Talk about great timing. 2 months before my daughter was born, my company instituted a "Paternity Leave" policy. Two weeks of paid vacation for "caring for your loved ones and bonding with the new baby." I should probably set a few people straight before continuing. Anyone with kids who reads "vacation" in the previous sentence knowing there is a kid on the way and siblings to take care of knows that this is a gross misconception. There may be 14 calendar days where I'm not required to sit at my work desk, but there's not a minute of that time that will constitute "vacation." That being said, 14 days of not having to worry about meetings and deadlines so I can take care of my wife, daughter and sons couldn't come at a better time.
That was about the only thing that was well timed.
So on May 12th of this year, I found myself in the pool at our gym with my 3 oldest boys. Anticipating the birth of #5, and the potential disruption to summer plans, my wife suggested that instead of coming right home after swim lessons, I take the opportunity for some Daddy-Kid time after lessons. Being a work-at-home dad, I usually would just take the kids to lessons then set up shop in a relatively quiet area and keep working then come straight home afterwards. Compared to my house after school, an indoor pool during kiddie swim lessons can sometimes be considered a quiet work environment. However, with the summer schedule up in the air, some quality time with the boys was a good idea. Besides, by the time lessons were done, the work day was about done so the timing was perfect. Of course, the one draw back of being IN the pool as opposed to BY the pool meant that I wasn't carrying my cell phone, nor could I hear it if it rang. So imagine my surprise when I'm toweling the kids off at 5:50 PM and strange man walks up to me and asks my name, then proceeds to tell me "Your wife has been trying to contact you." Uh Oh. I speed dial the house phone line while making a mental note that I'm leaving with the same number of kids that I arrived with (hopefully the same ones) only to hear "Where have you been? I've been trying to contact you for over an hour! I'm having contractions!"
20 minutes later, I'm stuck in rush hour traffic going nowhere fast when my phone rings again. I answered (my phone is Blue-toothed into my car so I wasn't doing anything illegal) only to hear "Where ARE you? My water just broke!" I explained that I was a mile from home, stuck in traffic and doing everything possible to get home fast. Of course, being that the conversation was held via the car's speaker system, my 5-year-old proceeds to ask "What happened to Mommy's water?" Trying to explain the function of amniotic fluid and it's potential hi jinx during labor was not something I was mentally ready to do at this particular time. I think I did a pretty good job translating it to preschoolese with the main message being: The baby is coming NOW and we're stuck in traffic. Grasping the urgency of the situation, he then noted "The gorilla button sure would come in handy right now." (In previous rush-hour traffic situations, he has conceptualized a standard feature for our minivan which includes a button on the driver's console that, when pushed, releases a thousand-pound gorilla from the roof of the car that will proceed to push all other cars out of the way so we could keep going.) Smart kid. I agreed with him whole heartedly.
By 6:20 we reached home (90 minutes since contractions began, henceforth known as C+90), I practically ejected the kids from the car and ran inside to grab all the bags we'd need for the next 2 days. At this point I had 2 conflicting thoughts running through my head. 1) I need to get my wife to the hospital and there's still rush hour traffic out there and 2) all 4 previous deliveries were 8+ hour affairs. If history were any indication, we had PLENTY of time. It's important to note that the hospital is 40 minutes away from where we live. No, it's not the closest hospital, but it is THE hospital where all of our other children were delivered and the place my wife felt most comfortable. I did, at one point, request that she consider a closer hospital, which she did pretty much to humor me, but it was a foregone conclusion that when the time came we'd be making the trek out to the other hospital. Point being: While I wasn't happy about a potentially delayed trip due to traffic, I was banking on another long haul to the finish line keeping me calm.
6:40(ish) (C+1hour and 50) ~20 minutes and about halfway to the hospital, it occurs to me (via my grumbling stomach) that I haven't eaten since breakfast, and if history was any indicator, I'd be by her side for the next 5-6 hours without so much as a tic-tac to tide me over. (I was later informed that a tic-tac would have been awesome since my breath was kickin'. Something for all you future Lamaze coaches out there to remember) I also knew that being a HUGE proponent of the epidural, my wife was going to want to get drugged up ASAP at which point they don't let the mother eat anything until after the initial recovery. So with nothing but the best intentions in mind, (and knowing there was a Sonic Burger right across from the hospital) I floated the idea that we hit a drive through before running into the hospital. Having full veto authority as the woman in labor, she shot down that idea post-haste. A few silent minutes later, again allowing my altruistic nature to shine, I gently reminded her that once we were at the hospital, she wouldn't be allowed to eat anything and 5 minutes in a drive-through might be wise in the long run. OK, I know. I win the award for the biggest Jackass of the year by mentioning it a second time. In my (lame) defense, I had been through this 4 times before, and each time she did complain about being really hungry as we waited through the 8-hour post-epidural labor marathon ( it had NOTHING to do with the fact that Sonic makes an awesome burger and shake and I'd been thinking about it for over a week. She came home a week earlier from an OB appointment at the hospital with a shake cup in hand "Guess what just opened up across from the hospital!"). She put the situation in perspective quite succinctly: "How about we not delay the pregnant woman her pain meds any more than absolutely necessary?"
Seriously though, I have to say that hunger aside, my perspective up to that point had been colored by 2 things: 1) We HAD done this four times already and I did feel like we were going to be a while once we got to the hospital and 2) my wife was a freakin' Rockstar. This second point should be emphasized. While I could hear her doing her Lamaze breathing in the passenger seat, up to that point she didn't complain once about any pain. She was timing the contractions, but at no point let on how much she might have been hurting. While internally, there may have been a lot of fear, anger, pain, etc, externally she was pretty much cool as a cucumber. Her statement grounded me and my unintentionally cavalier attitude towards yet another delivery corrected itself into "Holy crap, my wife needs help STAT!"
7PM (C+2 hours 10 min) we pull into the parking lot of the hospital. Despite being told that "they are waiting for us at the hospital" the place was a ghost town. Some ridiculous part of my mind was picturing an orderly with a wheelchair and a highly professional and attentive nurse anxiously awaiting our arrival ready to whisk her to the maternity ward. Nope. We were on our own. I'll skip the details, but I eventually got my wife to the maternity ward and checked in, and the nurses immediately began the I.V. drip and preliminary blood work required for an epidural. The results came in just as we were informed that the anesthesiologist was called into another patient but would be with us as soon as possible. Awesome. My wife was at 5+ centimeters by 7:30 and REALLY looking forward to the drugs. So we waited, holding hands, breathing, watching the clock, and not-so-subtly indicating that perhaps we could shut the door to the room to drown out the shrieking of the woman in the next delivery room. I've found it interesting that all TV and movie depictions of labor involve a lot of screaming by the mother in labor. My wife didn't scream through any of our children's births. Honestly I'm not sure where she would have gotten the breath to be able to. The woman one room over, however, different story.
8PM (C+3 hours ten) we are told the anesthesiologist is on his way. Unfortunately, we were now at 8 1/2 - 9 centimeters and told we'd be ready to push soon so, sorry, no drugs for you. We'd be doing this au-naturale. Are you KIDDING ME? By 8:10 they'd prepped the room and by 8:20 we (and by we I mean she) were pushing. Contractions were coming hard and fast, I was doing my best to guide her through the breathing (ok, FINALLY my 4 prior experiences were paying off and I was being helpful! (minus the tic-tacs)) and helping hold whatever the doctor said to hold.
8:25 PM (C+3 hours 35 minutes) My wife delivered our daughter and she was immediately taken to the warming table. Unfortunately all was quiet. No cries. I think I've mentioned a few times now that I've been through this before and I was acutely aware that there is supposed to be a baby crying at this point. My wife, thoroughly exhausted is on the verge of freaking out because this little bundle we've been waiting to meet for 38+ weeks, the daughter my wife has been dreaming of since before we ever met, is silent. The doctor informed us that when a delivery happens this quickly, the baby is often stunned and needs a minute to recover. Want to experience one of the longest minutes of your life? Wait expectantly for your baby to make her first sound and receive only silence. I don't know how much time actually passed, probably only 30 seconds, not the 30 years I probably aged, but then it started. A baby's cries never sounded so good. It was in perfect harmony to my wife's relieved crying next to me. The nursing team brought the naked, squirming, screaming little bundle to Roseann and put her skin-to-skin to meet Mommy. The baby stopped crying almost immediately and looked up to see her. Two thoughts went through my head. The first was that this was truly God's blessing. We'd been patient (ok, that's debatable) and faithful, and He'd rewarded us with this precious little girl. Secondly, I was in absolute AWE of my wife. Our previous pregnancies were nothing to discount. There is a reason the term is called Labor. However each prior pregnancy included epidurals and injections for pain, soothing music, lavender fragrances, etc. (At one point during a previous pregnancy in the post-epidural delay when things had calmed down, we got stink-eye from the nurse because we got bored and were playing cards.) Again, acknowledging that there is nothing easy about child birth, there is something raw and frightening about watching a woman bring a new life into this world with nothing to help but her own strength and will. No drugs, no fancy pools or holistic techniques. This was the miracle of birth. I saw my wife in a new light that amazed me beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. She took my breath away and imbued me with a profound respect and awe that I can't put into words. Did I use the term Rockstar previously? Yeah, well, Rockstars have nothing on my wife.
Just over three and a half hours from her first contraction, Chiara (pronounced Key-ARE-uh) was delivered into our lives. A few cellphone pictures and phone calls later and I was on my way home to make certain my boys were in bed and would be ready for school the next day with the news that their baby sister had arrived. One of the joys of living in a relatively small town, is that there was a whole host of people anxiously awaiting the arrival of our daughter. My four little minions were going to spread the word like wildfire the next day as soon as the bus rolled up to our house.
9:58PM (C+ 4hours 8 min) On my way home I pull into the Sonic Drive through. They closed at 9:55. Damn.
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Monday, October 5, 2015
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Where's the Papparazzi?
There are times when I wonder if my family isn't unwittingly participating in a reality TV show. Whenever we enter a store, restaurant, or leave the front door in most cases, we seem to draw attention. Enough so that I'd swear we made it into some obscure B-list celebrity circle. Stares, whispers, or side-long glances are the norm these days when my wife and I are out with the crew. For the most part, it doesn't bug me. In part, I like to think it's because they are all looking at my wife thinking "Holy Moley, she had 5 kids? No way!" I do take pride in the fact that my kids are very well behaved in public. There's the occasional exception to that statement, but I feel highly confident that I could take them into any restaurant and be able to have a mostly normal meal without disturbing the rest of the patrons. My kids will play word games, or tic-tac-toe on a napkin (paper, not cloth), or find some way to keep themselves entertained with my wife and I while we are ordering and then waiting for food.
Reality check: They're kids. I will always have to answer at least three times the questions "when will the food get here?" and "Do we get desert?" The good news is that most waiters will see a family with 5 kids walk into their seating area, and put the kitchen on high alert to crank out the chow with a quickness before the evening goes pear-shaped. We're not ordering the soufflé so you can take comfort in the fact that we are not likely to linger. If you have the standard kid's fare on the menu, and ice cream as a desert option, you have nothing to worry about from us. Though I have seen the occasional waiter turn a few shades of green when he realized his party of seven included an infant, a toddler and 3 young boys. Yeah buddy, you'll be earning this one....
The funny part about all the stares and whispers is the change that occurs throughout the course of the meal from the other patrons.
It always starts out with the look of barely-contained horror that some inconsiderate parents (us) would think about bringing such a young family into the restaurant where they were counting on a nice, peaceful meal. Now to be fair, my wife and I are not part of the 8PM dinner crowd. Dinner for us is typically between 5 and 6. Ever roll into a restaurant at 5 PM? It's practically deserted, which is exactly why we hit the restaurants at those times. Those who are there are usually the over 70 crowd banking on the early-bird specials and tend to be more tolerant (or hard of hearing....either way, it works.) Regardless, dinner at that hour means less wait, less people to potentially disturb, less chance of a catastrophic outing. So yes, we are aware of the live social grenade we are bringing into the eating establishment, and we are doing our best to mitigate any potential casualties or collateral damage.
The looks of horror eventually turn to curiosity as they finish officially counting the kids and come to the realization that the older ones are all boys and the little bundle in the car seat is sporting something pink and frilly, therefore allowing them to assume "They got the girl!" (perhaps they wonder if it's an effeminate little boy, but the conversation has never gone there...) The sidelong glances continue for a while and at this point they are all torn between wanting the quietly sleeping baby to continue in her peacefully quiet slumber and wanting the baby to wake up so they can 1) confirm it's a girl and 2) see how cute she is. (let me end the suspense....she's DARN cute.) Knowing there are adoring fans out there (perhaps it's only her who is part of the reality show) just dying for a glimpse of her, she'll wake up with a minimum of fuss and insist on being taken out of the car seat and held. Incidentally, this is uncannily timed for the arrival of the food, such that either my wife or I will have to hold her instead of eating our nice warm meal. It has the added benefit of leaving only one of us capable of helping the little guys cut their food or get catsup out of the Heinz bottle.
Curiosity will eventually give way to smiles. Like I said, my kids are generally very well behaved, and my youngest son (whom I regularly refer to as my 'feral kid') is still young enough where his antics are cute and have yet to be destructive or disruptive while out for dinner. There aren't meltdowns or screaming fits, and when we go to a restaurant, we typically order food we know they'll like. I know, I should be "expanding their pallets" but that's what holiday parties at other peoples' houses are for, right? My kids can power down chicken nuggets, pasta, and fries with the best of them, especially when they know that ice cream is only awarded to those who eat their dinner. Ice cream usually brings with it the light-hearted cheering you would expect when putting ice cream in front of kids, and I don't care how much of a curmudgeon you are, seeing a kid break into a smile when desert arrives should put you in a good mood.
Around this time, the check will arrive (80% probability without my prompting, along with to-go boxes and the slightly strained "Will there be anything else?" from the waiter). I waited tables back in the day. I know the waiter is in shock that we've gotten through a meal with 5 kids without incident, and is waiting for the impending catastrophic failure to occur. He has quiet hopes of getting through this encounter unscathed and being able to chalk up a perfect game to his unique service skills. Don't worry, he or she will get a generous tip. I understand the stress they've been living through the last 45 minutes or so. But while I'm digging for my wallet almost inevitably one of the people who have been watching us from another table will come up to us and say something. Opening lines rarely vary, which make we wonder if the reality show is called "You Have Your Hands Full" or "Wow Five Kids." Usually this is an elderly woman and she is usually one of the few people who have been smiling since our arrival at the restaurant and watching our little reality program throughout their meal and enjoying the show to it's fullest. This is usually the first time the kids get uncomfortable with their fame, and start getting antsy about making their way to the door and back into the anonymity of the minivan.
My wife and I round up the gang, making sure we leave no one behind and grab the doggy bag (I'm not letting good french fries or chicken fingers to waste!). Our little troupe makes our way to the restaurant exit, past the now smiling patrons and the waiter sobbing with relief. I guess people are just used to kids bouncing off the walls all the time so my boys come as something of an anomaly to them. I'm proud of how well they behave and am grateful that they make it possible for my wife and I to get out and not have to cook from time to time. A family of 7 isn't the norm, and I get that. Sometimes it does get uncomfortable feeling like we are in the spotlight so much when we go out and about. I try not to even indicate I'm aware of the stares because I don't need my kids feeling like they are on display. For us, 5 kids is the new normal. We're going to do things differently than most of their friends' families will and that will be hard enough for them to have to deal with sometimes.
Reality check: They're kids. I will always have to answer at least three times the questions "when will the food get here?" and "Do we get desert?" The good news is that most waiters will see a family with 5 kids walk into their seating area, and put the kitchen on high alert to crank out the chow with a quickness before the evening goes pear-shaped. We're not ordering the soufflé so you can take comfort in the fact that we are not likely to linger. If you have the standard kid's fare on the menu, and ice cream as a desert option, you have nothing to worry about from us. Though I have seen the occasional waiter turn a few shades of green when he realized his party of seven included an infant, a toddler and 3 young boys. Yeah buddy, you'll be earning this one....
The funny part about all the stares and whispers is the change that occurs throughout the course of the meal from the other patrons.
It always starts out with the look of barely-contained horror that some inconsiderate parents (us) would think about bringing such a young family into the restaurant where they were counting on a nice, peaceful meal. Now to be fair, my wife and I are not part of the 8PM dinner crowd. Dinner for us is typically between 5 and 6. Ever roll into a restaurant at 5 PM? It's practically deserted, which is exactly why we hit the restaurants at those times. Those who are there are usually the over 70 crowd banking on the early-bird specials and tend to be more tolerant (or hard of hearing....either way, it works.) Regardless, dinner at that hour means less wait, less people to potentially disturb, less chance of a catastrophic outing. So yes, we are aware of the live social grenade we are bringing into the eating establishment, and we are doing our best to mitigate any potential casualties or collateral damage.
The looks of horror eventually turn to curiosity as they finish officially counting the kids and come to the realization that the older ones are all boys and the little bundle in the car seat is sporting something pink and frilly, therefore allowing them to assume "They got the girl!" (perhaps they wonder if it's an effeminate little boy, but the conversation has never gone there...) The sidelong glances continue for a while and at this point they are all torn between wanting the quietly sleeping baby to continue in her peacefully quiet slumber and wanting the baby to wake up so they can 1) confirm it's a girl and 2) see how cute she is. (let me end the suspense....she's DARN cute.) Knowing there are adoring fans out there (perhaps it's only her who is part of the reality show) just dying for a glimpse of her, she'll wake up with a minimum of fuss and insist on being taken out of the car seat and held. Incidentally, this is uncannily timed for the arrival of the food, such that either my wife or I will have to hold her instead of eating our nice warm meal. It has the added benefit of leaving only one of us capable of helping the little guys cut their food or get catsup out of the Heinz bottle.
Curiosity will eventually give way to smiles. Like I said, my kids are generally very well behaved, and my youngest son (whom I regularly refer to as my 'feral kid') is still young enough where his antics are cute and have yet to be destructive or disruptive while out for dinner. There aren't meltdowns or screaming fits, and when we go to a restaurant, we typically order food we know they'll like. I know, I should be "expanding their pallets" but that's what holiday parties at other peoples' houses are for, right? My kids can power down chicken nuggets, pasta, and fries with the best of them, especially when they know that ice cream is only awarded to those who eat their dinner. Ice cream usually brings with it the light-hearted cheering you would expect when putting ice cream in front of kids, and I don't care how much of a curmudgeon you are, seeing a kid break into a smile when desert arrives should put you in a good mood.
Around this time, the check will arrive (80% probability without my prompting, along with to-go boxes and the slightly strained "Will there be anything else?" from the waiter). I waited tables back in the day. I know the waiter is in shock that we've gotten through a meal with 5 kids without incident, and is waiting for the impending catastrophic failure to occur. He has quiet hopes of getting through this encounter unscathed and being able to chalk up a perfect game to his unique service skills. Don't worry, he or she will get a generous tip. I understand the stress they've been living through the last 45 minutes or so. But while I'm digging for my wallet almost inevitably one of the people who have been watching us from another table will come up to us and say something. Opening lines rarely vary, which make we wonder if the reality show is called "You Have Your Hands Full" or "Wow Five Kids." Usually this is an elderly woman and she is usually one of the few people who have been smiling since our arrival at the restaurant and watching our little reality program throughout their meal and enjoying the show to it's fullest. This is usually the first time the kids get uncomfortable with their fame, and start getting antsy about making their way to the door and back into the anonymity of the minivan.
My wife and I round up the gang, making sure we leave no one behind and grab the doggy bag (I'm not letting good french fries or chicken fingers to waste!). Our little troupe makes our way to the restaurant exit, past the now smiling patrons and the waiter sobbing with relief. I guess people are just used to kids bouncing off the walls all the time so my boys come as something of an anomaly to them. I'm proud of how well they behave and am grateful that they make it possible for my wife and I to get out and not have to cook from time to time. A family of 7 isn't the norm, and I get that. Sometimes it does get uncomfortable feeling like we are in the spotlight so much when we go out and about. I try not to even indicate I'm aware of the stares because I don't need my kids feeling like they are on display. For us, 5 kids is the new normal. We're going to do things differently than most of their friends' families will and that will be hard enough for them to have to deal with sometimes.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
God's Punchline
It's been a long time since I posted. What can I say, life got VERY busy over the last few years. After the arrival of our 4th child, Raphael, back in 2012 and all the challenges that come from trying to feed, clothe, and in general keep 4 small humans alive I didn't have time to write. It occurred to me, however, that this is less about writing a Blog as is about chronicling our adventure as a family. And it IS an adventure.
As I mentioned, Raphael (son #4), arrived back in 2012 and we were done. 4 boys, spanning 6 years was enough. I knew my wife's heart was set on having a daughter, but we'd accepted the fact that my assembly line was only capable of producing 'Y' chromosomes and quite frankly, we were getting stretched as it was. 4 car seats in a mini van is pretty much maxed out. Plus there are only so many frozen pizzas and chicken nuggets a freezer can hold. We had some late-night discussions about adoption so we could inject some pink in the house, but the discussions were more around her trying to game plan a 3-5 year adoption process, and me trying to wrap my head around the mere thought of adoption. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against adoption at all, but after bringing 4 healthy kids into the world I was trying to negotiate the weight that I knew was on my wife's heart with my own misgivings about bringing another child into the house. Of course, the stories you hear about the adoption process, the expense, the nightmare scenarios of adopting from a foreign country etc, were all fueling the fires of my doubt. Honestly, I prayed a lot simply to have an open mind about everything and be able to take the leap of faith that would help me support what was a strong calling for her. The one common ground for us is that we were looking down the barrel of mile-marker 40 and going through yet another pregnancy was not on our "To Do" lists.
Then, on September 10th 2014, it happened. I was discussing family with some members of the local Board of Education after a meeting (yes, I'm on the local BoE because I have a massive amount of free time with nothing to do...(I hope that sarcasm translates)) when I was asked "So, 4 kids! Wow, are planning to have more?"
...Let me digress for a minute. Growing up in America as a "child of the 80's", my perspective and that of many of my contemporaries is that of a family of 4. Vacations, hotels, cars, and just about everything you can think of revolving around a "normal" family assumes there are 4 people consisting of two adults and two kids, ideally one boy and one girl. Any expansion beyond that number automatically makes people think that you are personally trying to repopulate the earth with your own group of minions. If the idea that I have 4 kids doesn't automatically invite the question about prospects of a fifth, than finding out that all 4 are boys is the piece de resistance. THEY MUST ASK. "Do you plan on having more?" "Gunna try for the girl?" It never seems to occur to anyone that this is actually an extremely personal and potentially sensitive question. The world view is that if you have 3 or more children, your sex life (or perhaps more specifically your family planning choices) is obviously an open book and warrants public scrutiny. Digression complete (for now)...
My response was "Nope. At least, not from this DNA Pool. I'm done!"
Now, I believe in God. I believe that God has a sense of humor. I believe God likes to use me as a punch line from time to time. I should have heard the cosmic laughter at that moment. The truth was, however, that I was turning 40 in a few months, and believe it or not we had actually tried to get pregnant earlier in the year (I know, there seem to be some contradictions....don't try to follow the logic. There's WAY too much to explain if you do). Thinking we'd leave it up to God and hopefully, if it was His will for us to have #5 the baby would arrive before my wife turned 40, which was a psychological cutoff point for her. Bottom line, we didn't conceive and I settled in to accepting that my family of 6 was set. Time to look to a future of raising 4 boys and all the joys that come with it. I was in a good place.
24 hours later, I returned home from work which just happened to be Friday, September 11th. I still work from home 95% of the time, but make occasional trips into Manhattan. I hate travelling into NYC on that date for obvious reasons, but personally because I lost a cousin on that day who was the closest person I've ever had to a brother. Because of the day and the date, I made an early morning walk to St. Patrick's Cathedral to attend Mass and even go to confession. (if you haven't guessed by now: Yes, I'm Catholic. No, that's not the reason I have as many kids as I do.) I remember thanking God for the beautiful family I have, my remorse that my cousin would never meet my boys, and to please help me to be a good father and open to His will. I had a sense of melancholy peace throughout the day and returned home eager to give my boys a hug. (Side note: one benefit of having a small clan in your house is that getting bowled over by 4 enthusiastic little boys at your return home is a moment of pure joy.) I had just finished getting tackled with hugs by my 4 boys when my wife walked in and said "Can you meet me upstairs for a minute?" Something was off. She didn't have the "One of your offspring did something today that nearly made me wipe him off the face of the earth" look. The boys were all awake and looking for my attention so the possibility of this having amorous intent was effectively nil. A clogged toilet or leak in the bathroom would have simply warranted a comment or a text earlier in the day. What was up? I followed her upstairs into the bathroom only to have her grab something off the counter and hand it to me. Um....remind me again...what do two lines on this little stick mean again?
I'll spare you the weeks of shell-shocked delirium that followed, or adventure that was the day of delivery (at least for now....tune in again on another day). May 12th, my DAUGHTER Chiara entered our lives. She's awesome. (Holy @$%! I have 5 kids and one is a GIRL!) There is, of course, a whole new spin on the adventure that is our lives now, but those are tales for a different day. (and NO WE ARE NOT PLANNING ON HAVING #6)
As I mentioned, Raphael (son #4), arrived back in 2012 and we were done. 4 boys, spanning 6 years was enough. I knew my wife's heart was set on having a daughter, but we'd accepted the fact that my assembly line was only capable of producing 'Y' chromosomes and quite frankly, we were getting stretched as it was. 4 car seats in a mini van is pretty much maxed out. Plus there are only so many frozen pizzas and chicken nuggets a freezer can hold. We had some late-night discussions about adoption so we could inject some pink in the house, but the discussions were more around her trying to game plan a 3-5 year adoption process, and me trying to wrap my head around the mere thought of adoption. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against adoption at all, but after bringing 4 healthy kids into the world I was trying to negotiate the weight that I knew was on my wife's heart with my own misgivings about bringing another child into the house. Of course, the stories you hear about the adoption process, the expense, the nightmare scenarios of adopting from a foreign country etc, were all fueling the fires of my doubt. Honestly, I prayed a lot simply to have an open mind about everything and be able to take the leap of faith that would help me support what was a strong calling for her. The one common ground for us is that we were looking down the barrel of mile-marker 40 and going through yet another pregnancy was not on our "To Do" lists.
Then, on September 10th 2014, it happened. I was discussing family with some members of the local Board of Education after a meeting (yes, I'm on the local BoE because I have a massive amount of free time with nothing to do...(I hope that sarcasm translates)) when I was asked "So, 4 kids! Wow, are planning to have more?"
...Let me digress for a minute. Growing up in America as a "child of the 80's", my perspective and that of many of my contemporaries is that of a family of 4. Vacations, hotels, cars, and just about everything you can think of revolving around a "normal" family assumes there are 4 people consisting of two adults and two kids, ideally one boy and one girl. Any expansion beyond that number automatically makes people think that you are personally trying to repopulate the earth with your own group of minions. If the idea that I have 4 kids doesn't automatically invite the question about prospects of a fifth, than finding out that all 4 are boys is the piece de resistance. THEY MUST ASK. "Do you plan on having more?" "Gunna try for the girl?" It never seems to occur to anyone that this is actually an extremely personal and potentially sensitive question. The world view is that if you have 3 or more children, your sex life (or perhaps more specifically your family planning choices) is obviously an open book and warrants public scrutiny. Digression complete (for now)...
My response was "Nope. At least, not from this DNA Pool. I'm done!"
Now, I believe in God. I believe that God has a sense of humor. I believe God likes to use me as a punch line from time to time. I should have heard the cosmic laughter at that moment. The truth was, however, that I was turning 40 in a few months, and believe it or not we had actually tried to get pregnant earlier in the year (I know, there seem to be some contradictions....don't try to follow the logic. There's WAY too much to explain if you do). Thinking we'd leave it up to God and hopefully, if it was His will for us to have #5 the baby would arrive before my wife turned 40, which was a psychological cutoff point for her. Bottom line, we didn't conceive and I settled in to accepting that my family of 6 was set. Time to look to a future of raising 4 boys and all the joys that come with it. I was in a good place.
24 hours later, I returned home from work which just happened to be Friday, September 11th. I still work from home 95% of the time, but make occasional trips into Manhattan. I hate travelling into NYC on that date for obvious reasons, but personally because I lost a cousin on that day who was the closest person I've ever had to a brother. Because of the day and the date, I made an early morning walk to St. Patrick's Cathedral to attend Mass and even go to confession. (if you haven't guessed by now: Yes, I'm Catholic. No, that's not the reason I have as many kids as I do.) I remember thanking God for the beautiful family I have, my remorse that my cousin would never meet my boys, and to please help me to be a good father and open to His will. I had a sense of melancholy peace throughout the day and returned home eager to give my boys a hug. (Side note: one benefit of having a small clan in your house is that getting bowled over by 4 enthusiastic little boys at your return home is a moment of pure joy.) I had just finished getting tackled with hugs by my 4 boys when my wife walked in and said "Can you meet me upstairs for a minute?" Something was off. She didn't have the "One of your offspring did something today that nearly made me wipe him off the face of the earth" look. The boys were all awake and looking for my attention so the possibility of this having amorous intent was effectively nil. A clogged toilet or leak in the bathroom would have simply warranted a comment or a text earlier in the day. What was up? I followed her upstairs into the bathroom only to have her grab something off the counter and hand it to me. Um....remind me again...what do two lines on this little stick mean again?
I'll spare you the weeks of shell-shocked delirium that followed, or adventure that was the day of delivery (at least for now....tune in again on another day). May 12th, my DAUGHTER Chiara entered our lives. She's awesome. (Holy @$%! I have 5 kids and one is a GIRL!) There is, of course, a whole new spin on the adventure that is our lives now, but those are tales for a different day. (and NO WE ARE NOT PLANNING ON HAVING #6)
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