Same Question, Different Answer

Zinnia has a cold. As does Jenn. As do I. We are The Cold Family.

For her part, Zinnia has been having problems breathing since arriving on the planet, but she could sure use a break. Imagine the kind of cold that has you coughing and sneezing, and your nose is a running snot faucet; the kind of cold that every time you sneeze it rattles your brain and burns your sinuses; the kind of cold that feels worse in the middle of the night because your nose is so clogged that you wake-up with your mouth open like some slack-jawed yokel because you're struggling to breath.

That kind of cold.

And since Zinnia can't blow her nose (neither can her father*), she is dependent on her mama to wake-up periodically and squirt saline up both her little nostrils, followed by, if necessary, a suctioning out of the mucus. Poor thing.

Nevertheless, as undauntable as ever, Z. wakes up chipper and ready to carpe the heck out of the diem. Of late, this has been a 4:30-6:00 a.m. affair. With a brief squawk and some tossing and turning (ostensibly for a bottle or a diaper change), she is up after eight hours of slumber. If it's one of her early-to-rise days and Jenn and I catch it just right (a smooth diaper change, a timely feeding), Zinnia's eyes blink open for a only moment, but quickly close while her mouth goes into overdrive as soon as the proffered nipple hits her lips. On these blessed mornings, she goes back to sleep for an extra hour or two.

More often than not, however, Zinnia's internal clock is bidding her arise. On these mornings, our little biscuit gazes up lovingly at her parents awake and alert with what we refer to as "The Smile of Death." The SOD tells us, "You can kid yourselves all you want. There is no way I'm going back to sleep. And neither are you." Or so she thinks.

Every third day or so, I carry Zinnia out into the darkened living room and--ever the snake charmer--hold and sway with her for a bit until I feel her body melt into my arms. I take a seat on the Comfy Couch, wrap Zinnia in a Fuzzy Blanket, and hold her on my chest and belly as she burrows and shifts, nestles in, and blessedly falls back asleep. I live for these moments, and in the quiet early morning hours will sometimes just smell the top of her head and listen to her breathe.**

A number of entries ago, when I was in freak-out mode about being a new dad and kissing my old life goodbye. The long-time reader of Babies Crawl A Lot may remember that I was asked if I could even imagine what my life was like without my cute, high maintenance, wobble-headed, often wailing, jellyfish of a daughter. My answer at the time was an arched eyebrow, "Let me get back to you on that one." I resented the question and the assumption behind it that I would somehow be immediately in love with this pink blob that had thrust herself into my life.

Today, if queried with the same question, I would answer with a humble and unequivocal, "No, I cannot picture my life without Zinnia, nor would I want to try." Even her urping-up on my my favorite sweater (while I'm in it) is somehow special. She is a complete and utter delight.


*Nose blowing is one of those things that, as far as I can recall, I was never taught as a kid. Now these fifty years later when I blow my nose, no matter how I hold the tissue, it pretty much goes all over the place. Lets just say, it's not something I do willingly in public. Much more manly to block one nostril and do a Street Blow.

** At other times I cradle my daughter while listening to my favorite sports podcast. Good God--I'm only human!