On the Road in Mexico -- How Magical Thinking Saved a Birthday

It was 1994, and my husband's job transfer took us to Mexico City. We drove through Baja California, and, having missed our booking on the ferry from Cabo San Lucas to the mainland, managed to get a place on a surprisingly uncrowded night ferry. Unbeknownst to us until we boarded, it was the garbage ferry, also known as the "carga negra."

Grimy, tired and our senses imbued with the lingering odor of the carga negra, my husband and I were in foul moods as we checked into the Hotel Plaza Mazatlan. In contrast, our two young sons showed no ill effects from having spent the night on a garbage scow. They were enjoying every moment of our road trip, and gazed with fascination at mile after mile of the desert landscape, pointing out bizarre cactus formations. They sang along with gusto as we played their cassette tape, again and again, from the soundtrack of The Lion King.

Mazatlan was lovely, as always, Bright and sunshiny, the Hotel Playa Mazatlan had beautiful resort pools and incomparable Mexican breakfasts. We quickly recovered from the ferry ride and spent a few days relaxing at the beach before embarking upon the next stage of our trip.

It was late July, and our youngest son's fourth birthday was imminent. Our older son, whose birthday had coincided with the Minnesota portion of our home leave, got to celebrate his seventh birthday at the Mall of America .

We tried to think of something to do in Mazatlan which our soon-to-be four year old would find appropriately awesome. The previous year, our younger son's birthday party consisted of a little family gathering by a chilly swimming pool in the windswept Pyrenees. The birthday cake had three gag birthday candles which couldn't be blown out. Our son was not very verbal yet, but if he could have spoken, he probably would have asked, "Is this the best you can do?" Only a month earlier, our older son's birthday gala was held at the McDonald's at Shopping Cascais, followed by a trip to Divertilandia with all of his second grade classmates.

Back in Mazatlan, on the day of my son's birthday, I went to a local beach shop near the Hotel Playa Mazatlan and found a cute set of purple swim trunks, child-size flippers, a snorkel and a face mask. They were nice, but I worried whether our little son would find our family birthday dinner and little gift packages underwhelming. I began to obsess, as parents are wont to do, whether we ever would succeed in throwing a birthday party for our younger son that was in every respect as nice as the parties we had thrown for his older brother.

At dinner, we discreetly arranged with our waiter to bring our son's dessert to the table alit with a sparkler. The glowing Buñuelo (fritter with honey topped with ice cream) arrived, and was suitably impressive. We ate our desserts and watched our son open his gifts. We had prime seats in the hotel restaurant and could see the starry nighttime sky and watch the waves of the Pacific crashing against the beach. As we were finishing, dozens of straw structures, which I thought were beach shelters, suddenly began to explode. The structures were filled with fireworks and were part of the hotel's weekly Sunday fireworks spectacle. As we watched fireworks shoot out over the water as far as the eye could see, in a burst of inspiration, my husband said to our son, "These are especially for you, Eric. Do you like them?" Our solemn little son, genuinely surprised, hugged each of us in turn and declared, "This is the best birthday ever!"

A few more years and several thousands of miles later, we returned to the U.S. for good. Our sons' birthday celebrations adhered to the prescribed American suburban template -- sleepovers, laser tag, and Dave & Buster's. These blowouts frequently garnered our younger son's gratitude and his fervent statement, "This is the best birthday ever!", but the first time he said it to us was the sweetest.