16.
AURORA VALEN?A
The first real tantrum Dante witnessed happened in a pharmacy.
Tomás wanted chocolate.
I said no.
He asked again.
I repeated the answer.
Then he threw himself onto the floor.
He did not sit.
He did not crouch.
He flung his entire body across the tiles, arms spread, and began screaming as though I had destroyed his only opportunity for happiness.
People stared.
Dante froze.
Elisa attempted to take the chocolate in secret.
“Elisa, put it back.”
“I was only looking.”
“On the shelf.”
She returned it.
Tomás kicked the floor.
“I want it!”
“Not today.”
“Want it now!”
“I know.”
“You’re mean!”
The sentence no longer affected me.
Three-year-olds did not measure their words.
Dante, however, reacted.
“Do not speak to your mother that way.”
Tomás stopped for half a second.
Then screamed louder.
“You’re mean too!”
Dante opened his mouth.
“Don’t argue,” I said.
“He cannot…”
“Not now.”
I crouched near Tomás.
“You’re angry because you wanted chocolate.”
“Want!”
“We aren’t buying it today.”
“I want it!”
“You can stand by yourself, or I can help you.”
He kicked.
“No!”
“I’ll wait.”
Dante looked around.
People were watching.
I knew that discomfort.
The sensation of being judged for failing to control your child.
“Aurora, perhaps it would be easier to buy it.”
I turned my face.
“No.”
“It is only chocolate.”
“It isn’t about chocolate.”
Tomás heard.
“It is chocolate!”
Elisa began to laugh.
Cecília whimpered.
“Dante, take the girls near the counter.”
“And leave you here?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Go.”
He obeyed.
Tomás screamed for another two minutes.
Then sat up.
“Hold me.”
“Can you stand?”
“Hold me.”
I lifted him.
He buried his face against my neck, still sobbing.
“I’m sad.”
“I know.”
“Wanted chocolate.”
“I know.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
When I approached the counter, Dante looked shaken.
“Is he all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Less now.”
“And you simply wait?”
“Sometimes.”
“It didn’t appear to work.”
“It worked.”
“After everyone stared.”
“People stare.”
“We could avoid it.”
“By buying everything they ask for?”
“Not everything.”
“How would you decide?”
“Based on the situation.”
“He was tired.”
“Exactly. Chocolate does not solve exhaustion.”
“It would have ended the crisis.”
“And taught him that screaming changes my answer.”
Dante was silent.
The pharmacist handed me Cecília’s medicine.
We left.
On the sidewalk, he said:
“I would have bought it.”
“I know.”
“Not because I wanted to buy affection.”
“To end the discomfort.”
“Yes.”
“Yours.”
He absorbed that.
“Probably.”
“Being a father means tolerating your child being unhappy with you.”
“That seems cruel.”
“It’s necessary. I don’t let them run into the street, even when they cry. I don’t allow medicine as a toy. I don’t buy everything. They do not have to like me every minute.”
Tomás heard from my arms.
“I like you.”
I kissed his head.
“I like you too.”
“Daddy Dante buy chocolate?”
Silence fell.
Dante looked at me.
“Not today.”
Tomás frowned.
“You mean.”
“Perhaps.”
“Don’t like you.”
Pain appeared in Dante’s face, although he knew it was temporary.
“That’s all right.”
Tomás seemed surprised.
“All right?”
“You’re allowed to be angry with me.”
The boy thought about it.
“Then it passes.”
“I hope so.”
It passed before we reached the car.
Tomás asked Dante to put him into the car seat.
On the way back, Elisa announced that she needed to pee.
“We are five minutes away,” I said.
“Now.”
I stopped at the nearest gas station.
Taking three children to the bathroom was an operation.
Elisa needed to go.
Cecília refused to enter the public restroom.
Tomás decided he also needed to go, although he probably did not.
“I’ll take Tomás into the men’s room,” Dante offered.
I hesitated.
“Do you know how to help?”
“No.”
“He uses a toilet-seat insert.”
“All right.”
“And he needs to pull down his clothes without removing his shoes.”
“All right.”
“Don’t let him touch the floor.”
“All right.”
“Wash his hands.”
“Aurora.”
“I’m explaining.”
“I’ll follow.”
I handed Tomás over.
It was the first time one of my children left my field of vision alone with Dante.
Even for only a few minutes.
My entire body remained alert.
I took the girls into the women’s restroom.
Elisa finished quickly.
Cecília refused to use it.
When I came out, Dante had not returned.
Fear began.
Two minutes.
Three.
Then the door opened.
Tomás emerged wearing only one sandal.
Dante carried the other, the toilet insert, and a defeated expression.
“What happened?”
“The shoe fell.”
“Where?”
“In the toilet.”
I closed my eyes.
“He flushed,” Tomás informed me.
“With the shoe?”
“The shoe had already fallen,” Dante explained.
“And you allowed him to flush?”
“I was trying to stop him from touching the floor.”
Elisa began to laugh.
“The shoe went away!”
Tomás joined in.
“It’s in the sewer.”
Dante looked horrified.
“I’ll buy another.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“He needs shoes.”
“We have a spare pair in the car.”
“You carry spare shoes?”
“Always.”
I opened the trunk.
I removed a pair.
Dante watched.
“How long does it take to learn all of this?”
“You never learn all of it.”
“Excellent.”
I put the shoes on Tomás.
“You did the best you could.”
The words escaped me.
Dante looked at me.
“I lost a shoe.”
“But you brought back the boy.”
“That is an extremely low standard.”
“For a first bathroom trip, acceptable.”
He laughed.
So did I.
We looked at each other for too long.
The lightness disappeared.
I remembered other laughter.
Other trips.
A life without three car seats and shoes in the sewer.
I looked away.
“Let’s go.”
In the car, Tomás repeated the story of the shoe over and over.
With each version, the toilet grew larger.
In the final one, a crocodile lived in the pipes.
Dante joined the game.
“Then your shoe saved everyone.”
“It did.”
“It was brave.”
“My shoe is a hero.”
Elisa protested.
“Shoes aren’t alive.”
“This one is.”
Cecília said quietly:
“It lives in the sewer now.”
All three began arguing.
Dante looked at me.
“Is this normal?”
“Completely.”
“Good to know.”
We arrived at the studio.
As he got out, Tomás took Dante’s hand.
“Daddy Dante.”
Dante stopped.
It was the first time Tomás called him that without repeating someone else.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow buy hero shoe?”
I looked at Dante.
He breathed.
“I’ll ask your mother.”
The correct answer.
“Mommy?” Tomás insisted.
“You have shoes.”
“But not hero ones.”
“We’ll see when you need another pair.”
He accepted it.
Dante gave me a small look.
Seeking approval.
I did not want to offer it.
But I did.
“You learned.”
“A little.”
“This time.”
He smiled.
“I knew it.”