Parenthood, not the show

"How would you describe parenthood so far? And I don't mean the show."

Emma, in case you haven’t noticed, cuts to the chase.

We were watching “Parenthood,” the new show that premiered tonight on NBC. I loved the movie on which it was based, the cast is terrific, and the show runner is the same guy who is in charge of “Friday Night Lights,” my favorite show of the past decade. Plus, it has the added advantage of coming on at 10 p.m. thanks to the network’s decision to shun Jay Leno and his yuk-yuk humor to late night again.

Normally, 10 p.m. is Emma’s bedtime, but she has her father’s nocturnal nature. Contrast that to Katharine’s ability to be shot out of a cannon between 5:30 and 7 every day and you now know why I never sleep. I decided to let her watch the show, and while I lay on the floor, she snuggled under the covers of my bed amid the pile of unfolded laundry.

“So,” she said during a commercial, then asked her fateful question.

I decided to go for the complex answer, something such a perceptive comment deserves.

“Challenging,” I said. “It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced.”

“Is that it?”

“Rewarding,” I said. “I’ve learned so much from being a parent.”

“Uh huh … And?”

Nothing like being put on the spot. I hoped that the limited commercial interruption would end soon.

“Fun sometimes. Hard, too. But it’s always worth it.”

She nodded, letting me off the hook. The commercial ended and we were quiet through the rest of the show.

When it ended, she leaned down and said, “That was pretty good. Not bad." Then, "I love you, Daddy.”

She kissed me on the head, leaned on my arm and said her prayer — the same one we’ve done for the last nine years — and walked toward her bed.

At that moment, parenthood was great.

Tell a Story in 100 Words or Less, Part 2

How many different people will you meet in your lifetime? Say it’s one new person a day, on average. Over 50 years, that’s more than 18,000 you come across, say hello to, fall in love with, help, hurt, or touch in some way. That seems ridiculously, even outrageously high. Ponder this: The vast majority you won’t see more than once. Some will cross your path regularly. A smaller number will become friends or family. Even fewer will have a lifelong impact. How many people have you met and touched in some way? How many have touched you?

See next entry...

Got a minute? We need to talk...

I’ve always loved to talk. People who know me say I could start a conversation with a wall, and fill in the parts when the wall doesn’t respond.

Of course, talking to the wall sometimes is the only intelligent conversation I can find.

I’ve used that pithy response many times over the years, largely because it’s my best self-defense. Looking back as an adult, my perception is that I had a lonely childhood. And I believe that perception has a lot of truth, at least as I see it now.

Since I was a kid, my mind has run a million miles a minute, thoughts skipping from one to the next like a game of hopscotch. My brain was an RSS feed, anxious to deliver opinions and observations on anything that crossed my cerebral cortex. To paraphrase, I could have been ADHD before ADHD was cool.

In reality, I was a person desperate to connect, and I didn’t know how. I needed someone to understand, to listen, to acknowledge these often disparate — and occasionally fleeting — thoughts. Of course, few people have the capacity for unfiltered, 24/7 access to what someone is thinking, even if the thoughts aren’t mean or malicious. It’s just too tiring.

Oddly, on several administrations of the Myers-Briggs, I have straddled the line between the “I” and the “E.” Depending on the day, I’m either classified as an introvert or an extravert, which only contributes to my personal mystery. It also partly explains why, despite needing the occasional dose of Immodium for my mouth (or, in this case, fingertips), I hate it when people speak in meetings just to hear themselves talk. Amazingly, despite my ongoing inner dialogue, I have learned not to speak out unless I have something to say.

That’s one reason I find the phenomenon of social networking so interesting. Sitting behind a computer screen evens the playing field. It’s an emotionally safe way to make those connections. Even if the friends we have are only casual acquaintances, or long-ago people we knew as children (Facebook is in many ways the high school reunion from hell), the fact that it thrives speaks loudly to our need to share our thoughts with the world.

How this manifests itself in my children is interesting. Despite lacking a formal diagnosis, Nicholas is the first to tell you he’s ADD, while Katharine is the recipient of ADHD with extra sprinkles. Ben always must express himself, even if he doesn’t comprehend fully at times what he’s trying to express. Only Emma has thus far escaped that portion of my DNA; in so many ways she reminds me of her mom, which is one reason she has that special allocation of space in my heart.

Talking, and the ongoing desire to connect, does have its advantages. But accessing those does not come without a key skill, the ability to listen. What I found when I became a journalist was that I had the opportunity — and often the privilege — to listen to the stories of others. With and through them, I built the life that today allows me to tell my own.

I believe everyone needs to connect to others in some way. But I’ve also learned that sometimes it’s OK to have dead air. Silence, after all, has its place.

Homework Hell

It’s something that happens to every parent, something so tried and true that it has become the Mom and Dad equivalent of, “It was a dark and stormy night…”

It’s the homework project from hell. Or in formal education terms, it’s called project-based learning.

“OK, fine,” the teacher seems to say. “You leave them with me 5½ hours a day, 180 days a year, expecting me to impart my wisdom and knowledge so they can be successful. You are therefore expected to spend money on art supplies you use once, subject your household to more crafts and pieces of cardboard and paper than you ever thought possible, and help them come up with something unique that can show what they have learned.”

Sounds fair, on the surface, except that it fosters this underground competition that subjects parents to peer pressure like we haven’t felt since seventh grade. There’s nothing like telling your child to “do your best” and “hang in there” when you know that her papier-mâché diorama stands no chance next to the four-camera exhibit complete with visual effects commissioned exclusively from Industrial Light & Magic.

To be fair, teachers always say, “This needs to be your child’s work.” Some parents take that literally, while others use it as license to create a life-sized replica of the U.S. Capitol out of cake batter.

It doesn’t help that your child waits until the night before said project is due before informing you that she needs glue sticks and a packet of construction paper. Seeing other parents in the supplies aisle of an all-night CVS takes on the appearance of a support group meeting.

Again, to be fair to the generations of parents who preceded us, this is something that is wired into every child’s DNA. More than once, my mom has said my epitaph should be, “If I could only do this tomorrow.” As a kid, I believed procrastination should be considered an Olympic sport with no time trial.

So you can imagine the flashbacks I had when Emma announced that she needed help on a project for National History Day. Mind you, this is a project that has been three months in the making, and it was due this week.

Emma, in many respects, is the Marilyn to our Herman, Lily, Grandpa, and Eddie.  She is the child located perfectly in the center of the bell curve. She is a very good student, conscientious and with an innate desire to be successful. She also is the most linear human being I’ve ever met, a child who would alphabetize her prayers if you let her.

You would think, given these traits, that she would understand the difficulty of conceptualizing large, outside-the-box projects. Not this time.

Emma’s decision to take on the “History of the Steam Engine” was fraught from the start, but never more so than when the deadline loomed this week. When she finally admitted that she needed help — and glue sticks — it was almost too late.

And so I faced the parenting dilemma, the choice of whether to let her do it herself or join the Industrial Light & Magic crowd. I opted for a compromise position, offering to help with the project’s broad parameters while relying on her to do the actual work herself. 

Over the next 36 hours, she cut and glued and groused while I made suggestions. Work projects that lingered for me remained on hold. At one point, our family computer failed, losing documents left and right. I helped Emma retype the work.

Slowly, agonizingly at times, it started taking shape. As midnight loomed on the day before it was due, amazingly, it was done. The next day, we were both bleary eyed, but I saw my daughter’s obvious pride in her work. It was better than she thought it would be, and I helped her get it there.

We don’t know what her final grade will be, but for once, I received an “A” in parenting. 

On Valentine's Day

I come to you with empty hands


I guess I just forgot again


I only got my love to send


On Valentine's Day


I suck at Hallmark moments.

It’s not that I don’t try. Truly I do. I’ve bought cards, sent flowers (live and nearly dead ones), delivered champagne, searched out romantic restaurants. But mostly my inner barking seal seems to come out and, well, bark.

Somehow, in those connect-the-dots moments between Christmas, Groundhog Day, and the most romantic day of the year, I see my shadow, declare six more weeks of winter, and hibernate until it’s too late.

There's so much I want to say


But all the words just slip away



The way you love me every day


Is Valentine's Day

Unfortunately, my sense of bad timing also can be applied to birthdays, and odd-numbered years that coincide with my wedding anniversary. (Of course, the dysentery on Mother’s Day that year wasn’t a great choice either; I prefer to think of it as an extraordinary case of bad timing. It certainly was the last time I’ll opt for an all-you-can-eat buffet on a major holiday.)

If there is anything that convinces me that my inner nerd — complete with pocket protector — is capable of overwhelming my inner romantic, or that I should do everything in my power to eliminate the 11 federal holidays and 47 pre-programmed greeting card days from my life, it’s times like this.

For some reason, my situational Tourette’s kicks in, and I say or do something to screw it up. It feels like Butch and Sundance jumping off the cliff into the rapids below. The fall may not kill me, but I definitely cuss on the way down.



If I could I would deliver to you


Diamonds and gold; it's the least I can do


So if you'll take my IOU


I could make it up to you


Until then I hope my heart will do


For Valentine's Day

Thanks to Steve Earle, I can pass along what you have just read in the italic passages. I can pledge to try again, no matter what the fates may choose to say about it. And I can thank God for the 350 or so non-holiday opportunities that I have each and every year to say how much I love and cherish the wife and family I have.

I don’t need a Hallmark moment to tell me that. Fortunately for me, they don’t either. 

Transitions, Creation, and Evolution

As a writer, I pride myself on transitions, leading the reader in the process from one thought to the next. As an editor, there is nothing worse than reading a story where the transitions are the equivalent of shifting from fifth to first without hitting the clutch.

Transitions are part of life, the chapter breaks in our story. Sometimes they make sense, a natural progression. Others come all too abruptly, with little rhyme or reason.

For the past month, I have mulled this entry over in my mind, as our family embarks on yet another in a series of never ending transitions. And every time I have sat to write it, the words just don’t seem to come.

One reason I hesitated in starting this blog was that I didn’t know if I would have enough material to write on a regular basis, knowing full well that the fall of every year brings so much to light that I could chronicle things by the hour without a loss for words.

There’s something about winter, however, that makes us burrow under. The post-traumatic stress disorder of the holidays is followed by the cold snap — some would say slap — that January and February bring. In our Virginia subdivision, we rarely discover our neighbors until the spring, or so it seems.

One month ago today, “Ragtime” closed. Instead of pulling up stakes and heading home, we decided to stay with the back-and-forth commute so Ben could finish the school year in New York. It just made sense, although the wear and tear on us has only been exacerbated by work and family demands and a climate shift that has left us buried by record snowfall.

As I posted to Facebook earlier this week, Mother Nature definitely needs some Depends.

••••••

The little bullets you see above this paragraph are another form of transition. Perhaps I’m taking the easy way out this time, but a random thought crossed my mind that I’ve wanted to write about for some time, so why not do it now?

Recently I started a blog entry titled “Creation vs. Evolution.” (No, it wasn’t my attempt to wade into that debate, although anyone who knows me — and my politics — would know which side I come down on without giving it too much thought.) But like several entries I’ve started and aborted recently, I just couldn’t get it out.

“Creation vs. Evolution” was talking about the process of working in an art form. In this case, and this one only, I definitely come down on the creation side. There is something about making something out of nothing that always has fascinated me, whether it’s the process of reporting and writing a story, putting out a magazine, or putting on a show.

To me, creating is the fun part; I’ve always said that rehearsal is much more fun than performance. Once the paper is put to bed, or the show is up and running, it’s time to move on to the next challenge/project/ thing.

For the first 13 or 14 years of my career, I never stayed in one job more than 36 months. I went into each new position determined to learn as much as I could, knowing I would give it everything I could. (It’s one reason I call myself a workaholic in a 12-step program.)

Once I mastered the task or the job, it was on to the next. For me, boredom was (and still is to large degree) the equivalent of a slow death. It represents a life without fun and interesting challenges.

When I left newspapers in 1996, I changed careers and went into communications. It was time for a change, and the 4½ years I spent in that job definitely set me up for the position I’m in now. 

I didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into when we moved to Northern Virginia in 2001. I certainly didn’t think I would be at the same company almost nine years later.

But fate, combined with some fortuitous timing, intervened. And over time, I’ve been lucky enough to move from one position to the next to the next, each one presenting me with enough challenges to keep that dreaded boredom at bay.

Also, as I’ve gotten older, patience has slowly come to be a word I use without rolling my eyes.  Mature, I know, but I prefer to think of it as appreciating the nuance of evolution. Over time, I’ve learned that if you’re patient enough, you can watch the arc of your personal or professional life extend beyond the immediate gratification we all desire.

As much as I love theater, I never understood how some actors could go to work and do the same thing day after day after day. It wasn’t until I saw “Ragtime” over a period of months that I realized the actors’ performances were slowly, subtly evolving into something far deeper and more satisfying. It’s a shame that the evolution can’t continue.

••••••

So here we are in a state of transition again, not just for the purposes of this entry but as a family. Sadly, we won’t get to see Nicholas this weekend due to the weather that has buried the Mid-Atlantic region, making the roads treacherous from here to there and points beyond.

Things do seem to come full circle in our little world, however. Nicholas is trying out for “South Pacific” this weekend at his school; ironically, Ben went to see his good friend in the show here in New York tonight. (See the Musical Obsessions and Circle Backs entry I wrote on this for more instances of irony.)

And, thanks to a break in New York City’s school schedule, we do get to spend the weekend and all of next week together as a family in Virginia. I have a new employee coming into work next week, and it’s less than a month from now that Ben starts rehearsals on a show at The Kennedy Center.  (Another circle back.) Things are evolving amid our transitions.

Now that my writer’s block has ended, I pledge to return to this space more often as well. Creating a blog, I’ve discovered, was fun. The challenge, I’m learning, is how it will evolve over time.

Stay tuned…

Life, Death, and Other Simple Truths

Note: Last night, I found myself watching "Up" on DVD and it reminded me of this essay I wrote on the second anniversary of my dad's death. I posted it to Facebook but not to the blog, and wanted to put it up here.

Two years ago, my father died. Six weeks after, on Sept. 11, the woman I referred to as my second mom passed away as well.

It felt like the Twin Towers of my childhood were coming down around me. Fortunately, the foundation of much of that childhood -- my mom -- is still standing.

My entry into this not-so-exclusive club -- adult children who lose their parents -- was not dissimilar to many who are my age. Nor, as I continue to learn, are the emotions that to this day catch me off guard.

For example, I took my kids to see "Up," the new Disney movie, this past weekend. In what is a bravura sequence of filmmaking (animated, CGI, or not), the audience watches an almost 10 minute sequence that represents the arc of a lifetime for Carl and Ellie. As you watch the adventure they go through, that of the mundane day-to-day tasks and miscellaneous hardships and barriers that prevent them from going to the land unknown, I dare anyone not to tear up.

Or, as in my case (and to the horror of my suddenly self-conscious children), you might start blubbering like a baby.

The reason for this, I later figured out, was because the relationship represented everything I saw in my parents. Life's barriers, big and small, kept blocking their path, but they never stopped living their adventure. Not until after the very end.

Two years and two days ago, my father waved goodbye to me and to my sister before slipping into a final, fitful coma. His death, or some form of life without him, was something I had prepared myself for almost daily since childhood.

Truism #1: No matter how prepared you may be, you are never prepared for life after the end.

The death of my second mom was not as much of a shock, even though Fran's dramatic decline in such a short period was traumatic in its own way.

The numbness of these two events started wearing off after about 4 months. The holidays brought a flood of memories and feelings I had anticipated, but was not able to deal with at the time. No matter how “prepared” I thought I was, I wasn’t ready to see a movie I knew my father would like and not be able to call him, or to find a book or CD that he would enjoy and realize I couldn’t buy it and put it away for Chrismas or his birthday.

Truism #2: Memories live as long as you breathe life into them.

Over time, I found myself welcoming other friends into my not-so-exclusive club. We now exchange knowing nods, e-mails, and phone calls as critical days and anniversaries pass, times in which we are transported back to childhood and reminded of the things (big and small) that we encountered with our parents on life's great adventure.

Two years after his death, I remember my father’s life, and all that it represented. On days like today, days in which my mom and I share conversations about mundane things and find ourselves beset by awkward long distance pauses, I can’t help but think about the end.

On days like today, I wonder why I forget the simplest things, like remembering to put on my watch, or carrying my phone with me to a lunch meeting that runs late. I wonder why my mom’s phone call about finding some of my father’s sketches makes me feel like I’m 8 years old all over again, or why I feel compelled to write this now to share with the world.

I wonder why, on a day in which I received a promotion that would make my father beam with pride, I feel so ambivalent. And then I realize it’s because of what’s been lost, that nothing can replace the presence of a parent in your life.

And then I look at my own kids, those who exasperate and upset me so while bringing such joy to my life, and I know. I just know.

RIP: John Glenn Cook Jr., 1940-2007.

Our “time” to say thanks

Almost 10 months ago, our son joined a group of actors, singers, and dancers in a rehearsal hall at The Kennedy Center. Usually one or both parents accompany Ben to the meet and greets, whereupon we get to talk to some of the actors before we’re restricted to the stage door or green room to sit and wait.

Jill and I both attended this meet and greet because it was Ben’s first Kennedy Center show, his first Equity production, and his first time working as an understudy. He had just finished two Ford’s Theatre shows — “A Christmas Carol” and “The Heavens Are Hung in Black” — and was nervous but confident as this next journey started.

Little did we know what this journey would bring.

Ten months later, as I write this on a late Sunday in early January, I’m sitting on my bed in a New York apartment three blocks from the Neil Simon Theater. It’s quiet, although the 30 mph wind that has dropped temperatures into the low double digits continues to whip in and around our building. Ben is asleep in the top bunk near me, restlessly waiting for his return to school and to a life that in short time will be more unfamiliar than ever.

Because, one week from tonight, he bids farewell to “Ragtime” and to the extended family he has known for these past 10 months. It has been a time that has changed his life — and our lives — forever.

If this were an awards show, the list of people we need to thank would go far past the 45-second allotment that you get before they cut to a commercial. I would have to start with Ben’s siblings — Emma, Kate, and Nicholas — who have seen their lives turned upside down by all of this and proven to be remarkably resilient. Jill and I would have to give a special shout out to our employers and the people who work with us, for their patience and help as we juggle schedules. And we could not have done this without Laurie and John, the child helpers, or “wranglers” as they are known.

“Ragtime,” for those who haven’t seen it, has a 40-person cast and a 28-piece orchestra, plus a large crew that works behind the scenes. Almost half of the cast transferred with the show from the Kennedy Center, which means that Ben has spent the better part of a year with a core group of actors who have greatly influenced his life: Bobby, Dan, Quentin, Josh, Eric, Christiane, Sumayya, Ron, Mark, Donna, Aaron, Jonathan, Tracy, Bryonha, Corey, and Jim.

And of course I have to thank the kids, from mighty Miss Sarah and Christopher to Kaylie, Ben’s fellow understudy who joined the cast with 21 others from the New York area in September. And of those who joined the show in New York, I also have to give shout outs to Robert, Stephanie, Terence, and Carly. There are many, many more that I wish I had gotten to know better who also helped influence and support Ben.

Before my time at the podium runs out, I must move over to the creative team — especially Marcia the director and Jim and Jamie, the show’s musical backbone — that decided our son could be successful on the large stage. You have changed his life for all time.

And to Terrence, Lynn, and Stephen, as well as Tom and Michael, thank you for creating and nurturing such a wonderful piece of theater and allowing Ben to be part of that process.

We must also thank the crew from both companies, among them Peter, Shari, Brandon, and Kate, the stage managers who have been so supportive; John, Sunshine, and Roeya, the business folks behind the scenes; Rachel the dresser; and Errollyn the elevator operator, just to name a few.

As parents, we have learned to appreciate the people and what goes into the process of moving from page to stage, from creation to evolution as your work grows and changes over time. From our vantage point, somewhere on the distant periphery, we have witnessed the highs, the smiles, the lows, the tears, the questions of what happens next.

The reason “Ragtime” isn’t running for much, much longer will be one of many questions and much debate in the weeks, months, and years ahead. But we are so blessed to have had it be part of our lives for this past year.

Thank you again, from the parents of a Little Boy…

10 Days — Dec. 19-28

Ten days ago, Dec. 19, we had snow. Two inches shy of two feet fell from the sky, papering our house and streets in an unprecedented downpour – for December at least – of frozen, granular ice.

Nine days ago, Emma and I shoveled a path for the car. Two neighborhood girls came over and helped us clear the driveway while Kate started making her Christmas presents in every possible room of the house. As the night ended, we plodded to a hotel near the Baltimore-Washington International Airport, knowing that Jill would not make it from New York as we had planned due to the weather.

Eight days ago, at 5 a.m., we boarded a flight for Orlando and the land of the Mouse. The girls bickered. Kate twitched while Emma made her version of snark angels. It was colder than I anticipated, but we braved Magic Mountain.

Seven days ago, Jill made it! Forty minutes before the girls went on stage for Frosty Follies — the 22-minute holiday revue that is the only reason we were at Disney the week of Christmas — she arrived at the hotel, exhausted from an all-night trip of planes, trains and taxicabs. Later, we had drinks in the bar and shook our heads in amazement at the year almost behind us. I couldn’t sleep as I worked on the first draft of this entry, but the words weren’t there.

Six days ago, on three hours sleep, I left Orlando for New York. There, Ben was obsessing about “Billy Elliot,” wondering if he would have a chance to do that show, too. Ten minutes before curtain, he was on; I ran five blocks and saw my Little Boy on stage for the third time. He was terrific.

Five days ago, on Christmas Eve, I started writing this again, trying to find a way to meld the various emotions of seeing my girls on stage in Florida and my son on Broadway. But I couldn’t put the words on paper. After Ben’s matinee, we headed home on the train for Christmas in Virginia. The phone rang; it was Jill. Kate was in distress. They went to the hospital ER. We got off the train and cabbed to Springfield to meet them; Ben performed in the room while Emma laughed hysterically.

Four days ago, at the start of Christmas Day, we arrived at home with Kate. The diagnosis was a panic attack, but a neurologist now needs to be called ASAP. The ER doctor started off defensive, then realized what he — and we — faced. The kids slept until almost 8, when it was time to open presents. All the kids were extremely grateful for their gifts, a first I think, and it was a very nice and quiet day. Ben, grateful to be home, called it the “best Christmas ever.”

Three days ago, I drove to Ellicott City to drop off Ben, who had to be in New York for a matinee and rode back with members of the “Ragtime” cast. An article in the New York Times noted that Internet rumors were surrounding the show, but it looked like “Ragtime” would survive through January. Traffic was a bear, but I managed to get home and work some on the house, addressing long-awaited issues on the to-do list. Then Emma and I picked up Nicholas to head to New York, where we picked up Ben that night. I fell into bed.

Two days ago, it was Kate’s 13th birthday, and she celebrated with a low-key shopping excursion with her mom and a friend. Meanwhile, Ben and Emma bickered as all good married couples — and opposite sex twins — do. After lunch, I stood in the TKTS line for 45 minutes, only to be told at the gate that “Next to Normal” had sold out. Sadness turned to euphoria when I won the lottery and Nicholas and Emma got in to see the story of a bipolar housewife and the effect that the illness has on her family. Meanwhile, vendors stood at TKTS with “Ragtime” fliers in hand, getting few takers.

Yesterday, Dec. 28, we went our separate ways. Nicholas met up with some of his friends from school. Ben, Emma, and I arranged to go to Mars 2112, a bizarre little “Chuck E. Cheese Goes to Outer Space” restaurant on 51st Street, with a girl from “South Pacific” and her mom. It was a nice day.

Then, a series of omens — a picture frame broken, problems with Ben’s camera. Jill was returning to New York with Kate, which made Emma nervous. I was heading back to Virginia to work before the New Year’s holiday, but a few minutes after dropping Ben off, he called. I thought it was to tell me to have a good trip, or perhaps to apologize for the camera incident.

“We’re closing,” he sobbed, “on Jan. 3.”

Life Amid the Holidays, Vol. 2

In my 20s, a car pulled out in front of me on Christmas Eve, totaling the first new vehicle I ever had. Then my second car, a used battleship that would not/could not be destroyed, was stolen the next holiday season.

A few months later, I got married, picking a safe, middle-of-the-year month — May —  to avoid any potential mishaps. Within two years, my first child — Nicholas — was born (of course) in December, tying the fate of my parenting skill (or lack thereof) to the emotion-laden holiday season.

Two years later, during my parents’ Christmas visit to North Carolina, my dad and I went to see two movies on the same day. Movies were one way my father and I bonded, and it didn’t hurt that I managed to escape what was an increasingly untenable situation at home.

On the way back to Reidsville from Greensboro, I asked him: “Why, given everything you’ve been through, are you and mom still together? How have you made it work?”

He paused for a long time, then said, “When I look at your mother, I see the same person I fell in love with. Of course, she has changed, physically, and so have I, but I still see the same person.”

For me, there was — and is — no simpler definition of love.

I could not say the same, and within a month, I had left the marriage. I wanted the chance to be like my dad.

Within two years, I had divorced, remarried, changed jobs, and bought a house. As Christmas 1996 approached, Jill and I were ready to mark the birth of our first child, Katharine. She was born two days after Christmas.

Little did we know that before the next Christmas we would have two more children. Ben and Emma were born Dec. 11, 1997, giving us three kids who are the same age for 16 days each year and four children born in a single month.

Christmas had moved from a season of endings to a season of beginnings — albeit one that has us running around constantly and trying to hold on to our remaining shreds of sanity.

But the spectre of loss has continued to loom.

Last weekend, I looked around the table at a birthday celebration for Ben and Emma in New York. Earlier, Ben had performed for the second time in “Ragtime,” and we went to a restaurant with family and friends to share some cake and have a late dinner.

My mom was there, as was Nicholas (thanks to my mother’s generosity in paying for his plane ticket). Emma and Kate watched Ben perform for the first time, and we had dear friends and family also in the audience.

As we lit the cake, I looked around and thought briefly of the people who weren’t there — my dad, Jill’s mom, Fran and Bill — and would have given anything to join us. Just as I had done at Thanksgiving (also a dinner in New York), I thought of the holidays we shared as a family, how the chaos of growing up amid illness had given way to the chaos of raising our own children.

And, despite my need (and ability at times) to cling to the holiday humbug that looms over my past, I realized how truly lucky I am.

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…