5/1991 – 12/1991
Second Act
In May, kindergartener Meghan auditioned for a part in the local production of Peter Pan. She won the notable role of the ant, which meant she crawled fully costumed across the stage, remained motionless at a designated spot, sang with the chorus, then curtseyed at the curtain call. During one seemingly endless practice, I calculated the total hours we spent—125 hours of rehearsal for her 30 seconds on stage—that did not include the two-minute curtain call. On opening night, family and friends asked for Meg’s autograph, which took some time, as she painstakingly printed “Meghan Harrison” on each program. My performance was set for the following week.
My parents arrived to see the two impending productions, Peter Pan and Samantha, who was due July 28. Typical of our girls, this baby took her time getting here. July 28 came and went, as did the 29, 30, 31, Aug. 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5, just as well since rehearsals took so much time. The nursery was far from ready; bags of baby clothes stacked on the floor. At least, the clothes were down from the attic, where we banished them after the last miscarriage; however, the musty, attic smell permeated everything. The onesies, t-shirts, sleepers, all the baby clothes needed a thorough washing before Sam arrived. The crib sat in the middle of the room, wiped clean but with no sheets or bumper pads. Little girl wallpaper in tiny bouquets of daisies, chosen by Meghan and Allie, lined the walls, while the trim and curtains stood against the closet doors ready for hanging. Mom and Dad gasped when they saw the work to be done. Mom immediately began sorting, washing, and folding, while Dad oversaw the curtain hanging and painting. Mom assumed kitchen duties, as she prepared chicken cacciatore, spaghetti sauce, Irish stew, zucchini casserole, then labeled and froze meals for the week. I relished the time—for once I had help—it was glorious.
On the night of August 5th, my parents babysat Meghan and Allie, while Dale and I jogged the hills of Indian Springs, hoping that sprints might trigger contractions. Nothing happened, probably because I ran throughout my pregnancy. Sam arrived the next afternoon, once the doctor added a little pitocin cocktail to my contractions. Dad and Mom arrived at the hospital to see our newest baby girl, while Dale went home, still exhausted from his summer job of pounding nails with Alan Douglas Construction. A few minutes after I gowned, Dad gently, ever so softly, held out his finger for Samantha. I cherish the precious picture the nurses took of a 63-year-old grandfather, my father, covered in neon yellow, sterile hospital attire. He smiled, almost a grimace from the uncomfortableness, and the nurses said he looked so nervous, so sweet. This was the closest my father had ever been to labor and delivery, since my siblings and I were born in the days when mothers disappeared behind closed doors, when chain-smoking fathers paced in the waiting room.
Sam and I went home the next day. Dale returned to work; Dad flew back to San Diego, leaving Mom, the first time I can recall my parents being apart. A hospital discharge nurse visited on my second day home to check Samantha’s and my vitals. She was barely able to squeeze a spot on the couch, as Meghan and Allie flanked me, each hugging a thigh, vying for positions to be closest to Sam. “Your blood pressure is a little elevated,” she laughed. “I suppose it will go down when you have a little space and time for yourself.”
Love is Complicated 