The Princess and the Pee

One of Zinnia's super powers is that if her body is within ten feet of a urine molecule, she will start to wail for a diaper change. Stock in the Pamper Company has risen half a point since August 4th. Coincidence? I don't think so.

It's hard for me not to wince when we are changing Zinnie's diaper for the 15th time that day. What I've heard is that disposable diapers are responsible for a huge percentage of landfill space each year. Being the slave to accuracy that I am, I decided to look it up on a little thing I like to call the "World Wide Web" (or "Internet" for the less couth). My extensive research took me to no less than three different sites. To wit:

Eighty percent of the diaperings in this nation are done with disposables. That comes to 18 BILLION diapers a year. Each one has an outer layer of waterproof polypropylene and an inner layer of fluff made from wood pulp plus super-slurper sodium polyacrylate that can hold a hundred times its weight in water.

Those 18 billion diapers add up to 82,000 tons of plastic a year and 1.3 million tons of wood pulp -- 250,000 trees. After a few hours of active service these materials are trucked away, primarily to landfills, where they sit, neatly wrapped packages of excrement, entombed un-degraded for several hundred years.

Holy Shlamoly! On the other hand:

Allen Hershkowitz of the Natural Resources Defense Council compiled data from all sources (the cotton manufacturers did their own counter-study) on the complete paths from cotton gin to diaper to washing machine, and from plastic factory to diaper to dump. He writes, "Disposables consume more raw materials and produce more solid waste ... but cloth diaper production and use consume more water and energy and produce more ... atmospheric emissions and waste water effluent."

Hershkowitz's data show that disposables use 10 times more resources (measured by weight and including fuels) than cloth diapers and produce 50 times more solid waste. But disposables use only half as much energy and two-thirds as much water. Cloth diapers save landfills but load washing machines and sewage systems (by putting sewage where it belongs).

It reminds me of that study (you know, that study) that claimed cow flatulence is one of the biggest contributors to the destruction of the ozone layer.

So what on earth is there for a parent to do? After much consideration, I have maturely chosen the head-in-the-sand approach while simultaneously pawning the problem off onto the next generation. Yes, it is appalling what babies are doing to the environment, and when Zinnia grows-up, I only pray she cleans up the mess she left for herself as an infant. In the meantime, when she's a little bigger in stature, we hope to transition her to cloth.

Jenn takes much amusement at my--how shall I put this--disinclination towards other people's feces, babies or otherwise. At our old home in McMinnville, the downstairs bathroom was directly off the kitchen, and often was the time I would saunter in with the hope of making some scrumptious morsel only to catch a whiff of ... something. A soft light would be emanating from the bathroom as the door stood wide open as if frozen on its hinges.

"Hello?" would come Jenn's sing-songy voice.

"Uh, hi. Are you pooping?" I'd ask.

Brief pause. "Maybe." Sounding coy.

I would take an exaggerated breath, hold it, pull my shirt up over my mouth and nose, and reach a disembodied arm (from Jenn's perspective) toward the bathroom doorknob, pulling it shut while Jenn cackled.

This habit of hers--lets call it a preference--actually became a point of contention. Now, call me old fashioned, but, by God, when I walk into a kitchen, I want to smell food. Jenn eventually agreed to close the door if she knew I was in the house, and I agreed to ... to ... well, I didn't really agree to anything, but I appreciated the gesture.

In "The Book of Marriage,* they talk about the importance of cherishing (or at least accepting) the idiosyncrasies of one's partner. The following, then, is a list of Jenn's, um, unique qualities:

When spreading jam on her toast, she must--and I cannot emphasize this enough--must have the jam spread so that not even a millimeter of bread is exposed.

The above mentioned semi-public pooping.

Jenn likes to take her daily shower at night, which has worked out well for our relationship as I am more a morning shower-er.

She cue tips her ears dry after bathing.

She likes to mist her self with a spray bottle whilst driving her car.

She L-O-V-E-S chocolate ice cream.

She is a fire tender for sweat lodge.

She feels deeply and is easy to cry.

She likes my sense of humor**, and even more, loves it when she makes me laugh.

Jenn enjoys Oregon weather. No, really.

She cherishes being the oldest child of six, not to mention the oldest cousin of 473 (or from her family reunions, perhaps it just feels that way).

She likes the movie "Persuasion," a film the author highly recommends for insomniacs or people who enjoy movies set in Victorian England where nothing happens and the acting is so understated that it is hardly stated at all.

Speaking of movies, Jenn has an uncanny ability to identify even the most obscure of actors in most every movie we watch. Once she starts a movie, it is a done deal--she needs to watch it to the end.

Her memory is beyond remarkable, and a lifesaver for the author who's memory is more like a loose sieve.

She loves the music of David Wilcox, who several months ago, the author crassly labeled as (and I quote), "sensitive white boy folk music."

Jenn has a bottomless capacity to love ... when not utterly exhausted from her mothering duties. And even then.

She is--or was before Zinnia's arrival--gluteal-ly challenged (i.e. had a bad case of gluteal minimus, i.e. Flat Butt.) Actually, this is more of an attribute than an idiosyncrasy. Judges vote ... clang! Thumbs down. Strike it from the blog.

Has a deep aversion to exercise and/or being in the ocean or any body of water, really. Which is ironic because she would ...

... gladly take three long showers a day if time permitted.

Lastly, she is extremely capable in everything she does once she sets her mind to.

As for your humble author, it was not until recently that I started to think of myself as perhaps a tad quirky. It was Jenn who first brought it to my attention when she started to refer to me, in the parlance of her tight-knit community in Newberg, as "fruity." Another friend (the fearless blogger at http://writingmywaysober.blogspot.com/) informed Jenn not so long ago that she took pride in the fact that she got most of my jokes which, depending on who you talk to, may or may not be a dubious distinction.

Had I crossed over into the realm of (albeit quiet) semi-eccentric? Tom's idiosyncrasies are as follows:

--According to Jenn, I am one of the great male cat lovers in history, the implication being that the love of felines is morea feminine pursuit. (See: http://babiescrawlalot.blogspot.com/2011/03/cats.html for more details.) Por ejemplo, Duma the Puma and have a nightly ritual. I raise her front paws over her head and extend her "arms" upwards for a good stretch, and she stretches them even further while offering up an exquisite yawn and starts to purr. But everybody does this.

--I still have a Teddy Bear named Hank, though the bear has more or less been retired since I've met Jenn, although I still take him on road trips. I bought him on ebay, and the thing that sold me was that the sellers posted photos of Hank not only from the front, but in profile. Disturbingly, when he arrived, the previous owners had folded him in half and crammed him into a small cardboard box, giving the bear the gruesome appearance of the cliched dead-corpse-in-the-trunk.

--I'm a discerning eater. I won't touch zucchinis or egg plant (unless in the guise of baba ghanoush) and hate tomatoes (unless in the form of ketchup or salsa) and most other member of the nightshade clan. I can't stand mushrooms, asparagus (long story), meat or pork. I will eat spinach only in a pinch, and absolutely loathe onions of every ilk...unless they're in Pace Salsa. I won't touch poultry still on the bone as it reminds me of the living, clucking animal it once was. Just last night, Jenn referred to me as the only vegetarian she knew who didn't like vegetables. She also pointed out that if I could live on sourdough bread three meals a day, I probably would. What can I say--I'm a bread man.

I often laugh when the rest of the room is somber and am somber when the entire room is cracking up. This sometimes leads to my occasionally saying things that others may not find ... overly appropriate.

I hold a deep and abiding grudge towards all guided visualizations. They either put me to sleep, leave me feeling annoyed, or both. (Although I have been known, on occasion, to do a wonderful imitation of a soothing S.N.A.G.--Sensitive New Age Guy-- leading a visualization).

I love the sports page, although I take great exception to Jenn's use of the word "obsessed" when describing my relationship with ESPN.

I believe our government was deeply involved in 9/11, the Kennedy assassination, apartheid, and the economic crash.

I don't like tools.

I wear black socks with flip-flops. (Long story, but the more I did it, the more I kept thinking it it would sweep across the country. Still waiting.)

I like to pretend that the small tuft of hair tenaciously clinging to the top of my head makes me "not bald."

I suffer/celebrate my insomnia. Case in point: as I write this entry, it is 5:15 in the morning. Not particularly of note except in that I have been up since about 2:00. This segues nicely into my next point which is ...

... like many therapists, I truly love being alone.

Daily, I have a growing crush on my daughter, whom I lovingly refer to as Zinnie, but sometimes call This, as in (to Jenn), "Here, take this."

I (mis)quote my late, great grandma Cele almost daily. Just yesterday, while changing Zinnia: "You know what your Great Grandma Cele used to say? 'Always change your soiled diapers, Tommy. You'll be the better man for it.' "

Truer words have never been spoken, even if they were, er, never spoken. In reality, only two of the hundreds of quotes I have attributed to her did my grandmother actually say. The first and my favorite: "Oy, that Mahatma Ghandi--what a trouble maker he was. Oy!"

The second occurred after my brother Jimmy played Grandma Cele back a clip from their interview which he was recording on a cassette player for posterity's sake. She studied the tape player thoughtfully:

Grandma Cele: "And that's recording everything I'm saying?"

Jimmy: "That's right, grandma."

(Brief pause)

Grandma Cele: "What a wonderful invention."

Were she alive today, I'd like to think she would ward me off sitting in my own feces.

Jenn also noted that, well, in her words, I "sing annoying songs incessantly." Zinnia, Zinnia, Bo-Binnia, Banana Fanna Fo-Finnia comes to mind. But to be fair, what's not to like about this song once one inserts the name Chuck into the mix.

Lastly, I love, I mean adore, a good running joke. I run regular marathons with jokes until
they lie bleeding on the sidewalk. This endearing trait of mine was mentioned during dinner conversation at a friend's last night. Jenn found a sympathetic heart to share her woes regarding my subtle sense of humor.

And since we're on the topic, Zinnia herself has developed some idiosyncrasies in her short life:

She purses her upper lip most dramatically when upset.

She raises her right eyebrow and the corner of her mouth angles upward when amused.

Zinnia's smile lights up any room.

She makes ungodly noises when she poos.

She lives for her twice daily showers.

She has a fascination with ceiling fans.

And she bursts into laughter simply because the sound of a particular word tickles her funny bone.

There's a bumper sticker that sends up the prayer: Please God, Help Me to Be the Person My Dog Thinks I Am. Zinnia's presence in my life transforms me daily, and like any good mirror I get to see my gold and my warts. Odd to feel one's life become hopelessly enmeshed with such an unimagined being. I still have mild pangs of resentment (e.g. "Good lord! Can't I just read this aritcle about the Packers in peace!!!"), but more of me is embracing the new role of papa even while it feels surreal.

If I were to offer a prayer, it would be this: Dear God, please help me to be the man/papa/human being/provider this little girl needs me to be ... or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

*On my "To Do" list to write.

**And sometimes hates it too. I don't take it personally.