How to Raise a Capably Functional Family: Lots of Love

Matthew - The Early Years

Matthew joined the family right on his due date—September 17th, 1986. Whew!

I remember joking with Claire that if she went into labor even a day early, her father might start asking questions... or worse, reach for a shotgun. After all, we were married nine months to the day. Close call! But Matt arrived precisely on schedule, and he’s been punctual ever since.

There was a moment of concern in the delivery room, though. While Claire was being tended to, her focus was entirely on Matthew—who wasn’t breathing. His pinkish hue was turning purple, and she was nearing hysteria. But the anesthesiologist stayed calm. From his array of high-tech gadgets, he chose what looked like a simple straw and slid it gently into Matthew’s tiny throat.

“He isn’t crying,” Claire pleaded.
“He will—when I take the tube out,” he replied reassuringly.

I’m not sure whether he blew in or sucked out (or both), but I trusted his diploma and that magic straw. A moment later, our son announced himself with a cry loud enough to reassure the entire room. Crisis averted.

The ride home from North Shore University Hospital in Manhasset to our place in Bayside, Queens, took almost an hour, despite being only a 16-minute drive. Not because of traffic, but because of my driving - like we were carrying Fabergé eggs. Good thing there were no cops around to ticket me... for going too slow.

After settling Claire and Matthew in, I dashed over to Flushing to pick up Jon and the grandparents, Olga and Rachmil. Jonathan was eager to meet his new baby brother, and Claire could definitely use the help.

Not long after walking in, Claire grabbed her phone book.

“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I want to see if the Mohel who did Jonathan’s bris is free for September 24th.”

He was. And there we were, hosting a traditional bris in our apartment exactly one week later, as is custom. One of the few Jewish rituals that even takes precedence over Shabbat.

Matt developed quickly. That “older sibling effect” kicked in fast. By the following summer, at just 10½ months old, he would toddle right up to strangers at the beach and gaze at them.

“How old is he?” they'd ask.
“Ten and a half months.”
“No way!”

We didn’t read to him for very long—because pretty soon, he was reading to us. At first, we’d correct him, but the corrections became fewer and fewer. Eventually we were out of a job.

Our family loved word games, especially Boggle. By age 11, Matt was regularly beating the rest of us... combined. We tried every strategy—adding our scores together, playing without him—but nothing worked. And playing without him just wasn’t as much fun. So eventually, we stopped. Not because we wanted to - his non-stop word-writing simply boggled our brains.

As his vocabulary and curiosity grew, so did his sense of humor. One afternoon, I was trimming the hedges with my trusty (and slightly frayed) Sears electric trimmer, reluctant to let anyone else touch it. Matt pleaded:

“Dad, can I have a turn?”
“It’s getting late—maybe another time.”
“C’mon, Dad… don’t be a hedge hog!”

That pun earned him a solid turn. And unlike me, he didn’t cut the cord.

Another time, at the lake, he pointed at a beautiful white bird and shouted, “Hey look, Dad—a swanton!” and opted for a closer look.

We laughed, until the swan decided to remind us it was not to be trifled with, rising up tall, and spreading its wings. Matt’s eyes widened and he made a speedy u-turn, adding “on second thought, I think this spot is better.”

He once challenged us over dinner:
“Name any object and I’ll make a pun out of it.”

“A chair.”
“Good one. But let me sit on it first.”

“A bicycle.”
“That’s too easy—give me a brake.”

“A tree.”
Long pause. Longer pause. Then:
“I’m stumped!”

We cheered. We had finally bested him…or did we?

Like all kids, he occasionally pushed our buttons. One time, after doing something that really got under my skin, he read the look on my face and bolted into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

“Mom! Mom! Come here please!!” he yelled. Then, stepping out with Claire serving as a human shield, he added:
“What kind of relationship is this where a son has to hide behind his mother to protect himself from his father?”

What do you do with that? You laugh and move on.

Matt also had a habit of latching onto phrases—sometimes from cartoons, sometimes his own inventions—and repeating them endlessly:

“Stimpy, you eediot—you bloated bag of protoplasm!”
(Twenty times in a row.)

Or one of his own:
“For long—Supplemental Restraint System.
For medium—SRS.
For short—Airbag.”
(Rinse and repeat...)

As parents, we get it - kids like to make noise!
Matt added love. And thought. And tons of joy!