to have a dozen tunnels for passengers coming off the planes, this effect will never be the same. The scent of the city will not be the first welcoming sign. Instead, I will be welcomed by the noises and smells of a busy airport.

During the drive into the city, memories came clearly and quickly to me head. My earliest memories of snow and seriously cold weather; my first “Santa” gifts. My first visit to my newlywed sister who I still miss like the first day she left for her honeymoon. My arrival late one night after a rushed flight, when my grandmother Olga died. The memory of her cold serene body laying there, waiting for us to arrive at her bedside to say our last goodbyes, even after she was already gone. It was Olga who taught me my very first words in English; who taught me how to do dishes, to pace myself while eating chocolate (that one never worked). She used to give me a little white tiny ramekin filled with a dozen or so m&m’s in the middle of the afternoon, during the many summers I spent in Chihuahua. M&Ms were  a highly desired snack. One which I savored tremendously, specially since I was only given a few to eat: sharing was out of the question. Nowadays, when I get even the faintest whiff of the colorful little candy pieces, it immediately takes me back to her 60’s kitchen were I had to sit down at her Formica table to enjoy my 12 m&m’s.

I also remembered the last months of her life, her generous figure and powerful and resolved manner reduced to a petite weak body; her once loud and strong voice , that had turned to a  barely audible whisper and her moves had turned slow and gentle. Yet, in this ethereal and fragile state, she would ask me to pluck her eyebrows, apply make up to her cheeks and put her clip-on earrings on her very soft and tender earlobes. She was a proud woman. In a good way.

ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis) took her, a little bit at a time, first the muscles, the strength, the voice, then the smiles, the hard yelling at us kids that would dare misbehave, but never, NEVER her pride. And never the tender look in her eyes, a look that was reserved for my grandfather Juan. The only one she aloud to care for her, to put her to bed every singly night during her bed-bound months.

Spending some quality time with my grandmother Olga during her last months, explains a lot about my mother’s own strong will, her self worth and her eagerness to strive, NO MATTER WHAT.

I spent five days in Chihuahua. After my visit, during which I had quite a variety of intense experiences, I left the city feeling exhausted – inside and out. But a good kind of exhausted: I felt weary but content; tired but full of energy inside to start working on some new personal goals. Sleepy but too excited to close my eyes during the 3 hour flight back home.

During these 5 days, I was fortunate, very fortunate, to take part in a series of workshops with several members of my family. These sessions were actually the reason for my trip. I was not expecting to learn so much about my self so I was tremendously surprised and impressed with the quality of the Counselors and the effectiveness of every exercise I took part in. A 40 page booklet was given to each of us, and while I do not intend to copy its contents into my blog for lack of relevance in some if its pages, I do feel almost obligated to share some simple and wise principles that could very likely be useful to anyone that is reading this.

We should be able to attain happiness on our own , with our on resources, in our very own circumstances. We should not depend on an external element to reach that state of mind: not a spouse/partner, not a child, not a job. It should be self fulfilling. If along the way  we have a loved one(s) to share this happiness with- great! If not, that should not diminish our accomplishment of being happy.

Our state of mind, our mood, even our countenance, should not be determined by another. We should not let another person be our emotional thermometer.

Body language is as important as verbal language. When we want to deliver a message that is important and serious business, then act like so: eye contact, good posture and sitting or standing right across our recipient will most definitely assist in making our message come across with sincerity and clarity. Same thing when we listen, really listen, maintain eye contact. It is very difficult to comprehend and grasp a message when we are texting, writing, cleaning while we “listen” (even when you say “go on, I am listening!”)

When talking or listening to children, procure level eye to eye conversations.

Learn to accept that our way is only one way: there are other ways to accomplish a same goal, and instead of refusing to widen our views, we should not only respect other people’s ways but hopefully learn from them.

Take what others give you gladly without expecting or wanting more. Just enjoy the gift as it is.

These are just some of the ideas I have fresh still and wanted to share.

Spending time with many loved relatives, aunts and uncles that I have always loved and admired, made me feel very much part of a bigger unit: my extended family. I felt loved, admired and cherished by them.
My sister (who was my hostess too) made me coffee and a healthy start breakfast every single morning and brought it to my room. Such a simple gesture and yet I felt like a pampered guest at a 5 star resort. My very good friend from Elementary school (who I still consider one of my best friends) took me to the movies and the most scrumptious street tacos. Add to that: we went to get manicures together. I forgot what it feels like to get so much attention so I enjoyed every second of it.
Chihuahua has grown. A lot in fact. There’s traffic. There’s pollution. There’s dozens of US fast food chains. There’s graffiti and poverty. There’s many new neighborhoods that clearly mark the different social strata. There’s Audis and there’s beautiful country clubs. World class restaurants and upscale Salons.
But deep down, the humble demeanor of its people is still hanging in the air.
In the eyes of the lady at the cheese shop, or the bakery. There’s infinite courtesy as you are waited on at a restaurant or assisted at check in at the airport. It is still a small town. A kind, friendly and slow paced town full of people that get up every day to work hard, to endure the cold, to share a smile, even when there’s some fear in their hearts.
I will always feel welcomed here. It will always make me smile, even when there are tears in my eyes.
My childhood memories are many. I take them with me to many places and I feel blessed for reliving them. They bring me joy and they remind me that my children are creating their own…right now.

I write as I fly bound to Chihuahua Mexico. A stewardess just announced that the duration of the flight is 1hr 58min. And what came to mind was, 1:58 to read and to write on my blog.

While excited for a much needed break after months of very tedious and endless days of work, I can’t help to feel a teeny tiny bit sad for my 2 kids that almost cried when I left them.

My daughter asked “Are there terrorists in Mexico mom?” I immediately and with no hesitation assured her there aren’t any (thinking in my head that all the drug lords and their gruesome cartels are terrorists because they cause terror and fear through their horrific doings).

When I asked why she was worried about that she said “What if there are terrorists on your plane? Like all those planes that have crashed!”   I made a mental note to self: DO NOT WATCH CNN WITH KIDS ANYMORE.

Just before 2014 ended- a year which many will not miss or remember with a smile on their faces- a third plane went missing. I say a third because 2 planes had suddenly escaped from radar detection just months prior.

Remains of this third aircraft (Air Asia) and some 40 bodies were found 2 or 3 days later. The second occurrence (Malaysia Air Flight 370)   is still a mystery and my kids happened to barge into my bedroom one evening when I was watching a CNN Special Report on the mysterious events that took place right before contact was lost with the Pilot.

I changed the channel but they both screamed, yelled and begged to watch more. I asked if they were ok with it, made sure it didn’t make them scared. They both nodded in agreement: they were just fine. They found it all fascinating: the size of the plane, the way it diverted its route with no explanation and the fact that no one will ever know what really happened because there are no findings, no survivors, no stupid terrorists proudly announcing it was their doing.

But last night my daughter proved herself wrong (after saying she was fine looking at the images on the screen) when she admitted her fear of me getting on a plane that could be taken by terrorists. She was scared and she should not have seen the documentary. Ok, I will rephrase, I should have changed the channel –period!

Lesson learned. Moving on. So my kids where sad last night, at the same time I was excited about seeing my family for just under a week. Very excited actually. I have to admit, the idea of not cooking, doing dishes or laundry for a full 6 days is always enthralling to me, so it added to the excitement.

My germ-phobic side inundated me the moment I made my first restroom break. I had a laptop, a duffle bag and my purse and there was not a single hook in my stall. I will not get into details of how I managed to “go” without putting a single one of my items on the floor. I will just say laughed at myself in there. Let the fun of travelling begin!

My next overwhelming moment was when, settled into my first row seat, I heard an older lady (I wonder when people will start calling me “older”) started coughing her lungs out, no elbow covering her mouth , no tissue, nothing. Only all these uninvited germs flying all over the cabin, which meant I would, sooner or later, breathe them too. So I got tight lipped and very consciously ordered myself to breathe through my nose only, hoping that my much hated nose hairs would do the job of filtering the germs out. (I am still breathing through the nose only as I type).

A minute later the steward yells at my neighbor for videotaping during take-off, through her window. “No video, only photos”. Go figure. Clearly surprised, she put her Ipad away. I couldn’t help but ask myself: what is so spectacular about taking off over Tijuana?

Then, I immediately remembered just two weeks ago, I was taking pictures of the many empty seats, row after row, at a baseball stadium, because to me, the pattern, the shine on each back rest, the perfection of the rows, looked absolutely beautiful. Many people might have wondered exactly the same thing: what the heck is she taking pictures of?

Reminded and aware that one of my endless resolutions (not for 2015 but a life-long resolution) is not to judge, I decided to forgive my neighbor for attempting to videotape what, to me, was such a meaningless scene.

I am looking forward to the 35 F Degree weather that awaits me. I love winter, I love the cold; it makes me feel very alive, very present in each moment, unlike 100F heat, where I feel like I am weak and melting and evaporating into a dreamy state. Cold air makes my skin feel tight and young. It almost makes me want to toss all my face creams in a bin! My coats, which have been collecting dust and lint for many months now, will finally get some fresh crisp cold air and my boots will remember the shape of my feet again.

If there is any melancholy in my heart right now, it is only because I could not bring my Canon EOS along. I am going to see relatives that I only get to see every 2 or 3 years. Their faces change, their expressions, and the city itself changes too. I love capturing all that with my lens. My phone’s camera will have to do for now.

My #1 Item in my “To-do” list as soon as I set foot off the plane: buy a travel size antibacterial gel.

Chihuahua, here I come.