spoiled fruits of empire

Last week, Poppy’s grandparents (aka the lovely strangers), drove cross-country to be with us.   They spent a few days adjusting to the Texan heat and then, together, we flew to a wedding in Mexico.

If their most recent visit with us was a passion play, where Poppy experienced suspicions about the smiley strangers in her home, then this trip was more like a comic opera.

The protagonists were Poppy and her adoring grandfather (“Papa”).  Secondary characters like me, Walter and Poppy’s grandmother (“Gram”) served only to move the plot forward.  Choral back-up and crowd scenes were supplied by wedding guests and/or local Mexicans.

In the overture to this opéra comique, Poppy discovered that it was easy to say her grandfather’s name.

“Papa”, she mouthed quietly to herself.

“That’s right!” we exclaimed, pointing with excitement at one half of the lovely strangers.

“Papa!” she declared with confidence, reaching her arms up to her grandfather.  The swooning gent stepped forward to claim both name and child.

He was a smitten man.

The benefit of a smitten man is that he is easy to take advantage of.   Thus, despite my child’s vigorous resistance to change – and her ability to sing arias of outrage at every turn – we left Papa alone, in a strange country, with a toddler prone to tantrums.

Meanwhile, we went to a wedding on the shores of Puerto Morales, and watched a beloved friend marry his beautiful bride.

After the ceremony, there was a brief choral interlude where I wondered (histrionically) whether Papa would survive the ordeal.  Walter and Gram sang a reassuring duet, accompanied by the entire ensemble of cocktail waiters doing a dance routine with tequila.

Soon, I too was dancing with abandon into the humid, Cancun night.

Time passed quickly.  From the high color and song of the Mexican wedding, we returned, with trepidation, to the veil of quiet that shrouded our hotel door.  Would the protagonists still be alive?  Would Papa be covered in poop?

We opened the door and crept inside, stifling tequila-laced giggles.  Poppy lay asleep with her bottom in the air and Papa lay flat-backed on the bed, his vibrant colors dulled like a fish washed up on the shore.

He began to recite a heart-rending aria.

“I gave her toys after her nap”, he opined, “but she did not like that”.  

A feint beat of a drum speckled the silence.

“So I took her to the beach.  She did not like that either.” 

A single violin hummed.

“I put her feet in the sea.” 

The trembling of reed instruments. 

“But she hated that.”

“So I gave her some Happy Baby Organic Apple Sauce.”

A triangle went ting.

“This did not make her happy.” 

Papa looked wan, and he sang with down-cast eyes.

“I took her for dinner and gave her vegetables.”  

The gathering sigh of string instruments. 

“The broccoli made her cry.”

“But then,” he said, sitting up in bed, “I gave her some ice-cream.”   

Orchestral music soared.  The full cast of beach-goers, wedding guests and waiters burst onto the stage and began to dance.  Light returned to Papa’s eyes and color to his gills.

“She liked that,” he cried.

“So, I gave her some chocolate.”

“That made her happy!”

“Oh, so happy!”

“So we stayed up late, very very late, feasting on chocolate and candy!”

“Poppy liked that!” he sang.

“And Papa liked that too!”

Papa closed with operatic bombast and, to an orchestral crescendo, he and the ensemble danced off stage.

At precisely 5 a.m. the next day, Walter and I were awoken with song.

“Papa?” intoned a little voice from the crib in the corner.

“Papa!  Papa!” it sang with increasing, happy volume.  The owner of the voice stood up in the crib and danced an elegant routine whilst drumming her fists on the bars.

Curtains closed on this Mexican opera to the sounds of cymbals clashing inside my head.

Brava Poppy!  Bravo Papa!  An excellent performance.   Though, just so you know for next time, secondary characters are not supposed to have hangovers.