by Nancy Laracy
The love I felt for Bunny Boy was a different type of love, one I had not experienced since my early childhood days with Flop. We would wrestle or cuddle, and I would say the most ridiculous things that felt totally okay: “I love you more than life itself” or “You’re the love of my life, Bunny Boy.”
Julie was the most bothered by Bunny Boy’s affection for me. Ward didn’t lose sleep over it, and Chris, with his competitive nature, claimed he and I were neck in neck when it came to vying for Bunny Boy’s love. And he was right. My rough and tumbly son had trained Bunny Boy to sleep with him on his bed like I had, a feat Julie had yet to master (her singing kept him awake)! Chris would carry Bunny Boy up to his room and they would wrestle on his bed like true boys until Bunny Boy fell over, as if to say, “I’ve had enough.” Chris would then crawl under his comforter and lie perfectly still, waiting for Bunny Boy to make his move. Like clockwork, Bunny Boy would yank the blanket back with his teeth, just enough to crawl into Chris’s armpit as if a magnet was sucking him in. He’d adjust himself every few minutes, tucking his head deeper and deeper into the dark, warm space. It was amazing that he could still breathe, and even more amazing that Chris could stay still for so long.
As the seasons came and went, my children were changing, too. Chris’s sandy-brown hair had grown long below his chin, and his physique was toned and muscular. He was chalking up athletic awards as quickly as Bunny Boy was stacking up nicknames—Bunnykins, Bachagaloops, Little Man, Buchykins, or Fluffball. Chris’s drive and motivation had served him well in all of his sports, including his newest endeavor, lacrosse. He had just completed his first season and survived with all his limbs intact and a full set of teeth—barely. Chris had also broken the school record back in the fall at the Turkey Trot, the grammar school annual track and field event, finishing the mile run in less than six minutes. My precision-timed “Speedy Gonzales” drills—designed to use up some of his excess toddler energy—had had him racing around the trees in the yard when he was only three years old. They had clearly paid off. For his win, he earned himself a plaque in the entrance hall display cabinet and the ultimate prize, a milk chocolate turkey. One year, helicopter parents fought desperately to cancel the thirty-year tradition, claiming the competition damaged the self-esteem of the slower children and adding that the chocolate turkey was bad for the winner’s health. “Why not an apple?” one parent suggested. What child will run fast for an apple? Thankfully, their best efforts failed. Whenever Chris won, I gave him a Russell Stover chocolate rabbit, of course—to go with the turkey!
Meanwhile, at fourteen years old, Julie was beginning to develop curves and softness about her body. Her natural blonde highlights had vanished and her eyebrows were dark and full, set above her deep blue eyes. I was waiting to hear the question, “Can I put purple streaks in my hair?” Julie and her friends were hanging out at Dunkin’ Donuts or the mall and less at our house. I missed the girl talk and their clothing swaps, the empty juice boxes and straws strewn on the deck around the hot tub, or their towels slung on the floor by the washing machine. Bunny Boy, no doubt, missed rummaging through the girls’ backpacks and purses and scoping out the talent. He’d sit upright on his haunches and watch the girls parade by in their swimsuits as they headed for the outdoor Jacuzzi. Male hormones transcend species.
Julie was also studying for her confirmation, the Christian rite of passage. Her best friend, Amanda, was studying for her bat mitzvah, the Jewish rite of passage. They often complained about how much time was needed to “grow up,” as they put it. They were busy tweens. When asked by the priest at her pre-confirmation interview why she wanted to do her confirmation, Julie replied, “Because my parents are making me.”
I cringed.
When Father Joe asked her what she thought of the Trinity, Julie said, “I don’t believe in any of that stuff!” Stuff? I couldn’t imagine what would have happened if I had said something like that to our priest when I was a kid! I am not sure whose wrath would have been worse, the priest’s or my parents’.
“I believe what you do in this life comes back to you in another,” she added, with a forthright attitude.
A rather mature statement, I thought. While I welcomed Julie’s independent spirit, I thought she had crossed the line with regard to showing respect. I was still a bit old fashioned and always strived for respect in our children.
“You mean like in Buddhism? You return in another life as a fly?” Father Joe said curtly.
“Or a rabbit?” I chuckled to myself. Father Joe had yet to meet Bunny Boy, but the other priest, Father Mike, had blessed him twice at the Feast of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals.
When it came to religion, Julie didn’t appear to have inherited a single gene of mine. I had loved Catholicism from the time I was a young girl. I sat at mass most mornings before school with my white lace chapel cap bobby-pinned to my hair, and I held my prayer book happily. Every year I dreamed of becoming one of the eight girls chosen to wear the pastel chiffon dresses and lead the May Crowning procession on May 15 to celebrate the Blessed Mother. There were two beautiful dresses of each color—peach, yellow, blue, and green.
In fourth grade, that dream came true. I can still picture the wispy, fresh wreath of flowers, which sat over my Shirley Temple curls, curls my mom created with bobby pins and that she brushed lovingly. I remember the softness of the peach chiffon flowing dress that shaped my undeveloped body. I can still smell the bouquet of white roses and pink lilies I held in my small hands. I felt like a princess that day.
I could only hope that my love of religion would radiate in my being and be passed onto Julie. Living in a melting pot where many religions comingled never failed to raise the question: “Is there one true God, or is one religion more accepted than another?” Teen magazines like CosmoGirl featured articles preaching atheist and agnostic principles, backed by statistics, which only confused Julie more. While Ward grew up Catholic and went to twelve years of parochial school, he began to have atheist views in his early twenties. But we had agreed to raise the children Catholic until they made their confirmation—and then they could choose their own path. That was our compromise.
Chris, on the other hand, appeared fine with church and catechism for the time being. He also seemed to enjoy praying, which meant the world to me. Once, when he was about five years old, I remember walking into his bedroom one summer night to say goodnight and found him glassy-eyed, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring out the open window. There was a luminescent, waxing moon high up in the black sky. His dark-green pleated shades with gold stars were flapping from the outside breeze.
“What’s wrong honey?” I asked tenderly, hugging him close.
“I usually cry when I pray. Don’t you, Mom?” he replied, with the innocence of a small child.
I treasure those moments.
• • •
Up until Julie’s birth, Ward and I had assumed I would return to work full-time after three months since my career was such an important part of my life. But within weeks of having Julie wrapped in my arms, we agreed with no hesitation that motherhood would become my new career, at least for a while.
Motherhood suited me almost immediately. Perhaps it was my reward for enduring an extremely difficult pregnancy. With Julie, I felt a great sense of achievement for having survived the pregnancy from hell. Besides throwing up for nine months, I developed placenta previa (a ruptured placenta) during my first trimester and was on complete bed rest. During my second trimester I endured fevers of 101 degrees, and strange rashes appeared on my face and extremities, causing me to end up in the hospital. I had contracted cytomegalovirus (CMV), a virus that had everyone very worried.
Ultimately, Julie was born with antibodies to CMV, but thankfully she did not have any of the serious birth defects it can cause, except for a low birth weight of four pounds and thirteen ounces. Back then, I was also told that I might have lupus or a connective tissue disease, but pregnancy hormones often alter th
e results of blood work, which made the tests inconclusive. The immunologist even thought I could be dangerously allergic to my own hormones—how ridiculous!
It was a scary time. To keep my ob-gyn on his toes until the bitter end, I developed full-blown toxemia, which necessitated a Caesarean birth three weeks before my due date. I was accused of trying to develop at least one complication from each chapter of the six-hundred-page encyclopedia on pregnancy that I had purchased within hours of seeing the pink line on the home pregnancy test (I read it cover to cover—twice). My ob-gyn told me I had single-handedly turned his hair gray. I was pretty sure I would not be featured on the cover of any natural birthing magazine unless the editors wanted to terrify or lose their subscribers!
But my cherub was worth all the discomfort and angst I had had to live through to bring her into the world. I couldn’t imagine life without my Juliebear.
My first priority had always been to be the best mother I could be to our children. With Ward’s grueling schedule, I knew my career had to be put on the back burner. I also wanted to emulate my own mother, who I truly believed was the kindest mother in the world. Even so, I still held out hope of returning to executive recruiting one day, even though that opportunity faded even faster with my diagnosis at age thirty-seven. And even after sticking tiny needles into my head and extremities, receiving small jolts of electricity, sleeping on a magnetic mattress, choosing a mantra and speaking to Buddha, having my back and neck cracked, or sending vitamins or hydrogen peroxide flowing through my veins (i.e., trying every holistic treatment available), my overall health was still unpredictable.
In between my times volunteering at the children’s schools and nursing homes, I was also studying nutrition and alternative treatments for chronic pain using the Internet, the library, and various medical publications, hoping to design a website and start a web column that could reach the chronic pain community. It was an ambitious endeavor, but I needed to have a plan for the future. Meanwhile, Ward’s law firm of eighteen years had merged with a much larger law firm, which would bring about more lucrative, interesting opportunities for him.
It was an exciting time for all of us, including Bunny Boy. At almost two and a half years old, he already had his own book of “baby” firsts. Bunny Boy’s milestone events were things like: “Used litter pan. Thumped. Drank from a bowl. Purred for the first time. And licks now, but only his mother.” His change of gender was noted along with the mix-up over being a dwarf. The most recent entry read: “Hops onto furniture now. Not sure what took him so long!”
The first time Bunny Boy hopped onto my lap, I was sitting on the recliner, reading. He almost floated up. He seemed surprised himself. I threw my arms around him, pinched his cheeks, and squealed, “My god, you’re so precious, Bunny Boy.”
Julie looked up from the computer with a sweet expression on her face. “That’s kind of cute.”
“Kinda cute? It’s awesome!” Chris exclaimed, annoyed at his sister’s apparent lack of excitement. He practically pushed me off the chair, seeking his own chance to experience Bunny Boy’s newest feat.
“Good job, Butchykins,” I said, patting his backside. “Do it again, pal!”
Bunny Boy popcorned across the room faster than normal as if to say, “Yippee, look at me!” He returned and stopped about a foot away from the recliner, very deliberately eyeing the distance to the chair. Then, with major bunny attitude, he leapt into Chris’s lap. It was a defining moment. The recliner, which we quickly named the “King of the Castle” chair, would become his favorite hangout site. The ground was no longer his only turf.
“You give it a try, Jules,” encouraged Chris, looking for the same unbridled enthusiasm from his sister.
“Maybe later, Chris,” she said. “I’m working on a school paper.”
Julie and Chris were very different children; about as different as Bunny Boy and Sunny. Chris was warm and expressive, but he also needed a lot of attention. He was extremely active, even in utero. As a toddler, I called him my little Houdini. He climbed out of his crib, got over the gate, and stood on the highchair tray all before the age of one. Julie, on the other hand, expressed her emotions in a less obvious way, just like her father. A sunny baby and toddler, she spoke early, walked late, and stayed out of mischief. Most of her fine and gross motor skills lagged due to her premature birth, but she had a fiercely independent spirit from an early age, never showing any signs of separation anxiety or attachment issues.
On the first day of nursery school, Julie walked into the small brick building confidently with her Care Bear backpack, never looking back. Within weeks, we were called in for a formal nursery school conference. “She’s very precocious and independent. She doesn’t follow directions,” said her teacher. Chris, on the contrary, clung to my pants every morning for the first three weeks of preschool. And if he wasn’t getting stitches from breaking our glass coffee table with his head, then he was diving off the swing set into the sand and splitting his lip or trying to shave his face with Ward’s razor. He was a lovable menace that could push me to the brink of utter frustration or make my heart melt with happiness.
No role was more challenging or rewarding than that of a mother. As mothers, we’re supposed to be experts on health, child development, family values, and education without any formal training. We are expected to nurture, teach, and, at times, give up our own identities to be the best mother we can be. So, as I watched Bunny Boy hop onto the furniture for the first time, I felt that familiar wonderment when my own children did something new.
In the days and weeks ahead, Bunny Boy enjoyed seeing the world from a whole new perspective. He hopped onto chairs and traversed the backs of the sofas. He slid across coffee tables and scaled the stairs to the second floor, seeking out new places to nap. He would popcorn down the narrow upstairs hallway, bouncing off the walls and sending the toys Chris had left lying around tumbling down the stairs. He raced in and out of the bedrooms like he was participating in a car chase—though it was Tina, me, or the kids chasing him and not a Ferrari! He pillaged clean loads of laundry that Tina or I had left at the foot of our beds and nearly fell into the toilet when he hopped up and stumbled on the seat. Tina got the biggest kick out of Bunny Boy. “Muy mal conejo!” she would joke. Very bad bunny. At dusk, our house seemed to come alive as Bunny Boy embarked on his rampage. From the downstairs kitchen, it sounded like an entire warren of bunnies occupied the second floor and not just a single bunny having a good time!
When you least expected, Bunny Boy would appear like a ninja and spring onto your lap, seeking affection. One night, he floated onto the kitchen table while we were playing family poker and started tapping the faces of Julie’s cards with his twittering nose, as if he were giving her a “bunny good luck” sign. He would become a regular player in every one of our poker games, until the night he binkied across the table and knocked over Chris’s pile of chips, scaring the daylights out of himself. Then, Bunny Boy watched us play poker from my lap.
In every way, he had become part of our family. How wonderful this bunny was, I thought, for me and for all of us.
Chapter 16
When I saw it, I bolted upright on the sofa. “My god, it’s back, Ward!” I shrieked.
“What’s back?”
“Bunny Boy’s abscess.”
The unsightly lump was the size of a golf ball. I was instantly heartbroken. I had hoped that Bunny Boy would never have another abscess. I drew him close and whispered in his long, beautiful ears.
“Everything is going to be okay, Bunny Boy. I promise.”
Now, I just had to convince myself,
It was a Sunday night during early fall. Sixty Minutes was wrapping up a segment on helicopter parents. Chris and Julie were sitting on the floor organizing a pile of Pokémon cards. When he heard my yell, Chris jumped up and came over to us.
“It’s small compared to the last one,” he said in a sullen voice. “His other one was the size of a tennis ball.”
I spent the night on the couch in the lagomorph lounge, formerly known as our family room. After all, the largest space in the house had been taken over by Bunny Boy’s toys, and the name change seemed appropriate. The cabinets that once housed our family photo albums now stocked bags of hay and litter, while the laundry baskets that were once brimming with Little People buses and fire trucks, My Little Ponies, and Matchbox cars were now full of balls, tunnels, playmats, veggies, and books made out of edible hay.
I needed to be close to Bunny Boy that night. Waiting for Dr. Welch’s office to open the next morning seemed like an eternity. We cuddled together in the dark. I put hot compresses on his jaw every few hours, reconciling myself to the fact that Bunny Boy would need another surgery. I would gently palpate the abscess, as if hoping, somehow, that I could make it go away.
Around five in the morning, I woke from a wonderful dream. I had been nestled in a pool of fur—a litter of baby bunnies. When I opened my eyes, Bunny Boy was lying on my chest, purring. His paws and head were tucked under my chin and he stared directly into my eyes with intensity. The warmth of his body felt like heaven, except for the hard lump against my bare neck, which snapped me back to reality.
“You’re the love of my life, buddy,” I whispered. “I hope you know that.”