On Death and Laughter

Zinnia likes to dance. This morning we bounced around the house to the amazing and contagious rhythms of Outkast's Hey Ya. We did this in celebration of yet another epic poo ... by her, not your humble author (although I'd like to think I would be equally celebratory if I had been the one to "cut one off"). Zinnia's pooping posture is unmistakable: she curves her mouth into a half smile, clenches her fists, and makes inhuman grunts while her eyes water. It's actually quite cute, and I like to support her by grunting along with her.

In the evening, when I return home from work, I often scoop Zinnia up, put on some danceable tune, and start bopping around the living room while Jenn takes a moment to eat some food, fire off an email or two, and check her Facebook page. If one didn't know better, one would almost think Jenn wanted some sort of life aside from taking care of our daughter.

(Two Days later) True to the above, I am happy to report a fairly epic poo of my own this very A.M. Yes, I know, this crosses into the realm of TMI, but by God, if a man can't stand behind his word, then is he really a man?

Zinnia's first love music-wise was a subliminal CD we had looping for eight hours straight the night she was born. It was the sound of rain with a sleep message underneath. The track was my idea for several reasons. A) Jenn is from Oregon and loves the rain; B) Zinnia's middle name is Rain; and C) We didn't--as planned--get it together in time to make a CD of Songs to Give Birth By. We did, however, go over my music library, and Jenn picked out a number of her favorites, but when it comes down to it does one really want to listen to Richard Thompson's 1952 Vincent Black Lightening or KC and the Sunshine Band's "Shake, Shake, Shake" when one is pushing a human being out of one's vagina?

During Jenn's labor, in her altered state, the rain track started to take on the sound of sizzling bacon. I asked her several times in between contractions if she wanted me to turn off, but she said she didn't care, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to say for someone who is in the process of having her body turned inside-out.*

Now that Zinnia is ten plus weeks old, her musical palate has become more discerning. We have played and danced to the fabulous Bobby McFerrin's "Medicine Man," (sometimes several times a day) and Zinnia has added Rafi to her repertoire, as well as Jimmy Free, a CD Jenn's mother gifted us. Free is a violin improvisational virtuoso who plays regularly in the Portland Airport. I heard him there once myself; he is a striking, with sharp features, tall with long hair, and even in the bustle of an airport he conveyed his passion through his music. We have paced Zinnia to sleep with Free's moody stylings for the past month.

Without success, I have tried to get her to relax to my favorite sports podcast--The BS Report-- but this only served like a shot of espresso to our little urchin's system. Ditto for any movie we pop in. Zinnia, in all her amazingness, knows immediately when Jenn or my attention is wavering to other, less baby-related pursuits. When either of our focus drops below 93%, she starts to squirm and fidget, and doggedly refuses to go to sleep. She is a living, breathing meditation practice.

I have a friend who has a decorative garden rock that has two words etched into its surface: Grow, Dammit This is what it is like to pace with Zinnia at the end of an exhausting day. If she starts to squirm or for that matter, even if she emits adorable cooing noises, I sometimes look down at her cherubic face and feel all the goodwill draining from my body. At these times I pray for her to sleep, dammit, and ask myself if it would really be so wrong to dose her bottle with half a tab of crushed Xanax. With each step, I feel my agenda for the evening melt away--eat a slow-paced dinner, paperwork, interacting with Jenn, watch a movie. By the time Zinnia crashes, I have just enough energy to look at the sports scores, read a little classic literature (i.e. Calvin and Hobbes), bid Jenn good night over my shoulder, and crash to sleep.

Zinnia's development--like every baby's--appears to be a moving target. Just when we start to get into some sort of routine, she mixes it up. Today, she rolled from her back to her tummy--a first! Sure she was aided by the divot in our pillow-top mattress, but let us not mince hairs. What this means is tomorrow she may do it again, and if not then, then certainly in the near future. And pretty soon it will be daily event, then numerous times a day. And when certain synapses in her brain connect, Zinnia will figure out that she can combine flipping onto her belly with the constant churning pistons of her legs, and--wham!--there she'll be, scooting across the floor like a turtle. She may face plant once or twice until she learns to brace herself with her pudgy arms, but before long the gestalt of Zinnia's movement will coalesce--right arm, left knee/left arm, right knee--and she will be scooting across the tiled floor, dust bunnies in her wake, as she pants and beams, drunk with new found freedom.

The felines of course, will have to learn to exist in the upper reaches of the canopy of our home (e.g. beds, counters, tables, and cat tree). The plug covers will be driven home, and all sharp edges will be filed down or safely insulated. I, of course, will sadly be required to store my collection of sterling silver Ninja shurikens--throwing death stars--which I generally leave strewn about the house in case of sudden attack.
Jenn and I will blink once, twice, and now Zinnia will be on her feet, precarious at first, with one of us holding onto her hands. She'll peer upward at us with pride--Look what I can do!--wobble, beam, wobble, beam, and plop down on her bottom. Repeat.
At this point, it is tempting to take the scenario of Zinnia's growth all the way to her adulthood when she herself has become a mother of two-slash-world-renown peace activist-slash piano virtuoso, but instead let us leap ahead to my deathbed.

There are two quotes I've longed most to say out loud before I shed this earthly coil. Neither is remotely profound except in that they both reflect my deep appreciation for a good running joke. The first was, "Gotta have more cowbell," which is a line from a classic SNL skit. To my complete amusement and delight, I was given the opportunity to say this last Summer at a time and place that was 100% apropos to the conversation at hand. Before the words had even crossed my lips, Jenn looked at me with a take-it-away half-smile. One notch off the ol' bucket list.

The second line I have not yet had the opportunity to utter (thank God), but anticipate it playing out thusly: Jenn, Zinnia, and my grand kids (Slate and Remmington) are standing vigil around my deathbed as I prepare to join Mama Gaya. I have been vibrant and active my entire life, which makes it all the more surprising that scaling the peak of Kilimanjaro with Jenn has put such a strain on my 93 year-old heart. We're at home, of course, and I am lying comfortably in bed. My breath is shallow, and I have not opened my eyes for two days. The doctor presses a stethoscope to my chest, looks up at Jenn and Zinnia and shakes his head. Suddenly, my eyes shoot open, and my spindly arm lashes out, grabbing the doctor by the wrist.

"Doc," I whisper.

"Yes," he says.

Doc, ..." I signal him to come closer.

He lowers his head toward my lips. "What is it, Tom?"

"Will I ... will I ever play the violin again?"**

End scene.

I am 14 years older than my wife. My running joke is that every time we see a June-September relation ship in the movies or TV, I curl my lips in disgust and tell her how much these cradle robbing bastards piss me off. The joke is a not-so-subtle nod to my own mortality.*** Whenever the topic of my potential demise comes up--which isn't often, mind you--Jenn says a little sadly, "I don't like to think about it." I know the feeling. If everything proceeds as nature intended, I will be shut of this life well before my wife, and God willing, well, well before Zinnia. Sewn in the soil of marriage and parenthood are the seeds of complete heartbreak.

It has been over a month since my last posting. Zinnie is smiling often now, and laughing too. Last night, the three of us were sitting in bed playing a game. Jenn would press her face into Zinnia's belly and make a growling sound, which would send Zinnia into a fit of giggles. Jenn repeated this a number of times, and each time Zinnia giggled until we were all laughing. Then Jenn realized that in-between Zinnia's bouts of laughter, she was actually imitating a growl. When Jenn would growl, Zinnia growled back in the cutest baby voice I have ever heard. We laughed until we cried.


*Years ago, Carol Burnett described the male equivalent of what it would be like to give birth. "Grab your lips," she instructed men, "and now pull them over your head."
** Jenn has promised me that if I am incapacitated, she will ask the violin question in my stead. "If you're comatose," she said with a bit of an eye roll, "the corner of your mouth will probably twitch upward into a smile." I can only hope.

*** Freud theorized that all humor was simply a negation of death. I believe I offered this Mel Brooks quote earlier in an previous blog entry, but it bears repeating: "Tragedy is when I get a splinter in my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die."