Tercero

Last weekend Jack and I were on the ferry to Vancouver. It was a beautiful, calm day. Great humps of mountains rose out of the silver water, like massive whales frozen in time and space. As the Gulf Islands slid past, in the distance I could see a dark square of something moving. The dark square, coming closer, turned into a barge with a bulky load. I made the mistake of idly commenting "I wonder what that is."

Jack looked at the barge. "Looks like garbage." I immediately lost interest. Jack didn't. "Maybe it's scrap metal," he said, warming to the subject. "No, it looks almost like tires, but why would they haul tires on a barge? No, it's got to be scrap metal. Or maybe it IS garbage. Boy, that's expensive, barging garbage like that. I wonder where it's going?" And on and on. There were long silences, during which I prayed the subject (and the barge) would disappear. The barge eventually did.

"Maybe it's mixed recycling. Or it could be wood waste, although why would they barge wood waste? I wonder where it's going?" Jack mused. By this point, I was bored with the entire conversation and tuned out.

There is a point to all of this, and it has to do with the next installment of our herding boys story.

By the time Tercero was on his way, it was pretty clear that our house was too small. Primero and Segundo shared a tiny room and our "master suite" was the formerly windowless shed--it still sported the ominously buzzing electrical box, but we did have a window for quick escapes.

I'm not sure why we decided to have a third kid--I don't think it was a particularly conscious decision. Like so many things, we kind of drifted into it (NOT a good strategy when planning new human beings). Once we found ourselves expecting number three, we looked around and, like Roy Scheider and his desire for a larger vessel in Jaws, said to ourselves "We're going to need a bigger house!"

By now we'd been paying a monthly mortgage for some time. Granted, the amount was small (not to us!) but we managed to carve out a credit rating with the Herbert Co-op. This fiscal responsibility stood us in good stead when we approached the Co-op for a second mortgage. Because, for all intents and purposes, we were really building a whole other house onto the old one.

Which brings me back to the ferry tale (sorry, couldn't resist!) It was during the building of the house-addition that I discovered one of Jack's less endearing paradoxes. It had to do with information sharing. On the one hand, when you merely required a short explanation or brief exchange about something, Jack would launch into a doctoral dissertation. If you tried to bury the discussion, he'd dig it up and, like a dog worrying a bone, chew on it some more. He would draw diagrams--on cigarette packages when he still smoked, and on any handy piece of paper when he quit. The boys learned to run when Jack pulled out a pencil. (Now that they're grown, however, they've discovered that diagram drawing is in the blood.)

On the other hand, when you wanted specific and comprehensive information, Jack would turn annoyingly vague, as in the following conversation: Me--"How long will this take to build?" Jack--"Oh, a while." Me--"What will this cost?" Jack--"Oh, not too much."

I'm not sure if Jack always suffered from this affliction, or if I'd only noticed it because such a large project demanded many questions on my part. I do know he suffers from it still, despite several decades of hard looks from me when he throws out one of his hazy answers. I suspect it's a combination of the two--it's been my observation in life that most things involve combinations of two or more things--I believe that God likes complexity--it likely keeps Him from getting too bored.

Over the years, I've developed the questioning methods of a Crown Attorney with unlimited room to lead a balky (and often hostile) witness: "Exactly how much time, in days, hours and minutes, please, will this project take to complete, and by completion, I mean the following--(here I would provide a detailed list)".

It was during the building of the addition that I also learned to disappear--physically and mentally--during Jack's longer explanations. Being pregnant and living with two small children in a construction zone will encourage that particular survival skill.

By April, we found out another baby was on the way. By May, we decided to add a house onto the house. By June, the Co-op agreed to lend us the money. By July, the plans were complete. By August, we'd hired our friend Barry, a carpenter, to help Jack with the big stuff. Jack only had two weeks' holidays, and a lot to build.

I remember waking up in the heat of an August morning, our tiny bedroom (really only big enough for the bed, a small nightstand and the buzzing electrical box) already sweltering. I was uncomfortable with the pregnancy--only five months along but I looked almost ready to pop.

Voices and hammering had woken me up. Sighing, I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the finished product. Then I thought about the process of getting to the finished product. I remember telling myself, "Well, really, it shouldn't take TOO long to finish." I still howl with laughter at this.

That summer was hot and thundery, much like my mood. Barry was a godsend--he moved in, sleeping on our couch for the two weeks so he and Jack could work early and late. Once our bedroom was demolished (along with the entire back of the house as Jack, Rollie, Dee and I tore down walls in an exalted state of destructive glee), we moved into the greenhouse to sleep. I do not recommend this--it was like sleeping in a solar-powered convection oven.

My job--along with keeping Primero and Segundo from killing themselves with hammers, saws, knife-blades and all power tools in general--was to feed the work crew. For a little guy, Barry could really eat. I had to do whatever it took to keep the construction workers fed. I remember one day when, down with a twenty-four hour flu, I cooked a chicken on the barbeque. I would check on the bird and run into the bathroom to throw up. Crouching on the floor, bellied up to the toilet with my forehead on its cool porcelain rim, I remember thinking that death might not be so bad.

The summer passed in a blur of collapsing bedroom ceilings (see "The House That Jack Built"), crashing timbers, shrieking saws, hammering, dust, debris and heat. Primero and Segundo developed a fascination with all things construction. Segundo, just turned two, would sit on the addition's plywood floor and, brandishing a ball-peen hammer, pound in nails by the hour. The floor around him was paved with silver nail-heads, so close together that no wood was visible. Primero would hang around Jack and Barry, peppering them with questions until he wore then out, whereupon they would send him to me so he could wear me out.

Once Barry left and Jack's holidays (seems an odd word for those two weeks!) were over, he slaved on the addition after work and on weekends. Thanks to the long prairie evenings, it stayed light until ten or so. However, that summer was one of astonishing thunderstorms--heat would build up immense, bruised-looking thunderheads during the day--we could see them, billowing up and up on the horizon, knowing they were headed our way. By nightfall, the storms would begin.

Jack was in a frenzy to get some sort of roof on the addition--the two weeks hadn't been enough time. (It was during this time that I learned the Rule of Three--that is, all estimations of time and/or money must be tripled before they approach reality.) One night, after a particularly hot and humid day--remarkable for the prairies where we pride ourselves on the dry colds and heats--a real pisser of a storm broke over Herbert. The wind had been rising all evening and was really howling, tearing at the tar-paper Jack had nailed over the unfinished roof sections. Nervous about the storm, Jack had tacked up plastic sheeting on the inside ceiling in case the tar-paper didn't hold.

Actually, this story is Jack's, as by this time I had taken the boys after the ceiling had caved in on them (again, see "The House That Jack Built") and left. Safe at my parents, I would phone each night and ask, in my best Laurence Olivier/Marathon Man voice, "Is it safe?" To come back to a house with a roof, that is. Again, I call attention to the fact that this is Jack's account--all of you who know Jack will be able to decide on the reliability of the narrator (as they say in the Lit/Crit biz), which is not to say the story isn't interesting or enjoyable, as it stands.

A lightening flash lit up the greenhouse. The thunderclap was so loud it shook the house. The rain was bucketing down. Jack leaped up and ran into the kitchen, flicking on the light-switch. No power--the storm had hit something.

He looked at the ceiling just in time to see the plastic he'd stapled up earlier stretch, bulge and drop its water-load all over the floor. He managed to find a stapler in the lightening bursts and tack the plastic back up, only to see it sag in another place and dump its burden of water there.

The night passed in a fever of fastening the plastic, watching it come down, tacking it up again, sopping up the water. By the time morning came, Jack was heading for a breakdown. Fortunately the storm had blown itself out by then, and dawn brought the sun. Exhausted, Jack crawled under the bedcovers and slept, no easy feat in that convection-oven of a greenhouse.

By the time I returned with the boys, there was a roof over our heads that didn't cave in or leak. The next few months were consumed with getting the two ground-floor bedrooms finished enough to move into--by then sleeping in the greenhouse had worn thin, not that it had been very thick to begin with.

I don't remember much about this construction phase--I think I was still recovering from the summer. I do know that I was growing at an alarming rate--Doctor Heather sent me for tests to ensure that the baby was okay and I hadn't developed diabetes or something that would account for the rapidly-swelling baby-bump. But the tests showed that everything was fine--the baby was just big.

"Swell," I thought to myself, remembering Segundo and those pediatric nightgowns.

During my September check-up, Doctor Heather asked me if I was attached to the idea of natural childbirth. "I don't know," I replied. "Why? Is there an option?" At this point, with two natural childbirth experiences under my belt, I didn't feel an urgent need to replicate it for a third time. However, I wasn't sure about the alternatives.

"We could give you an epidural," said Heather, and explained what that was. For me, "epidural" became one of the sweetest words I'd learned in a long time. Essentially it meant that I would no longer have to surf those contraction waves, or rather, when I did, I would do it with a painless surfboard.

"Sign me up!" I announced. She said she'd make the arrangements. I just had to show up. I wondered where she thought I was going that I might not.

So I spend the last few months of the pregnancy getting bigger and bigger. People asked me if I was having twins. Thinking of Natalie and her boys, I shuddered. "God no!" I replied, thanking the universe for not-so-small mercies.

Hallowe'en came and went. I packed my bag's spartan contents--no tennis balls this time. By now, I'd pared the bag down to essentials--books and a house-coat. Peppermint sticks, candles, cologne, handkerchiefs--all had been jettisoned by experience and expediency.

The due date arrived and went. As did several more. And more. I went to see Doctor Heather about getting this kid out. She booked me into the hospital the next day. "If this baby doesn't arrive by the day after," she said, "we'll induce labour."

I didn't like the sound of that. The women I'd know who'd had induced labours shared horror stories about the fierce contractions. Uh-uh, I thought. Not for me.

I went home and packed up Primero and Segundo, who were staying with my parents. We drove back into town. Jack dropped them off and then took me to the hospital. It was all very leisurely--no panic, no contractions, no hurry. I walked into the hospital under my own steam. By the time I was settled into my room, I checked for internal signs. Nothing. Not a twinge.

"Okay kid," I said to my belly lump. "I do NOT want to be induced. I doubt you want that either. I want an epidural and I don't want you to screw this up. So time to come out, okay?" It was to be one of the few times that Tercero would actually listen.