Cuddle Envy

Two nights ago, I briefly contemplated deep-sixing this blog for the sole reason that I felt ashamed and completely confused by my emotional state. I had returned home from work, had some food, checked the mail, pet the cats, and then took Zinnia from Jenn to give my wife a well-deserved break from a long day of mothering. I held our daughter, and for a moment thought all was well, and all was well ... until Zinnia realized I wasn't her mother. Her face broke into a startled expression, as if to say, "Wait, you're not-- What the...?" She began to squirm, then added a few half-hearted grunts, and before starting to writhe and kick. Within seconds she broke into a skull rattling wail.

I walked around with her for a bit (in Victorian terms, we took a few turns around the living room) while I hummed and chattered away. I even tried singing:

"Oh Zinnia, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away oh Zinnia..."

Her cries increased in volume and pitch.  I smiled at her in what I thought approximated a loving, parental beam, but little Z. was not fooled. Jenn, who was busy pumping breast milk in the bedroom, and had spent the entire day with the baby, shot me a glance from the glider. It was more of a frustrated plea: Please find a way to help her shift her energy.

I kissed our daughter on the forehead and made "shhhhhhhh'ing" sounds, which often have a calming effect on her (theoretically because it emulates the sound of the placenta). Zinnia wails became more frantic, and there was true panic in her eyes. I gave up on the idea of calming her and merely hoped Zinnia would tire herself out from the sheer force of energy she was expelling. Nope. She redoubled the intensity of her cries, and then, just when I thought she couldn't possibly get any louder, she did. Zinnia was choking on her sobs and started to gasp for air.

At last, unable to restrain herself, Jenn sprung from her seat with a mother's urgency and took our daughter in her arms. She did so without any sign of resentment, although perhaps some frustration. I gladly turned her over.

No doubt many parents can relate to some version of this story, but for me--the ardent baby-avoider--I felt as if I have landed in hell.  Even worse, while I paced back-and-forth with my daughter as she grew more and more agitated, I felt ... almost nothing.  I knew she was beyond the point of me comforting her, and I felt irrationally resentful at the way she looked at me as if I were inserting bamboo slivers under her nails. Too, I felt resentful toward Jenn for handing me the baby in the first place, and just so I didn't leave anybody out, I felt kicked myself for not having the balls to say "No" when Jenn informed me four years ago that she wanted to have a child. What the hell had I been thinking?

While Zinnia's "fussiness" (a euphemism for, "Our-baby's-wailing-for-fucking-hours-and-we-don't- know-why") continued into the night, I reflected on all of the opportunities I would miss because we had been invaded by this ... this irrational crying thing. My mood darkened further as I lamented the fact that I would now never have the time to write, never travel the planet in the unfettered way to which I had grown accustomed, never again have a good night's sleep or, for lack of sleep, enjoy the small pleasures in life, like middle of the night "30 Rock" episodes. Worst of all, I would never have a peaceful, quiet home again. Ever.

As the evening progressed, Jenn, in her desire to promote father-daughter bonding (as well as her own personal cleanliness) asked, somewhat unreasonably I felt,  if I would hold the baby so she could (insert eye roll here) go to the bathroom. I gave it a shot, but with the same result--Zinnia wailing for relief. While Jenn peed and showered, I stood in front of the mirror shushing and rocking our baby who, by her screams, was being nipped at by a pack of wild coyotes. I took in my own bleary-eyed reflection and said just loud enough to hear above my daughter's aching cries: I hate this.

I wandered into the dimly lit living room with zero actual hope to soothe, but more to find a way to pass the time until Jenn to finish up in the bathroom. Finally, the door opened with a cloud of steam, and she emerged, a towel wrapped around her middle. It is not much of an exaggeration to say that if I could have safely slingshot Zinnia to her mother to expedite the transfer, I would have.

Now safely in Jenn's arms, the sun once again rose in Zinnia's heart, and she responded as if she had reached a state of pristine, inner serenity. Me myself, I felt restless, upset, and pissed.

"Are you okay?" asked the woman who had carried our child for 10 months and was spending all of her waking (and non-waking) hours with her.

"No," I said. "Far from it. I can't stand this, and I feel no connection to her," I said indicating Zinnia. I added a little a dagger: "At all."

I have heard storied about husbands who become jealous when all the attention that had once been showered upon them was transferred to their newborn children. This is not that. I am fine with Jenn and Zinnia bonding deeply, and I love the idea of supporting my family, keeping the house clean (or at least a semblance thereof), and generally doing all I can to make their lives comfortable and happy. But it's clear to me that, except under very specific circumstance (i.e. when our daughter is both hungry and tired and conks out in my lap as soon as she is done feeding), Zinnia only wants me to hold her for short periods of time. The heartbreaking truth is, she can probably feel my energetic response to her, and given the choice between a loving, openhearted mother and a tentative, ambiguous papa, our little girl--sensitive soul that she is-- knows which side of the boob her toast is buttered.

If this were a fifties, I would hold a bouncing baby Zinnia for  a couple of minutes a day, and Jenn would be with her the rest of the time, Zinnia strapped perpetually to her hip. I'd go to work each day, put in long hours, talk to my clients about the importance of compassion and forgiveness, of surrendering to the moment and learning better ways of communicating, and then return home to eat, write, do paperwork, exercise, and take in Zinnia from afar while Jenn tried to hold her while doing five things. At the end of the night, I would give our child a perfunctory, fifties sitcom forehead kiss and hit the hay in the spare bedroom. I would wake up in the morning refreshed and ready for another day. 

In 2011, however, the bedroom was tense, and Jenn and I had little to say. She was (and is) struggling with her milk not fully coming in, and I've been struggling with a little thing I like to call, "I-Loathe-This-Crying-Baby-itis." Needless to say, we went to sleep feeling on edge.

It's tempting, very tempting to sugarcoat things at this juncture, to paint my own parenting skills in a slightly kinder light; to share with the reader my own lack of nurtuarnce while a wee-child, and how given my role models, I make Robert Young in "Father Knows Best" seem like a piker. But lets not.
 Last night, the Family Bender had another rough go. Jenn thinks I'm being paranoid (possible) or taking too much personally (very possible), but while she (and visualize a big eye roll here) ate some food and brushed her teeth, Zinnia again grew a little ... fussy (i.e. Wailed really fucking loudly). However, as soon your humble author exited the room, baby Z. quieted down as if to say, "Aaaaaah, life is good again." Put more benignly, our daughter generally calms when I hand her back to mama.

This makes sense, I've been told, given her age and the need to ...

Yada, yada, yada. It's still difficult not to have the Rejection Button pressed. We had some friends over today. The female half of the couple held Zinnia as they strolled around the house together like they were lifelong pals (which they are, in a way. The woman was our photographer the night Zinnia was born). Little Z. chirped and cooed the entire time.

Yes, its true. I am not ashamed to admit (okay, maybe a little ashamed to admit): I have cuddle envy. Even today, Jenn and I could probably drive over to Central and find some strung out crack ho to hold our daughter, and Zinnia would likely respond less adversely than she does each time I pick her up.

I decided to run my dilemma past a panel of seasoned experts--my men's group, a Sanhedrin of masculine wisdom. Before Zinnia was born, I was attending the group on a weekly basis, but this was the first time I had been in attendance since her birth. I told them I was baffled by my reaction to being a dad and my visceral "Must-put-my-daughter-up-for-adoption" response to her wails. I described how I would hold my daughter until she would go into a full, body-shuddering cry, which is when I would gratefully hand her back to her mother. I told them that Jenn was stressing out at having to do all the baby holding duties, and more importantly, I was feeling completely disconnected to my own daughter. 

I received several bits of wisdom from the men in circle:

--That in the wild, when papa bears hear the wail of the cubs, they are programmed to want to kill them (an urge to which I am sorry to say I kinda relate). In nature, it is the mother's job to protect. Jenn has no choice--she is physically and psychically compelled to act when she hears the baby cry. One of the men suggested that what I needed to consider creating some alone time with Zinnia, even if it meant she wails hysterically for a solid hour. To do this, Jenn would needs not be in the vicinity so she could resist the urge to swoop in and protect.

--That Zinnia and I would work things out, but for the time being I was taking care of the business--cleaning house, making money, paying bills, etc--and this was enough. The falling in love stage would happen soon enough.

--That the first three months of fatherhood sucked, but then it gets better and better. Oddly enough, this helped quite a bit, although when I shared this bit of wisdom with Jenn, she looked less than  pleased. 

I went home feeling strengthened and determined. The next day after work, I took the Zinnia from Jenn, and the baby immediately went into her puzzled-squirm-fuss-lower lip curl-cry-full scale wail routine. As I walked about with her in the living room, I felt less reactive than normal, and was able to hold and rock her even as she tried to push and kick away. Her cries got louder.

Jenn approached. "Do you want me to--"

"No, I got her."

I headed for the bedroom with Zinnia now in full-scale wail mode. I held her closer and told her it was okay, to let it out, that I was so happy she had joined us, that she could cry as long as she needed.

Jenn the mama bear poked her head in looking a little rattled. Must protect baby. "I can take her now if you want."

"No," I said, calmly. "We need to work this out. If it's difficult for you we can close the door."

Jenn smiled, getting it, and left. I closed the door as Zinnia continued her tryout for the Santa Fe Opera.

"That's it," I assured her, "let it out." I breathed into my heart and sent some love to her.


Ever so slowly, her wail became a sob, which became a cry, which became sputtering gasps for breaths, which slowed down to a quite sniffle.  She looked up at me through her tears with unfathomable innocence and pain and vulnerability. 

"Hey, hey, baby. I'm so glad your here."