Mom Wild‑N‑Out in Mexico, Pickleball Champion of the Golden Years

Mom—aka The Diva—has officially taken her pickleball obsession international. For those following along, you already know she treats pickleball like a religion and her wardrobe like a competitive sport. Coordination is key when you’re a Texas woman with flair.

When she first told us she signed up for a “pickleball camp,” we all pictured something rustic in the woods. You know—cabins, bug spray, maybe a lake. Nope. She meant a luxury, all‑inclusive resort on the pristine beaches of Tulum. Of course she did.

Proof of Life, Day Two

It wasn’t until day two that my sister Toni finally received proof of life. Mom had hit the ground running—mapped out the entire resort, sent screenshots, and narrated her location like she was briefing a SEAL team.

Toni, ever the responsible one, replied, “Yes, Mom. I know where you are. I track your location.”

Mom had apparently forgotten that Toni tracks her every move because she’s convinced one day Mom will either wander off or forget what planet she’s on.

Mom proudly announced she was staying in “the fifth yellow building from left to right.”

Funny thing—it was also the fifth yellow building from right to left.

“So… the middle building?” I asked.

“No,” she insisted. “The fifth yellow building from left to right.”

Toni was already laughing. “Count it out, Momma.”

Mom waved us off like we were the ridiculous ones and moved on to describing the restaurants, bars, pools, and—most importantly—the pickleball pros. According to her, the pros were “four handsome young men and two pretty young women,” which she delivered with the enthusiasm of someone narrating a telenovela.

She also casually mentioned, “My legs! Not as bad as Sicily. Three doctors in our group looked at them. I’ll be fine.”

Classic Diva energy: swollen legs? Heat rash? Possibly dying? Doesn’t matter—pickleball first.

Matching Outfits, Obviously

Throughout the week, she sent photos, and only near the end did Toni and I realize she and her friend had bought matching outfits for each day. Of course they did. That’s peak Mom.

When her legs swelled up again, my wife and sister both told her to wear compression socks. She immediately rejected the idea because “those things are ugly.”

So I ordered her some anyway—bright, fun colors to match her two dozen pickleball outfits.

The FaceTime Saga

On her last day, Mom attempted to FaceTime us. It started as audio only because she couldn’t figure out how to turn the camera on. Toni and I kept repeating, “Tap the video icon,” which felt like déjà vu after explaining to our dad—her ex-husband—how he somehow deleted the entire FaceTime app from his phone.

Are Toni and I the only ones who struggle with Baby Boomer tech support?

Eventually Mom hit the right button, and there she was—talking a mile a minute about her spa morning and hydrotherapy. It was also obvious she’d had a few drinks.

She corrected us quickly: “You know I don’t drink margaritas. I had a few Jack Daniels and Cokes.”

“Way to class up the joint, Momma,” I said as Toni and I laughed.

At one point, she bullied her sweet friend sitting next to her—not in a mean way, just in that tone everyone who knows her recognizes. The “I run this train” tone. She was correcting their dinner plans, insisting they couldn’t eat until they got dressed up and had a drink at the bar. Her friends know the tone. They've accepted the tone. It keeps the group on schedule.

Fast Forward: Back in Texas

A few days after she returned home, she called me while I was walking Cooper around North Park.

“I just got back from the optometrist,” she said. “I’ve been having vision issues in my left eye. It’s affecting my pickleball game. I went in hoping to get contacts.”

“Reasonable,” I said. “You did have PRK fifteen years ago.”

“Well,” she continued, “the doctor looked in my left eye and found a contact. It’s been in there a long time.”

“Say what? You forgot you had a contact in your eye? How does that even happen?”

She ignored my disbelief. “I guess I forgot one was in there. Now I have to use these drops every two hours until my eye heals.”

“How are you going to remember that when you couldn’t remember the contact—or your morning pills?”

“Oh, I don’t forget my pills anymore. They’re next to the coffee pot now. I caved.”

“Are you sure you want contacts after this?”

“Of course. I can’t wear glasses on the pickleball court. They don’t look cool.”

“Unless you forget you have them in, and the doctor has to pry them off your eyeball under sedation. Sure, Mom.”

Then, without warning, she pivoted: “Speaking of sedation, have you talked to Toni today? She was so tired yesterday, I think she was doing drugs.”

“What? Mom—Toni doesn’t do drugs.”

“Well, you never know. Could explain a lot.”

“Explain what? She’s doing great.”

“I know, I’m just messing with you. But seriously, have you heard from her?”

“No, Mom. Check your missed calls. Or—and hear me out—you could call her.”

“No one likes a smart ass, Travis Dale. But you’re right.”

Closing Thoughts

Another snapshot of life with The Diva. I hope you enjoyed it, and maybe see a little of your own mother in the chaos. I’m incredibly blessed to have such an active, hilarious, unpredictable mom. Even when she’s two French fries short of a Happy Meal, she keeps life interesting. She lives fully, loves deeply, and only becomes difficult when she’s bored—which is one of many reasons why we lovingly call her husband “Super Dave.”

Stay tuned for more conversations, and follow along on all my author platforms.