Learning to Wander

Stand, wobble, balance and step, milestones of a toddler learning to walk. Like most toddlers, after taking my first steps, I was soon waddling pathways to new places. At the age of one, I was also learning to wander. Life was new, the world yet to be explored. Without a guide to show me the way ahead, I was fortunate to wander into precarious predicaments and escape unscathed.

On a crisp autumn morning of my earliest year, I embarked on my first adventure through suburbia. With my family’s black Labrador retriever companion, Snuffy, the adventure began at the family homestead, a modest ranch house in a master planned community of similar ranch-style houses in Leawood, Kansas.

Grandma was visiting from Seward, Nebraska, a town of about 3,000 in the center of corn country. She proudly shared child care duties with my parents. Both my parents commuted 10 miles to Kansas City to work at the federal building, my mom for Social Security Administration, my dad for Housing and Urban Development. My brother, Kyle, attended the 5th grade of Corinth Elementary around the corner from the house.

With most of our neighbors away for the day, the block was quiet. Surrounded by a fence, Snuffy and I, shoulder-to-shoulder, crunched through a thick blanket of dry oak and maple leaves covering the zoysia of the 1-acre lot. Beneath an overcast sky, we paced rough circles around the backyard. Meanwhile, Grandma completed her crosswords and let her last cup of coffee cool on the table.

Except for the weeping mortar coated powder blue, the house was plain and the amenities few: no swing, no slide, and no sandbox. Only mature trees, whose leaves were changing from the color of fire to burnt brown and falling all around us. Snuffy and I casually passed the morning kicking up clouds of dust. I ran my hand across the fence and felt the chilly bumps of the chain link crisscrossing. Snuffy sniffed a path to the backyard gate, where our adventure began.

The gate was latched without a padlock. Snuffy simply set his nose beneath the latch, tossed it upward and then leaned into the gate as it swung open. Our way was clear. The gate opened to a gently sloping hillside, and we raced downward to a creek that cut a secluded path through the neighborhood. Its deep banks abutted backyards of the single family dwellings set up on their large lots. I ran alongside Snuffy with my hand planted firmly on his back, as he panted and lapped the fresh air.

Our freedom run was at once exhilarating and awful, for a one-year-old should not be left alone to toddle and wander, neither through wilderness nor suburbia. Grandma’s mindset, perhaps, needed to adjust to a more metropolitan way of life. The yards of her youth were surrounded by several strands of barbed wire intended to keep the horses corralled inside the pasture, whereas the yards of mine were enclosed by fencing that was at once ergonomic and aesthetically pleasant. As Snuffy and I galloped toward the woods, Grandma unwisely assumed that the boy and his dog were confined to the roost.

What Grandma did not realize was that Snuffy was well known to the local animal control authority. He had found his way through the gate before. My parents had to hold onto his collar and hold him back every time the front door opened. Sometimes the grip was not strong enough, and Snuffy would shake loose, bolt through the door and run off.

Snuff senses the front door about to open. Whenever someone was near the door, he could be found nearby, waiting to bolt.

Once through the gate, Snuffy and I experienced freedom together for the first time. Gaining momentum, we broke through the tree line at the edge of the creek, waded across the shallow water of the creek bed and grappled up to the pavement of the Prairie Village Public Works Department storage yard. The area was shaded and vacant, except for a dirty white semi trailer.

The Prairie Village Public Works Department parking lot is like a playground for a one-year-old. I was happy enough to be toddling anywhere on two feet.

After noticing our absence, Grandma panicked. She called my mom, who told her to call the police. She then called the police. Her grandson was missing. He must have got out through the open gate and walked off. She last checked on him a half hour ago. He was with the dog. Grandma set the phone down and opened the back door to the house. She searched the yard and scanned the tree line looking for a sign of the boy and his dog. She did not see them. The dispatch responded that an officer would respond immediately.

From the public works yard, Snuffy and I journeyed onward. We padded forward across an adjacent lot, an empty parcel covered with tall grass, and on toward the intersection of West 83^rd and Mission Road. In the distance, a rapid stream of passenger vehicles and delivery trucks hurried through the intersection. As we approached the intersection, traffic signals arose into the daylight like gigantic bean stalks. We trotted ahead toward an imminent confrontation with suburban commuters.

Suddenly and without warning, a Leawood Police Officer knelt before us and blocked our way. “Where are you going, little boy?” he said, and that open-ended question halted the day’s adventure. Instead of riding home in the back of the dog pound cage, Snuffy rode home with me in the back of a police car. The police officer transmitted us a quarter of a mile home. After administering to Grandma a fierce scolding, the police officer delivered us safely home.

As time passed, this would not be the last time Snuffy and I wandered away together under Grandma’s care. On another day, again during school hours, Snuffy and I sought out my brother and wandered away from the backyard to Corinth Elementary. A teacher let us in the front entrance. His fellow classmates laughed and cheered as we walked through the classroom door and found that, in his embarrassment, Kyle had buried his face in his hands and put his head down on his desk. This time an administrator called Grandma to come and pick us up herself.

For these childcare transgressions, personally, I do not blame Grandma. No, for this excursion, I blame my dog, Snuffy. My youth was founded on these adventures, and I owe it to Grandma for letting me learn to wander. That Grandma trusted Snuffy and respected me enough—even as a one-year-old, to let me play outside on my own, I will forever remember and love Grandma.

Amelia Sophie

On Thursday, November 10, 2011 at 8:13 a.m., a child was born, Amelia Sophie. Her birth weight was measured at 3.14 kilograms (6 pounds, 15 ounces).

The Delivery

That morning, Elia was admitted to St. Joseph Medical Center and the Children’s Hospital of Orange County at 5:45 a.m. Two hours later, after being checked and placed onto a gurney, she was wheeled into the operating room, where the delivery team assembled itself. I sat on a small stool nearby Elia and conversed with her while the team proceeded to perform a C-section. The operation commenced and went painlessly and thereby smoothly. Everyone was delighted to hear the cries of a newborn baby ringing through the air.

In the instant I returned to Elia’s side holding the baby, she recognized her mom. Once she heard Elia’s voice, she stopped crying, opened her eyes, and motioned with her tiny tongue to feed. She had to wait another half hour, while the delivery team completed the procedure, before being handed to her mom. Elia and the baby have remained very close ever since.

Words cannot convey the love we have for our daughter, Amelia Sophie.

The Name

Amelia Sophie is a combination of the names of two people very important to both Elia and me. Amelia is the name of Elia’s grandma, and Sophie is the name of mine. Abuelita Amelia lives a few hours south of us in Playas de Tijuana. My grandma Sophie is still alive in the hearts of her eight grandchildren. Both of our grandmas are key sources of love in our lives. We are simply trying to return some of this love to the world.

Seb, the Bro-tector

To help Elia and me perform our duty to protect our little one, I commissioned Seb as the Big Bro-tector of the baby sister. As the Big Bro-tector, Seb watches out for his Baby Sister and is to be careful with her, not poke her in the nose with his finger and, instead of grabbing at her ears and cheeks, gently caress the tufts of hair on her soft head. Seb has accepted his role and is preparing himself to bro-tect his baby sister.

Seb's initial bro-tection duties include posing for photographs with Baby Sister.

So far, Seb is pleased to have a baby sister. About every half hour, he asks me to pick up Baby Sister and carry her on a walk around the house. I proceed to cradle Ameliasita while Seb accompanies me on a home mini-tour. With boundless enthusiasm, he points out the features he finds of interest to his baby sister: his nightly routine checklist, a posted menu of all the new foods he has tried, his Thomas the Train table, the home computer with all of his stored videos, the bathtub, and so forth. Once we are finished reviewing a station, Seb leaps forward and gallops ahead down the hall to the next.

At each station, he asks me to explain to Baby Sister the importance of a particular feature. “Here is the Pizza Truck, one of Seb’s favorite toys. Seb acquired it at a garage sale several years ago. Pizza happens to be one of Seb’s favorite foods. He enjoys eating melted cheese. When you are older, you and Seb will eat pizza together. Seb, why don’t you sing Baby Sister the Pizza Truck song?”

As we conclude the tour with a snack, he insists that I include the baby: “Papa, can you tell Baby Sister about what I’m drinking, please?”

What happened to 11-11-11?

One day, about a week ago, during a routine doctor visit, an administrative aide informed Elia that she had been bumped from an extraordinary Veteran’s Day celebration of the 11-11-11 birth date to one day earlier. Neither Elia nor I really attach any significance to numbers and birth times. Our primary objective was to ensure delivery of a 100% healthy baby. We agreed that the actual date, plus or minus a week, did not matter.

As Elia and I decided how to re-arrange our plans to conform to the updated delivery schedule, Elia commented on the significance Americans attach to dates and their associated zeal with anniversaries for everything from annual retail sales events to bloody acts of terror. Why should the definition of the personality for an individual or nation be founded on a schedule? I admit, I was disappointed in the so-called clerical error that advanced the birthday up the calendar from the coveted 11-11-11, but ultimately I am happy to have welcomed a new member of our family to our world on 11-10-11.

The Delivery Room

Although I have been known to forget where I placed my shoes, my cup of coffee, and my car keys, actually, I can admit that my long-term memory reaches back to my toddler years. Granted: these toddler memories are simple, base even. The neural pathways were developing into intricate networks inside my tiny brain to modulate such standard infantile functions as crying, laughing and nose picking.

But, my son, Seb, already having mastered on demand crying, being silly and pinching his nostrils closed with his thumb and forefinger, seems to be gifted with an astonishing memory. He surprises us by reminding us of birthdays, like those of his mom, Grandpa, and Carl, the tall black man we met once in the storage container aisle at Target. Along with the birthdays of his dad, unborn sister and all his cousins, Seb claims even to remember his own birthday.

One afternoon last summer, Seb was listening in on a discussion between Elia and me about his baby sister. Elia’s pregnancy had reached Week No. 26, and a pronounced round overhang was just becoming obvious. Elia and I were priming Seb to become a big brother, and Seb understood that a baby was forming in his mom’s belly. Elia pointed to her belly and told Seb that his baby sister was looking forward to playing with him and would be coming out soon.

Then, turning to Seb, Elia asked, “Seb, do you remember when you were a tiny little baby in Mama’s belly?”

“Yes,” said Seb.

“What was it like?”

“It was dark… and red,” said Seb. “It was too warm.”

“What did you do in there?”

“I waited so long.”

Seb was a week overdue when Elia’s water broke. At the hospital, Elia waited on a thin bed in discomfort. As the nurse berated Elia for crying while she administered pitocin to force contractions, Elia’s labor pains became unbearable, and she began to scream, “No puedo! No puedo mas!”

Ten hours later, after two failed epidural attempts, Dr. Steven hoisted Seb by his neck from the incision of Elia’s belly.

Elia continued to probe Seb’s birthday memory, “Who did you see first when you were born, Mama or Papa?”

“First, Papa. Then, you,” recounted Seb.

After Seb was dried off, Dr. Steven handed him to me. I cradled my baby boy, and Seb wailed. I carefully brought him to Elia, whose head was cordoned off from the rest of her body by a giant curtain. I held him down close by her smiling face.

“Mi precioso, mi ninyo, mi corazon, mi bebe,” Elia said.

Suddenly, Seb stopped crying, opened and blinked his eyes, furled his brow and listened to the sweet voice of his mother.

Seb did not share much more of his recollection of his first moments post-womb, though we have questioned him a bit further. We are skeptical that we are treading into the familiar parental territory of unjustified pride, yet we remain intrigued by this novelty. Visual, kinesthetic and auditory memories, or a wild fantasy, what do you think: is it possible that Seb’s recollections of his birthday moments are true, or are they simply travails of his developing toddler imagination?

Baby on the Wayside

We have no car seat, no stroller, no custom shelving and no name, yet Elia and I are certainly looking forward to November 11, 2011, as we prepare to welcome the birth of our second child.  Last week we completed the intake forms for St. Joseph Medical Center and requested the C-section birth time of 11:11 a.m.  Why not?  What have we got to lose?

During much of the past eight months, our outlook was not always so nonchalant.  For instance, back in April, Elia and I were looking forward to a weeklong vacation to visit friends in Texas (pronounced “TAE-has”).  They are friends we had not seen for many years.  Elia and I planned to fly over there with Seb, spend a few nights in Houston and a few nights in Dallas, size up Texas with the rest of the world, and enjoy a relaxing Texas-style excursion.  We had an itinerary, plane tickets, a rental car reservation, and confirmation from our friends that guestroom space was available.  We were set to go and very excited.

Unfortunately, a few weeks before our trip, we also had the prognosis from Elia’s general physician on her new pregnancy.  Dr. Angelina determined that her pregnancy was a high risk pregnancy.  After having had a miscarriage a month prior and then becoming pregnant at the soonest opportunity thereafter, Elia might have had another miscarriage any moment.  Elia was grounded until further notice.

With Seb’s flight anxiety and lack of proper toilet training, I left him with her and went solo for a three night trip to Houston and San Antonio.  It was just me there with good old friends Ryan and Jill, Marcus and Tanya, Kyle and Tracy and most of their kids.  We gathered together in Missouri City, Texas, just north of the border, smiling, catching up, discussing business seriously and enjoying Ryan’s home brew.  Meanwhile, Elia’s general physician, after performing some initial tests, had Elia back on her heels, constantly trimming her fingernails with worry regarding her pregnancy which she considered was at risk of another spontaneous abortion.

As you know, these days, any pregnancy after age 35 is considered risky.  I believe age is a coefficient of a portion of the formula used to arrive at the risk index assigned to measure the degree of likelihood of potential trouble.  Due to her age, Elia’s general physician said that the fetus ought to be screened for Down Syndrome and recommended a blood test.  Of course, Elia, at age 35, tested positive for a Down Syndrome baby.  I mean—wow, we are, as humans, relatively speaking, kind-hearted people.  A Down Syndrome baby is a blessing.

By the way, probably the most disturbing aspect of this news was the question we heard from both the general physician and the ob-gyn: “What if the baby has Down Syndrome?  Then what?  Are you going to keep it?  Because you can choose to abort, and now is the time to make your choice.”   Poor Elia.  Dr. Angelina shook her head and gazed down at the box of rubber gloves on the countertop.

At risk of spontaneous abortion, having just had a miscarriage, a Down Syndrome baby, what outlook could be more… disturbing?  A lifeless fetus, perhaps.  During a follow-up visit, her ob-gyn listened to our back-up plan while trying to locate the baby in Elia’s womb with his handheld ultrasound unit.  He tried but could not manage to hear a heartbeat.  He added some petroleum jelly to her belly and tried again.  “Whomp-a.. whomp-a.. whomp-a..”  The baby had a heart-beat: Thank you, Jesus.

The back-up plan was that Elia would have an amniocentesis performed in a week and go from there. The amniocentesis would reveal the nature of the baby’s chromosomes.  The ob-gyn, an elderly Polish man who goes by Dr. Bedros, said that would be a wise decision, given that the window of opportunity to reinforce the cervix, which he observed to be opening prematurely, would be missed after two more weeks.  Otherwise, he said, everything seemed fine and normal.

A week later, Elia and I witnessed the ultrasound on the high resolution screen, and, from every angle, we clearly noticed the distinct shape of a baby, absent penis.  The only indication of a problem was a bright spot on the heart, that, we were told by both the technician and the counselor, is a tell-tale sign of a baby with Down Syndrome–not that there’s anything wrong with that.

After the ultrasound, a doctor arrived to perform an amniocentesis.  In concert with the technician, the doctor stabbed the needle sheath into the belly, narrowly avoiding the baby’s head. Following this, he inserted the needle required for drawing fluid and attempted to puncture the embryo, to no avail.  His procedure required a second attempt.  He performed the stab and puncture routine once more to success and drew a vial of apple juice.

Well, my friends, the results came in, and we were relieved.  The baby’s chromosomes were normal.  The baby is “normal” and it is definitely a girl.   Yes, a girl.  We are happy and looking forward to November.