Labor Day

The three-day weekend was very welcome. The preceding week had been—by far—the busiest I had to date. Hosting a twenty-six person delegation for a two-day meeting on racial and ethnic equality taught me that no matter how much time I put into planning the logistics, there is simply no accounting for one individual’s (or in this case 26 individuals’) personal eccentricities, “You want to go to the airport three hours ahead of the time we had planned all week for the driver to take you there? ….No problem.” Not the least of my duties was deciphering the buffet at the foreign ministry cafeteria for part of our delegation, “I think that’s pork. Or is it chicken? ‘Com licensa, é frango ou suina?’ He says it’s pork.”

Part of Sam’s reward for having excellent behavior at school Thursday and Friday was to get to go play the driving games at the arcade in Park Shopping, HotZone (pronounced ‘Hot-chee Zonee’). He’s getting uncannily good at handling a virtual stock car.

After both boys completely flipped out at Outback (this is probably either partially or entirely my fault, as I had forgotten to bring distractions for them and we only had one iPhone for that purpose. So while Pete was freaking out, because he had to sit still for more than 30 seconds, Sam was making a stink because his chicken fingers were overly breaded—which I didn’t even know was possible), the actual Labor Day was a dream.

I also flipped out at Outback. My expectations were too high. Not that either boy was uncharacteristically out of control…okay, well, Pete was, in all honesty…but they were both characteristically kids at a sit down restaurant with nothing on TV but soccer. I am slowly coming to the realization that the more I try to control or contain their energy, the more frustrated I become. As soon as I accept that I have no control, everything becomes easier. Now, the best I can hope for is to redirect their energy’s flow, like one attempting to steer the mighty Mississippi.

The boys and I went to Parque da Cidade to run and play on the deserted playground. We came home had lunch, followed by naps. Elise and I Christmas shopped for the boys online, before she went to a photo shoot and I threw the football in the yard with Sam then made dinner. The day was perfectly serene (well, as serene as any day can be with two boys under four), the complete opposite of the preceding day, and I have no explanation for the difference except my expectations of both.

When Sam woke from nap, his upper lip was chapped and hurt bad. After administering lip balm, he insisted on seeing his mother who was lying in bed with a hoodie pulled over head, tinkering on the computer. The three of us laid there while Pete continued to nap in the adjacent room. I told Sam that if he had a mustache, his lip wouldn’t get chapped to which he informed me, “I’m not a Daddy yet.” “How many kids do you want to have when you’re a dad?” He held out his open palm. “Five?!” Elise and I snickered.

Pete never lasts as long at the dinner table as Sam does. He eats four times as much as Sam in one-fourth the time. Though we taught him ‘all done’ in baby sign language, his signal that he is done is to stand up in his high-chair tottering like a Jenga game about to collapse. He wanders around the kitchen or playroom getting into mischief as we spend the next twenty minutes convincing Sam to eat something…anything…with some nutritional value. Last night, Pete, as he is wont to do, pulled a chair up to the counter where we stash wallets, keys and phones, and pulled my wallet down, then proceeded to go through it, littering the kitchen floor with credit cards, business cards and Brazilian bills in various denominations. When Sam was finally done, I went to the bathroom which is a spectator sport these days, all three of us crammed into the bathroom, when a square brown object comes hurtling across my field of vision only to land in the bottom of the bowl directly beneath my stream. Pete had pitched my wallet in the toilet, though he was kind enough to at least empty it of most of its content before doing so.

Sam, “That’s okay, Daddy. That’s okay.”

Thanks, Sam.

As I was preparing bubble baths, Sam told me "You're my favorite Daddy" and lifted up my shirt sleeve to give me a kiss on my tricep then thought better of it. He leaned over to give me a kiss on my cheek, but again demurred. He lifted up my glasses to give me a kiss on the space between my cheek and my lower eyelid before finally kissing me on the forehead. When I asked him why he kissed me there, he said, “The other places have too much hair.”

"Thanks, Booballuh."