When Abuela Calls: Pulling Kids Out of School for Family in Mexico

Mira. Abuela called on a Sunday night. She said, in the voice that does not entertain a counter-offer, "Mija, el miércoles voy a hacer birria de chivo." That is the entire conversation. There is no follow-up. There is no "if you're free." Abuela is eighty-three. Abuela is making birria de chivo on Wednesday. We are going. School can absolutely send make-up work, and they will, and Matty will do it, and that is not the part of this story that matters. Híjole, the part that matters is the goat.

So. By Monday morning I had emailed the teacher. By Monday lunch I had four flights booked Austin to Guadalajara, leaving Tuesday after school pickup, returning Friday afternoon. Brian rearranged two work calls. Matty did his Monday spelling test in a state of barely-contained anticipation. Sophie packed her own bag, which contained: one shoe, three stuffed animals, a tortilla press she will not be allowed to bring on the plane, and her toothbrush. Vale, mija, vale.

The Family-Comes-First Math

I'm going to say this plainly because it took me a long time to say it without flinching: in our family, family events take precedence over school. Not college admissions. Not the SAT. School. Specifically: second-grade Tuesday. The reason is not that I don't value school — I value it a lot — it's that school is a renewable resource and Abuela is not.

She is eighty-three. She is sharp, she is healthy, she is still cooking three meals a day. She is also eighty-three. Every birthday is THE birthday. Every "I'm making birria on Wednesday" is potentially a memory my kids carry for fifty years. The math is not close. We go.

The Email I Sent Matty's Teacher

To: Mrs. Hernández
Subject: Matty out Wed–Fri — family trip to Guadalajara
Body: Hi Mrs. Hernández, Matty's great-grandmother in Guadalajara is hosting a family meal mid-week and we're flying down Tuesday after school, returning Friday afternoon. He'll miss Wednesday and Thursday — please send any work along and I'll make sure it gets done in transit and on return. Thanks for being flexible. — Jess

That is it. No medical fiction. No vague "family emergency." Just the truth: we are going to a meal at his great-grandmother's house and he will miss two days. Mrs. Hernández replied within the hour with a packet and a smiley face. Most teachers are way more reasonable than the internet would have you believe. Ándale, just ask plainly.

Wednesday at Abuela's

We landed Tuesday at 9 PM, took an Uber to her place off Chapultepec, and Abuela was already on the front step in her apron because of course she was. Sophie ran to her at full speed. Matty hugged her around the waist for a long time. Brian did the slightly-too-formal cheek kiss he has been doing for fifteen years and Abuela patted his face and said "todavía no aprendes el español, m'ijo." In her tone of total fondness. Híjole, Brian, fifteen years.

The birria itself takes two days. She'd started Tuesday morning. By the time we walked in Tuesday night the whole house smelled like guajillo, ancho, cloves, cumin, and slow goat. We didn't eat that night — birria is for tomorrow. That night we ate cold chicken sandwiches standing in the kitchen and went to sleep happy.

What Wednesday Looked Like

7 AM — coffee with Abuela. She's been up since five. She will not sit down. She will not let me help. I peel one onion and she takes it from me.
9 AM — Matty goes with my tío to the tortillería on the corner. Comes back with a stack of corn tortillas wrapped in a cloth, eight pesos, like a tiny adult.
11 AM — cousins start arriving. Sophie disappears into the patio with a herd of seven kids speaking rapid-fire Spanish. She is the youngest by eighteen months. She does not care. She comes back covered in mud at 3 PM.
1 PM — birria service. Bowls. Onion. Cilantro. Lime. Salsa de chile de árbol. Tortillas warm from the comal. There are seventeen people at the table. Abuela is the last to sit and the first to get up. Qué rico, no manches.
3 PM — coffee, pan dulce, the children are asleep on the floor. Brian is in deep conversation with my tío about, I am not making this up, Texas football, in fragmented Spanish that my tío is patiently translating into more fragmented English. Cariño, te amo.
7 PM — leftovers. Yes, again. Abuela tells the story about how she learned to make birria from HER abuela in Jalisco. Matty listens like he's memorizing it, because he is.

What Matty Learned in Three Days

You want to know what he came home with that he would not have come home with from Tuesday and Wednesday at school in Austin?

How to dry-toast guajillo chiles without burning them
The actual word for the cloth tortillas come wrapped in (servilleta, sometimes also chiquihuite for the basket — Abuela uses both)
What "de buen año" means and why people say it about goats
The names of three new second cousins and the rough ages of their kids
That my tío Beto played in a mariachi band in the seventies, which was new information for everyone
How to say grace at a Mexican family table, in Spanish, looking up at Abuela for cues

And one math worksheet. He did the math worksheet on the plane home. He got an A.

The Guilt-Free Part

I am not going to perform regret about this. I'm not going to do the "I know it's hard but..." thing. It's not hard. It's the easiest decision I make all year. Abuela calls and says she's making something on a Wednesday and I say yes. The fact that the something happens to coincide with a school day is incidental. School can wait. School will wait. School is in Austin. Abuela is in Guadalajara. The world arranges itself around Abuela. As it should. Ándale.

We flew home Friday afternoon. Matty fell asleep on the plane with birria leftovers in a Tupperware in his backpack, a fact I learned at customs in a way I will not soon recover from. Brian still cannot say "Jalisco" correctly, even on the way home from Jalisco, no manches mi amor. Sophie called Abuela "abue" for the rest of the week with the perfect tapatío lilt. So when your eighty-three-year-old great-grandmother calls and says she's making birria, you go. That's the whole post. Te lo digo con todo mi corazón. Cariño, you go.