But even though I’m tired and I want the children to sleep, whenever I do anything with the boys it is the best time I’ve ever had doing it. Yesterday I had fun being a migrant worker. I don’t think that’s something I’d ever say before Quin.
I will lavish praise on Quin and then it's Otto's turn. For Otto has risen. The sign of the O is nigh. First, however, Q should be lauded for having more focus than most adults. Yesterday we went to a big organic farm where they let you pick all the fruit and vegetables you want. For me it was heaven, getting away from the city and mowing down a strawberry patch. Quin had business to do. As we walked down the narrow highway to the farm, Q noticed water in a ditch next to the road. From atop my shoulders he declared, “I splash.” That, in Quintanamos, means, “I’m going to throw rocks until I’m restrained and dragged away.”
I told him we would have to wait. He was okay with that, because what I didn’t know is he’d formulated a plan. Wherever we ended up, he was packing up his pebbles and going back to the ditch.
About a half a mile and a tractor ride later, we were out in the middle of a Brighton, Colorado field. One of our adult buddies, Ray, and myself picked berries and learned to appreciate undocumented workers more than ever before. Quin was only mildly interested. He grabbed some fruit out of my bucket and took off. He was going back to the ditch. Ray and I ate strawberries and watched him. I shouted some classic parental guilt and fear lines. “Uh, son, we miss you!” I said. He continued through a thicket of corn. When he got on an old road I tried again. “Quin, we’re just going to go ahead and leave you here!” It didn't faze him, except for unsettling a couple of nearby mothers.
It took me about a hundred yards to catch up to him, and when I did, his mouth was flush with strawberry and his hands were full of rocks. And to think I drove thirty miles to entertain him at a farm when all I had to do is put him on the bike and ride to the river. That’s what we did today, or at least on the second day of today, just after the first day of playground/breakfast/Wii/snack/basketball/book/book/Play-Doh. By then it was 9:30 a. m.
And now Otto.
When he was born I wasn’t quite ready for another child. Sarah’s labor was so easy (relative to Quin and yes I have no idea) that I didn’t have the 24 hours of trauma Quin’s labor did to help me for fatherhood. Otto just showed up, and it didn’t help that he looks like his brother, because in the hospital I had this crazy idea that maybe we’d only dreamt the past two years and he WAS Quin.
When we got home from the hospital most of my duties fell in Quin’s realm. We did all our cool guy stuff while Otto ate and ate and ate and vomited. And ate again. I used to look at Otto and wonder what he could possibly do to arrest me as successfully as Q has. Could it be that this new guy would know all the tricks of the wily veteran? Apparently, they’re both wired for charm. Otto has flipped the switch. The tractor beam is active. When he smiles at me before I leave for work I just want to go eat some bad meat or run on a wet floor just so I can stay home. He’s got that look, that one that says, “Oh, it’s you! I like you! I know only good things about you! Please, tickle me.”
I hope I don’t mess him up, but I often scold him. Stop with the cute, buddy. Just stop. Quin’s already ripped my heart out and tossed into the creek. What can you do to make it worse? But no matter how foreboding I try to be, Otto just kicks and waves. Often punching himself in the face. You can’t but love a guy who when he sees you gets so excited he whacks himself in the head.
It’s unadulterated, unconditional and, thankfully, mostly uneducated. One day they’ll know too much about me and it’ll all be over. But it’s a good reminder that smiles, hugs and hucking rocks are pretty much all that matters. You got any problems you can nap on it, and by the time you get up it will be a whole new day.
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