Life after Leo, part II: a chance to go back


On a recent Thursday morning, I packed the car for a weekend trip to West Virginia. I stowed a bag for each boy, a soccer ball, a cooler, then I went upstairs to pack Leo’s bassinet.

Standing before the bassinet, I realized it had been a long time since I’d taken it apart. I remembered that you had to collapse it in just the right order or else the sides wouldn’t fold at the end. I tried pushing on the bassinet in a couple of places and looked for a lever that I vaguely remembered was key to the whole operation. I couldn’t find it. Frustration stirred in my ribs, then gave way to a different feeling—in an instant I was back in our old Philadelphia apartment, standing by the same bassinet with Jay, an infant, on the bed beside me.

In addition to the expansion of needs, which I wrote about last week, this has been the other main theme of Leo’s arrival—a sense of going back.

Late on his first night home, after Jay and Wally were asleep, Caroline and I lay with Leo upstairs in our bedroom. We looked at him on the bed between us. He made some little noises, brought his hands up near his face. I was struck by how at ease I felt. I remembered that on my first night home with Jay, I felt completely overwhelmed by the task before us. Six years and a Wally later, the idea of caring for an infant didn’t feel overwhelming at all. This has made it much easier to enjoy having Leo around.

For that reason, we refer to Leo as a cherry, a bonbon, a little something extra. Caroline and I never contemplated not having kids, or stopping at one, but we might have held fast at two. As Leo grew in her belly, there were moments when Caroline and I wondered what we were doing. Life was so good, we seemed to have most everything we wanted, yet here we were, about to throw a whole new life into the mix.

And, Leo’s arrival has been disruptive in the ways I wrote about last week. But the stronger feeling, and the feeling I expect to see grow over time, is the feeling I had one afternoon just before Christmas. Caroline’s family was visiting and in a quiet moment I surveyed our house. Here was Jay playing cards at the dining room table, there was Wally reading on Grammy’s lap on the couch. Then I looked in the corner and saw Leo, two weeks old, asleep in his seat, and I felt our cup runneth over.

Leo has almost entirely complied with this idea we have of him as a sweet something extra. True, it was an ordeal getting him to drink from a bottle, but besides that, he has made being an infant look easy. He’s cheerful, amiable, fun-loving, good in the car, content. Family activity often roars away without him; Jay and Wally dash to the playroom, Caroline and I follow, and Leo is left alone in his bouncy seat on the kitchen counter. For the most part, he doesn’t seem to mind.

In life, we often wish we could relive our most vivid experiences, or wish we could do things over given what we know now. And, in most cases, it’s best to set those kinds of wishes aside. You can’t swim in the same river twice, life goes on, there is no going back.

Yet here is Leo.

Caroline and I talk sometimes about how Leo has gotten less of the royal retreatment than Jay or Wally did. We’ve taken fewer pictures of him, been less amazed when he rolled over. He has had to fit himself into a story already in-progress. But we also think about how, years down the road, there will come a time when Jay has gone off, and Wally has gone off, and it’s just the two of us and Leo at home. I think about how those years might feel, and I imagine that having Leo around then will feel a lot like having Leo around now—like an act of grace.

Life after Leo, part I: needs

_MG_6622_EditA few nights ago at bedtime, each boy needed something: Leo, crying, needed to be put to sleep, Jay, badgering me at my elbow, needed to watch highlights from a basketball game, Wally, jumping up and down on his bed, needed…something, though I couldn’t say exactly what.

When I think about the six months since Leo was born, these are the kinds of scenes that come to mind. The number of children in our house increased by 50 percent, but it has felt like the number of needs has increased by much more than that.

Many are simple needs: pour this, wipe that, change my shirt, find my ball, flip Leo onto his back again. This morning I was trying to pour Jay a bowl of mini-wheats at the same moment he was asking me to help him sound out “nightgown,” at the same time Wally was in the pantry asking me, “What’s this box?” (Answer: old formula.) It was enough to instigate a light compressing sensation on the surface of my skull.

These kinds of needs are tiring to fulfill, but they’re straightforward and just take stamina. I know if I “wipe that” enough times, eventually he’ll start wipe it himself.

It’s the other kinds of needs that have been trickier. These are needs for attention and emotional sorting-out. And I think of these needs as falling into two categories: Needs where the solution is obvious, but difficult to implement, and needs where even the solution is not clear.

Needs related to time and attention have been easy to diagnose, but harder to meet. The most obvious complication of adding a new child is that it makes it harder to carve out one-on-one time with the ones you already have. We’ve taken some steps. Caroline has gone on weekend lunch dates with Jay, usually to Chipotle. On Thursdays during the (just concluded) school year, Jay would stay after school for woodworking class. We’d take that opportunity to spend some extra time with Wally. One day he and I went to the hardware story to get a bolt for his broken-down bike. Another, we made banana bread. More often, Caroline or I would just sit with him in the playroom or on the front stoop while he played cars.

Even still, days can go by where I feel like I don’t have much individual interaction with Jay or Wally. I herd them to dinner, herd them into the bath, or I keep an ear out while they play basketball together in one room and I make breakfast in another.

Finally, there are the needs which are glaring, but hard to decipher and harder to solve. They have expressed themselves as tantrums at mealtimes, pushing on the playground, and manic jumping around before bedtime. More than once, Caroline and I have said to each other: These boys need something from us, but what? We can’t make Leo go away, we can’t add hours to the day. Often, there’s seemed to be no way to leaven their present anguish.

This has been especially true for Wally. At times, I’ve felt that Leo was a particularly cruel thing to inflict on him. I’ve watched Wally pretend, night after night, to be a baby chick/pteranodon/bear/alligator being birthed from beneath his covers. I’ve appreciated how hard it must be to find yourself displaced in a stroke as the baby of the family.

Time has helped a lot. There are still plenty of moments where I look around the house and all I see are needs, but the addition of Leo feels much less jarring than it used to. Jay and Wally are moving closer to the day they won’t be able to remember life before Leo. Caroline and I have mostly found a plan that accommodates the extra steps we need to take between waking and sleeping each day.

In September, three months before Leo was born, I concluded a post with the image of a child—the boy who would be Leo—running to catch a ship before it clears the headlands. Today I have a different boat image in mind. Leo’s aboard, and for six months we’ve been accelerating, bow up, hard through the waves. Now there’s a welcome sense of leveling off.

Wally takes a fall

_MG_6467On Saturday we went for a hike with two other families on a warm West Virginia afternoon. The trail was two miles long, uphill, and steep in places. Wally accomplished the second-half of the distance in 50-foot bursts, chasing me with a stick.

The stick was his magnet, and when he’d catch me he’d jab it through one of my belt loops. “I magneted you,” he’d say, and hold me fast in place, until others in our group caught up to us on the trail. Then I’d push the “detach” button on the magnet and run up the trail, Leo on my chest, Wally cackling and coming up fast behind me.

We had lunch at an overlook, drank water, lay in the sun, took a group photograph, headed down. Much of the way back was on an old access road, which was covered in large rocks and loose gravel. Wally, freed at last from the torture of walking uphill, only wanted to run. Instead of chasing me, he pursued an older boy, an eight-year-old who hopped easily over rocks and roots. Watching Wally careen down after him on his little, little legs, I knew it was only a matter of time before disaster struck.

So, I told Wally to stop running, and the father of the older boy told his son to stop running, too. But neither child listened. Less than a minute later, at full-speed, Wally lost his footing and pitched forward onto the ground.

I was about twenty feet up the trail behind him. I waited for Wally to cry, or to bounce up, or to otherwise let me know if he was hurt, but he did none of that. Instead he lay twisted on the ground and looked up the hill toward me. He made a pained grin, let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “Hahahahaha,” he said, “That’s funny. I’m OK. Hahahahaha.” I couldn’t tell what was going on. He laughed again. “Hahahahahaha, see nothing’s wrong,” he said, even as he remained down on the ground, his expression teetering between that weird, forced grin, and tears.

Finally I reached him. He wouldn’t let me help him up. Instead he got to his feet himself and went and stood by the side of the trail with his back toward me. I’d never seen this kind of behavior from him before and couldn’t tell exactly what was going on. Then he started to cry. He told me his knee was bleeding. All the false bravado from a moment ago was gone and I started to understand he’d been trying to cover up how he really felt.

I asked him if he’d like a piggyback and, still crying, he said he would. So with Leo asleep in front, I hoisted Wally on my back, and down the trail we went. After a minute Wally said to me, in that same desperate voice, “It only needs a band-aid. You were wrong, Dad, I can run.”

I said back to him, “I know you can,” and though I tried as hard as I could, I’m not sure I was able to make him believe me.

After the birth, Jay and Wally react


Thursday morning I walked into the kitchen to a strange sight: every cabinet was flung open, every drawer was pulled out, and there in the middle of the room was Jay, waiting for my reaction to his handiwork.

It was a first-time event around here and just the kind of thing Caroline and I have been on the lookout for in the eleven days since Leo was born. Jay and Wally would have a hard time telling us directly how they feel about such a big change in their lives, though they’re furnishing plenty of signs.

Wally’s motor always runs fast, but it’s churning extra-hard lately. On Tuesday evening he spent the twenty minutes before bed hopping off of two feet and making a vibrating noise with his lips. When we finally herded him to his covers, he sat up in bed and announced, “I’m nocturnal. Nocturnal animals don’t sleep when it’s night time.”

Not every aberration has been so charming. Under clearer skies, Jay and Wally will play together in the morning for half-an-hour or more before a squabble prompts me and Caroline out of bed. For the last few days, though, they’ve had a hard time going more than a few seconds without running off the rails. Jay’s needling has a little extra needle in it, and Wally is always a hair’s breadth from screaming. This morning they went back and forth for several minutes over a small plastic flashlight, not larger than an inchworm, at which point I rolled out of bed and asked if they might consider playing in separate rooms.

Yesterday afternoon Jay and I played soccer in the backyard, as we do many days after school. He scored on his first shot, light and happy. I blocked his next kick, and he fell apart. He screamed and cried, tossed the goal angrily, kicked the ball against the fence over and over again. “We can do whatever you want, Jay,” I told him. “I want me to have a thousand and you to have zero,” he snarled. Later, we kicked the ball back and forth through dry fallen leaves. When the ball came back to him, Jay paused and said, “I want you to tell Mom that I cried.”

Caroline’s mom has been here since just before Leo’s birth. She’s heard the early morning fights, seen the sharp mood turns. “These boys are suffering,” she said recently, “and they don’t even know it.”

We’re trying to show Jay and Wally that important things about their lives haven’t changed, and that those things that have changed, have changed for the better. Caroline and Leo still don’t make it down for breakfast most mornings, but they’re there at night: Caroline reading the boys their books and singing them their songs, just like she used to, Leo taking turns on his brothers’ laps.

It was on one such evening a few days ago, that Jay finally put words to his feelings. The lights were off, the boys were in bed, and Caroline told them it was time for them to ask their last questions of the day. Usually these concern dinosaurs, or things that burn in the sun, but that night Jay had something else on his mind: “Why do you spend so much time with the baby, and not with us?”

Leo is born

_MG_6087When I think of Jay’s birth, my memories start with a bowl of frosted mini-wheats, left half-eaten on the dining table as Caroline and I rushed off to the hospital. Hours later I came back and found it sitting there, a last instance in the lives we’d left behind.

With Wally, my memories begin on our front stoop in Philadelphia. In the early evening, hours after Wally was born, I returned home and met my college roommate and Jay. He’d taken care of him while we were gone, and had bought Jay a yellow pickup truck, a present to mark his first day as a big brother. As Jay and I walked upstairs to our apartment, I felt that we were less alone than we had been at the beginning of the day.

And now, with our third son, I think my memories will begin with a scene in our kitchen: I’m standing at the sink, washing the boys’ lunch containers, while upstairs Jay and Wally watch Dinosaur Train and behind me, Caroline rolls out pizza dough, pausing every six minutes or so for an early labor contraction—her hands spread on the counter in front of her, her head down, her eyes closed, knowing she needs to have this baby in stride.

Those early labor contractions progressed quickly, and a little before 1:30am, Leo was born (that’s his blog name). He was purple and wet, with dark hair slicked against his small head. Within seconds he was on Caroline’s chest, crying, and utterly wondrous.

A few years ago, I wrote a post, “The feeling you get when a baby is born.” It was about how before Jay was born, I worried whether I’d show the right kinds of emotions—would I cry the way a new dad was supposed to cry? Would the doctors and nurses see just how happy I was to greet my son? I wrote about how when the time came, Jay’s birth dwarfed those preoccupations.

This time around I might have worried that witnessing the birth of my own child had become too familiar. Halfway through the labor, a nurse came into the room and saw me leaning against a wall, eating a granola bar. “Look at Joe Cool over there,” she said. “I bet this isn’t your first baby.”

There are plenty of experiences in life that grow less exciting the more you have them (watching fireworks comes to mind). But then there are experiences that only deepen with repetition, that are so tremendous and incomprehensible, they’re hard to see the first time around. Watching people marry is like this- if you’ve been married, or have seen lots of other people get married, the significance of those vows becomes a little plainer.

The birth of a child works this way, too. Watching Leo rush into the world early Tuesday morning, I felt the warp and weave of reality shake. And when they placed him on Caroline, we looked at each other, shook our heads in disbelief, laughed, cried real, hard tears. Over the last five years we’ve watched Jay, and then Wally, grow from newborns into real people. And because of that, in those first few seconds, I think I more immediately recognized the consequence of Leo’s arrival.

Who are you? Oh my God. Thank goodness you’re here.