Avoiding the daily battle of our pueblo

It was a good day yesterday. Good in the way that only taking a break from the everyday routine can be, especially when the sun is shining and the home team is winning. My colleagues and I spent a precious half-day away from work at the ballpark yesterday, watching balls and strikes and soaking in the wondrous spring afternoon sunshine, belatedly celebrating the boss’ birthday.

While we were at it, we pretended to care enough about Mexican holidays to have a few margaritas and raise a Cinco de Mayo toast. On the way home, I had the conspiratorial inspiration to break the regular home routine as well, if, and only if, one of my wonderful children could discover the tradition behind what I had always considered Margarita and Corona Day.

Wisely, I didn’t doubt The Puddinpop. Before long, he explained to me and the rest of my heathen brood that Cinco de Mayo is a celebration of the victory of the Mexican Army at the Battle of Puebla during the 1862 French intervention in Mexico. I have no idea what the French intervention was about, but I’m totally fine with celebrating the fact that the Mexicans won the battle. Had the French won, I doubt there would be a call for a round of margaritas, or even a round of Champaign. So let’s hear it for the plucky Mexicans, because they gave us something to celebrate with them, since we’re all such good neighbors and everything (nobody mention immigration).

At any rate, the goal was achieved; my son did a little research and we all learned something new. In this case, something I’d gone my whole life without knowing. Having succeeded at the appointed task, I then followed through on my promise and blended up a batch of green Powerade slushies for the kids to serve with some salsa queso dip for an unprecedented mid-week snack.

In the past, I’ve
mentioned that a family such as mine, being larger than average and with relatively young children, depends on keeping the regular daily routine for one’s sanity, if not survival. Perhaps that assertion might have been a little wrr…..um..…wrrr….incorrr…..well, a tad short-sighted. Sure, no one wants to play every day by ear, 365 days in a row. The kids would be swinging from the light fixtures and the Puddinette would be chanting softly and rocking in a fetal position on the floor. But every once in a while, especially when you have a foreign holiday to pretend you celebrate (see St. Patrick’s Day), it definitely adds some perspective to spend an afternoon at the ballpark and then whip up a little family fun before bedtime.

I wrecked the whole evening routine yesterday, and managed to avoid losing my temper even once. Last night, all was well in our own pueblo; perhaps variety really is the spice of life.

Then again, the margaritas probably didn’t hurt either.


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