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You know the famous aversion therapy scene from A Clockwork Orange when they stretch Malcolm McDowell’s eyelids wide open with a pair of clamps and force him to watch ultraviolent images? That’s what I thought of when I sat down on the couch to watch home videos of Rob a week or so before the unveiling of his headstone. I chose not to play Beethoven’s Ninth.
The last time I had watched these blasts from the past was a few days after Rob died, when we were all miserably hanging out at my ex-wife Caryn’s house in Long Island. I remember how we were crying and laughing at the same time, which isn’t that easy to do, and finally had to shut it off because we just couldn’t take it anymore.
As I braced myself for another viewing, I wasn’t sure why I was about to put myself through this time-travel torture again, but now I know that it was nothing more than my last great leap on the road toward healing.
I popped in the first DVD (I had digitized our old videotapes a few years back), poured a glass of Syrah, and pressed play. I was fully prepared to enter Guinness World Records as the world’s tallest puddle of tears.
Watching our old life flash before my eyes, almost a year later, was different right from the start. The first thing up was Robbie (it was always Robbie and Zachy when they were little) in one of those baby walkers that look like a car with a tiny steering wheel. He was talking gibberish a mile a minute, which was just under the speed limit. Five seconds later, he began to scream bloody murder.
“He’s sad because he just learned that he’s a Jew!” I said.
I found myself laughing at this little joke, which took me by surprise. I fast-forwarded every few seconds because, let’s face it, watching hours of any baby—even the cutest infant in the world, which Rob most definitely was—doing plenty of nothing is boring as hell. I stopped on Caryn bathing him in the sink. According to the time stamp, he was 3 months old.
“This is what Robbie loves the best,” she cooed. “He loves his baths!”
“And… ” I prodded.
“And what?”
“And he loves his Daddy!” I said, right before the little bastard shot a stream of pee at me. That was the beginning of Rob’s sense of humor.
More fast-forwarding, and there was Robbie eating plastic keys, and I said, “He’ll love to see this 20 years from now!” Which, luckily, he got to do when he came to visit me in Park Slope a few years before officially moving to California. He couldn’t believe that he was once so little, the same way I can’t believe that he’s no longer with us.
I put in another DVD titled “Robbie’s Next Six Months,” and it began with Caryn reading him Pat the Bunny. Robbie seemed to really like it and soon began chewing on his new favorite book. He was a little cranky this day, teetering on the verge of tears, but mainly he sounded like he was trying to tell us something very important.
“Who is he talking to all the time?” Caryn asked.
“The aliens!” I said as he started to munch on his foot.
Next up was Robbie eating baby food for the first time and washing it down with a few hits from his ba-ba. My in-laws, Marty and Phyllis, were there, as they often were in those early days, and after feeding Robbie a few more spoonfuls, Caryn asked, “Is he the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Yes,” I answered softly from my couch as I took a long sip of wine.
Music was always playing in our house back then, and Robbie had impeccable taste right from the get-go. He seemed to like Dylan’s version of “This Old Man,” but he really smiled hard when Caryn danced around with him to “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” God, how we loved that little boy!
A few more fast-forwards and splish, splash, we were takin’ a bath with special guest Marty singing “Mother and Child Reunion.” It made me happy to think that they were now back together again.
I loaded in another DVD labeled “More Stuff,” which started with Robbie sticking out his tongue again and again as if he were licking an imaginary ice cream cone. Caryn was cracking up, and then Marty picked him up and rubbed Robbie’s little belly on his bald head, and Robbie was giggling, and we were all laughing, and there I was sitting on the couch with a big smile on my face as I remembered this sweet, sweet time in our life.
The biggest surprise of all was that I cried only three times, all triggered by music. The first time was watching Robbie at 5 months old, zipping around in his walker while holding a Mylar balloon for Caryn’s birthday. James Taylor was singing “You’ve Got a Friend,” and you’d have to be made of stone not to blubber while hearing “Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you have to do is call… ”
The second time was when the kids were 4 or 5 (there was no date stamp) and dancing around maniacally to Vince Guaraldi’s “Christmas Time Is Here” while playing with our new wheaten terrier puppy, Mookie. Robbie chased Mookie all around the living room until they finally plopped down on the floor together. Zachy, for reasons unknown, ran over and started to rub Robbie’s head.
“I’m messing up his hair,” Zachy said, and the three of us were hysterically laughing. To top it off, Zachy danced over to the camera and blew a kiss, which just got me into Guinness World Records.
The third time was watching a video of Zachy singing and dancing to “Wonderwall,” a Carlat family favorite. It’s just about the cutest and happiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t realize how bad I needed to see it again. I didn’t realize how bad I needed to see all of this, and just how good it would make me feel. I needed a reminder that, long ago and far away, our life was beautiful.
I watched that Zachy video over and over again (Robbie makes a special guest appearance at the very end) and cried for joy each time. It was the first time in a long time that I had cried for that reason.
For at least one night, to paraphrase Malcolm McDowell’s Alex, I was cured.
