Before my front door was even shut, I heard the words calling me over.
"Row-bean .... ROW-bean! ... Ven!"
A beautiful 24-year-old dressed in a sparkly blouse and full makeup waved her hand violently.
"Hola Sandra," I called back, stepping lightly toward the drinking circle set up on the dusty street. It was a small group of 20-somethings consisting of several host relatives and some neighbors, all passing the small glass around with the chelas. It was mother's day. They were celebrating. And I highly doubted they were sober.
"Row-bean," Sandra said again as I approached. "I need to talk to you. Do you know anything about medicines?"
"Medicines?" I asked, slightly confused. "No, not really. Sorry."
The lip-sticked corners of her mouth drooped.
"Oh ... It's just my son, Josep."
He won't eat, she told me. He'll only eat milk — like he's 1 or 2, but he's 3 years old! He fights her all the time. He says 'Mommy! You don't love me! You make me eat plants!'
"Will he eat eggs?" I interrupted gently. She nodded. I explained how to cut up the vegetables very small and put them into an omelet, so he won't notice.
She works hard to buy his milk, she continued. She gets up at 6 a.m. and works until 7 p.m. to make sure that he never goes without. Sometimes, she goes without a new blouse or jewelry, but her son, Josep, never. She always tries to get him to eat his vegetables. 'To be big and strong like Spiderman' she tells him.
"That's really good," I assured her. "It's obvious you're doing the best you can."
He calls his grandmother mamá, she went on. When she gets home from a long day at work and is tired, sometimes she snaps at him. The minute she walks in the door, he's shouting about how he wants his milk, and she can't handle it. She's tired. 'Go away, Sandra' her mother tells her. 'I'll take care of him.' Sometimes he tells her that he hates her, she said, eyes swelling.
"I know that must really hurt you," I said. "But he's 3, he doesn't understand why you're away from him."
And then Miguel, she said. Miguel asks her why she won't spend enough time with him. Why she won't go to bed with him. 'I'm tired!' she cried out. 'I'm tired all the time!' She gets home from work, and she has to wash the dishes, wash the clothes, make dinner. She doesn't even have time to spend with her own son.
"You don't even have much time for you," I said softly.
"I don't!" she said. But she doesn't want to lose her husband. They've had their problems, she admitted. They were separated for a nearly a year. "But we have four years together," she said. "Three of those with the baby." He talks about other girls to her. He works when he wants to. He doesn't get that she doesn't even have time for my her son.
She'd been clinging to the drinking glass, and her friends in the circle were getting annoyed. She swallowed the last of the beer, and passed it along.
"Row-bean .... ROW-bean! ... Ven!"
A beautiful 24-year-old dressed in a sparkly blouse and full makeup waved her hand violently.
"Hola Sandra," I called back, stepping lightly toward the drinking circle set up on the dusty street. It was a small group of 20-somethings consisting of several host relatives and some neighbors, all passing the small glass around with the chelas. It was mother's day. They were celebrating. And I highly doubted they were sober.
"Row-bean," Sandra said again as I approached. "I need to talk to you. Do you know anything about medicines?"
"Medicines?" I asked, slightly confused. "No, not really. Sorry."
The lip-sticked corners of her mouth drooped.
"Oh ... It's just my son, Josep."
He won't eat, she told me. He'll only eat milk — like he's 1 or 2, but he's 3 years old! He fights her all the time. He says 'Mommy! You don't love me! You make me eat plants!'
"Will he eat eggs?" I interrupted gently. She nodded. I explained how to cut up the vegetables very small and put them into an omelet, so he won't notice.
She works hard to buy his milk, she continued. She gets up at 6 a.m. and works until 7 p.m. to make sure that he never goes without. Sometimes, she goes without a new blouse or jewelry, but her son, Josep, never. She always tries to get him to eat his vegetables. 'To be big and strong like Spiderman' she tells him.
"That's really good," I assured her. "It's obvious you're doing the best you can."
He calls his grandmother mamá, she went on. When she gets home from a long day at work and is tired, sometimes she snaps at him. The minute she walks in the door, he's shouting about how he wants his milk, and she can't handle it. She's tired. 'Go away, Sandra' her mother tells her. 'I'll take care of him.' Sometimes he tells her that he hates her, she said, eyes swelling.
"I know that must really hurt you," I said. "But he's 3, he doesn't understand why you're away from him."
And then Miguel, she said. Miguel asks her why she won't spend enough time with him. Why she won't go to bed with him. 'I'm tired!' she cried out. 'I'm tired all the time!' She gets home from work, and she has to wash the dishes, wash the clothes, make dinner. She doesn't even have time to spend with her own son.
"You don't even have much time for you," I said softly.
"I don't!" she said. But she doesn't want to lose her husband. They've had their problems, she admitted. They were separated for a nearly a year. "But we have four years together," she said. "Three of those with the baby." He talks about other girls to her. He works when he wants to. He doesn't get that she doesn't even have time for my her son.
She'd been clinging to the drinking glass, and her friends in the circle were getting annoyed. She swallowed the last of the beer, and passed it along.
She paused, looking down at a splatter of foam on the ground.
"I tell him that if he eats his vegetables, he'll be big and strong like Spiderman," she said almost whispering. "I just want to be a good mom."
"You are," I said, and grabbed her hand until it stopped trembling.
"I tell him that if he eats his vegetables, he'll be big and strong like Spiderman," she said almost whispering. "I just want to be a good mom."
"You are," I said, and grabbed her hand until it stopped trembling.
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