Learning to Cry (6 page)

For our current trip to the mountains, we had decided at the last minute to drive two cars. We were hauling a bunch of stuff up, and it just made sense to get everything loaded and out of the way. Sadly, it also gave me an out. Cheryl and I got into a huge altercation that night when we arrived at our destination. We hadn’t even gotten settled in yet when we began hurling vulgar language. The kids were in earshot and heard most of what we were saying, as Cheryl so often allowed them to. Maybe the stress of life in general was just too much. Maybe it was the pressures we placed on ourselves. I don’t ever pretend to have all the answers, but that night I could no longer handle it.

I grabbed my bag, threw it in the SUV and headed home, leaving the family there by themselves. She texted me and called as I drove back, but it only made things worse not better. At one point I hung up the phone, took off my wedding ring, and threw it out the window. I never did tell her the truth about that. Maybe I have an issue about lying, as well. I just always felt that it was better she didn’t know what I had done. I think that was the day our relationship ended. The ring heading out the window to the side of the road was just symbolic. I still remember hearing the clinging sound as it hit pavement and rolled away to its new home.

Our pattern of blaming each other continued after that. I didn’t move out that weekend, but the household tension was mounting on all sides. The au-pair felt it, the kids felt it, and if we were able to admit it to ourselves, we felt it. We were like oil and vinegar, and the mixing was never going to happen. Admitting defeat is not an easy thing to do in a marriage. Neither one of us were looking for somebody new to love, we just no longer loved each other. It would still be a couple of years before this was finalized, but that day was a pivotal point in setting us down the road to separation.

I still wonder what was best for the kids. Would Melissa’s outcome have been different had I stayed married? Would she have made the same choices or would life have been different. Should couples suffer in silence for the sake of children or is it even possible to let a relationship deteriorate quietly. Cheryl and I were anything but relaxed, and we had been that way for a long time now. Is that the right kind of environment to rear a child? There never seems to be an easy right or wrong answer. All we can do is move forward and attack each obstacle with the best intentions and hold on to hope that things even out in the end.

Father

Three is a magic number in our society. There are three Stooges. You couldn’t have just two, and four is another even number. There are even three Musketeers.  Sure, there was talk of a fourth, but that was down the road.  There is the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.  The Holy Trinity is three.  Despite Melissa’s continual demand for attention dictated by her actions, it was becoming obvious that Amelia was in need of some guidance and desperately needed more of our focus. We did still have three children, not just one.

She was struggling in grade school, and it wasn’t from a lack of effort. Having three daughters has taught me a valuable lesson in life. Each one possesses different characteristics. They have different strengths and weakness. Each one approaches life in her own unique way. Amelia, I always felt, stood the best chance at success. She is the one who will most likely be our foundation as we get older and the family matures. There is always one who rises to the top by sheer will, somebody who possesses the inner strength to shoulder the burdens of the group.

Amelia had her work ethic. Melissa had her intelligence. Cassandra had her spunkiness, which scared me to no end each passing year as she grew older. Luckily, all three were amazingly beautiful. Amelia’s work ethic impressed me the most. When drivers enter a race, they all begin within the same parameters. Some cars might be faster, some cars might be more dynamic, some might possess an enormous burst of speed while some might be built for the long haul. While every car varies, they are all within the guidelines of what the race restrictions require. Equal specifications, so the race is fair.

The difference is the drivers. Drivers can use their personal attributes to maximize their car’s strength and will it to the front. The driver by sheer force of actions and paying attention to the details can figure out ways to push the car so it does things the automobile was not originally designed to do. Amelia was tenacious. She struggled mightily in school, but it was not from laziness. She worked every night longer than average; she didn’t have to be reminded to open her books. She didn’t need prodding to do her homework. If anything she was the exact opposite. If we didn’t afford her the time she needed, she was reprimanding us.

Cheryl and I did not understand the dynamics of what was occurring, so we decided to have Amelia tested. Luckily, the public school we were in had the process already in place. Amelia’s teachers agreed that it would be a good idea to see the results of an in-depth academic analysis. Amelia worked too hard, was too sweet, and had too much desire for us not to completely understand why her efforts were not resulting in more success. We made the official request with her teacher and waited for the process to take its course.

Like all things with your children, results never happen quickly enough. A new school psychologist, fresh out of graduate school, led the public testing procedure, and it seemed to be dragging along forever. I guess there are guidelines and timing requirements, and our property taxes do not contribute enough for expediency. Cheryl is not known for her patience, and I am not always known for being the most tactful. While our children will never be ones to worry about not getting their fair share, they might have to worry about being isolated due to their parents less-than-stellar social skills.

After waiting for what seemed like years, we finally started pushing the system a little. I shouldn’t say we, since my ex-wife was the primary instigator in most school activities. Again, she demanded this. When she hit a roadblock, I got involved, as well, and as luck would have it our meeting date was finally assigned. In hindsight, I am not sure we expedited anything. The process had to run its course. As this was the school psychologist’s first assignment, she was learning the intricacies of the real world and how it varied from academia. We might not have been her ideal first customers.

As with any situation that surfaces, new experiences always afford the opportunity to learn new skills. If you take those newfound tools and apply them to life, you will grow and mature. It is part of the aging process. As I look back on our initial meeting with the school psychologist, I am amazed at how random people might change roles and play a major part in your future. You should always be careful how you treat people because you never know how that person might be involved in your life down the road.

When I met Karen, I found myself short of breath. There was something about this woman that threw me off. She was beautiful, but I meet beautiful women all the time. With her, it was something more. I wouldn’t figure it out for a few years, but Karen was somebody special. I did my best to concentrate during the meeting but admittedly was distracted by her voice and her every action as she moved.

Amelia was having trouble with concepts. She, as we all knew, was very intelligent, but her brain worked in a way that made it difficult for her to navigate through a word problem. The easiest way for me to describe this is adding two plus two was easy. That was four. Adding two apples with two oranges and asking how many pieces of fruit there were in total was difficult. I am simplifying this greatly, but that was the basic nuts-and-bolts of what was occurring. There were ways to help Amelia with this issue, but the biggest factor in her success would be her ability to work harder than average.

I am not the most religious person in the world. I don’t go to church. I don’t pray. I don’t spend a lot of time interacting with God, but I am amazed at times. Most of us seem to be programmed so the very attributes that we need for success are built into our systems. Amelia might struggle through life, but the very thing she needed the most was a strong work ethic. It was the very thing she possessed. That was her strongest differentiation from the norm.

We got Amelia a tutor, gave her the extra help that was needed, her teachers worked with her, and I am proud to say she has been on the honor roll ever since. The honor roll. How the hell that girl does it is beyond me. She works harder than anyone I have ever seen. I am not sure what she wants to be when she grows up, but whatever she chooses, she will figure out a way to get there. I wouldn’t want to be the person who stands in her way. By her will alone she will fight to attain whatever goals she sets.

It is difficult not to compare daughters even though it is against the rules. Every person is unique. You can’t compare a plane to a car, for example. It doesn’t make any sense. Yes, they are both machines, and yes, they might both transport people, but they are completely different. They hold different characteristics. They feel different, look different. They are different colors, sizes, shapes. You cannot compare them, yet with children we all inevitably, even if subconsciously, do the sizing up.

Melissa was so smart. She was socially adept. She could do anything she wanted if she applied herself. The sad thing was watching as she continually lost focus. It reminded me of a deer in the middle of the road as a car’s headlights flashed so brightly right in its face. She would spend as much effort in avoiding schoolwork as Amelia would in doing homework. In middle school, this was now taking a toll. She would approach me to help her with a test and, as I always did, my first question was did you read the book. Did you read the chapter or chapters the test is covering? She would attempt her lie and say yes, and within five minutes of quizzing her, it was obvious she had not. We would argue, she would relent, and eventually head off to read.

Her idea of reading was to skim the chapters versus reading the actual words. She would study the highlighted areas, read the bold descriptions, study the sections on the side that were listed as important, and then return. We would go through the chapter again, and I would, again, tell her to read the book. Eventually she would find a way to force herself, or I would just give in from exhaustion. We ran this circle many, many times throughout her middle school years without anything ever being resolved.

Cheryl was a little harder on her than even I was. We lectured her on the importance of learning versus getting by doing the minimum. How in high school the things she learned now would provide a foundation if she studied hard, but that never really sank in. We tried numerous approaches, but it was like throwing a ball up against the wall. No matter how hard you threw it, the ball just comes bouncing back, over and over again. It is monotonous, but as a parent you have to keep making an effort, even if your child does not.

Cassandra, as our third addition, was an interesting blend of the two older versions. She was smart for her age, maybe even brilliant at times, but also a little too smart for her own good. I am not sure if this came naturally or was the side effect of her near disaster as a toddler.

When an au-pair calls you at work and says the words, “Cassandra has a hole in her head” you should listen. I learned a lesson in that experience.

I was sitting in my office one day, the absentee mother was out and about on one of her various trips out of town, and our au-pair at the time called me and said matter-of-factly, “Duncan, Cassandra fell by the fireplace and now has a hole in her head.”

I said, “A hole in her head, interesting. How big is the hole? Is she still coherent? Can she walk? Is it an emergency?”

You might be surprised by my lack of anxiety at the news that my daughter had a hole in her head, but by now we were getting used to the foreign nanny process.

While most foreign nannies come to the United States speaking English, there is always a level of translation that can make life interesting. Sometimes a hole in the head can mean only a scratch. You are just not sure what to expect when reality collides with translated verbiage. We agreed the nanny would take her to the local clinic, and if I was needed she would call me back. Again, you can reprimand me now. Not the best decision, but it was the decision that was made. I never claimed to be perfect. Sometimes those motherly skills would have been helpful, but sadly they were in the Denver airport at the time.

By the time I made it home the evaluation had been completed. Cassandra had returned with her medical synopsis. She had a Band-Aid on her head, and the doctor had decided she would be fine. She did not need stitches, no lasting damage was anticipated, and her cognitive skills seemed normal. She received a clean bill of health at the clinic and was sent home no worse for wear. I entered the house, bounced up the stairs picked her up and gave her a big hug. I sat her down and removed the drugstore Band-Aid and gasped.

Holy shit, she had a hole in her head. I mean, the gash was huge. Not huge in width, but I swear it felt like I could see her skull. It was extremely deep. I was, then, perplexed why she didn’t get stitches. I couldn’t believe I didn’t meet them at the clinic. With Cassandra being our third child, maybe by now I was a little too cavalier in dealing with disasters. It is one thing not to panic, but it is a completely different thing to place your child in danger. Our clinic on the coast doesn’t have the best reputation. After looking at it in more detail and paired with the doctor’s decision, we decided to wait until morning and see how it healed up during the night. I would spend the evening attempting to control my panic.

The next day the skin had closed quite a bit so we didn’t go back and get the stitches, but I am still not sure that it wasn’t warranted. I promised myself that, if in the future, anyone ever told me that somebody had a hole in his or her head, I would damn well pay attention. It was a far cry from when Melissa was a baby, and we seemed to rush her off to the doctor at the slightest sniffle or cough. Perspectives change so drastically by the time you get to that third kid.

When Melissa was little, possibly around 11 months old, she got her first cold accompanied by a fever. No matter what we tried, we couldn’t get her fever to break. She was lethargic, almost non-responsive, and wouldn’t eat for several hours. We were in a panic. We had talked with the doctor several times already and finally were told to take her to the emergency room. The doctor also suggested we give her Pedialyte. It might help her if she truly were dehydrated.

Pedialite, for all of you non-parents out there, is like Gatorade for infants. When a child is sick and needs nutrients in a liquid form, this is the saving grace of high impact drinks. The kid should be able to leap tall buildings after drinking just a few tiny sips. The interesting thing, is this one tiny fact, our Pedialyte bottle was pink. I can’t figure out what marketing guru decided to offer this liquid in the color pink, but I can guarantee it wasn’t a parent. It just couldn’t have been. Why would you subject yourself to this?

We filled up a bottle, and interestingly enough Melissa took to it very well. She sucked it down rather quickly, and we decided we should fill it up again and see if she would take a go at some more. She looked a little more lucid, so the ingredients must have been working. I was still holding her in my arms trying to comfort her. It is so sad when a baby is sick. You can’t explain anything to them. They have no idea what is going on. You can only hold them and comfort them, without them ever understanding what was wrong.

I tended to have much better abilities keeping Melissa calm when she was a baby. Again, Cheryl attributed this to her absence during those first few weeks. I can’t really say what the reason was, but I did love holding her no matter what propelled me to be the one getting to do so. As I was cradling her in my arms and her mother was filling a new bottle with our electrolyte nourishment, Melissa started coughing. She was so congested that she must have gotten something caught in her throat. I was holding her up trying to help her when she spewed forth a pink stream of regurgitated Pedialyte, all down the front of my shirt, my arms, my pants. It went everywhere.

For the record I would like you and everyone else who reads this to know that Pedialyte has a completely different feel, smell, and look to it when it comes back out. The only thing that does not fluctuate is its pinkish color. Not only is it pink, but it will dye anything it touches pink. Inside or outside the stomach, there is nothing like pink vomit that I have encountered before that night or after. I just don’t get why the hell they offer the stuff in pink. Granted it does what it is supposed to do, but pink? Can’t it be some form of clear liquid? If I wanted to douse myself with Pepto Bismol, I would just buy a bunch and jump in the shower.