Spare the Rod

7/30/11

Jenn had a contraction at 2:30 a.m. last night, yet another reminder that, for the time being, her body is not her own. Her belly is so distended that it has surpassed all viable comparisons to produce, and she has now entered one of my favorite realms, that of the sports metaphors. Thus, Jenn's belly is now the size of a volleyball. Indeed, if it were to begin to rain here in Albuquerque--something it blessedly did twice earlier in the week--a small child could no doubt take shelter from the storm beneath Jenn's overhanging pregnant shelf.

The old Jenn might have laughed at the above comparison, and she does still laugh, but with less frequency. It has become difficult for her to walk the tightrope between wanting to go into labor and feeling nervous as to what the ordeal will entail. This partially explains why last night was a bit chippy between us. Jenn spent the evening in our bedroom reading "The Red Tent"--which she started and finished--while I edited an older piece of writing in the living room before falling asleep to a semi-interesting Phillip Seymour Hoffman film.  (Brief aside: I highly recommend, "Charlie Wilson's War." Snappy dialogue with Hoffman, Tom Hanks, and Julia Roberts at their best.)

Overall, I admit to enjoying the last few days of non-parenthood; I was able to squeeze in another and unexpected week of work; garnered a few more bike rides; and Tom the Insomniac was able to catch up on a bit more sleep. Additionally, and in seeming (and actual) contradiction to the above. I also found the time to imbibe in my not-so-secret middle of the night pleasure: munching on snacks and watching "30 Rock" reruns on Netflix. When Jenn enters the living room in the morning, she is amused at the telltale carnage--crumpled animal cracker packages, string cheese wrappers, and on the occasions when I'm feeling the need to make healthier choices, an apple core or a crinkly, plastic blueberry container.

This waiting for our lives to be turned on their heads is getting a bit old. Jenn and I have been trying to arrange a few days to be together after the baby is born so we could have some bonding time before the tidal wave of relatives and friends washes against our door. This week, I back-loaded my work schedule on the assumption that Zinnia Rain would be joining us sometime yesterday or today. Jenn's mother, Margaret, was scheduled to arrive tomorrow, but at our request she postponed her arrival until Wednesday. (Update--Now Friday.)

Old joke: How do you make God laugh?
Answer: Tell Him you have plans.

The last few days, Jenn has been struggling emotionally, but has been unable to put things into words. This morning, I emerged from my "meditation room-slash-nursery" only to witness my wife walking across the house like a throbbing, open nerve. I tried to offer her this or that--an ear, a massage, an invitation to try to (wink, wink) induce labor)--but the answer was negatory on all counts. Out of ideas, I decided to imbibe in my usual "Going to Starbucks to Write" ritual. As I stood in the kitchen, I paused to study Jenn through the opening of the shelf overhangs. She was sitting on the couch looking raw and vulnerable and very dear, trying to appear stoic and "not needy," but really, she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. I joined her on the couch and put an arm around her. She curled up into my chest and we sat their in silence.

Jenn gets lonely sometimes, and of late has been missing her friends and family from Oregon. We have received many generous offers from friends here in New Mexico: Offers to babysit, to prepare food, and to spend time and support Jenn and the baby. These offers were made with open and sincere hearts, but I understand people have their own lives, their own kids, their own priorities. I consider any support we receive from family or friends as a bonus--something to accept with gratitude, but not expected. This attitude, no doubt, is a reflection of LBJ--Life Before Jenn. I was alone for years, and aside from semi-frequent bouts of whining about lack of sex and companionship, I had grown to enjoy being attached to nothing and to no one. Even today, on the cusp of parenthood, I have fantasies about becoming a Buddhist monk or joining the Shipibos deep in the Amazon.

Jenn, on the other hand, is used to regular contact with a massive extended family and strong network of friends. She also understands that I will be gone even more as work picks up. We are both about to enter uncharted territory. She will learn to be a new mother and to trust fully in another to provide emotional and financial support; and I will learn what it is to be a father and to have two other beings (plus two cats) depend on me for their sustenance and well-being.

Perhaps this is why Zinnia is hesitating to come into the world. Is she waiting for some sort of signal indicating her papa is ready? Maybe I need to shift into a purer state of love or she senses my anxiety at becoming a new father and interprets it as a lack of unconditional welcome.

Jenn was doing this same pointless head tripping earlier in the week. In the end, of course, it's all egoic projection. Like any strong willed Leo, Z-Rain (our daughter's hip-hop name) will come at the perfect time of her choosing.

But if I learned anything from my mother, it was the tactful art of how to encourage a child to do what you want them to do. So, in the spirit of Zinna's paternal grandmother-to-be, I take a page from the BMB book of parenting: "Young lady, if you don't come out of that womb by tomorrow, you're grounded!"

(Brief update: 8/1/11--One contraction yesterday. Jenn is not in labor as yet, nor has her water broken. Her belly is now the size of an over-inflated volleyball.)