My mom stepped toward the bed, craning her neck to peer even closer.
"Did you decide on a name?" she asked.
"London," my wife answered, her attention completely devoted to our child. "We've decided to name her London."
My parents eventually left, then returned again that afternoon. In between, Vivian's parents visited as well. They'd flown in from Alexandria, Virginia, where Vivian had been raised, and while Vivian was thrilled, I immediately felt the tension in the room begin to rise. I'd always sensed that they believed their daughter had settled when deciding to marry me, and who knows? Nor did they seem to like my parents, and the feeling was mutual. While the four of them were always cordial, it was nonetheless obvious that they preferred to avoid each other's company.
My older sister, Marge, also came by with Liz, bearing gifts. Marge and Liz had been together longer than Vivian and I had-at the time, more than five years-and not only did I think Liz was a terrific partner for my sister, but I knew that Marge was the greatest older sibling a guy could have. With both my parents working-Dad was a plumber and Mom worked as a receptionist at a dentist's office until her retirement a few years back-Marge had not only served as a substitute parent at times, but as a sibling confidante who helped me wade through the angst of adolescence. Neither of them liked Vivian's parents either, by the way, a feeling that had coalesced at my wedding, when Vivian's parents refused to let Marge and Liz sit together at the main table. Granted, Marge had been in the wedding party and Liz had not-and Marge had opted to wear a tuxedo, not a dress-but it was the kind of slight that neither of them had been able to forgive, since other heterosexual couples had been allowed the privilege. Frankly, I don't blame Marge or Liz for being upset about it, because I was bothered, too. She and Liz get along better than most of the married couples I know.
While our visitors came and went, I stayed in the room with my wife for the rest of the day, alternately sitting in the rocking chair near the window or on the bed beside her, both of us repeatedly whispering in amazement that we had a daughter. I would stare at my wife and daughter, knowing with certainty that I belonged with these two and that the three of us would forever be connected. The feeling was overwhelming-like everything else that day-and I found myself speculating what London would look like as a teenager, or what she would dream about, or what she would do with her life. Whenever London cried, Vivian would automatically move her to her breast, and I would witness yet another miracle.
How does London know how to do that? I wondered to myself. How on earth does she know?
There is another memory from that day, however, that is all mine.
It occurred on that first night in the hospital, long after our final visitors had left. Vivian was asleep and I was dozing in the rocking chair when I heard my daughter begin to fuss. Before that day, I'd never actually held a newborn, and scooping her into my arms, I pulled her close to my body. I thought I'd have to wake Vivian, but surprising me, London settled down. I inched back to the rocking chair and for the next twenty minutes, all I could do was marvel at the feelings she stirred within me. That I adored her, I already knew, but already, the thought of life without her struck me as inconceivable. I remember whispering to her that as her father, I would always be there for her, and as if knowing exactly what I was saying, she pooped and squirmed and then began to cry. In the end, I handed her back to Vivian.
CHAPTER 2
In the Beginning
I told them today," Vivian announced.
We were in the bedroom, Vivian had slipped into her pajamas and crawled into bed, the two of us finally alone. It was mid-December, and London had been asleep for less than an hour; at eight weeks, she was still only sleeping three to four hours at a stretch. Vivian hadn't complained, but she was endlessly tired. Beautiful, but tired.
"Told who what?" I asked.
"Rob," she answered, meaning her boss at the media company where she worked. "I officially let him know that after my maternity leave was up, I wouldn't be coming back."
"Oh," I said, feeling the same pang of terror I'd felt when I'd seen the positive pregnancy result. Vivian earned nearly as much as I did and without her income, I wasn't sure we could afford our lifestyle.
"He said the door was always open if I changed my mind," she added. "But I told him that London wasn't going to be raised by strangers. Otherwise, why have a child in the first place?"
"You don't have to convince me," I said, doing my best to hide my feelings. "I'm on your side." Well, part of me was, anyway. "But you know that means we can't go out to dinner as much and we'll have to cut back on discretionary spending, right?"
"I know."
"And you're okay with not shopping as much?"
"You say it like I waste money. I never do that."
The credit card bills sometimes seemed to indicate otherwise-as did her closet, which bulged with clothes and shoes and bags-but I could hear the annoyance in her tone, and the last thing I wanted to do was argue with her. Instead, I rolled toward her, pulling her close, something else on my mind. I nuzzled and kissed her neck.
"Now?" she asked.
"It's been a long time."
"And my poor baby feels like he's about to blow up, doesn't he?"
"Frankly, I don't want to risk it."
She laughed and as I began to unbutton her pajama top, a noise sounded on the baby monitor. In that instant, we both froze.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
And just when I thought the coast was clear and I let out a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding, the noise from the baby monitor began in full force. With a sigh, I rolled onto my back and Vivian slipped from the bed. By the time London finally calmed-which took a good half hour-Vivian wasn't in the mood for a second attempt.
In the morning, Vivian and I had more luck. So much luck, in fact, that I cheerfully volunteered to take care of London when she woke so that Vivian could go back to sleep. London, however, must have been just as tired as Vivian; it wasn't until I'd finished my second cup of coffee that I heard various noises but no cries, emanating from the baby monitor.
In her room, the mobile above the crib was rotating, and London was wiggly and full of energy, her legs shooting like pistons. I couldn't help but smile and she suddenly smiled as well.
It wasn't gas; it wasn't a reflexive tic. I'd seen those, and I almost didn't believe my eyes. This was a real smile, as true as the sunrise, and when she emitted an unexpected giggle, the already brilliant start to my day was suddenly made a thousand times better.
I'm not a wise man.
I'm not unintelligent, mind you. But wisdom means more than being intelligent, because it encompasses understanding, empathy, experience, inner peace, and intuition, and in retrospect, I obviously lack many of those traits.
Here's what else I've learned: Age doesn't guarantee wisdom, any more than age guarantees intelligence. I know that's not a popular notion-don't we frequently regard our elders as wise partially because they're gray and wrinkled?-but lately I've come to believe that some people are born with the capacity to become wise while others aren't, and in some people, wisdom seems to be evident even at a young age.
My sister Marge, for instance. She's wise, and she's only five years older than I am. Frankly, she's been wise as long as I've known her. Liz, too. She's younger than Marge and yet her comments are both thoughtful and empathetic. In the aftermath of a conversation with her, I often find myself contemplating the things she'd said. My mom and dad are also wise and I've been thinking about it a lot these days because it's become clear to me that even though wisdom runs in the family, it bypassed me entirely.
If I were wise, after all, I would have listened to Marge back in the summer of 2007, when she drove me out to the cemetery where our grandparents were buried and asked me whether I was absolutely sure that I wanted to marry Vivian.
If I were wise, I would have listened to my father when he asked me whether I was sure I should strike out on my own and start my own advertising company when I was thirty-five years old.
If I were wise, I would have listened to my mom when she told me to spend as much time with London as I could, since kids grow up so fast, and you can never get those years back.
But like I said, I'm not a wise man, and because of that, my life pretty much went into a tailspin. Even now, I wonder if I'll ever recover.
Where does one begin when trying to make sense of a story that makes little sense at all? At the beginning? And where is the beginning?
Who knows?
So let's start with this. When I was child, I grew up believing that I'd feel like an adult by the time I was eighteen, and I was right. At eighteen, I was already making plans. My family had lived paycheck to paycheck, and I had no intention of doing the same. I had dreams of starting my own business, of being my own boss, even if I wasn't sure what I was actually going to do. Figuring that college would help steer me in the proper direction, I went to NC State but the longer I was there, the younger I seemed to feel. By the time I collected my degree I couldn't shake the notion that I was pretty much the same guy I'd been in high school.