Life Amid the Holidays, Vol. 1

At some point every year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my inner cynic starts thinking: Maybe Scrooge had a point.

I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about the holidays that bring out my inner churl, but it is hard to escape a simple fact: Every year for more than a decade, starting at age 8, I spent part of the holiday season visiting relatives in the hospital, waiting and wondering when the dreaded shoe was going to drop like an anvil on a member of my immediate family.

And after that lucky streak, I upped the ante by becoming Charlie Brown in my own Christmas special.

My father’s illness covered my tween years; my grandfather’s my early teens. After my grandfather died nine days before Christmas in 1981, the pattern became more erratic, even if the result didn’t. One year it was my dad’s gallbladder operation, the next it was my uncle having a car radiator explode in his face just before Thanksgiving.

(If there’s one thing I can safely say about my uncle, it’s that his failure to differentiate between a warm engine and a hot toddy made him the winner in the “Most Unique Reason to Spend the Holiday in a Hospital” category. And that was the year we won the medical triple crown, with my mother separating her shoulder and my dad having knee surgery. But again, I digress…)

Remarkably, as they did throughout their married lives, Mom and Dad managed.

As my mother recently noted, I had a thing for things; as a parent, I have found this is an affliction many children have. This presented an ongoing management challenge for my parents, who scraped pennies together to make ends meet against our wishes for the next big thing, which ultimately would be pushed aside in pursuit of the next-next big thing. (After all, my birthday is in mid-January...)

Looking back, I now see how hard it must have been. To my mom’s everlasting credit, she worked tirelessly to ensure that my sister and I had a nice holiday season, even if that meant excavating me from my traditional sleeping spot under the tree late on Christmas Eve, or putting our dog Frisky’s paw on a rubber stamp pad so the “reindeer” could sign Santa’s thank you note for the milk and cookies.

They did this while somehow putting food on the table, paying the bills on time, and getting us what we wanted (within reason), even if that meant they had to recycle bows and wrapping paper from year to year and event to event. It also meant that the largest Christmas present always came in "the bag," which was then folded and put away until the next year.

I didn't realize then how small blessings, built up over time, could turn into large ones. One of those blessings came from my second set of “parents” — Fran and Bill, the childless neighbors from across the street who “adopted” us as theirs. Having them always made the holidays a little easier.

As the years passed and the hospital visits mounted, however, I found myself approaching mid-November waiting for the other shoe to drop. My deeply jaded side wanted to conduct an office pool under the title of “Which member of Glenn’s family will be subjected to the holiday drama trauma this year?” (Double points if it was anyone but my father.)

My (italics added for emphasis) bad luck almost became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Bah humbug, indeed…

A Birth-day Memory

Sometimes, when we pick up around the house, my wife wonders aloud if the air duct is clean. Depending on her mood, she may even try to climb onto something to make sure the dust is gone.

On that day 12 years ago, she stared at it every few minutes, waiting for me to whisper in her ear. “Focus, focus,” I said. “Breathe. Breathe. Keep your focus. You’re doing good. There you go.”

For hours we continued this routine, a process that began with an “Oh-my-God-that’s-intense” pain that woke her up around 1:30 a.m. on a cool Thursday morning.

We arrived at the hospital around 5:15, and within an hour our room was filled with rhythmic, tribal sounds that came from the heart monitor’s tinny speaker. Drugs were administered to make her labor more regular, and the staring at the air duct began.

Because twins presented a higher risk, more personnel and equipment were required than for a single delivery. We got the “good room,” twice as large as the others, to accommodate the extras.

A ward full of nurses, some of whom we vaguely remembered from our daughter’s birth less than a year before, walked in and out. Three stayed with us on an irregular basis through their shift, talking about their families, what to eat for lunch — typical everyday-type things for everyone but the two of us. For them, it’s their job; they had five deliveries in 24 hours. We had other things on our minds.

The rolling wave became more intense, and my wife requested drugs. A woman who would not come near an aspirin when she was pregnant the first time had become the poster child for epidurals.

The next two hours were surreal, even for those not under the influence.

Jill’s parents sat in a corner. Two health occupations students from a local high school observed while standing near a sink. The nurses continued their chatter while checking the vital signs. I jotted down notes on the hospital stationary. Jill read a newspaper between contractions, which with the epidural brought pressure but no pain. If not for the tribal rhythms of the heart monitors, it would be difficult to know she was in labor.

The girl’s heart rate fell, dropping from the normal range — 140 to 160 — to 60. After 2 minutes, the nurses huddled. The doctor was called. Jill’s parents were asked to leave.

The heart rate came back up; the doctor said our daughter was on the umbilical cord in some way. Since the rate was back to normal, it did not appear that a C-section would be necessary.

The routine resumed. Jill continued to make progress, and the nurses rotated in and out as they left for lunch. Then the pressure intensified, and the time was near.

Jill started to push, and push, and push. The baby girl’s heart rate leaped, then fell. My wife developed a fever. The baby was in distress —life-threatening distress.

The C-section was ordered. I was told to put on scrubs, but I had to wait outside. If complications developed, I couldn’t be with my wife.

In 63 seconds, our bustling room was empty. All the equipment, the people, even my wife’s bed, was in the OR. I stood alone and waited. Seconds seemed like days.

Finally, the anesthesiologist came in and got me, and I joined my wife in the operating room.

At 2:34 p.m., Emma was born, the cord wrapped around her neck. The doctors worked on her quickly and she was fine, even though she narrowly escaped permanent brain damage because of the oxygen deprivation.

At 2:35, Benjamin followed, announcing his presence as only a baby can do. We should have known then that he was a singer.

Thirteen hours of labor. Nine hours at the hospital. Two new babies. One big scare.

A memory of 12 years ago today.

A Song For You

Remember how I said that irony is not dead? Let me prove it to you.

Today, I should sing “Happy Birthday” to my oldest son, except that the best present I could give him is not singing at all.

“Dad, please… I mean, really, I’m not being rude … but I’d rather hear the cats.”

Yep, I have a voice that stands out in a crowd — for all the wrong reasons. My solution is to be the Milli Vanilli/Britney Spears/Janet Jackson of the “Happy Birthday” set. (Except that you wouldn’t want to see me dance, either.)

• Irony No. 1: Rhythm, tone, and pitch — three things I want more than almost anything — are nowhere to be found. And three of my four children, plus Jill, have beautiful voices.
• Irony No. 2: I love music. 
• Irony No. 3: Over the past three years, both sons have been in productions of, yes, “A Christmas Carol.”

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s December (although retailers would have you believe that the month started just before Halloween). It’s a month built for music, from carols to hymns to show tunes to “Happy Birthdays” and everything in between. And over the next 18 days, the height of the singing season, all four of my kids have birthdays.

Now there is irony, topped only by the fact that for 16 days, from this Friday through Dec. 27, I will have three 12-year-olds.

So as we kick off birthday month and continue through the holiday season, the best gift I can give to my children it to remain vocally silent. As the DJ says, this one goes out to Nicholas, Emma, Ben, and Katharine — by request.

“Overture. Purple lights. This is it. The height of heights. And oh what heights we’ll hit… On with the show this is it.”

The Bipolar Parenting Challenge

I should have seen it coming.

I should have seen her face change when we mentioned the twins’ birthday. I should have seen the black cloud that parked over her head.

After dinner, I should have tried another approach when helping her with homework. A few minutes after that, I should have taken the time, counted to 10, and not been so quick to respond in a firm voice that — under so-called “normal” circumstances — any parent would use.

I should have, but I didn’t.

And everyone paid for it — most of all Katharine.

Having a bipolar child with a triple A membership (anxiety, ADHD, and adolescence) is one of the most difficult challenges I face as a parent. Day to day, hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute, we never know which person will show up.

Is it the sweet, vulnerable child overwhelmed by the faulty wiring in her brain? The ditzy, funny, engaging 12-year-old girl who can’t stop talking? The child who watches the clock almost obsessively to ensure that you get her to school on time, yet can’t tell you what day it is?

Is it the little girl who can’t stand to see an animal stuck outside in the rain, or the enraged, angry, out-of-control person who locks herself in the bathroom, curls up in a ball, and screams at the top of her lungs for 30 minutes? Or is it, not so simply, all of the above?

The last question is the best answer I have.

••••••

The above paragraphs were written about 2:30 a.m. yesterday, several hours after Kate’s most recent outburst.  Sadly, this has taken on a familiar pattern — struggle, mania, struggle, confrontation, emotional spark (or acetylene torch, depending on your point of view), outburst, regret, sadness, and finally, fitful sleep.

The collateral damage from these incidents forces everyone to reflect on what has just happened. Could anything have been done to stop it? Or were we just delaying the inevitable?

Afterward, I never can sleep. I have to process what just happened and my role in it. And if I’m being honest, truly honest, I don’t always come out looking so great.

As much as I care about and love my children, I’m far from perfect at parenting. Sometimes, especially in the heat of the moment, I have difficulty in separating the child and the illness, which we have dubbed “It.”

Think about it this way: If parenting a child is difficult, then parenting a mental illness is impossible. Add them together and see the result.

Over the past 13 years, I have written about Kate more than any of my children; for more essays on this, go here and here. In part it’s because raising a bipolar child is such rich material, filled with opportunities to try to explain the complexities to those who want the debate distilled in more than simplistic overtones. For a journalist, it's a great story.

But it’s also a way to process and sift through the conflicting emotions I feel as the parent of a child who, at times, is quite literally “out of control.” Writing about Kate and our family’s internal struggles in confronting “It” has been a great source of comfort over time. Writing and reflection also help me process feelings that, left suppressed, likely would damage our long-term ability to have a relationship.

It’s definitely your traditional father-daughter dynamic, albeit one on anabolic steroids. Often it feels like I’m standing on quicksand with her. I can only imagine how she feels.

We are blessed, however, by the fact that Kate is so open about her feelings, her fears, and her anger. We also are blessed that she has numerous gifts and talents. And we are blessed by the fact that she truly wants to help, that she doesn’t mind if we share our struggles with this with the world.

Amid the joys, ironies, and hardships that we and others face in this holiday season of uncertainty, those are blessings I’m glad I can count on.

How does it feel? — Part 2

At this point in our story, Nicholas, Katharine, and Emma have been relegated — not necessarily because they chose to be — to supporting players in Ben’s reality show. And like all siblings, especially ones that share similar interests in performing, they alternate between supportive and one of the following:

a.     Jealous as hell.

b.     Proud but not willing to show it.

c.      Both A and B.

Between mid-October and the night before Thanksgiving, Ben did not see his sisters due to “Ragtime” rehearsals. Because Nicholas lives in North Carolina, we had not seen him in three months. That prompts remarks such as:

“Dad, I never thought I’d say this,” Kate said to me the other night, “but I actually miss Ben.”

“Dad,” Ben said a couple of days later, “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m looking forward to seeing Kate.”

First time I think they’ve agreed on anything.

The two I feel worst for in this scenario are Emma and Nicholas. Being twins, this is the first time Emma and Ben have been apart in their lives for an extended period. It also means Kate and Emma have to be together far more than any sisters do/should.

Ben and Emma are the old married couple in the family. They bicker, bitch, and laugh at each other daily. Emma and Kate manage two of the three, but laugh usually is not one of them.

It’s also been tough for Emma because, until this year, she always was in school and dance with both Kate and Ben. Now Kate is in a different school because she’s in 7th grade and Ben is in school in New York. Emma is truly on her own for the first time.

She’s done very well given the circumstances, and despite the fact that she is our most methodical, black and white child, she’s managed to adapt quite nicely to everything. Flexibility, however, is still foreign to her; after all, this is the child who would, given the opportunity, alphabetize the people she mentions in her nightly prayers.

I’ve written about Nicholas already (see “The Oldest” entry below), but I do understand how difficult it is for him. Ben’s dreams are Nicholas’ dreams, too. And Nicholas’ brother is living his dream. Because of the divorce and the distance, we are not able to give Nicholas the same day-to-day time and attention we give the others. It’s a hard reality that once he turns 18 and lawyers are no longer standing on the periphery, we hope to rectify someday. He deserves it…

Traveling from DC to NY

To go back and forth from Virginia to New York, we normally take the Bolt Bus, which is where I started writing this. Unfortunately, this means we must navigate Interstate 95, which I think was engineered to make sure that no one bolts anywhere.

Still, the ride is cheap, the bus has a bathroom, and you meet some interesting characters. I hope that’s what the other riders thought on Thanksgiving Wednesday when we journeyed — very slowly — to the Big Apple with our nieces, Elisabeth and Margaret, and Jill’s cousins James and Katharyn in tow.

Two years ago, we left on Wednesday afternoon to go to Chapel Hill for Thanksgiving.  Three hours and seven miles later, we turned around. This year, going north was not much easier.

We had a persistent mist and fog for the first half of the trip, two prerequisites for screwing up traffic in unprecedented ways. Combine that with some not-so-timely road construction and the I-95 engineers penchant for making five lanes of traffic squeeze into two, and you have the makings of a cluster of cars as well.

All I can say is that it would not be inappropriate to use cluster in a different context here. What is normally a 4 to 4½ trip took 8 hours, no fun under any circumstances.

Still, the trip had some highlights…

I now know how to make the selections for the U.S. men’s downhill team, and don’t have to go anywhere near a ski slope to do it. Stick them in the bathroom of a charter bus in stop-and-go traffic and tell them they can’t hit the lid while peeing. Those that can pull it off can do the Alps without a problem.

••••••

Favorite lines of the day:

Kate, after taking falling asleep for an hour at the start of the trip: “Are we there yet?”

Me: “Nope, not yet.”

Kate: “How much longer? Five minutes? Ten?”

Me: “Sweetheart, we’re not even to Baltimore.”

Kate: “Oh, but we’re close, right?”

As you can see, geography is not her strongest subject in school.

••••••

Kate: “Where are we?”

Me: “On the Turnpike, close to Rutgers.”

Kate: “Fuddruckers?”

Me: “No, Rutgers. It’s a university.”

Kate: “I didn’t know Fuddruckers was a university.”

••••••

Nicholas, after leaving four hours later and making it to the apartment earlier than us thanks to a flight from Greensboro to LaGuardia: “I’m so ADD that I get distracted reading a picture book.”

That’s my boy…

The First Broadway Bow

Ben takes his first bow on Broadway after performing as "Little Boy" in the revival of "Ragtime." (Photo by John Mara)

How does it feel? — Part 1

“In 1902, Father built a house on the crest of the Broadview Avenue hill. ... And all our days would be warm and fair.” — The Little Boy, opening lines of “Ragtime.”

The curtain opened and there stood my son, opening the first Saturday night performance — not counting previews — of Broadway’s new revival of “Ragtime.”

It had been a long journey to this point, and as Jill and I sat on the 7^th row in the orchestra section, we were more nervous than Ben was.

Arms interlocked, fingers crossed, tears filling our eyes, we watched as he maneuvered across the stage in the show’s stirring opening number. And just like you see in the movies, I found myself flashing back to that day in March when I took him to the understudy audition at the Kennedy Center.

“And there was distant music…”

At the time, we didn’t know if he had the vocal chops for the part, especially since the role called for performing with a 28-piece orchestra. And precedent was working against him; he had what he thought was a Kennedy Center jinx because some of his worst auditions had occurred there.

“Do your best,” I told him, as we do at every audition. “As long as you do your best, everything else will take care of itself.” I recognize those are clichés, but we say them with all due sincerity, because that’s all we require of him as we make this journey.

That day, we also came up with a new, more straightforward motto: “Kick ass. Take names. Have fun.” Perhaps not the most politically correct thing to say to an 11-year-old, but we say it anyway. And he did and does to this day.

For all of the hard work and sacrifice that this requires on the part of everyone in our family, you have to keep the “fun” part in perspective. After all, he’s still a kid, and this is an adventure equal to any rollercoaster ride you can find in any theme park.

Or, as he says, “You know what the worst part about boredom is? It’s boring.”

This has been anything but boring.

This Is His Life — In Pictures

Ben's performing life in a 2-minute video (my present to him for his Broadway debut). It should be obvious quickly why he's here — performing is in his DNA.

Helpless to Selfless

I'm no parenting guru, but if asked, the one thing I always tell new moms and dads is: Get used to the feeling of helplessness. Or look at it this way: As much as we want our kids to go play in traffic sometimes, we always want them to look both ways before they cross the street. And we're never truly sure they will.

This gnawing emotion starts, literally, at conception. From the moment you know you're going to have a child, the doubts start to seep in. Will our baby be OK — 10 fingers, 10 toes, and the like? If he/she isn't, how will I react? No matter what, will I be a good parent to my child(ren)?

Immediately, we flashback to our childhoods, and become determined to erase all the things our parents did "wrong" when we were kids. You know that feeling; being wronged at some point in your childhood is universal, a guarantee that's as ironclad as any genetic trait.

Not to be pessimistic or cynical, but even if you manage to erase every generational wrong in your family tree, all parents make mistakes. Some are newer than others, some are perhaps more creative, but this is not Augusta National. No one is excluded from the club.

More likely, you will develop a begrudging understanding of why your folks did the things they did, usually during or after an experience in which your child dragged you through the Parenting 101 knot hole. Have you looked in the mirror and seen your parent's face and torso, arms crossed with an "I told you so" look in the reflection? I know I have.

Back to helpless. The problem, just as universal as the wrongs, is that we can't live their lives through them or for them. We've already had our shot at childhood. Rather than hover over them with the stealth-like attention military snipers can appreciate, we have to learn to give them their own air space to figure it all out.

In many respects, that can be the most helpless — and ultimately selfless — feeling of all.

In Our Family, We Have Posters...

Baseball & Theater: What A Game!

Baseball is known for its superstitions: Always respect a streak. Never talk to the pitcher who's throwing a no-hitter. There is some logic to them, even though superstitions can stray toward the weird sometimes. To quote a player trying to stop a hitting slump in "Bull Durham": Anyone have a live chicken?

Theatre, as I've learned, also has its share of superstitions. Did you know that saying "Macbeth" aloud in a theater is the same as shouting "Fire!" in a crowded movie? (It is referred to, simply, as "The Scottish Play.") Or that actors do not, I repeat do not, discuss the show's reviews or their individual performances. (I'm pretty sure some read them, though...)

Baseball and theatre share a single moment in "Ragtime," in which Father takes his Little Boy out to watch a game rather than talk to him. Baseball is, Father says, a "civilized" sport.

Then, in the Act II number "What A Game!" Father finds that the other fans are less than proper and certainly not civilized, even as his son Edgar learns how the other half of a divided America lives. (Even though the play is set in New York, the fans act more like they're from Philadelphia.) It's a light moment in what becomes a progressively somber second act, and one of the play's many tips of the hat to America's greatest icons.

Theatre, like baseball, also is full of traditions, some of which are better known to the general public than others. As rehearsals have moved to performances, I've learned about two such traditions that are just fascinating.

One is the "sitzprobe," in which cast members sing through the show with the orchestra in a rehearsal hall without blocking, costume, or staging. The focus is on merging the two groups and in the case of "Ragtime," which integrated a 28-piece orchestra with a 40-member cast, it was quite the experience for all concerned.

The other is the "Gypsy Robe" ceremony. Held an hour before curtain on Opening Night, it started in 1950 when Bill Bradley, a chorus member in "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes," persuaded a chorus girl to give him her dressing gown. According to the Actors' Equity website, Bradley sent the gown to a friend on opening night of "Call Me Madam," who then sent it to another chorus member on the next opening night. The tradition, which has continued nonstop for almost 60 years, now has official rules; for example, the robe is given to the most experienced chorus member, who then parades around the stage counterclockwise and slaps the hand of each person in the cast.

Fortunately, Ben has participated in both events as part of the "Ragtime" company. This Saturday, when he goes on stage for the first time, he will sing "What A Game!" in the role of Little Boy. And as he learns more about the history and traditions of theatre, he flinches when I mention the word "Macbeth" in his presence.

As long as he doesn't go on the hunt for a live chicken, I guess we'll be OK.

Up and Running

The Memories of Silence

My mother was born on August 15, 1941. Her mother died a week later, leaving behind an 8-year-old son and an infant daughter. My grandmother’s purse and other belongings were swept up and put into a cedar chest that now sits in my mom’s house.

When my mom was not quite four months old, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. My grandfather, then almost 30, joined the Navy. He could have stayed home and helped raise his two children, but he chose to leave them with family and go off to war instead.

I don’t know why he made that choice. Perhaps it was the patriotic fervor that Pearl Harbor brought, a feeling that we collectively experienced again on 9/11 when we realized that the United States was indeed vulnerable to attack. Perhaps it was his chance to get out of the Texas oilfields. Perhaps it was his chance to leave his grief behind.

The few pictures and patches give us a glimpse of what he looked like then. I still have an opened hand grenade shell, and some of his standard issue Navy stainless steel flatware with the initials U.S.N. carved on the bottom side. At the bottom of the cedar chest is a glass heart that he carved from the shattered window of a Japanese zero, his dog tags and a few other pieces of memories.

He described how basic training in California was the best time of his life, in part because he loved San Diego, in part because he had a freedom he had never experienced before.

When the subject turned to his role in the war, he did not talk about it — perhaps out of modesty, perhaps out of fear.

Who were his friends? What type of work did he do? What was it like to be one of 55,000 Seabees on the beaches of Okinawa? Did he know anyone who died?

Those are the typical questions any kid would ask. And ask I did. But he just nodded his head and changed the subject.

We know what happened to the family my grandfather left behind in early 1942. My mom and her brother sent to live with her grandparents, who died within a week of each other when mom was just 4, and then to a kindly aunt who took them both in until my grandfather returned with a new girlfriend in tow. They married after the war, moved to East Texas, and stayed.

My uncle and his father did not speak for 13 years, in part due to battles over my grandfather’s new wife. My uncle says that, aside from a few stories that you would hear in any junior high boys locker room, my grandfather did not say anything about his wartime service.

“He just didn’t talk about it. I don’t think he could.”

My mother says I shouldn’t feel bad that he never spoke about the war. He didn’t say much to her about it, either. He didn’t say much about anything, in fact.

I think it’s more a reflection of the man than of the time he served in the military that we don’t know more about this period in his history. Soldiers of that generation did not talk about their experiences in war. It wasn’t until “Saving Private Ryan” was released, 12 years after my grandfather’s death, that members of the “Greatest Generation” finally felt empowered to share feelings that had long been repressed.

Today, 23 years after his death, my mom still speaks in somewhat hushed, reverent tones about the man whose expectations of others exceeded his ability to give and receive love. But the details of his life, outside the outline used in his obituary, remain a mystery. Just like the purse that sits at the bottom of the cedar chest, untouched with the same contents it carried 68 years ago.

The Oldest

We should have known then that something was different about Kate. And I think, deep down, that we did.

She walked at nine months, graduating to running two months later. She was talking in full sentences at a year. Her tantrums had a ferocity to them — “This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System!”

And she never slept. To this day, I don’t think she ever rests.

Kate, our oldest daughter, is ADHD/bipolar. She also is very bright, yet she wrestles with paranormal forces that lurk inside her brain. At times, she is a hard child to embrace, as if the disorder creates a force field that prevents you from warming up to her, even though that’s what she wants and needs more than anyone.

••••••

He wants nothing more than to be on stage — it’s his calling, he says. And he has to sit on the sidelines while his younger brother moves (seamlessly it seems) from show to show, graduating from recitals to the Washington, D.C., stage to New York in a remarkably short period of time.

Nicholas also is a child of divorce, the oldest child in our family. Geography requires him to travel at least 250 miles one way to see us.

He’s split between two families with five half siblings, all with different interests, strengths, and challenges. He’s divided between parents who genuinely don’t like each other. He is so ready to get on with life after high school, but deep down I think he’s nervous about his future and what it holds for him.

He looks just like my ex; in many ways he acts just like me.

••••••

Nicholas and Kate are my oldest children.

On the surface, they’re like many above-average, middle/upper middle class kids you see today, navigating that all-too-difficult phase from 12 to 18 that captures, enraptures, exhilarates and frustrates them and us. They will be the first to tell you that their families love them. They will be the first to say that life is fun, but not easy.

Welcome to the club, you think. You'll learn.

At times, you want to shout how much worse they could have it. (Remember the speech your mom and dad gave you when you wouldn't finish your food?)

And while all of that is true, this is their reality.

It’s our job to show them how to navigate it. A daunting task, indeed…