Are You Ready for Some Football?

I'm feeling a bit more connected with my daughter lately. Why, just two days ago I proudly told Jenn that, and I quote, er, myself: "Zinnia is running neck and neck with the cats." (Unquote, exclamation mark!)

Damning with faint praise, you say? If you knew how close I was with our kitties, you would know this was a high compliment. Pictured below the two sisters--fuzzy daughter and fuzzless daughter--sharing a special moment.

Duma (left) has taught herself a new trick. When the baby starts to wail and cry, she gets up on her hind legs, digs her claws lightly into Jenn's or my leg and gives us a quick, painless bite. The first time she did this, I thought, Oh, that's sweet. She's feeling protective. Jenn figured it out the next day after the cat did it to her and then made for the front door, as if to say, this really is too much. I'm only feline after all.

I used to believe that cats were aloof, so much so that to have one was akin to having a house plant. They were there, kind of nice to look at, but no real emotional relationship. I first discovered this wasn't the case when a woman who lived across the street from me came home one day to a small circle of people standing in the street. Her cat had been run over by a car. She sunk to her knees and wailed as if she had been stabbed in the heart.

Oh, I thought, people are actually attached to these things.

Now, I'll own that what I'm about to say is a crappy comparison, but here it is: The way I used to view babies has always been in the same ballpark--lets say the same state--that I used to view cats. I never held any interest in getting to know them or even being around one. I found babies to be lacking in personality or any ability to amuse.

To date, my opinion has not radically shifted ... but shifted it has. Zinnia becomes more human by the day. Why, just last night, to my amazement, Baby Z. was able to hold her head up ON HER OWN!!!!!!!!!! (Woo-hoo! Pop the champagne.) Her noggin was wobbly to be sure, but for a baby who a mere two weeks ago had so little neck strength that her head would flop forward or back as if the string attached to her skull had suddenly been severed, this was big stuff.

Jenn's mother, Margaret, is in town until this evening, when she will return to Oregon to haunt the hallways of the school where she serves as a school nurse. She is a God-send and believes Zinnia is the greatest thing since french toast. I have noticed that babies are--in psychological parlance--wonderful targets for our projections.

"Oh look how happy she is to see her papa," Margaret has observed on several occasions when, as far as I could tell, Zinnia's expression had not changed discernibly.

"I love how curious she is," Jenn will say when Z's eyes shift to the string of white lights hanging over the sliding patio door.

"Oh, look," I say as our daughter's brow furrows in consternation. "Zinnia is contemplating how to solve the global warming catastrophe while simultaneously feeling her disgust at the budget impasse in Washington."

In reality, she's probably pooping which--lets face it--is a completely reasonable response to Republican shenanigans and Tea Party imbecilism.

Last night, Z. and I played another round of, When-Papa-Picks-Me-Up-I'm-going-To-Scream-My-Lungs-Out-Until-He-Passes-Me-Back-To-Mama. (I would explain the rules, but you probably get the gist.)

Jenn came into the bedroom looking a little frantic as the baby continued to wail. "I'm going to take a shower," she said stripping down. "If you want to pass Zinnia to me, I can take in her in and give her a quick bath." (Translation: My daughter is crying, and I need to protect her." Mama Bear.)

"Thanks. We're good," I said. (Translation: No fucking way I'm handing this kid over until she calms down.)

Zinnia continued to cry as if she had never experienced anything quite this unjust and hoped to Dear God she never would again. Jenn continued her quest to drain our hot water tank in the hope that I would get the hint and pass her our little seahorse. (Translation: Please bring me our daughter so I can soothe her.)

I paced around the bedroom and spoke gently to Z., telling her how much I loved her and how she could cry as long as she needed to. (Translation: No fucking way I'm handing this kid over until she calms down.) I held Zinnia a little tighter and continued my attempts to succor. Eventually, our baby's cries began to ebb, and a minute later the water to the shower squeaked off. I gratefully turned her back over to her mother.

In Zinnia's calmer moments, we have another game we play. It's called "Baby-zilla." I lie on my back, grab her under her arms, lift her up, and then lower her feet to my belly while making a sound as if she's stomping New York City into dust. "Bchhhhhh!" she thunders. "I want milk!" Sometimes for effect, Z. will indulge her papa by rolling her eyes back in her head in her best zombie baby imitation

Yesterday, Jenn and I took a flash drive to Wal-Mart to print a few hundred photos for our aged, computer-impaired relatives (i.e. my mother and aunt, and Jenn's grandmaother). As we stared at the photo machine, each image would pop up, and we would decide whether it was a keeper or not.

"Oh, look," I said with more sarcasm than the event necessitated. "Here's one of Zinnia sleeping. And here's another one of Zinnia sleeping. Hey, what's this? Is she ... ?"

To Jenn's loving mother's eyes, each photo is a gorgeous masterpieces, and she couldn't fathom deleting even the blurriest of baby photos. I love this about her.

It is a Bender Family tradition (inspired by Austin Powers) to work with the photographer by "giving him/her the tiger." Here's the happy family in the requisite pose.

It is now 4:00 am, and Jenn and baby are asleep in the next room. I am restless and exhausted, but feel dogged in my research as to the level of sleep-deprivation a therapist can attain and still be affective. The Packers open the NFL season tomorrow against the Saints, and yes, I am aware it is unlikely that a single reader scanning this blog cares about this fact besides me. While every other aspect of my life is in a complete state of flux, I remain determined to maintain a semblance of normalcy. It's all sandcastles and mirrors, of course, a futile attempt to hold onto the ballast of what was even as the shapeless Phoenix of the new rises from the smoldering heap of my previous life.

Go Pack!

(Above, the author prepares for the upcoming NFL season by posing with his
daughter in what is commonly known as the "football hold.")