Unnatural Father

It is I, the new papa, writing to you from the brave new world of parenthood. Hello.

To all this talk of parenthood being exhausting and consuming, I say Pshaw! All one needs to feel rested is a baby with an uncommon calm and pleasant disposition, a wife who is willing to do the lion's share of middle-of-the-night baby duty, and a doting grandmother who will be with us for another five days. 

Having said that, yes, I am still exhausted.

As a therapist, it is my job to remain dispassionate and objective in the face of drama, so you can trust me when I say that little Zinnia Rain is an infant with exceptional intelligence, charm, and wit. She's also a gal who knows how to ask for what she wants.  She cries when she's hungry, cries when her diaper is brimming, cries when her inexperienced papa is holding her in a stiff, "I-Hope-I'm-Doing-This-Right" sort of way, and cries when she's tired.

One friend, a computer scientist and a new father himself, said not so long ago: "It (crying) strikes me as an inefficient way of communicating." I disagree. As soon as Zinnia starts to stick her tongue out and smack her lips in rooting behavior, I lunge for the hot water pitcher so we can warm up her formula before she goes into full-bore, crisis-mode wailing. Actually, Zinnia's fine. I'm the one who goes into crisis mode.

Both Jenn and her mother are able to sling our baby about like a small sack of potatoes without disturbing her serenity. Often, however, when they hand her to me ("Hey fellah, take this little human, willya?") or I pick her up like a rare piece of China, within minutes, Zinnia starts to shift. Then she begins to squirm. Next, she raises her hand to her mouth in a kind of self-comforting gesture. Her squirming becomes more pronounced until she starts to kick her legs like a professional wrestler practicing a flying biel kick. At last, her eyes close, her lip curls, and she starts to wail. 

Recently, I received an email from a friend--a father of two. He has been keeping up with my blog and noted with some amusement that it cracked him up how little I know about parenting. I see his point. Zinnia Rain is 9 1/2 days old today, and though it should come as no surprise, I am amazed at how little I know about babies. The reality is, I have never been terribly interested in infants and never held a newborn prior to Zinnia entering my life. In the past, when I have been around new parent/friends, rather than showering praise upon the little infant, my internal response has been more along the lines of, "Yep, looks like a baby." Since Zinnia's birth, this still holds pretty close to the truth.

A friend asked me recently with an expectant smile on her face, "Can you even remember what your life was like before she was born?" I understand this is not politically correct to say, but after a lifetime of baby disinterest, the faucet of newborn infatuation has not turned into a gusher simply because it is my baby I am looking at. I studied my friend for a moment before saying, "Let me get back to you on that one."

I've been told by many that I will fall instantly in love with Zinnia and want to stare at her for hours. This is partially true. I love her, deeply, calmly, and do love looking at her, but I also enjoy looking away, towards a book, towards a cat, towards the hummingbirds buzzing around the feeder out front, toward my clients, towards Jenn's beauty and her sudden shift into a mature, confident womanhood. My interest in the outside world has not diminished with the advent of my daughter.

I have been told that Zinnia looks like me. I think she's a combination of Jenn and her youngest brother. Here's a picture:

Really, it doesn't matter whom she resembles. I don't need my child to look like me in order to fulfill some unresolved bit of narcissistic longing. The reality is, day-by-day, she has gone from being a newborn baby blob to a breathtakingly cute, newborn baby blob. She eats, poops/pees, sleeps, and cuddles. That's it, that's her life right now, which means that's our life right now.

And this might sound odd, and I'm sure I'm the only one out there that feels this way, but I've noticed I'm not crazy about the crying thing. I have always been sensitive to sound, and Zinnia's wails effect my spine like a jackhammer. I understand this is by design, but I am only now starting to get to the point where I don't wince when she expresses herself in full-lunged indignation at not having her hunger slaked within ten seconds of becoming aware of it.

However, as Jenn, Margaret (Zinnia's grandmother), and Zinnia's father (i.e. your humble tour guide) have noticed, for the most part my daughter is an exceptionally calm and happy baby. Her joy is contagious. I have witnessed the effect seeing her has on the feminine world. When Zinnia is out and about for a stroll, women's faces take on a dreamy "Oooooo..." expression, as if seeing a newborn hearkens them back to a time that once was, or one they hope shall be again. 

Jenn's mom, who has produced six progeny, tells me she thinks I'm "a natural born father." She is being kind. I believe all four of us--Jenn, her mother, Zinnia, and myself can all see that Tom is anything but a natural at this parenting business. Indeed, I have spent the past week trying to find my fatherly footing and consider it a minor victory when I hold our child without her bursting into a wail.

Having said that, there have been some spectacular moments. We set up the birthing pool in our living room shortly after Jenn's contractions started, thinking we would have some time before she went into full-blown labor. So much for the best laid plans. Jenn's contractions kicked-in fast and furious.  Here's the pool.

It's a sturdy kiddie inflatable made in China and illustrated by a crack team of domestic marine biologists. We had heard a number of nightmare stories about birthing pools. One woman said her's sprung a leak in the middle of the event, and the laboring mother tried not to fret about the steady stream of bubbles worked their way to the pool's surface. Another friend stated that only after she went into labor did her husband start to frantically blow-up the pool with a hand pump. To be on the safe side, Jenn and I borrowed an air pump from our friends and blew up the pool some 2-3 weeks before Jenn went into labor. It held the air fine.

One of the best things we got from our "Ecstatic Birthing" class was that Jenn should trust her body. It would know when to contract and when to push; it would know when it was time rest and when to give birth. In the movies, there is often some tight-jawed, courageous nurse coaching the mother to "bear down" and "push!" But Jenn's pushing was not so much her own decision but her body's, as if a great hand were squeezing her womb like a cake decorator handling a tube of frosting. Jenn entered into full-blown contractions and 4:30 p.m. and was in labor until Zinnia's birth at 1:00 a.m. During that time, her body was not her own. The contractions came in ever quickening waves, and toward the end, when it was time to push, this too was primal and involuntary. 

Jenn alternated between two different stations for most of the night. She was either sitting on the toilet--a comfortable and supportive throne--or in the pool on hands and knees, hanging over the side in the throes of her contractions.

The woman in the background of the above photo is our midwife. The one in the foreground is her assistant. We tried to time the move from bathroom and pool  in-between the contractions, but were not always successfully. As the night progressed, Jenn's water had still not burst, and she was wearing out. One of the midwives punctured her bag of water and things moved along quickly, but not quite fast enough. Jenn strained mightily in the pool, but the labor did not seem to be advancing as fast as we would like. 

Moving back to the bathroom was an option, but did not seem like a fruitful one. Our midwife suggested that Jenn lie on her back on the bed and hike her knees to her chest to simulate a squat. For the first time that night, Jenn laughed at what seemed like a daunting (if not impossible) task.

"We'll help you," said the midwife, looking at me.

We assisted Jenn over to the bed. She first hung over the side to see if she could maintain her own squat, but this was a no go. Jenn climbed up on the mattress just as another contraction kicked in. I grabbed one of her legs, the midwife the other, and we pulled her knees toward her chest. She groaned. More contractions, more Jenn bravely surrendering to the process.

Our midwife asked if I wanted to see the baby's crown.

"Sure," I said, not really all that sure.

The midwife angled a mirror between Jenn's legs and aimed a flashlight into her opening.

"I can't see anything."

We waited for another contraction, and the midwife tried again. Jenn dialated  a bit further, and I could see the top of-- 

Wait, what? Is that...? This thing was really happening. My God, I thought, I am really going to be a father. Probably in the next few hours. There is actually a living being inside of Jenn waiting to--

And 1,2,3, just like that, with one last effort, Jenn pushed and Zinnia Rain squirted out like a watermelon seed. One moment Jenn was 4 centimeters dialated, and the next our midwife was lifting up our daughter and handing her to her mother. Zinnia's eyes squeaked open, and she looked dazed and in shock, as if to say, "What the hell just happened?"

Jenn tried to lift Zinnia up to her heart, but the position of the placenta in her womb was high and prevented the cord for reaching all the way to Jenn's chest. Hence in the photo below, taken a minute after birth, Zinnia is resting on the lower belly of the proud mama.

"Here," our midwife said, "do you want to feel the cord? It's still pulsing."

I reached down--it was warm, alive, and throbbing. "Wow," I said, and meant it.

Today is the 15th, and Z. is 11 days old. Jenn is propped up on some pillows, snoring away, and Zinnia is asleep on her bosom.

Life is good.