My little beach girl

Around January, after scraping ice off the windshield for the 43rd time, and looking at my pasty reflection in the mirror for the 92nd time, that was when I broke down.

And so, my husband and I booked a week in Mexico.

It’s a delicate thing - the decision to go on vacation in the midst of the biggest recession since the 1930’s. At a time when across the land job security is an oxymoron and my own newspaper is in bankruptcy. Unseemly. Rude even.

But while the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. And my flesh was yelling out for some sun and warmth after months in this tundra.

We headed to Ixtapa, to the kind of holiday we never would have taken before we had kids - the dreaded “all-inclusive.” It was…don’t tell anyone…a Club Med. Sometime in the last few years, Club Meds went all family friendly, no longer the haunts of tequila-guzzling singles looking to hook up with each other and willing GO’s. In fact, it was the “kids go free” offer in late February that cinched the deal for us.

Oh Cribsheeters, it was heaven. Never underestimate the power of buffets when you have hungry, cranky children at the table. Or organized activities that you yourself don’t have to organize. Free-flowing wine at meals. And the piece de resistance: all-day child care drop-off where they take your kids for to the beach, mini-golf and even circus school.

We swam, we played on the beach, lazed under palm trees. We ran in the surf, even did some trapeze training under the tutelage of a Cirque du Soleil aspirant. My husband’s archery instructor was from Brazil and had trained for the Sydney Olympics, but didn’t make the cut.

My mother-in-law Betty (aka “The Saint”) and I took Zumba dance classes. It was fun, but I suspect we won’t be Dancing with the Stars anytime soon. And it has nothing to do with the fact that we are not stars.

Everyone was ultra-friendly, and kids are always a good starting point for striking up a conversation. We met a lot of Canadians, who I guess were escaping from their own patch of tundra.

As with all holidays, there was some minor medical stuff. Maya erupted in a heat rash. The resort’s nurse quickly produced some anti-itch cream, which we complemented with a little Benadryl. She also had a bout of throwing up towards the end of the holiday, but nothing 24 hours of rest didn’t take care of.

The kids had their own room, with sculpted geckos on the wall. In the afternoons, when the heat outside got too much, they retreated to their little table for some mid-afternoon coloring.

The girls got their hair braided by women on the beach (”half head or full head?”), courtesy of a doting Grandma Betty. They were in a hip-hop show and a circus routine with other kids their age. Nothing like seeing the nightly variety shows through the wide eyes of your little ones to transcend the cheesy, manufactured-ness of it all. 

We came home warm and invigorated, reminded there is a world out there. (Even if that world includes drug gang shootings, all of which we were blissfully oblivious to, cocooned in our resort with security patroling the beach…)

Now every morning, Maya wakes up and says: “Can we go back to Mexico?”

I feel the same way.

Cribsheeters, any recession guilt to share? ‘Fess up.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 9th, 2009 at 10:07 am and is filed under Family Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.