Two by Two(2)

     



 

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.