The Trauma of Family Vacation

A friend of mine asked me the other day if we went to the beach regularly when I was a kid.  Since we lived four hours from the ocean, she thought it would have been a normal activity for us to enjoy.  Unfortunately, we were not a normal family.

I answered that, no, we didn’t regularly go to the beach and that I did not go to the beach with my family until I was an adult.  Every year, we traveled from Virginia to Weatherford Texas, to visit relatives.  Every year, we would load up the car, pack homemade cookies and sandwiches, include a jug of apple juice, and begin the drive to Texas.  Every year, we returned from Texas never wanting to smell, taste, see, or hear about apple juice.  Ever.   Apple juice smell has a half-life of 3200 years.  It sticks around forever.

Most years, we traveled during the summer, when school was out for vacation, which allowed all three kids and Mom and Dad to have the stress-free environment of a 22-hour car ride.  Imagine the scene.  The three kids would ride in the back of the car, unless Mom fell asleep.  Then one of us would be required to sit up front.  Unfortunately for those years, we sat in a small Toyota Corolla without the benefit of a portable DVD player or Satellite Radio. 

Thus, our vacations became a type of contest, with the person who could sleep the most during the trip won a special award:  sanity.  Family unity doesn’t come any better than when you’re stuck with each other without benefit of fresh air or DVD player.  In addition to the close proximity—one does not move very easily in a 1979 Toyota Corolla—we discovered that the vacation time created something we did not experience during the non-vacation time.  It’s called boredom. 

After years of research on my family, boredom has one distinct result.  We all become very annoying.  On these car trips, my Dad would not allow anyone else to drive because he says he can’t sleep when someone else is at the wheel.  To compensate for the exhaustion Dad would feel—usually around the 18-hour point, Texarkana—he would blare the radio, turn on the air conditioner all the way, and begin singing whatever happened to come through the speakers.   You don’t know fear until you hear the words to “Take This Job and Shove It” being sung at full throat while the air conditioner of a Toyota Corolla emits a sound similar to that of a whale belching.    As a ten-year-old boy, the scars remain.  I still can’t hear Johnny Paycheck sing without the air conditioner blasting.

In fairness to Dad, there were others in the car who may have had an annoying trick or two.  For instance, my mother would ration cookies.  I think back on those days of rationing cookies and I think, “What could have motivated this woman, other than sadism, to torture her family in such a way?”  We had three ravenously hungry boys who could have eaten the head rests, if given enough ketchup, and she’s rationing cookies!  The outrage!  And we ate, according to the schedule set by mother.  Four hours to the border of Virginia, then you can have a cookie.  Just one.  Although Mom baked enough to fill up the trunk, only one may be eaten at a time.

Four more hours into Tennessee, and then you can have a sandwich and some apple juice. 

Four more hours until Memphis, another cookie.  And so on. 

Every four hours, we got something else, until we got to Texas. 

We still talk about this maneuver at holidays.  Sheer psychological devastation.

And then there were us boys.  I am certain we had the normal “he hit me” or “he won’t stay on his side” arguments, but they didn’t last long.  Either Mom or Dad had the talent necessary to stop a silly argument in a minute.  (There’s nothing like threatening to abandon your child in Jackson, Tennessee, to get that kid behaving again.  Even though we were cramped, we knew we didn’t want to start life over in Jackson.)

No, we had other problems.  Take, for instance, our diet during these trips.  Apple juice, tuna fish sandwiches and cookies.  Want something else?  Tough it out.  Got a hankerin’ for baloney?  Too bad.  Want to nibble on some Doritos?  Not in this lifetime.  We’ll get to Nanny’s house and you can gain ten pounds in a day and a half.  Until then, fill your gut with some tuna. 

As little boys will do, we had bodily reactions to such a diet.  By the end of the trip, our car smelled like a strange mixture of apple juice and used tuna.  Sure, Mom or Dad could have declared a moratorium on the exhalation of all gas, but we would have done it anyway because, to boys, gas is too much entertainment to pass up.  

I Get So Emotional, Baby

After just three months of fatherhood, I have one major question:   When did I turn into a sissy-Mary?  My father-in-law says there is something in a woman that snaps inside her when she has a child that helps her turn into a mother.  I think there is also something that snapped in me, too.

Allow me to explain.  I could count on one hand the times I have cried openly in the past decade.  Some may call me stilted, soulless, cold, or Vulcan. But it wasn’t that I was devoid of emotional expression.  I freely laughed.  I had concern.  I empathized.  My emotions were aroused on plenty of occasions.  But, with Jonah’s birth, I have cried more than a group of four-year-olds twenty minutes after nap time.

It’s amazing.  I have become teary, misty, bleary, and blubbery because of one little guy I can pick up with one hand. 

Here’s why:  he began noticing I exist. 

I remember the day he first performed.  I had gotten up to feed him, and I had put him on the couch to prepare his feast.  I was sitting beside him, shaking up the bottle when I looked at him, wishing he would recognize who I was.  Then, it happened.  He farted with a sound louder than most jet engines can muster, and he looked at me and then smiled.  He smiled!  Yes!  After 2 ½ grueling months, he gives me feedback that does not include pee, poop, or screaming!  Yes!  I was so excited I almost performed a touchdown dance and spiked him right there.  (I didn’t think Sunday or the Family Services Governmental Office would appreciate a stylish touchdown dance or a spiked baby, so I refrained).

I leaped from the couch, ran to where my lovely wife was sleeping, and shouted, “He smiled! He smiled!”  In the usual way in which she responds to my early morning communications, she replied, “jafpoienvape;snork.”  (Translation:  What are you smoking?  Don’t you know better than to wake me up?”). 

I stepped back, knowing that the Sunday in her natural, early morning habitat has been known to kick or bite.  I repeated my proclamation, more quietly this time.  “He smiled.  Honey, he smiled.”  This time, her response was a little more coherent:  “jaoienoenepain”  (Translation:  If you don’t step away from the bed, when I get through with you, I will have to figure out a way to get blood out of the carpet). 

At this point, I wondered if she was going to share the joy of my discovery.  But if I am one thing, it is tenacious. 

Again, I stated with joy unabated.  “he smiled. he smiled.”  At this point, her eyes were opening to achieve the same circumlocutory patterns.  This time, she spoke in the King’s English.  “Huh?”   Yes, at this point, even my excitement was beginning to wane.  I truly thought that the fire of my passion should have woken her up sooner, but alas she didn’t cooperate.  I repeated, for the last time.  “He smiled, dangit.” 

Needless to say, her response was not what I had hoped.  I believe she said, and I quote, “Gas.”  You can guess that I was less-than-whelmed.  In fact, you could say that I was underwhelmed.  She knew that Jonah had been smiling after passing gas, and I woke her up to tell her. 

Disregarding my disappointment, Sunday continued.  “Where is he?”  It was then that I remembered that I left him on the couch.  You know, when a little baby’s mother is sleeping, it’s best just to leave well enough alone.   If you’re scoring at home, here is the result of my discovery and effort.

1.  I woke up Sunday from a dead sleep.  (Minus one for Matt)

2.  I repeatedly find myself trying to tell her something about her son.  (Push)

3.  I tell her something that she already knows.  (Minus one for Matt)

4.  I leave her only son alone on the couch to do 1-3.  (Minus four for Matt).

Loser:  Matt

Jonah has developed his smiling skills during this month, reacting to his mother and father, the ladies in the nursery at church, strangers in the store and smiling faces on magazines.  He doesn’t care.  He smiles, coos, giggles and, yes, farts. When he gets especially riled up, his laugh forces him to wiggle.  All arms and legs and torso akimbo.   It’s great.   For some reason, this has created in me a more blubber-friendly countenance.

A list of occasions when I have cried:

            Jonah’s first laugh/smile

            A moving song at church

            Turning in my paper for my class

            Getting the mail

           

Yes, he’s growing and so am I…emotionally.  

Sleeping Through the Night: The Gift of Slumber

Before Jonah was born, Sunday and I decided we didn’t want him sleeping anywhere near our bed.  Now there are those folks who have the crib in the same room where they sleep, and I’m not saying they’re crazy.  They are sleepy.  Having a baby in the same room where you’re trying to sleep is not a great way to sleep.

Obviously, her C-section complications threw that plan to the wind for a few weeks.   Sunday couldn’t bend over and pull him out of the crib.  As soon as we both thought Sunday could handle getting Jonah out of his crib, though, we threw him in there to sleep at night. 

A few lessons:

Lesson one:               You don’t lose as much sleep as everyone talks about. Hey, I’m in grad school.  I don’t sleep anyway.  Really, this is the big secret of having children:  there are those who want to have the worst story in the room.  You don’t have to live a private hell to have kids.

Lesson two:               Just because you don’t lose as much sleep as everyone talks about, that doesn’t mean that you have to punish yourself by figuring out ways to keep yourself up.  Jonah doesn’t have to go to school or work tomorrow, so figuring out a way to keep him quietwhile we sleep isn’t a bad idea. 

Lesson three:                        Baby monitors are terrible.  We hated them.  One ten minute period at about eleven at night, we tried it out, and I thought I was going to have to throw something or somebody out of the room.  That thing is so sensitive, it picks up every breath, coo, belch and brainwave that goes on in the room. Plus, our apartment is so small, it wasn’t like we couldn’t hear everything he did anyway.  It was cartoony how both Sunday and I were lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling, listening to Jonah snore.  (Yes, Jonah snores)

Aside from the lessons, Sunday and I have tried to be fair about who gets up and who sleeps.  Using an alternate, I-kick-her-to-get-up and then a She-kicks-me-to-get-up, we transitioned from feeding him in the middle of the night during this time period to him sleeping through the night.  I started bragging that I could only hear him if it was my turn to get up with him, but as soon as I said that to anyone, my ability to hear him in the midst of my unconsciousness left me.  I realized that, in the middle of the night I am not a father or a husband:  I am a-sleep. 

Regardless, Jonah began sleeping through the night during his second month, with hallelujahs echoing throughout the bluegrass.

Month Two: The Boy Needs Jesus

As much as people describe little babies as “gifts from the Lord,” I don’t know if Jonah has been hipped to that rap, man.  He doesn’t understand words like purity or piety.  He just does whatever he wants, wherever he wants.  Unfortunately for me, Jonah hasn’t begun the time-honored practice of the church face. 

For the uninitiated, the “church face” is the frozen smile that often accompanies those people who, just fifteen minutes before they walked into the sanctuary, were screaming at the children, “Jesus doesn’t like it when we fight!!!” 

Or they were screaming at the traffic, “Get out of the way or I will begin a quick regiment of road rage!” 

Or, they were screaming at their spouse, “If you’re not out here in thirty seconds, I am driving to church without you!  I don’t care if you are scheduled to preach!”  

Jonah doesn’t understand these church practices. 

To be honest, the only time I used the word “holy” around Jonah has been in response to something unholy that his little body has created.

Sunday works as the elementary children’s associate in our church.  Her job consists mainly of keeping tabs on workers, getting supplies together and providing leadership in the children’s ministry, under the guidance of the children’s minister.  I say all this to say that Sunday leaves the house early on Sunday mornings to get things ready for the services, leaving Jonah and me alone to get ready.

If you’re worried about Jonah having to go to church in some form of undress (or distress) don’t get nervous.  J-dawg and I get to church before the service is over, most Sundays.  There was one Sunday, however, that I thought I would have to convert to Judaism, so I could have an excuse for staying home.

If you recall, Jonah has a reputation for blowouts.   On one particularly lovely Sunday morning,  I woke him up, the birds were singing, the angels were hovering around his bed and I thought he looked almost perfect.  I fed him, changed him, and put him back in his bed so that I could shower.  I was going to change him before we left, so that his pukes and such could be saved for the nasty onesie he wore overnight.  Thus, when I came back to put him in his cute outfit his mother picked out, the aforementioned birds and angels were still doing their thing and I thought, “I am the superDad of the month.”

I changed him and then, it happened.  The most awful noise I have ever heard came from his small gastrointestinal system and he looked up at me as if to say, “I did a boom-boom in my britches.  I think it’s your turn to clean it up.” 

             OR, he could have been saying.  “Clean me up.  I’m the one with all the nice clothes, nice bed, nice room.  I don’t even know why I’m staying with you guys.”          

OR, he could have been saying.  “Is that my hand?  I have such nice hands. Why do I smack myself so much?” 

At any rate, the “blowout” had reared its ugly head, with devastating results.  As I proceeded to wipe him, I realized—and so did Jonah—that he wasn’t quite finished.

Question:  What’s worse than a diaper full of poop?   

Answer:  A hand full of poop. 

I felt like those monkeys in the zoo who continuously carry a steaming handful around, just in case.  If he were a little older—say, by about ten years—I would have handed it back to him to deal with.  As he was only a month and a half old, I was the man.   If you know anything about poop, it doesn’t quite come out in one lump.  It more splatters than thuds, so I had to change my clothes as well as Jonah’s. 

It was so bad, that I had to bathe him before I could take him to church. As I was bathing him, I felt a warmth on my chest that I had never felt before.  I looked down and realized that Jonah was peeing on me.  

He looked at me as if to say, “two for two.  Not bad.” 

Or, he could have been saying, “I really don’t want to go to church today.  I’d rather stay here and eat in the supine position.”    

Or he could have been saying.  “Daddy smells like stinky AND tinkle.” 

Finally, I got him all ready and dressed and to the church and somebody with a professional church face came up to me and asked, “How’s fatherhood treating you?”  While I lost my grip on my church face and said, “It’s pretty crappy sometimes.”

In Sickness and in Health, Part II

The doctor instructed me to “pack” her wound with gauze twice a day, scrubbing the inside of it with peroxide each time I changed her dressing.  The wound was about four inches long, an inch and a half wide and an inch and a half deep.  It was raw meat and I was required to stuff 4x4 inch gauze pads in it twice a day. 

As he finished explaining, the doctor said, “I am glad you are doing this.  There are plenty of husbands who just have the nurse come to the house twice a day…”

Right there, I considered kicking this guy’s butt.  Why did he have to give me the option to wimp out after I ignorantly volunteered for duty? I began to hate this man I’d just met, and I don’t hate anybody.   After planning how I would have to dispose of his body if I killed him, I decided against it.  I then calmed down.

While I knew that we were going to have struggles and tough times, I didn’t think our love for each other required actions that were more intense than the feeling of a simple hug or a kiss goodnight or the struggle of an argument, or even the birth experience itself. But this clinched it. 

I didn’t think I could live long enough to have a week like this one.  I saw my son born, I saw my wife cut open, then sewn up, and then burst open again.  I couldn’t relate to myself in these circumstances.  I couldn’t believe I was the one everyone in the room was depending on to be “nurse” for Sunday.  This just wasn’t me.  I couldn’t do it.  Her wounding was much too powerful for me to live through.  I felt like I was dying in that room, I was so stressed.  Her life was up to me, and, by extension, Jonah’s.  Twice a day, I was ensuring the health of my family’s future destiny with a simple, intense ten-minute change of bloody bandages.  Since Sunday’s belly was too big for her to see it, I felt alone in my silent panic.

I responded to all of this with a smile as my hands shook violently at the thought of what I had to do.  

I walked out of that room a different man.  I couldn’t relate to myself in there because I wasn’t me anymore.  I was responsible at a higher level than I had experienced.  And I still couldn’t handle it.

I was seeing my shaking hands and Sunday’s tear streaked face and I knew I was on my knees with this heavy load on me.  I couldn’t take this by myself, and although Sunday was certainly there physically, I couldn’t tell her about my fear.  I couldn’t tell her that I was petrified that she was going to die.  I couldn’t tell her how awful her belly looked.  I couldn’t tell her that I loved her, but I didn’t know if I could love her enough to see her scars every single day, twice a day.  I couldn’t tell her.  I just couldn’t.  I was silent, weighted down and silent.

When we got home, I made sure Sunday was comfortable, and then I went into our bedroom and called my parents. I bawled my eyes out.  I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty creative and visionary type of person, someone who can see himself past a tough situation into a place of triumph.  This time, it wasn’t happening.  I was a changed person.  I wasn’t defeated, but I certainly needed some help.   I could only see her open belly and the potential for disaster.  I certainly knew what was at stake and it scared me silly. 

While I talked to my parents, I only remember what Dad said, mostly because I recognized that it was our first father-to-father conversation.  They both knew what was at stake, but Dad had the special position of father and husband in the conversation.  He knew what it was like to carry a load he couldn’t handle.  He knew what it was like to be frozen by the prospect of failure.  In that moment, he could connect with me, and he offered to lift that load.  I have no doubt in my mind that I could have physically fulfilled the promise I made to the doctor and to Sunday:  I would dress her wound every day, just like I said.  The conversation with Dad that night allowed me to fulfill that promise with the knowledge that he was there, understanding, supporting, lifting the weight off of my shoulders until I could move again.  He knew I was on my knees, and he knew that, being eight hours away, he couldn’t immediately do anything, but he also knew that I needed a lift. 

Right there, on the phone, he gave it to me.  He said, “We’re here.  And we can be there, if you need it.”