The morning of the reunion, we sat down to what we came to refer to as Bacon-Day-#3. The whole family crowded around the table, elbow to elbow, laughing and telling stories. My brother-in-law had purchased some barbacoa to contribute to the rise of our cholesterol. Now, to us gringos, “barbacoa” seems self-explanatory. Say it out loud…go on, I’ll wait…. Barbecue, right? Warning: if you like a healthy dose of denial along with your barbacoa, skip ahead to the next paragraph. Sure, barbacoa resembles what a Texan would call BBQ, except for the absence of sauce, in that it is basically a mound of shredded meat. What makes it NOT BBQ is it’s source. It is also called “cabeza.” Spanish 101 coming back to you? Yep, it’s cow head. Or more appropriately, cow face. Cheeks and tongue. Thought you should know that before the next time you order a barbacoa taco.

Now, my brother-in-law (we’re gonna call him BIL for short, because hyphens are hard for me to hit in the dark) is known for his tendency to be a bit…different. My children introduce him to their friends by saying “This is my Uncle Salty. He eats cow eyeballs.” Oh, yes he does. And did. He ordered enough to share. In an exchange that sounded frighteningly like the stoner in an after-school-special enticing the straight kid to just-say-yes (come on, you’ll like it…just try it), the BIL waved the container under The Hubby’s nose. It was at this point that I announced that I wasn’t sure how many toothbrushings would have to take place between eye-ball-eating and wife-kissing, but that it was probably more than twenty.

After filling myself with bacon (because while I will eat things WITH faces, I will not eat an actual face), it was time to get dressed for the reunion. I tried on the same three pairs of jeans nine times, each time berating myself for not starting that diet a few months sooner. I dressed the kids, and we headed out.

The first thing I noticed about the banquet hall was the door handles. Levers. Remember that scene in Jurassic Park, the one where Laura Dern says “Unless they figure out how to open doors,” and next thing you see is a scaly green dino-claw plying the door handle? Well, levers are about as effective at keeping Mason contained as they were the velociraptors. This did not bode well.

Our basic strategy when out and about with Mason is to keep him in his stroller for as long as possible. This lasted through a few introductions, a snack, and a private guitar concert of Beatles’ tunes courtesy of cousin Dave. Then with a banshee-worthy wail, Mason announced that the chaos would now begin. Reluctantly, I freed the velociraptor–I mean, Mason.

What happened next is kind of a blur. There was a lot of running, conversations broken mid-sentence by me saying “Oops–gotta run,” and more running.

Somewhere in the chaos, Ramie realized that she occupied an undesirable void: all the English-speaking kids were a lot older than she was. “That’s okay,” I encouraged her as I ran after Mason. “Your Tia Sandra and I don’t speak the same language, and we’re still good friends.” “But Mom, you’re old.” Thanks, Sweetie….

Now, I really did feel sorry for Ramie. The older kids were all doing their own thing, and the younger kids were truly quite a bit younger. This was no fun for her. She wanted to go home. I know this because she said “This is no fun for me. I want to go home.” And she said it over. And over. And….

So here’s the mental picture: I’m chasing Mason in 5″ heels (me, not him) calling back versions of “soon, honey” over my shoulder to the 5-year old who by now has decided the best strategy is to tackle me by wrapping her body around my legs. By about the hundredth time she whines “When are we leaving?” I give up on saying “soon,” and instead try “Never. It’s all been an evil plot. This is your new home. Have a nice day.” Mason once again crawls out from under that “cognitively disabled” label and takes advantage of my momentary lack of attention to duck into a gap in the crowd and head for the door. Once I discover his escape, I’m off like a geriatric Charlie’s Angel in my 5″ heels, catching up with him just outside the building.

Did I mention that there was no alcohol served at this function?

Ramie finally joins Ethan, Riley, and two cousins outside where Ethan has found an enormous wolf spider and has adopted it as a pet. He has also–for some reason known only to him–managed to hand-tease his moppy hair into an enormous Don King lookin’ nightmare, and is scaring one of the little cousins through the front window. So for now the whining has stopped, but the chasing continues. We do laps around the outside of the building in the July Rio Grande Valley humidity. I keep telling myself that it’s cosmic punishment for consuming bacon three days in a row. Inside they are taking pictures, and everyone notices that we’re gone, but nobody comes to find us. So we keep walking.

Finally, I manage to wrangle Mason back into the A/C so I can grab a bottle of water. The mariachi band has arrived, and Mason is having a blast dancing. I do have to rush after him once to stop him from pulling a concho off a musician’s costume, and afterward he goes back to lifting up his shirt to show his belly while he dances (Mason, not the mariachi).

It’s a good kind of tired when the music stops and the goodbyes start. The Hubby has reconnected with family members he hasn’t seen in thirty years, my kids have spent quality time with the cousins they only see once a year, and I’ve gotten a decent cardio workout. Besides, tomorrow is our “free day”–nothing on the schedule. We can sleep in, celebrate Bacon Day #4, and maybe all my Mason Chasin’ has earned me a little time to head to Starbucks by myself.

What’s that honey? Everyone had so much fun that we’re doing this again tomorrow?

Next up: The added stress of knick-knacks, broken promises, and I’m fairly sure that’s justifiable cause for calling time-out….