More Lessons From a One Year Old

From the moment Adrienne and I learned we were going to have a second child, we vowed to one another that we would do everything we could to make sure we raised her as her own individual.  Just because Charlotte did things a certain way, we told ourselves, didn't mean Delilah had to be the same.  We weren't going to compare the two in that way, and we didn't want Charlotte to influence how we treated Delilah.  Every kid is different, as we'd been told thousands of times from folks with far more experience in raising children.  So, we were very judicious in our mental approach to parenting with her...We were going to treat her like Delilah.  She wasn't Charlotte, and we couldn't go about it the same way.

I'd like to think it was our incredible skill and proficiency as parents that led us in that direction with Delilah.  But, if I'm being totally honest, it's probably more human nature than anything else.  When Charlotte came along, despite countless offers of parenting advice from friends and family, Adrienne and I had absolutely no clue what we were doing as parents.  And, as most people tend to do in times of absolute incompetency, we erred on an absurd side of caution.  We were both a nervous wreck when we left to go to the hospital for her delivery.  After she arrived, we kept hand sanitizer within arm's reach at all times.  When the nurse told us we could stay an extra night if we wanted, we couldn't say yes fast enough. The first time Charlotte showed the slightest sign of discomfort, we rushed to the ER, only to find she was suffering from a bad case of gas.  If a pacifier so much as grazed the side of our shirt, we'd throw it in the left side of the sink, filled with Dawn Pure Essentials (we used Member's Mark brand, or, if we were feeling saucy, Ajax, on our dishes).  Every article of clothing was washed in Dreft, and that was non-negotiable.  When Charlotte sat in the living room floor, we built a small pillow fort around her in the event she invariably fell over.  It took an act of Congress and multiple scientific journal articles to convince Adrienne that an off-brand of formula wasn't going to cause irreversible damage to Charlotte's cognitive abilities as she grew. 

In the case of Delilah, things really couldn't have been more different.  When we checked into the hospital, we might as well have been checking into a Hilton for a long weekend getaway.  We were calm, relaxed, hoping we'd only have to stay for a night, maybe two at the most.  I watched Kentucky beat Florida at football for the first time in 31 years while Adrienne was in labor, as if I were watching in my living room at home.  I'd periodically offer up a half-hearted, "You doing ok?  You need anything?" Without actually taking my eyes off the television.  Not my proudest moment, to be sure, but hell...I knew she had this!

When we brought Delilah home, we were still cautious and careful like all parents are with newborns.  But things were different.  If her pacifier dropped to the floor, we picked it up and brushed it against our leg and gave it back to her.  We still washed her bottles and pacifiers in the left side of the sink, but the customary Ajax did just fine.  If she cried an abnormal amount of time, we just walked around the living room and rocked her until she finally went to sleep.  As she grew, when we sat her in the living room floor, it was alright as long as we were close enough to see her.  If she happened to fall over, we'd say, "You're okay!" and just tilt her back upright.  We even bought Luvs diapers by the case...With Charlotte, Adrienne only used them, and reluctantly, when they were given to us for free.

Of course, none of that was a difference in the care or attention we've paid to Delilah.  It was simply putting into practice lessons we learned with Charlotte.  Mainly, kids are incalculably tougher and more resilient than we give them credit for, and, almost always, will be just fine.  In all reality, treating Delilah differently than Charlotte hasn't been all that difficult.

Charlotte was a really easy baby, but Delilah has been even easier.  She only cries on three discernible occasions: when she's tired, and tries not to fall asleep; when Adrienne leaves the room; or if she's asleep, and has a bad dream.  She'll end up in this half-awake/half-asleep state where her delirium leaves her inconsolable for a few minutes.  But, 99% of the time, she's as happy and easy-going as a baby could possibly be.

Charlotte never really crawled all that much, and Delilah crawls all over the house.  She shows little to no interest in any age-appropriate toys, especially when there's a perfectly good dog food bowl and dirty pair of shoes sitting in the corner.  Unless she's sleepy, or eating, she'd rather do anything than sit still and entertain herself.  She is CONSTANTLY on the move. Charlotte, on the other hand, could sit in the floor with a pile full of books for a half hour or more, and be perfectly happy.

In recent weeks, Delilah has really started to show her personality.  She loves Chester and Winston, loves her sister, and loves Team Umizoomi.  My favorite sound in the world right now are the squeals and barely discernible "Da!  Da!" when I walk in the door in the afternoon.  She's trying to walk, and can take 3-4 steps at a time.  She loves to play games like peek-a-boo, and loves to throw food in the floor for the dogs.  She even does that when we're at restaurants, as if they're there, too.  And she has the best smile and laugh...My goodness, I love her laugh.

From day one, Adrienne and I set our minds to making sure Delilah (and Charlotte, for that matter) always knows she's loved and valued as an individual.  Truth be told, over the last year, they've both made that part pretty easy.  I certainly don't want to wish away the time, because it hurts my heart to think about how much has changed just in 12 short months.  But, part of me can't wait to see the wonderful person she'll become.  We love you so much, Delilah Rose...Happy birthday!

I Look Like a Banker in This

I really didn't plan on publishing this post.  Initially, I didn't even plan on writing it.  I've been in a weird state of shock the last couple of days, unsure how to even begin to process the fact he's gone.  Mostly, I've just been internalizing it all.  Reminiscing on little snippets of time I've compartmentalized in my memory over the years.  Over-analyzing old text messages and wondering if a different wording here or there could've made any difference.  I've laughed about old jokes.  I've teared up thinking about his family.  I've felt guilty, for a variety of reasons.  Writing would normally be the therapeutic outlet where it'd all start to make sense, but not now.  I usually write for me, not for anyone else.  And, at least for now, I didn't want to.

But, then, while mowing the yard Thursday afternoon, I remembered a conversation Ryan and I had about a year ago.  He randomly told me that he loved reading my blog, and was always excited when he saw I had posted something new.  He said he liked how honest my writing appeared to be, and he said he felt like anyone could relate to most of the stuff I wrote about, even if it was a story straight from my own life.  I'm not sure any critique of my writing has resonated so strongly.  I told him how much it helped me make sense of things, sometimes.  I told him how it was like turning the heat down on a boiling pot of water.  It could calm the violence.  It could quiet the noise.  I told him to try it...Maybe it would help.

So, this time, I'm not writing for me.  I'm writing for him. And his family.  And all the people that loved him, because, like me, they're all hurting right now. 

Ryan wasn't my very first friend.  Aside from my sister or a couple of my cousins, that designation goes to Josh Riley, whom I met at St. Matthews Pre-School when I was four years old.  We were "buds," as he always liked to say.  Josh was the lone guest at my 5th birthday party at Showbiz Pizza in February 1990 (I have photographic evidence to prove it), but after the pre-school year ended in May, I don't think we spoke again until we were teammates on the 7th-grade football team.  But, Ryan was my first "best" friend.

We met in 1st grade at Benton Elementary, that much I know.  It's strange, though, because you'd assume something as life-altering as meeting your first best friend would be something you'd always remember.  But I don't.  I only have a handful of memories of anything from my life before he came along, so it's like to me, he was always there.  One of the first vivid memories I have of our friendship happened in the hallways of the old Benton Elementary building.  It was at the end of the school year, and we were talking about how we were both going to play baseball for the Dodgers that summer.  Neither of us really knew what a "dodger" was, so we started acting like we were dodging objects being thrown at us, like a dodger was a badass mascot of some kind, like a Wildcat or Lion or something.  I'm sure to the average onlooker we probably looked ridiculous, but we thought it was awesome (as a side note to that: I remember being jealous of Ryan because he had legitimate stirrup socks that actually matched our uniforms.  You know, the ones that fit over plain white socks.  I, in my impatient excitement, had my mom buy me those cheap "stirrups" with a royal blue stripe running up the vertical side, because I knew we were the Dodgers and their primary color was royal blue, before finding out our uniforms were inexplicably navy blue, despite the fact Dodger blue is absolutely not navy blue).

While my memory isn't totally clear, I'm fairly certain my first sleepover was at Ryan's house.  Eric Johnston's house was a few hundred feet away, so he'd always come over, too.  We used to play tournaments on RBI Baseball for Nintendo in his basement.  We'd play basketball in his driveway, and kickball in the yard next to his house.  To this day, the only broken bone I've ever had occurred during one of those epic kickball battles.  I dove with the ball in my hands, trying to tag my sister, and fractured my left hand in the process.

The first time he spent the night at my house, I remember crying from the frustration of being unable to fall asleep because he snored so loudly.  I went to my parent's room complaining, begging my mom to do something, anything, to make it stop.  I ended up with a blanket on the couch.

As we grew up, sports was always at the center of our friendship (and continued to be until the end).  Some of my most cherished memories from my childhood come from All-Star baseball teams, and the Bulldogs.  Or the battles we shared on the basketball court as teammates in the county league.  In 4th grade, we won the league championship, mostly because Matt Henson scored 90% of our points. In 8th grade, we were on the green YMCA team together.  In the league tournament, I missed a free throw in the closing seconds that would've tied the game and send the game to overtime, but Ryan got the offensive rebound.  He was hacked on his put-back attempt, but it wasn't called, and his potential-game winner barely rimmed out.

When we both played on the Bulldogs, most of my memories don't even come from time on the field.  They come from our time together with one another, and our teammates, off it.  The NBA Jam tournament we played in Austin Beck's mom's van on the way to Tarkio, Missouri for the CABA World Series.  Homerun derbies in the field in front of our hotel with foam bats and balls we all got at Pizza Hut, mimicking our favorite players' batting stances.  Hotel High Jump in Caleb Curtner's hotel room.  Counting the number of times I could sneeze after tapping myself in the nose.  I'll never forget those days.

Ryan was one of those rare people that just didn't have enemies.  I mean, for the love of God, I can't think of a single person on this planet that didn't like him.  We all strive, whether intentional or not, to be liked.  To be liked by virtually everyone, Ryan didn't even have to try.  He made being liked just look so. Damn. Easy.  He was easy to talk to.  He could fit in with literally any group of people, and could do it flawlessly.  I had different groups of friends, to be sure, but never felt even a slight hesitation about including Ryan with any of them.  He had an uncanny ability to find common ground with anyone he came in contact with, and could read people better than anyone I've ever been around.  It just came so naturally to him.  And he could make you laugh.  God, could he make you laugh.

I've written before about how I feel like life, as we grow older, becomes segmented.  We tend to designate certain times in our lives to particular files in our memory, like a card catalogue.  Early-childhood, elementary school, middle school, high school, college, post-college-pre-marriage, marriage, marriage-pre-kids, marriage-post-kids, etc.  It's totally arbitrary, but that's basically how it goes for me.  We don't always sit around and contemplate the individuals that come and go, and how they indent themselves into particular eras of our lifetimes.  But, times like now, when we lose someone who has had a profound impact on our life, we tend to do it.  And Ryan's impact on my life is incredibly profound.

There are plenty of people that could say they had a closer relationship with him than I did, especially in the last 10 years or so.  Truth be told, since we graduated high school, most of my interactions with Ryan were via text, or the occasional phone call.  In fact, until today, the two of us hadn't been in the same room in almost a decade.  But, despite that, I know our friendship was unique.  Or, at the very least, it felt unique to me.  You see, Ryan was one of those once-in-a-lifetime people we encounter that can make every single person in his life feel like the most important at any given moment.  And now, as his sister, Noele, said on Facebook, "We will never be the same."

The Ryan I remember from our childhood and the Ryan I came to know towards the end are not the same person.  He had his demons, and he had his struggles, and he reached out for help on numerous occasions.  It would be easy to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been if I had done or said something differently.  God knows I'm going to, whether I want to or not.  But, I also know that the Ryan I knew wouldn't want that.  He'd want us all to remember the good times.  He'd want us to remember the times he made us laugh (those are countless).  He'd want us to remember that, at his best, he was an incredible father, brother, son, and friend...The type any one of us would like to have.  He'd want us to picture him with a smile on his face, wearing his Reba McEntire shirt, and giggling as he quoted lines from Billy Madison or Major League.  At his best, Ryan was really the best among us.  So, I'm going to choose to remember him at his best.  Quite frankly, the rest doesn't even matter.

Rest easy, brother.  I love you.

So Long, My Friend

It's a bit strange how, as we grow older, the people we call friends mold and evolve.  When we are kids, our friends are almost exclusively other kids, of roughly the same age.  Most of them, we meet at school, or church, or through involvement with sports or some other extracurricular activity.  They typically develop from simple proximity.  Being at the same place, at the same time.  In many ways, the friends we have when we're young aren't the same as those we make later in life.  Quite frankly, we don't have too much of a choice, when we haven't yet figured out who we are.  A major part of those first friendships is just that: discovering ourselves (what we value, what we despise) by the people with which we are surrounded.

As we go through life, as we grow and change, the people we ultimately call friends change, too.  A few of those initial friendships may have lifelong staying power, but the vast majority come and go, sometimes as quickly as they arrived.  And, sure, a lot of acquaintances that ultimately turn into friendships happen by sheer happenstance, not too unlike those early ones.  But, instead of school or sports, it's people we meet at work.  Or at a bar.  Or through mutual friends.  And instead of just being comprised of people of the same age and demographic, our friendships diversify.  They look and feel different than they used to, take on different dynamics, and come more from the result of personal choice, as opposed to who happened to be sitting next to us in English class.

My friendship with Steve Ragle was sort of a mix.  We met purely by chance, by being in the right place at the right time.  But, I made the choice to be his friend because I valued the same things he valued.  Because he made me laugh.  He brought me joy.  He taught me things. God knows I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life, but being friends with Steve Ragle was not one of them.  And when I really think about it, it wasn't really much of a choice.  It was easy.

That's what's funny about friendships, and how they look as we grow older.  There's no real reason Steve and I should have been friends.  We never had much in common.  I was in my late 20's when I met Steve; he was in his 60's.  Adrienne and I didn't have kids, yet; Steve had four grandchildren.  I worked as an insurance agent.  Steve was a retired contractor, and Vietnam veteran.  I liked AC/DC and Boston.  Steve liked Southern gospel and old-school country.  We couldn't have been more different, as far as friends go.

I met him through his daughter, Leah Kate, who was a teacher at North Jackson with Adrienne.  We grew close with her and her husband, Luke, and frequented the pool at their house in the summer.  Steve would ride the hundred yards or so from his house to theirs on a motorized scooter...Not because he needed it, but because it was just fun.  I guess that's where I met him.  Truth be told, I don't remember meeting Steve for the first time.  It was just like he had always been there, like I had known him for years.

But, despite our differences, Steve and I became fast friends.  We never really talked about anything life-shattering; I didn't confide in him about anything real.  Most of our conversations revolved around his fishing stories, or old houses he built.  Or boats.  We exchanged funny stories about idiots we saw out on the lake, over the years.  We poked fun at Luke, sometimes when he wasn't around, but mostly when he was.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't make up excuses to go visit him at his shop: I needed to borrow a tool, or inflate a tire on my lawnmower.  I needed help winterizing my boat, or to just pick his brain about some random project I had at the house.  I learned a lot from him.

I guess part of it was selfishness.  If I ever needed anything, I knew Steve would have the necessary tools, and the knowledge, to help me out.  The spray gun to paint the furniture for Charlotte's (and now, Delilah's) nursery.  The lathe and tile grout to make a sideboard, now sitting in our kitchen, out of an old shipping crate we found in Adrienne's grandma's attic.  The new sink and counter-tops we installed in the kitchen of our first home.  The display case he built for Adrienne's father's old rifle.  Our house is littered with small pieces of Steve's handiwork. Little daily reminders of the memories made with him.  And I am so thankful for that.

Steve really became a sort of father figure for me.  My dad is fantastic, and helpful anytime I need it. But my parents live over two hours away, and sometimes you need to borrow a weedeater like, yesterday.  Sometimes you need someone to help you change the blower motor on your 25-year-old furnace, because it’s November and your wife is seven months pregnant and there will either be working heat in the house, or you'll be in a hotel.  I have absolutely no doubt there were times when Steve would look down at his phone, see me calling, roll his eyes and sigh, but pick up anyway.  Always answering the same way, with an enthusiastic, "Hello, Zach!"  Always knowing damn well I had a stupid question, or needed his help.  And he never hesitated. Never even thought twice.

I will forever regret the fact he never met Delilah.  I will forever regret the fact that Adrienne and I talked about how we needed to take the girls to see him and Kathy dozens of times over the last several months, and never did.  We kept waiting for the right time; when the girls weren't sick, or when it was just a bit more convenient.  We kept thinking we had more time.  We didn't.  

The old saying goes, "You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family."  I wasn't lucky enough to be able to call Steve family.  I just had to settle for friend.  But, considering the fact I knew him as "Papa Steve," from day one, I'd venture to guess he didn't think of Adrienne and I (or Charlotte and Delilah) as anything less than family.  If he did, he certainly didn't show it.  Either way, it's a choice I'm eternally grateful to have been able to make.

You will forever be missed, Papa Steve.