When Your Children Think They Know Best
My children must think I’m naive, senile, stupid, or plain crazy. If you’re one of my readers, you know that I moved from California to Mexico recently at the age of 71. I didn’t wake up, one morning, thinking I’ll move to Mexico and jump in my car and start driving. I spent three years researching it. Here’s how the process went:
One day as I surfed on YouTube, I discovered a Vlog called Kinetic Kennons. They’re a young couple that moved to Mexico, and they make travel videos of the different towns and cities. When they started mentioning, how much cheaper it was to live in Mexico than in the United States, I decided that’s the place for me. I even announced to my friends on Facebook that I was moving to Mexico. At the time, I lived in Louisville, Kentucky. I had moved there to take care of my mother and aunt, but they had passed away so I soon moved back to my home state of California where my children and grandchildren live.
While living in California, I continued with my plans to move to Mexico. I found more Vlogs on YouTube of ex-pats living in Mexico. I told my children and friends about my plans and got the usual it isn’t safe, the cartel will kill you, etc., etc.
I have three children. The oldest one is the superintendent of a school district in California. He’s had an extremely stressful year keeping his district functioning due to Covid. Therefore, he hasn’t had time to worry about what Mom is doing. When I told him I was moving to Mazatlan in another week, his response was, “That’s interesting.” Translated: She’s crazy! The other two, although they also have full lives, have more time to worry about mom.
I moved to Mazatlan, Mexico a week and a half ago. Last Sunday, I got a call from my daughter, the purpose of which was to save me from myself, I suppose. She knew that I was looking for a permanent place to rent through a realtor.
Other ex-pats have told me not to go through a realtor because I’ll end up paying more. I ended up with a fantastic realtor who negotiated the price down for me. Not knowing the language or areas in Mazatlan, I didn’t want to go knocking on doors with a for rent sign on them. I felt it wasn’t safe.
So daughter calls me and says she wants the name, phone number, address, and anything else I know about this realtor. “Mom! You have to be careful! You can’t trust anyone!” While she’s giving me this laundry list of things I have to do to protect myself, I’m trying to explain to her about all the research I’ve done for three years. She stops me.
“Mom, doesn’t it make you feel good that I’m worried about you? Just let me tell you all of this.?”
This is the daughter who barely had time for me before I moved. This is the daughter who barely carried on a conversation with me because everything I said pushed her buttons. Several years ago she said that we couldn’t be friends because our personalities are too different. True. She’s very organized and on top of things, and I’m laid back and a procrastinator.
I let her finish her lecture and we hung up. I’m sure she felt better.
That evening I got a call from my youngest son. I could tell that he and his sister had been collaborating. I got the same lecture. The part that I liked went like this:
“Mom, when you get older your faculties diminish. There’s nothing wrong with that. It just happens.”
I discussed this with a friend of mine. “It sounds like they didn’t really think you were going to do this.” I agree.
From now on, I’m going to let them lecture me on how to be safe. They’ll feel better for it.
I’m glad that we live so far apart now. They won’t know what I’m doing, and I’ll make sure that I don’t tell them about my plans to take skydiving lessons.
