Learning to Cry (4 page)

As with Amelia, Cassandra’s birth went very smoothly. It was a natural birth that went relatively quickly, and we now officially had our first-born California girl. Our two oldest might adjust easily enough since they moved to California at such a young age, but Cassandra was official. Big issues for our family soon followed, though.

Cheryl’s parents kept the girls while we were at the hospital and brought them to see Cassandra the day after she was born. She had spent a lot of time with both girls explaining the birthing process and how things worked, trying to ease our new addition into the family mix. Amelia and her mother were very close, and when she entered the hospital room she erupted with a hysterical burst of tears. I think seeing her mother in a hospital bed, not looking her normal self was a little too much for Amelia to handle. When she finally did settle down, we were all surprised to hear her scream out, at the top of her lungs, “Where is the vagina?!”

There had been all of those hours, walking the girls through what giving birth meant. In those discussions, the word vagina had been used. Apparently, Amelia had taken to the word, and for 10 minutes she was walking around the hospital room, trying to understand where the vagina might be. She saw the baby. She understood that part, but she really wanted to see this vagina that had allowed the baby to enter the world.

The grandparents were not quite as open in their thought process, and they did their best to ignore Amelia. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop laughing as nurses and doctors would pass by wondering what the hell was going on as this little girl continued to scream, “Where is the vagina?!” It reminded me of the old woman who couldn’t figure out where the beef was in those old Wendy’s commercials. I wonder if that old lady ever did find her meat?

With our family now complete you might have thought we were well on our way to being settled. We had our large home sitting toward the top of the hill. It had a swimming pool. We both had nice jobs. We had three beautiful daughters, and family was close by to help out, as needed. With the addition of our third daughter, we had taken on a nanny from Poland who lived with us, and life was sailing along.

It always makes me wonder what happens within a home. Our family had all the outward appearances of being content and happy, yet we were nothing more than a shell of what a family should really be. Cheryl and I were growing more and more distant. Our relationship, which had been rocky, was getting more so every single day. The kids, who we loved, were growing older, and as kids do, there were more demands placed on the family as a whole. Our nanny who was wonderful, added a new personality to the mix, and it all meshed together to form a level of unhappiness.

Something was missing. It just wasn’t right. Melissa was now 8 years old, Amelia was 5 and Cassandra was just starting out, living in the only home she had ever known. I wonder how success is measured from an outward appearance versus reality. I now know how I measure success, and it is solely based on reality, but what price do you pay to get there? Do you have to trudge through the muddy alligator-infested waters to reach your goal? Isn’t there a bridge that somebody could build to make the path easier to navigate?

We would soon find out it was not only the adults who were feeling at odds with this fabricated façade. Our kids were beginning to show us they too were not really in tune with life, happiness, and the American Dream.

Melissa especially was already well on her way down a path of sadness. If I knew then what I know now, would I have been able to affect her enough to push her in another direction? We can all second guess our choices, but what does that do for our future? I look at all three of my daughters, and all I ever wanted was their happiness. Now I wonder if it was not me that was the cause of their pain.

What do parents do again? Do we strive to give our children the best life they can possible live?

How many parents fail?

What is failure?

Who decides? Who is the one judging?

Would we have been better off if I had simply allowed things to meander forward? I sit staring at my four walls and wonder how I arrived here. What turns in life could have prevented this hell that I now called home. I wonder where my daughters are today.

Father

Do all children lie? I lied when I was a kid. My friends lied, as well. I would wager this bet to anyone that was interested. On one occasion or another, all children have had at least one moment in time where they were less than truthful. No matter how good you are, nobody is ever perfect. I do wonder about the extent of lying, though. Some kids just seem to lie more than others. Some kids have a hard time differentiating between what is the truth and what is fallacy in their made up stories. I wonder if some kids actually believe what they are saying when they lie?

If you lied as a child, will your children emulate your persona and do the same? Do we have so much influence over our kids they end up being little replicas of ourselves? I realize I am just asking questions, but I feel that I am asking the same group of questions that all parents ask. This kind of stuff wasn’t in the handbook. Have they published a book titled, “What to expect when your child lies to you beyond the point of being reasonable?” I haven’t seen that one in the book store, but maybe I just haven’t been looking hard enough.

When I was young, I played at my cousin’s house almost every day. At one point in time my father and I lived right down the road from my aunt and uncle. The closeness we cousins held meant that even when I moved in with my grandmother, I still felt my cousins were more like brothers and sisters. My father and I moved around until I was 12. That was when he settled down with his current wife of more than 31 years. I guess it took him a little while longer than some to sow his wild oats. Maybe it is something -- like father like son.

I remember one afternoon when I was 10, playing with my cousins. We snuck some cigarettes from my aunt’s purse, in an attempt to try them out for ourselves. By “we,” I actually mean my cousin Tracy. She performed the literal thievery. My cousins lived in the country in Southern Illinois. If you say “out in the country” and “Southern Illinois” in the same sentence, you are truthfully being a little redundant. After Tracy snagged the pack of cigarettes, she brought them down to the creek by their house where the rest of the gang was excitedly waiting. We, then, all sat around trying them out. My little cousin, Darrell, my older cousin, Tracy, their neighbor, Shelly, and myself all joined in the experiment.

It was the first time I tried a cigarette, and I was doing so at the ripe age of 10. As you might expect, we puffed and sucked in the smoke, coughed for about 10 minutes each, and then tried doing it again. It made us all a little nauseated, but the grownups were doing it, and it was the cool thing to try. There must be something worthwhile, otherwise why in the world would anyone smoke these damn little things? We hung out down by the creek for several hours, until the cigarettes vanished and then headed back to their house. I had to get going because my father was taking me to a party later that evening. One of his girlfriends was having some kind of holiday gathering of some sort, and I was the token kid at the event.

On the way back to my cousin’s house, Darrell looked over at me and said, “Hey, your bangs look singed. The smoke must have gotten to them.” I, of course, couldn’t see my hair so when I made it back to my grandmother’s house I went straight to the bathroom and freaked out. My dad believed in discipline, and if he knew I’d been smoking he would kill me. So as logic goes, I took the scissors and cut my bangs. I cut them, and then cut them again. I just couldn’t get the damn things straight. Finally, when I had no bangs left I put the scissors away and headed out to the living room.

My grandmother had a fit as soon as she saw me. Isn’t it odd how kids view things? I knew I had not done a perfect job, but I didn’t feel anyone would really notice. My father, who had just made it home, saw me and lost all control. He screamed at me as he grabbed my arm and dragged me into the bathroom in an attempt to fix what I had damaged. I guess this little party of his was a big deal, in his mind. Ironically, a few months later they broke up anyway.I told him at the time that I had gotten gum stuck in my hair and had tried to cut it out. It seemed logical, made sense, and I stuck to my story. I figured let them prove me wrong. I wasn’t going to confess anything. Is a lie a lie if nobody ever finds out? I guess so, but does it hurt anyone? Kids don’t seem to think so. In my old age, I now believe in laying my cards on the table. If somebody doesn’t like it, they can head south for the winter. I am just doing my best to get by in this world -- lying makes things too complicated.

About the time my daughter turned 9 there was a noticeable difference in her. She had trouble telling the truth about anything. It almost seemed like a game to her, and she was very good at it. It got to the point where we had no idea when she was being honest and when she wasn’t. Interestingly enough it was about the silliest things. “Did you eat your cereal, Melissa?” I would ask. “Yes, Dad,” she would respond. We would, then, walk into the kitchen, and her full bowl of cereal would be on the counter top.

One day I was sitting in the bedroom, and Cheryl was out in the living room. The kids were doing their normal activities. Suddenly, I heard a huge commotion as the angry mother came storming into the bedroom.

 “Did you see what your daughter did? Did you see it?” She yelled at me and anyone in the Bay Area that might have been listening.

Trailing after her was Melissa, and surprisingly she was screaming, as well. I knew things were bordering on a loss of control lately, but Melissa was a child. Did she really think that she could scream at her mother?

Cheryl had a thing for all of the girl’s hair. I am not sure if at some point her parents had shaved her bald, but she refused to allow the kids any leeway on how they styled their mop up top. It was to be cut only when she gave the approval, and she had to be there supervising the entire process. I learned this the hard way a couple of years before when I was at Supercuts. I go for the cheapest, most convenient place around. I can’t stand the thought of spending money on a haircut, and then, four weeks later, you are right back at it again.

When I ventured into Supercuts as one of my afternoon errands, Melissa had accompanied me. She asked if I would let her get her hair cut, as well, while we were there, and I absently agreed. All they do is trim a little off the bottom. What is the big deal? So she got a couple of inches clipped off. When we arrived home Cheryl attempted to compensate for her irritation by removing a couple of inches from my ass. Damn, I learned very quickly that the girls’ hair was off limits. Never again did I acquiesce to a requested haircut without an appropriate approval.

So the two combatants entered the bedroom, screaming at the top of their lungs. Finally, Cheryl gained some semblance of control and quieted down while Melissa went on in her one-person tirade. She was crying at the same time she was screaming. She had not cut her hair. Her mother was wrong. She had not done anything. She hadn’t touched the scissors. She had not cut a single strand. She didn’t understand why her mother was upset. I admittedly couldn’t notice a difference, but that is not saying much. Normally people have to tell me when my own hair is long, just so I know it is time to get it trimmed.

Finally, the screaming subsided, and the sniffling commenced. You know -- the state that kids get in when they are so hysterical they seem to no longer be breathing. It is exactly like when you blow up a balloon with all of the air in your lungs, and suddenly your head gets dizzy, and you can’t catch your breath. You gasp for oxygen which is so close, but nothing is inhaled. It must look like a nest of little birds when the mother is getting ready to feed them. Those little beaks chomping back and forth on emptiness, but she hasn’t spit the food in their direction yet.

After asking Cheryl to remain quiet, I spoke directly to Melissa. I asked point blank, “Melissa did you or did you not cut your hair?”

Her response came quickly and matter of fact, “No, I did not.”

I looked at her mother and said, “I am unsure what to do. She seems to be denying it so emphatically. Are you sure she really did it?”

I felt like a referee in a Mike Tyson fight. I wanted everyone to play by the rules, but the last thing I wanted was to get punched or, God forbid, have my ear bitten off. As Melissa was trying to control her tears, which were still flowing freely, Cheryl left the room.

I never understand women. What was I supposed to do then? I reached my arms around Melissa and attempted to console her. She was only 9 for Christ’s sake. I know she was capable of doing a lot, but this was the most worked up I had ever seen her. I just wanted her to feel better and see if we couldn’t find a tolerable solution for everyone. Hopefully, the answer would be the truth. That is always helpful.

As Melissa and I were sitting down, still in the bedroom, her mother walked back with a pair of scissors and a handful of hair. She looked at Melissa and said, “I found these in your bathroom, what do you have to say now?”

Melissa looked at her mother, and then looked back at me. Her tears instantly dried up, and she said very calmly, “Well, I guess you caught me. I did cut my hair.”

I was actually stunned. Not that my daughter had lied. That happens. We all deal with those little transgressions. The thing that bowled me over was the hour-long production I had just witnessed. Her facial expressions. The crying and screaming. The violent denial.

When I entered the army, I remember getting on a bus. I was 17 at the time, and it was the summer of my junior year in high school. I had joined the Illinois National Guard, and they, with your parents’ permission, allowed 17 year olds to attend basic training. You would then come back to military school the following summer and attend your specialized training course. I took a plane to Fort Dix, N.J. I think that base is actually closed now, but I am not completely sure. When we exited the plane we boarded a bus. I remember seeing a bunch of other young men, a little older perhaps, but relatively close to my age.

I had never really felt so alone. I didn’t know anyone. Everywhere I looked I found myself peering into the eyes of strangers. It was a little unnerving, being yelled at and talked down to by the sergeant. Everyone seemed to be doing his best to fade into the concrete. Don’t acknowledge anything unless you have to. Keep your mouth shut, and only as a last resort do you speak.

When I looked into the eyes of my daughter that day, I didn’t see Melissa. I am not sure when she had left us. I guess as you get caught up in life, your attention is on the mail, breakfast, feeding the dog, taking out the trash or whatever monumental task that seems so important. I am not even sure at the time that I fully realized Melissa was no longer with us. I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening or what the episode I had just witnessed meant. I did feel alone. I felt alone for her, as well as for myself. It makes you think sometimes if we are ever anything more than an individual.

To this day, I still do not know what instigated the hair-cutting dilemma. I don’t know why Melissa cut her hair; I don’t know why she felt the need to lie. I don’t know why after she was caught she made such a production out of it until she was cornered, and then had to ‘fess up to the truth. I will never know. I am not even sure it matters. In my mind I try to compare my situation as a child and what I faced with what she might have felt. I try to understand her perspective, and it eludes me. I feel like I am grasping for straws, and I can’t get my hand to close on one of them fast enough. Answers just don’t seem to develop. The more I question, the more questions arise. I am still hoping to make sense of all of this, but my hope is quickly diminishing.

The one thing that I can say is I truly did lose her that day. I might not have known it. I might not have understood it, but things were never really the same after that. I wish I were better at explaining what occurred. Was it just my daughter growing up and testing boundaries? I struggled with who this ever-evolving person was living in our home. At the time I held out hope for middle school and seeing her rise to the challenges she would face.

Little did I know that middle school would bring about something far more scarring than a little hair lost in the sink?