Parenting, Protesting, and Persevering

no. 29

Last night I dreamt I had work—I was scheduled to conduct a training at the University of Texas, San Antonio. I had a co-worker who was supposed to help me with the boys, but instead of watching them herself, she scheduled someone else. When I found out, I told her to get my kids back. I was afraid—I didn’t know who they were with or where they were. When she returned with them, she wanted to charge me. I told her I wouldn’t pay. I was upset and just wanted to be with my kids.

The boys’ tío pointed out how rare it is not to see children at a counter making purchases on their own. We talked about how, as kids, we used to scrounge up any change we could to buy candy. So I gave Leif and Enzo a $20 bill and sent them inside a coffee shop to buy pastries for a playdate while I waited in the truck with a sleeping Lucca. Off they went. I was parked just outside the front door so I could keep an eye on them from a distance. I watched them at the counter. When they emerged, they had a young woman in tow. They had ordered a coffee for me—knowing how much I love it. In Leif’s hands was a white box with four pastries: a cinnamon roll, an apricot scone, a coffee cake, and one other. Enzo carried the change.
“Now we need to teach them not to spend everything they have,” Leifer told me.
“I didn’t learn that till my thirties, after I’d paid off my student loans,” I replied.

We protested on Saturday along with others around the country. I felt a sense of pride that my boys were out there at such a young age. It was energizing to be with others, and I was touched that our friends and family showed up for Leifer’s cause. We talked to people who asked, “Who is Leifer?” This is a family issue.

The very next day, I submitted a request to the White House, hoping it would reach Trump’s desk. Would he help reunite my family? I pleaded. I have mixed feelings about contacting him, but regardless of my personal opinions, I have to keep my children as my first priority.

I read to the boys last night. California summer days are long, and Lucca won’t settle until it’s completely dark. We cuddled in bed, reading together after showers and brushing teeth. Leif picked a book about two friends who build and build. Their creations are destroyed when they play, and the boys in the story are upset—until they realize it’s their friendship that will endure, not their structures.
“Maybe it’s only when everything around you is falling apart that you discover what is really built to last.”
That line resonates with me now, being back in California. Despite all the change, our community has been constant—there for us, built to last. I went to the protest on Saturday to be in community. I hope others felt that spark too.

When we left Peru, it was winter. Here, it’s summer. But a Moss Beach summer on the California coast is a blend of fog and sunshine. The boys eat popsicles. We wash the cars in the driveway. We perform the rituals of summer. We weed the garden. The work is slow. The boys are at my side—either participating or insisting I stop and give them my full attention. I scrub the tile in the bathrooms and wipe down the toilets. I try to do a good job, as Leifer would, knowing it will be a bit longer before he can attend to our house.

I try to focus only on the day in front of me, recalling Abuelita’s encouragement: “Tranquila.” My tenderness with the boys is growing. Enzo asks to sleep with me at night. I’m happiest and most at ease when we’re all in the same room, just like we are in Peru. Sometimes they wake in the middle of the night, and I make choices about who to go to first. It’s impossible. I shouldn’t have to make these choices alone—Leifer should be here. When the boys are sick at night, I still call on him as if he were by my side. We assess symptoms together. Enzo coughed so hard this morning that he vomited mucus. After I cleaned him up and got a sweater on him, I cuddled him while calling Leifer to talk it through.

I’m finding more peace in my parenting—taking a “wait and see” approach. I have to do the best I can for the five of us, which means letting some priorities go. I’m grateful the boys have each other. Most days, I remind them that’s what matters most. They always have someone to play with, even if they don’t have something to play with.

We’ll get on a plane back to Peru in less than two weeks. While I’ll be eager to return to Leifer and Abuelita, I try to extinguish thoughts of leaving from my mind. If I don’t, I’ll worry over all the things I might forget to do.

I’ve been curating the books I’ll take back with me. I’m amazed at how many on my shelf are still unread. Winnie-the-Pooh—the boys are just the right age now. Steinbeck. William Kent Krueger. Ryan Holiday. Natalie Goldberg.

Leif told me about a dream he had.
“We were going to the police,” he said, “and you went up while we went down. And there was a bridge.”
“How did you feel?” I asked.
“Bad,” he said. “Because then you were gone.”
He told me about the dream again the next day. Then the following morning, he woke up crying. I thought he’d wet the bed, but when I felt his pants, they were dry. He didn’t say anything, so I curled up around him and we fell back asleep.

I wonder if the nightmares come because we’re away from Dad. His dream doesn’t feel coincidental—it’s too close to our reality. He’s with his siblings and loses access to a parent.

The days are much longer here. I struggle to get the boys settled for bed. If the sun’s up, they’re up. Their little bodies seem powered by sunlight, not their brains. It’s dark by 6:30 in Peru. I try not to think about the differences between the two places—it only makes me long for the one that’s far away. But I can’t help it. I love both—for different reasons.

When Tía Carly is here to help put the boys to bed, I steal extra moments with Lucca while she tends to Leif and Enzo. I sit beside Lucca’s crib. He lies on his side and stares at me through the bars. He reaches for me. We sit hand in hand for a while. I blow him an air kiss, and he smacks his lips together—once, twice, three times. He’s content to just watch me with his big brown eyes.

It reminds me of the day he was born. It was early morning. Leifer had fallen asleep. Lucca lay on my chest, looking at me. I was mesmerized by him—amazed at how aware he was. He already knew me and the world around him. He was content to just be.

It was the first time in a while that I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be.

I’m figuring out how to write and be a mom at the same time. I cannot separate the two—I simultaneously write and mom. I’m realizing that mom is a verb, not a noun. It should be to mom. Mom is not in the same category as words like painting, chair, or car. It belongs with words like run, lunge, brace, and lift. To mom is to be in constant motion.

If you are just recently joining me, consider starting at the beginning of this story here. Share my family’s story with others. Share your stories with me. We are better together.