Another Dimension

                                                      12/17/13 - "Another Dimension"

     Blogger's Note:  Christmas approaches.  I don't want to sing my financial blues when I know that there are so many people worse off than me in the world; but, damn, when it rains it pours.  Surprise!  You need a root canal!  Surprise!  You need to fix the brakes on the Camry!  Surprise!  Your mini-van needs new tires!  Surprise!  Property taxes are due!  Surprise!  Medical bills are still piling in from Amelia's arrival.  Surprise!  There's this little thing called Christmas coming up!  And on and on and on...
     I should be stressing really badly.  But, despite all my sensibilities... I'm not.  Don't know why.  I don't have any shaman advice on how I managed to pull that off either.  Not a clue.  But, I just don't care.  We're not going hungry.  And for Christmas, we'll do what we do.  We'll make it like we always do.  Wanna know something?  At the ripe, ol' age of almost 40, I have enough years tucked into my experience to apply a bit of pattern recognition.  You see, when I reflect back on my life and highlight those times that I was really struggling with money, I tended to be happier.  I'm not sure if happier is the right word; maybe the word I'm looking for is appreciative.  But I managed to make it with some imagination and ingenuity.  Measure not a man by how he falls, but by how he picks himself back up. No, I don't need any help up; I'm just gonna make some snow angels down here.  I'll get up when it's time...
     I'm writing this one in front of Starbuck's at the mall.  I ran into an old friend who asked me what I was up to.  When I said I had come here to get away and write, I think he must've thought I was crazy.  You came to the mall to get away??  Strangely, I find it easier to hide in a crowd.  Amid the Christmas shoppers too busy to notice me, I can stick some ear plugs in my ears and drown myself in thought.  I don't have a three year-old banging on the door screaming, "Lizard!  Lizard!  Lizard!" (which he actually pronounces Wizard), because he wants to watch "Oscar's Oasis" on Netflix.  He loves that shit.
     Here, I can glance up and find vulnerable people that spark my imagination.  People are vulnerable when they are shopping.  They may be trying to think of a gift to give someone, or if they can afford a certain item, or if that shirt might look nice on Uncle Charlie, or maybe something Porn-o-Graphic.  They aren't guarded against my imagination assigning dialogue to their expressions or mystery to their gestures or harmony to their strides.  Everyone is a character, and no one is safe.
     So, let me take a sip of the Chai Tea Latte that I bought with loose change I found underneath the back seat of my car before I get started.  Here, pull up a chair beside me and have a seat.  This post isn't really about Christmas or Christmas shoppers.  It's about children.  See how that's plural?  Well, maybe it shouldn't have been.  Maybe if it wasn't we wouldn't be knee-deep in medical bills, more Christmas gifts to buy, and diapers to shop for.  I wish there would have been a formula that I could've used to decide if I could really afford another screaming, needy child that drains away my free time and my sanity.  Sounds mean, you say?  Well, maybe it is.  Maybe I'm in a mean mood.  Just shut up and sit down.  Sip your damn Frappucino and lend me your ear...

      I remember the conversation well.  We were driving down Old Cairo Road heading home to the apartment we lived in at the time.  We weren't married yet.
     "Do you want any more children?" Joanna had asked me.  She knew I had a child from my previous marriage.
    "Yes.  I want one more.  I felt a little cheated with DJ.  I always had to share him, and I always felt like I got the short end of the stick when it came to the really important things like birthdays and Christmas's."
     "One more??  I want three more!" Joanna exclaimed.
     "Three!?!  You're crazy if you think I'm going to have three more kids!" I laughed and pretended to be joking; but, in truth I wasn't.  I was very serious.
     "Well, what about two more?" Joanna counter-offered.
     I had paused to consider the proposal.  I wanted to take this conversation seriously, because I would be quoting this discussion if that crazy Pollock decided to change her mind midstream.  I very much wanted another child - a son or a daughter, I didn't care.  But, I wasn't sure if I wanted two more children.
     "Two, huh?  Well... maybe I could do that..." I acquiesced as my reply softly fell away into reflection.  I would give the idea some thought; and, if I decided to change my stance later, I'd revisit the subject before we got married so that we were both perfectly clear on the details of our agreement.
     But we never revisited the topic.
     Somewhere along the way, two became the accepted number.  I'm not placing blame; I never objected.  But maybe I'm complaining.  Maybe I'm second-guessing that decision.
     When Roman was born, my excitement outweighed the responsibilities.  I could throw a cute hat on him, hit the mall, and let the girls fawn over him.  I could stick him in the stroller and go for a serene walk at the park or downtown.  As he got older, I could put him in the trailer I bought for my bike and throw his sippy cup beside him and breeze to wherever we felt like going.  He enjoyed these little adventures; he was my little buddy that shared wordlessly the experiences and musings that we so loved.
     Enter Amelia.
     What no one that has multiple children warned me about was that another child doesn't mean double the trouble.  It's another dimension.  It cubes the responsibilities.
     When I want to go somewhere, I have to make sure Roman has used the bathroom, has eaten, is dressed appropriately, has had his nap.  Then, I make sure Amelia is changed, is fed, is dressed appropriately, has an extra bottle for the trip, has a change of clothes, has some extra diapers.  Still sounds like double the trouble, right?  Wrong.  Because, once I get done with Amelia's preparation, then Roman needs to go to the bathroom again where he accidentally pees on his underwear so I have to take his shoes off so that I can take his pants off to get to his underwear and then redress him and get his shoes back on.  And now Amelia is crying because she's dropped her pacifier.  And a pacifier doesn't just fall down like one might think.  It falls into The Black Portal of Never Returns.  And it stays there until it decides to come back to our dimension.  And then you'll find it where it should have been all along.
     And once they're both ready to go... you have to get them buckled up in the car.  Have you ever done that?  Do you have children?  They make these fucking contraptions where you have to push the seat belt through a slot that is one quarter the size of your hand, just enough slack to get your child's arm strapped in, and then, if everything is perfectly, exactly correct, you over-lap two buckles that you have to hold together as you click it in.  And then you still have to lock in your other damn kid.
     You're sweating, and you haven't even gotten out of the fucking driveway yet.
     So, often, I just stay at home.  And, I'm not the stay-at-home kind of person.  I like the world.  I want to see things, do things, socialize.
     Amelia is to blame, right?  Yeah.  I'll blame her.  She makes my life and Roman's life miserable.  That's the truth of it.
     Roman has become a bit jealous of her I think.  She's a baby, so she's requires a little more attention.  Roman wants that attention.  I try to involve him, but sometimes it's just easier not to.  And that's not a good practice.  He doesn't want a lot to do with her.  It's as if he loves her, but he doesn't like her.  If she's crying, he runs to me insisting that I help her.  But he doesn't want to sit by her, or hug her, or play with her.
     Once, after we had gotten home from the store, I had put Amelia in her crib where she was sleeping.  Roman hadn't seen me put her there; he thought she was still in the car.  I rolled with it.
     "Baby Sister's in the car," Roman reminded me.  He calls her "Baby Sister" sometimes.
     "Yeah, I'm just gonna let her sleep there," I played.
     He fidgeted, couldn't relax, and finally said, "Get her."
     I picked him up, carried him to her crib, and showed him that she was sleeping.  "Love her, donchya?" I asked him.
     Relieved, he quickly hid his face in a hug.
     The first three months of her life all she did was cry.  And cry.  And cry.  And I was justified in my opinion of the situation.  I mean, I loved her; she's my daughter and all that; but, I didn't like this extra work.  And that's why I didn't write much about her.  I just didn't have anything nice to say.  Do you get that?  I'm selfish.  So whatever...
     And now it's even more complicated.
     She's developing a personality.  She's quit crying.  She almost never cries now.  And she smiles all the time.  All the damn time.  She's the smiling-est damn kid I've ever seen.  Neither DJ nor Roman ever smiled that much.  She even chuckles out of the blue sometimes.  I'll be struggling to put on my work shoes, and I'll hear this little, soundless chuckle.  I'll look up, and this little girl is laughing at me.
     So, I walk over to her and tickle her belly and ask her, "You laughing at me?"
     And she'll smile as if to say, "yeah... whatchya gonna do about it?"
     When Joanna's at work and she's my responsibility, I'll sit her little chair thing in the kitchen while I'm cooking.  I like to cook.  I like chopping vegetables.  I'm weird like that.  I'll play Mason Jennings Radio on Pandora through the speakers and try to find something to make.
     And she'll be watching me from her little chair.  And when I meet her stare, she'll smile.
     "What're you smiling about?" I'll ask her.
     She replies by smiling bigger.
     Then, she'll quietly sit there, because she doesn't really cry anymore.  Until she starts to get tired.  Then, she'll start rubbing her eyes and pouting ever-so-slightly.  I've learned how to handle that.
     I pick her up and rock her in my arms.   And then, I look around to make sure nobody's watching, because I realize that I'm no longer rocking her.  But dancing with my daughter.
     We waltz together, she and I, across kitchen tile, on a gray and dreary afternoon, to a song I'd never heard before.  Just father and daughter.
     And I start to get it.  Maybe having extra children does "cube" the responsibility.  But it also "cubes" the love.  It adds a whole new dimension.
     When at last she drifts into slumber, I sway her a little longer than necessary.  Because, I've some time to make up.  When I finally carry her to bed, I kiss her cheek, lay her down softly, and watch her for a moment.  I promise her all the love she'll ever need and check to see if she's too hot or too cold and adjust her blanket accordingly.  And then I whisper, "I love you".
     Sorry it took me so long, baby.  Daddy's a dumb ass...