Stopping to smell the roses

I have a confession to make: I’ve been neglecting one of my children—and horribly so.

It hasn’t been intentional, but it’s definitely been the case. Periodically, I’ve all but forgotten about one of the Z Kids. No interaction. No affection. No attention, period. Nary a parental thought, even. As pathetic as it sounds, I’ve gone days at a time without paying the child any mind. And the sad fact is, I’ve done the same thing to Kelly’s present condition, and she’s carrying the darned thing.

Yes, it’s true: With all that’s gone on during the last few months, I really have forgotten at times that Kelly’s even pregnant—and about the kid inside her. As Kelly’s finally begun to show, I’ve done it less frequently. But given how great she looks even at seven months, it’s still happening.

Until very recently, if someone asked me how Kelly was doing, I’d blurt out, “Hunh?” Then I’d realize what they meant and, fighting my embarrassment over the confusion, give a generic, “Oh, great, thanks.” But you know what? In a twisted way, this is a good thing. After the first two pregnancies, which were relatively problematic, this one has—thankfully—been comparatively easy to forget about.

At least for me, that is. I’m not the one carrying a beach ball in my belly! Yet, Kelly’s seemed to need very little than me, and she’s been an even bigger trouper than she was with Zach and Zoe. I don’t know if it’s the lack of complications or just that she’s become an (old) pro, but aside from an occasional comment about being tired or not wanting the extra-garlicky stir-fry—and particularly since the 24-hour-a-day morning sickness, which was new this time, passed—she’s hardly lost a step. This leaves me in utter awe, because if it was up to me to carry the kids, we’d be childless. Period.

While initially I was saddened by the routine-ness of this pregnancy, the more I thought about it, I realized that in this case, low-key is definitely a positive. Clearly, we’ve learned through experience that most pregnancies go smoothly and that worrying is not going to help. Plus, with the way the first two pregnancies played out, we’ve definitely earned the right to take one in stride.

With Zach, we were the typical deer-in-the-headlights first-time parents, reaching for What to Expect When You’re Expecting at every turn and calling the OB/GYN with questions almost as often. We attended birthing classes and hung on their every word like they were sermons by the Dalai Lama himself. And we fretted more than enough. Rookie parents or not, it was hard not to, given that early on, the high alpha-fetoprotein levels in Kelly’s blood necessitated genetic screening and weekly, intensive ultrasounds for much of the pregnancy. Plus, she had mild preeclempsia. Zach overshot his due date, his induction was rocky, and he came out not breathing. Hardly an idyllic experience.

With the problems of his delivery behind us, and Zach a thriving preschooler, we thought and hoped things would go easier with Zoë. But when we learned she’d implanted in Kelly’s uterus with partial placenta previa, our hopes for a non-eventful pregnancy went out the window. Fortunately, even though Zoë was another monster baby who required induction, Kelly was still able to deliver her vaginally, though with a fair amount of bleeding. Still, we assumed we were done having children and were thankful that things had gone as well as they had, giving us two wonderful, healthy kids.

So, who’d have guessed that I, the guy who initially didn’t want children and put it off for as long as Kelly would let me, would have broached the topic of trying one more time? Certainly not me, that’s for sure! But I did, and Kelly certainly didn’t argue. So, without a word to anyone, we again began trying to conceive. And trying. And trying. And trying. None of the pregnancies had come easily, and this time, it seemed often that our efforts were going to be in vain. Several times, I suggested giving up, particularly after tests on both of us indicated we shouldn’t be having so much trouble. But Kelly had me agreeing to try again, and she wasn’t going to give up so easily. So we persevered.

When Kelly’s 40th birthday came and went, I really thought we ought to throw in the towel. With concerns over increased genetic risks, we talked about it. But whether out of stubbornness or determination, we kept trying anyway. And then, as conception had been with the first two, it just happened. The night Kelly came home with yet another pregnancy test, I prepared to comfort her again as she headed for the bathroom. But when she didn’t emerge right away, I kept playing with the kids, wondering what was taking her so long. And then, when she emerged and told me there was something waiting for me inside, I knew right away. Yet, as long as it had taken us, I could hardly believe it—it seemed downright surreal.

For the first few months, I didn’t allow myself to accept that the pregnancy was really happening. Given Kelly’s age and that we were pretty sure we’d lost a few along the way, I held back my emotions just in case. I was tired of the monthly ritual, though, and wanted it to happen now, if it was going to. And then, as weeks passed and with everything going smoothly, we just sort of kicked into autopilot. This was nice, a welcome deviation from what had happened in the past. Periodically, Kelly would call me after a doctor’s appointment to tell me that, once again, things were fine. I’d take it in stride and go about my business. It just felt right. And with no need to worry, I started doing what I’ve already admitted to—taking the pregnancy for granted.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate that things are going well. I certainly do. There were definitely some tense moments, hours, and weeks surrounding the amniocentesis. That was our biggest concern, aside from getting pregnant in the first place. But once the doctor called to say everything was fine—a joyous day indeed—I fell back into autopilot.

Had we not been so busy with our relocation, I’d like to think I’d have paid more attention to the minutiae of the pregnancy. But the fact is, I’m really not sure. There’s just been a comfort level this time that has brought with it optimism that everything will be OK. Even going into the amnio, I felt in my heart that it would be. Same thing for the pregnancy in general, once we’d confirmed it was happening. Whether that’s experience or what, I don’t know, but it definitely beats fretting.

So, with reality setting in and weeks before the grand event counting down, I’ve been trying to play catch up. I’ve owned up to Kelly about not doing enough or paying enough attention, and I’ve tried to make it clear that I’m available for anything she wants or needs. She still hasn’t asked for much, and neither of us has felt compelled to invest as we did in the past on many of the doodads and gizmos marketed to pregnant people. We know what’s happening, we know what to expect, and we are, I believe, just enjoying it, having learned to take in stride what is still an amazing journey, cheapened none by the fact that we aren’t spoiling it in overkill.

We realized last weekend that, admittedly, we are a bit behind. We still haven’t settled on names, nor have we figured out which baby items we still have on hand. But we’re not overly concerned. The baby is what matters—as do the two with which we’ve already been blessed, even if they’re not exactly babies anymore! And so collectively, they are our focus as we enter this exciting new chapter in our lives. And if we’ve forgotten to treat the pregnancy as “special,” well, there’ll soon be a little person crying out loudly to remind us—and me in particular—that yes, he or she is definitely real and worthy of our awe. And doodads or not, his or her arrival will have been no less special than that of the other Z Kids.

Lessons in loss--and love

Zach cried his eyes out Saturday night. Not with baby tears, either, but with deep, body-wracking sobs brought on by real emotion. It was the type of crying you can’t just turn off by trying—which is why it went on for almost an hour.

It started slowly, just some red eyes and sniffles. As it increased, Kelly and I suggested he take a shower, hoping it would help him relax. But it didn’t. Even with the water cascading down, the bathroom fan running and the door closed, we could still hear the poor guy all the way out in the living room. And the saddest part was, there wasn’t much we could to cure the heartache he was feeling. He’d suffered a loss, and he was just going to have to struggle through it.

That day, the Toys R Us in town had closed its doors for good. Worse, it had closed them early.

It’s not that Zach hadn’t known this was coming. We’d learned in January that, along with 74 other TRU stores in the country, ours would be closing as part of the company’s massive restructuring plan. But it wasn’t supposed to happen until Sunday. Here it was only Saturday, and—as if the dark TRU sign and dimmed lights weren’t enough—the sad, handwritten note scribbled on a piece of scratch paper and taped to what had been the entrance door said it all: “Store Closed.”

We’d driven by the store out of curiosity after grabbing a bite to eat. For weeks, bright, picket-style signs held by hard-to-employ types at every major intersection within a mile of the store had served as depressing omens that the end was indeed near. First, they proclaimed that everything in the store was 30 to 40 percent off. Then it was 40 to 50. Then 50 to 60. And so forth, until the day before, when they’d read “80 to 80” percent off. Yikes. Granted, there wasn’t much left in the store—just a bunch of things no one had wanted last Christmas, really. But for the kids in town, that didn’t matter a whole lot.

So, not having seen the sign-holders all day and knowing that the banner in the store’s window, which had been updated daily, would read “Only (hand-written sign reading ‘1’) Days Left,” we headed over to let Zach walk through one more time, just so he could offer a proper good-bye. But he never got the chance. They’d stopped the bleeding by closing a day early. And the minute Zach realized what had happened, the funk hit him instantly, like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.

We tried happy-talking him on the way home, but our words fell on deaf ears. No, he wasn’t the only kid who’d lament the closing. But for Zach, it was a BIG deal. Here’s a kid who, when he was only four years old, announced that when he grew up, he wanted to be a toy designer for Toys R Us. And he was serious. Mind you, he envisioned himself sitting in some back room of the store with an army of toy builders ready to construct his creations—a far cry from the reality of overseas factories manufacturing the stuff. But we encouraged him anyway, knowing that with his Love—with a capital “L”—of toys, he’d be the greatest toy designer ever if he set his mind on it.

When he’d started getting an allowance a year or so later, a whole new chapter in Zach’s love affair with TRU began. Every chance he got—which would have been every time we drove by, if he’d has his way—Zach would scour the aisles until he'd targeted his next conquest. Typically, it was an ambitious one. And then he’d save. And save. And save. I’ll never forget the first time when, with great pride, he paid for something at TRU himself, with money he’d saved for months. He could hardly contain himself, boasting to the cashier about what he’d accomplished. And then, as now, he asked for the receipt. Tucked into his wallet, it served as a memento of his triumph.

In November, when we announced to the kids that we’d be moving to Redding, Kelly and I expected a struggle. But to our surprise, when we told Zach, he had only three questions.

“Is there a Toys R Us in Redding?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Is there a Target in Redding?” he asked. (Target is his fallback when TRU is either out of stock or doesn’t carry something, and having both in his arsenal has taught him to comparison shop, too.)

“Yes,” I replied again.

“Is there a Red Robin in Redding?”

“Yes,” I replied a final time, adding that they were all within a mile of each other, too.

“Then I can live in Redding,” he said, matter-of-factly, and that was that. No struggle at all.

So, it was harsh news that we shared with Zach when just two short weeks after Christmas we learned of the store's fate. Apparently, the closures had been in the news for months. But we had no idea until the story was splashed across the front page of the Redding Searchlight. Zach didn’t seem too upset initially, as the markdowns allowed him to stretch his Christmas and birthday dollars and gift cards. He even complained about the reduced selection in the store and, for a time, seemed to be favoring Target for his shopping outings, perhaps as a defense mechanism to fend off reality. But as weeks passed and the closing date approached, and even I ventured over to TRU to scoop up some bargains, he again became curious about his beloved store.

When we ventured inside last week, Zach was more noticeably shaken. Most of the shelves and fixtures were gone, and the shopping space had been reduced to a small taped-off area near the checkstands cluttered with a mishmash of things no one really wanted. The last of the bargain hunters mulled about, but few bought anything. Even Zach, who can find a reason to like just about any toy, admitted there was nothing worthwhile left. He walked out looking rather sullen, and in hindsight, I think it was then that the emotional turmoil that was to hit him full bore on Saturday took hold.

A week later, as we listened to his agonizing sobs, Kelly finally ventured into the bathroom to offer some support and TLC. When she and Zach emerged a few minutes later, Zoë first tried to latch on to the situation as an attention-getting device (“I’m sad, too!”), then used it as an opportunity to take a sibling-rivalry dig (“I’m sad, but I’m not crying!”), and finally came around to comfort her sibling, as both kids are wont to do. That’s one of the things I love most about them: Though they’ll fight like a cat and dog over nothing, in the end, they hate to see one another upset, and they’re both quick to offer comfort. So, it tickled my heart when, after whispering in my ear that she wished she could do something to make Zach feel better, Zoë darted from the room and then reappeared carrying Zach’s favorite stuffed animal, a teddy bear named TJ, and nestled it into his arms as she hugged him. "It's OK, buddy," she said, patting his shoulder. It was classic.

And, it may have been just what Zach needed, because about that time, his tears began to dry up. A few minutes later, he even started to become somewhat philosophical about TRU’s closure, offering high-minded reasons about why it was OK and how there were positive aspects to the situation. Inside, I questioned his sincerity, but I admired his effort. And I made careful mental notes about what we’d just been through. Because much as I hate to see the kids cry, I knew that if this was Zach’s introductory lesson in life about loss, it was a fairly benign one. And I knew it was something that, in the end, would strengthen his character and help him understand what was really important in life—the people around him—and what was less so.

I tucked that one away as a reminder to myself, too. Ah, the things you can learn from your kids...