Notes from the Paradero

no. 33

“Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.” - Steven King

The boys and I were by ourselves. Abuelita had gone to the market to sell cabbage, broccoli, parsley, and chamomile from her garden. The rest of the family went up to Lake Punta Olímpica. Lucca followed them out to the road.

At 3 o’clock, Leif, Enzo, Lucca, and I set out for Carhuaz. There’s a playground there the boys like. We flagged down a combi and climbed in. There was only one seat available, so I put Leif and Enzo in it. I stood, holding Lucca with one arm and the seatback with the other. The combi winds through the valley, with mountains flanking both sides. The sky is blue, and the sun is unfiltered and hot. I have hats for the boys to protect their heads. We get off at the paradero, the bus stop. The road is busy, and we must cross it to get into the city. I ask Leif and Enzo to hold onto my back pockets while I carry Lucca. At the next break in traffic, we dash across. Now we’re on the sidewalk.

“Playground or ice cream first?” I ask the boys.
“Playground.”

The playground is three blocks away. We walk slowly, checking for cars at each intersection. The boys' attention wanders to the candy in a tienda across the street. I urge them to stay alert, knowing how impulsive their movements can be. When we reach the playground, we find the gate closed.

“It’s not open, guys. Let’s go get ice cream.”

We carry on for two more blocks. The street opens into the Plaza de Armas. A fountain sits in the center, with eight paths fanning out, like spokes on a bicycle. Between each path is a patch of grass, orange roses, Chinese hibiscus, and weeping fig trees. Diagonally across the plaza is the Catholic church—the tallest building in the city. We walk along the edge of the plaza, cross the street, and turn right. The ice cream shop is three doors down.

I order four cups at 4 soles each. Leif and Enzo pick blue and pink. The colors guide their choices, not the names they can’t yet read. I pick mint chocolate chip for both Lucca and me. I choose my favorite, just in case he doesn’t finish and I “have” to help.

We cross the street again and sit on a high wall above the sidewalk in the plaza. We watch people pass by. A group of boys nearby look in our direction. They inch closer, consulting among themselves. I overhear fragments of their conversation—they’re trying to decide what to ask us.

One of the bolder boys speaks up. “Do you like Mr. Beast?”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Youtube,” he replies. He must be a YouTube influencer.

Then they ask, “Do you like America? Do you like Trump?”
“What do you think of Trump?” I respond.
“He’s ugly!” they shout, laughing. I laugh too.

“Do you want to go to America?”
“We don’t have money,” one says.

I find kids easy to talk to in Peru. They’re often eager to practice their English, and I try to respond in Spanish when I can. The boys leave to return to their bus. They’re from Huaraz, about an hour south.

We walk back to the playground. We take off our shoes at the entrance. The attendant wants to keep the turf clean. “Buenas tardes,” he says, as he saunters over to unlock the bathroom door. The playground is mostly empty—just one other girl and us.

The equipment is unforgiving—metal slides and structures over concrete with artificial turf laid on top. Two tall palm trees provide a little shade. “Hey Macarena” blares from a nearby restaurant. Car horns echo as drivers weave through the city.

The girl, 8 years old and named Brigid, follows us around the playground. She wants to know where we’re from and why we’re in Peru. I always say, “My husband is Peruvian.” That answer never satisfies. “But why are you here?” she follows up. She tells me about her siblings and takes turns on the swing with Leif and Enzo.

She points out that Leif and Enzo are pulling leaves off the weeping fig tree. The attendant walks over, scowling. He tugs Leif’s hair to get his attention, picks up the fallen leaves, and walks to the trash can, opening his palm to show me.

Now we have a strike against us. I don’t want more scrutiny. The boys continue on the seesaw. Enzo jumps off and climbs the tree, again grabbing leaves.

“Enzo, stop doing that!” I shout. But it’s too late—he already has a handful.
“Quick, grab your shoes. Let’s get out of here.”

I avoid the attendant’s eyes as we bolt across the street, giggling as we imagine him shaking his fist and calling us traviesos, as Abuelita would say.

With three boys, I expect mischief. I want them to be aware of others, but I don’t want to suppress their wild, half-baked experiments. Still, I won’t collude. I referee. I stay neutral. I only wish we’d left the park laughing.

Instead, this happened:
Leif was pumping higher and higher on the swing. Lucca jumped off his swing and darted in front of Leif, who kicked him mid-air. Lucca tumbled, his head thudded on the concrete. I rushed to him, consoling and checking for signs of injury.

“Leif, you need to watch what you’re doing,” I snapped, as if he could have halted mid-swing to avoid hitting his brother. He cried. Enzo coaxed him over to the trees, where they laughed and pulled at the leaves like monkeys. I didn’t notice—Lucca was still in my lap. The attendant beat me to the boys, scolding us silently with his eyes as he dropped leaves into the trash.

The boys ran to the seesaw, pumping wildly. Enzo’s side crashed down with a loud bang. Not wanting more scrutiny, I told them to get off.

Enzo climbed back into the tree. “That’s it. We’re going home. No one’s listening, and I’m tired.”
Leif cried.
“Put on your shoes.”

Monster Mom took over. Patience gone. Joy gone. I was spent.
“Mom, I can’t stop my tears,” Leif said.

Ashamed for my harsh tone, I hugged him tightly. I put on each of his shoes and gathered us up. We crossed the street and waited for a combi—our outing cut short. My nerves frayed.

Back at the casita, I wrote to release my pressure valve. Leifer brought me grilled corn. I kept writing through dinner.

“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said—because it was true.

I felt proud for taking the boys out alone. I felt relieved to be home. And I felt rattled by my own outbursts. The quiet helps me isolate my rough parenting moments, softening the monsters in my head.

At bedtime, Enzo reminded me:
“Mom, the monsters are so tiny we can squish them with our feet, right?”
“Yes, just like a bug,” I said. And we all laughed.

That’s when I realized—I, too, would squash my monsters for the night.

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