For Alison. Andy Parker

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      1

      Alison

      It was Monday, August 19, 1991, and the world was on edge. Communists from the old Soviet regime had orchestrated a coup against Boris Yeltsin and his fledgling democracy. If it succeeded, no one knew what the implications were for our country, but the prospects weren’t promising.

      Barbara was in labor with our daughter, Alison, and we watched the live CNN broadcast on the overhead television at Anne Arundel Medical Center in Annapolis, Maryland. It was a nice but unremarkable facility, made to feel as homey as possible while still being sterile. All hospitals look pretty much the same.

      We were both shocked by the unfolding world events, but we had other things on our minds. Just great, I thought. We’re bringing a child into a very uncertain world. The excitement of Alison’s imminent arrival was tempered by what appeared to be a world on the brink of war.

      Adding to my concern was the health of the coming child. A few months before, our first-born, three-year-old Drew, had been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. At that time, little was known about it; doctors knew it was somewhere on the autism spectrum, but it mostly remained a mystery. Now my wife was giving birth at age forty-one, an age where all kinds of problems can occur. The obstetrician who was supposed to deliver Alison was not on duty, so another from the practice was there instead. We had never met him previously, but this fortyish mustachioed doctor bore an uncanny resemblance to Barbara’s brother-in-law, and thankfully he had a good sense of humor. His joking demeanor helped take our minds off the ominous events that were unfolding, but only a little.

      Barbara’s first delivery with Drew was via emergency C-section; I hated that I couldn’t be in the room when he arrived. Sometimes after a C-section doctors discourage natural childbirth, but Barbara’s doctor saw no reason for this. This time everything was going smoothly, except there was one spot on her abdomen that the epidural did not seem to help. Barbara was not thrilled by this development. Barbara’s not exactly the natural childbirth/midwife/delivery in a kiddie pool type, so she was ready for Alison to make her debut as quickly as possible.

      Fortunately, Alison cooperated, Barbara pushed like a champ, and before long, I saw my daughter emerge into the world.

      There are no words to describe what it’s like to witness the birth of your child. It’s a wonder, a miracle, but even that doesn’t go far enough. As with parents since the beginning of time, emotions ran the gamut from relief to joy and ultimately profound love for this life we had created.

      At that moment, we didn’t care about the rest of the world or what it would turn into. I just knew we had something special from the moment I laid eyes on her. Two days later, we were all home, the Russian Federation survived, and I knew the light that had come into the world on such a dark day was destined for great things.

      •

      I want to tell you what Alison was like. This is no easy task.

      Imagine your own child, or if you don’t have a child, imagine your wife, or your husband, or your mother or father. Now imagine describing that person—capturing everything that makes them special with crystal detail—in a single chapter of a few thousand words. Even if this entire book was solely devoted to describing how wonderful, unique, and talented Alison was, it would still fall short.

      But my hope is that if I share a few stories—the little moments over the years that stick out—you’ll get a glimpse, and hopefully that glimpse will be enough.

      The first thing I’ll tell you is that Alison was an easy baby. She was perfectly healthy, she slept through the night, and she was never colicky. About the only thing you could remotely call an issue was that she took a little while to get the hang of potty training, but once she mastered it, boy was she proud of herself.

      On her first Halloween outing, Drew dressed as radio legend Dr. Demento and Alison dressed as a fairy princess, complete with a purple gown, a sparkling tiara, rosy cheeks, and a candy bucket that Barbara fashioned into the perfect gaudy accessory using tin foil and purple ribbon. I escorted them as they went door to door. We lived in a newly built subdivision in Bowie, Maryland, with lots of kids, nice sidewalks, and houses that were as close together as houses in new subdivisions tend to be. I would hang back on the sidewalk in front of each house while Drew took Alison’s hand and escorted her to each front door.

      Alison was a little over two years old at the time. I’m not sure the concept of Halloween registered with her as much as the excitement of it all. It’s like the kids whose parents take them to Disney World at that age. They enjoy that excitement, but it doesn’t have much more impact than going to the local Chuck E. Cheese’s.

      In Alison’s case, it presented an opportunity to turn on the charm and engage the public. As I waited for them to trick or treat, to get their candy and return to meet me at the sidewalk, I began to notice a pattern. I was too far away to hear what was being said, but I saw parents in their doorways laugh, say something, and put more candy in Alison’s sparkly princess bucket. This went on door after door, so I finally walked up behind them to get within earshot.

      Then I heard what prompted the neighbors’ responses. In unison, the kids would say “Trick or treat!” But then Alison would proudly proclaim, “I poo-poo in the potty!” to which the reaction was, “Well, that’s very, very good. I’m going to give you some extra candy for that.”

      It was clear she understood marketing at an early age.

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