12 Days

March 2, 2011. At 10:19 pm, Peter Shields Watts came into the world. Rob was able to get home for the event, and we are beyond thrilled with our new little boy. Chip has been surprisingly tolerant. Pete looks a little like Chip did, but he is already his own little person and again I am amazed at the experience of creating a new life. While I was pregnant with him I wondered if the second time around would be as thrilling and meaningful as the first, and if I could possibly love another child the way I love my first. I found out the instant he was born that: it is, it is, and I can.

Pete

March 3-10, 2011. A blissful week chez Watts. Betsy, my sister-in-law, came the 4th to help with the baby and keep me company. Making up for his Christmas absence, Rob hung around for his sister this time and enjoyed the rare treat of actually getting to take some paternity leave. Chip had undivided attention from all the people in and out of the house (and a wagonload of new toys motivated by parental guild and friends’ enthusiasm), we ate wonderfully at the hands of Betsy and friends, and Pete did his best to earn the “Loveliest Baby Ever” award by sleeping peacefully and sucking his hands politely every three hours to let me know that he’d like to be fed, please. Just to prove he can, Pete cries whenever his diaper is changed, but only until he is decent again. (I know I’m jinxing myself by writing all this, and that there is plenty of time for the colic to set it, but I feel I owe it to Pete to write a truthful account of his first days.) We had nice weather and lovely walks in which Chip showed Pete our routes through Hayama, and the plum blossoms and  rhododendron bloomed. We celebrated Betsy’s birthday, eight days after Pete’s, all together. Kansas claimed another Big 12 championship. It was bittersweet to be away from everyone at a time like this. A new baby should meet all the people who love him as soon as possible, but our little family had such a wonderful time together in that early spring week in our little town on the Japanese coast.

March 11, 2011. After a nice morning together, Rob thought that it might be a good idea to show his face on the ship again and take care of some business on base, so off he went for a quick afternoon trip. As Pete and I nestled in for an afternoon nap and Chip snoozed in his crib, Aunt Betsy went for a run down the coast. “Nap time is a good time for the first-time-alone-with-two-children moment,” I thought, as I drifted off to sleep. And, as I often do when lying down in Japan, “I think I feel a tremor.”

I dozed for a bit until Pete reminded me gently that he would like to be fed, and while I was changing his diaper afterward, at 2:46 p.m., it hit. Out of nowhere the house shook like it never has before. I grabbed Pete and ran for a doorway and watched, nauseated, as every horizontal surface in my house heaved laterally. The sound of the earthquake was that of glass shattering in the kitchen and open doors banging in their frames. A houseplant fell and books tumbled to the floor. “Chip,” I thought, “how do I get Chip?” The floor just kept on moving, and every second stretched out interminably. I kept waiting for the motion to stop to get Chip. I think at one point I even said out loud, “Please, stop.” Finally, finally, it did. I dashed upstairs with Pete and found Chip still fast asleep in his crib which, thankfully, was not under a bookcase/heavy picture/china cabinet/mounted moose head.

I thought that was it. I went downstairs to sweep up the glass, tidy the books, and wait for Betsy to run in the door with news of the outside world. Then I noticed the power was off. Then I noticed my cell phone wasn’t working. I knew that I was supposed to do something with the gas valve but couldn’t remember what. I was shaking.

Betsy burst in the door about 20 long minutes later with a confused look. While running she didn’t feel the quake, but noticed that things were awry on the run home as people milled outside, stores closed, and traffic lights went out. Laughing, I told her she missed all the excitement. No sooner were the words  out of my mouth than an aftershock hit. Betsy heroically ran up the stairs for Chip and we all got under the table. Chip was bewildered, but brightened considerably when we started to sing “Old MacDonald.” We got out, and then back under as another aftershock hit. It was dawning on me that this was something big when the sirens went off outside.

My Japanese neighbor Yoshi translated for me–tsunami warning. All those living in flimsy houses across the street from beaches were advised to get out as quickly as possible. Yoshi loaded all of us and her two little girls into her van and drove us to her friends’ house up the hill. I had met Miyo, Riki, and their 2-year-old son Roi before, but they their welcome was still surprisingly warm for the clueless Americans with a toddler and a newborn. I sat in their living room and tried to call Rob and corral Chip, who was thrilled with the new toys, new friends, and the discovery that a cat could live indoors.

Day darkened into night. The sirens were still going off, and I still hadn’t heard from Rob. Finally around 5:30 he got through, saying he was on his way home. The usual fast toll road was closed and he was in a total jam on the local roads. He made it to Hayama by about 7:00. Our hosts made us Campbell’s clam chowder and we drank Kirin beer and the wine that Rob has the presence of mind to stop at home and save. Yoshi’s husband Dimitry, who worked in Tokyo, showed up after riding a scooter 3 hours to Hayama in the cold night.

The rest is a blur. The night wore on with no tsunami all-clear, and terrifying information started filtering in from Japanese friends and relatives as cell-phone service resumed. A 30-foot wave north of Tokyo. 8.8 magnitude.  A 6-foot wave washed up on our Morito Beach. The sea was heaving out in Hayama–no, wait, it wasn’t…

All five of us hunkered down on the futon to spend the night. Our Japanese hosts, who probably had no idea when they woke up that morning that they would be housing five American refugees overnight, could not have been more gracious. Blankets and reassurances were handed out generously, and the family cat even snuggled up with Betsy to sleep. “Funny,” our host remarked, “he doesn’t usually like visitors…”

Lying in the dark, with all of us (and the cat) together in a bed I had my first chance to reflect. Except for a brief comment, of which I am not proud, to Rob (something about “Whose idea was it to come to Japan?!”) what I felt was overwhelming gratitude that we were all together, safe, welcomed by a lovely Japanese family, and that the boys are too young to remember this.

March 12, 2011. The next morning we were all up before six and decided to just go home. We folded our blankets, patted the cat, and headed back to the beach to call all our family. They were relieved, of course, and Rob and Betsy’s parents passed on the news that Betsy’s 19-year-old cat had died the day before.

The power was back on, and brought with it the flood of frightening news and terrible images. It became very clear that this was nowhere near finished. A third terror, that of nuclear meltdown, materialized.

Rob got called back to the ship around noon. As sad as I was to be left at a time like this, I am still so glad that perhaps he can do something for the people of Japan. His ship and others headed north to do relief work and I hope that some good comes of it. I cried for the first time driving home from dropping him off at the ship. Partly because I miss him, and partly because this cheesy old Kenny Loggins song that my folks love inexplicably came on the Japanese radio–you know the one about “Pisces, Virgo rising is a very good sign, strong and kind,
And the little boy is mine./Now I see a family where there once was none, now we’ve just begun…And everything’s gonna be alright.”

March 13, 2011. The sun shone on Hayama, one could buy milk and bread, and most reassuringly, the Starbucks was open. I tried not to read the news about nuclear meltdowns, we kept moving to avoid feeling the aftershocks, Chip and Pete did beautifully, and our friend Lauren joined us for a feast of a dinner of several days’ worth of Betsy’s leftovers. I felt guilty having a relatively good day knowing how badly it was going for so many in Japan. I heard nothing from Rob.

March 14, 2011. As scheduled, Betsy went home today. I had to let her go, though it was the last thing I wanted to do. I feel horrible for dragging her out here to experience the worst natural disaster in Japan’s history, but I am inexpressibly glad that she was here. As soon as we got home from dropping her off for her bus to the airport, another aftershock hit. As the bookshelf quavered, I watched with sadness and pride as Chip headed under the table. To encourage such safe behavior, I joined him for a while, even though the shaking lasted only seconds this time.

Rob’s communication is down, but a friend on another ship let me know he’s fine.

Rolling power blackouts are supposed to start today. I will happily take them, especially if that is the only result for us of the awful situation at the Fukushima nuclear reactors.

We three are okay. We love you all and miss you so much. So far this has shown me so many important things: how lucky I am to have my family here and at home safe and sound, how lucky we are that maybe Rob can help out, how wonderful the Japanese are in times of crisis, how welcoming they are under any circumstances, and–to end on one of the greatest clichés in the English language–how utterly precious every single day is. (Please give my swiss-cheese brain a break–I just had a baby…)