spreading across her usually serious face whenever she saw the
two girls. Although a very quiet person, Mari exuded confidence in running our household—a
thankless task we were more than happy to relinquish. For the next twelve years she
would buttress our family and steadfastly help care for all three of our children
and home. Tammy and Mari divided the never-ending tasks of Matthew’s school and after-school
activities and the seemingly endless work required to keep Carly and Taryn fed and
clean. Tammy and I took a divide-and-conquer approach from the start, something that
would stand us in good stead in the years to come.
My career had me at the office by 8:00 a.m. and seldom home before 7:00 p.m. Nevertheless,
after work I did my best to focus on Matthew—to be sure he wasn’t left out. We had
been warned that boys in particular could get regressive when new babies come into
the house. I recall my brother more as a tormentor when he was nine or ten. He once
tried to feed me cat food and put pepper in my sister’s chocolate pudding. On other
occasions, he would hide under my bed or in the closet at night until the lights were
out, then jump out and scream. Ghouls really do exist, at least until they become
teenagers. Eventually, even little boys outgrow their wickedness.
Not knowing what to expect, I assumed Matthew might continue in the family tradition
since he had his rambunctious tendencies. A year or two before the girls were born,
we had bought a book titled Raising Your Spirited Child to help us understand why even the smallest thing, like an itchy tag at the neck
of his shirt, could set off a full-blown tantrum. He was a rigid kid who vacillated
between playful sweetness and the terrible twos that had overstayed their welcome.
While Mari and Tammy bathed the girls, I would eat dinner with Matthew. Then, in the
warming spring evenings, I would take him to the park. As we walked, I often reflected
on how Matthew’s infancy was also anything but ordinary.
Always a snorty eater, in the fall of 1990 when Matthew was eight months old, we had
to rush him to the emergency room, barely able to breathe. After several days in the
hospital while the doctors ran tests, we were told Matthew had been born with a double
aortic arch. The vessels carrying blood to and from his heart were wrapped around
his trachea and windpipe, literally strangling him like jungle vines choking a tree.
But Matthew was a trooper and rebounded from surgery quickly. Five years later, Matthew
loved to hear how he had been a brave patient, how he was giggling and laughing within
days of his operation. He wore his scar as a badge of honor. “You have no trouble
eating now,” I joked with him. “Remember the time when you were two and Mom and I
caught you taking an ear of corn out of the garbage after dinner?” Tammy and I had
been washing dishes, and, upon hearing Matthew making noises of gastronomical bliss,
found him smiling up at us as he finished an ear of corn that had been scraped from
a plate into the garbage.
By late spring, the girls were sleeping through the night; Matthew was on a schedule;
and Tammy and I even got an hour or two of quiet time before bed. We felt like we
had gotten off the dirtroad and onto the open highway. We traded a sedan for a minivan and ventured out on
day trips and visits to friends, always lugging the girls, an oversized twin stroller,
a huge diaper bag, and our rambunctious five-year-old son who ran circles around us
making sounds like the Indy 500.
Before their first birthday, however, we began to see Carly and Taryn heading in different
directions. Our first challenges with Carly were innocuous enough. Tubes in her ears
to relieve the heavy fluid buildup one month. A few tests with audiologists to be
sure the infections hadn’t compromised her hearing the next. Tammy and I could handle
this level of intervention. Lots
two girls. Although a very quiet person, Mari exuded confidence in running our household—a
thankless task we were more than happy to relinquish. For the next twelve years she
would buttress our family and steadfastly help care for all three of our children
and home. Tammy and Mari divided the never-ending tasks of Matthew’s school and after-school
activities and the seemingly endless work required to keep Carly and Taryn fed and
clean. Tammy and I took a divide-and-conquer approach from the start, something that
would stand us in good stead in the years to come.
My career had me at the office by 8:00 a.m. and seldom home before 7:00 p.m. Nevertheless,
after work I did my best to focus on Matthew—to be sure he wasn’t left out. We had
been warned that boys in particular could get regressive when new babies come into
the house. I recall my brother more as a tormentor when he was nine or ten. He once
tried to feed me cat food and put pepper in my sister’s chocolate pudding. On other
occasions, he would hide under my bed or in the closet at night until the lights were
out, then jump out and scream. Ghouls really do exist, at least until they become
teenagers. Eventually, even little boys outgrow their wickedness.
Not knowing what to expect, I assumed Matthew might continue in the family tradition
since he had his rambunctious tendencies. A year or two before the girls were born,
we had bought a book titled Raising Your Spirited Child to help us understand why even the smallest thing, like an itchy tag at the neck
of his shirt, could set off a full-blown tantrum. He was a rigid kid who vacillated
between playful sweetness and the terrible twos that had overstayed their welcome.
While Mari and Tammy bathed the girls, I would eat dinner with Matthew. Then, in the
warming spring evenings, I would take him to the park. As we walked, I often reflected
on how Matthew’s infancy was also anything but ordinary.
Always a snorty eater, in the fall of 1990 when Matthew was eight months old, we had
to rush him to the emergency room, barely able to breathe. After several days in the
hospital while the doctors ran tests, we were told Matthew had been born with a double
aortic arch. The vessels carrying blood to and from his heart were wrapped around
his trachea and windpipe, literally strangling him like jungle vines choking a tree.
But Matthew was a trooper and rebounded from surgery quickly. Five years later, Matthew
loved to hear how he had been a brave patient, how he was giggling and laughing within
days of his operation. He wore his scar as a badge of honor. “You have no trouble
eating now,” I joked with him. “Remember the time when you were two and Mom and I
caught you taking an ear of corn out of the garbage after dinner?” Tammy and I had
been washing dishes, and, upon hearing Matthew making noises of gastronomical bliss,
found him smiling up at us as he finished an ear of corn that had been scraped from
a plate into the garbage.
By late spring, the girls were sleeping through the night; Matthew was on a schedule;
and Tammy and I even got an hour or two of quiet time before bed. We felt like we
had gotten off the dirtroad and onto the open highway. We traded a sedan for a minivan and ventured out on
day trips and visits to friends, always lugging the girls, an oversized twin stroller,
a huge diaper bag, and our rambunctious five-year-old son who ran circles around us
making sounds like the Indy 500.
Before their first birthday, however, we began to see Carly and Taryn heading in different
directions. Our first challenges with Carly were innocuous enough. Tubes in her ears
to relieve the heavy fluid buildup one month. A few tests with audiologists to be
sure the infections hadn’t compromised her hearing the next. Tammy and I could handle
this level of intervention. Lots
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