Zinnia the Traveler

It's March 8th. For those of you who don't know, I've started a new job, a 28 hour a week position working at a clinic for people with co-occurring disorders, i.e. people with some sort of substance addiction and mood or thought disorder. The organization is set in a large, warehouse building out by the airport, and the team that works there is undauntably cheerful, sincere, and real. If name recognition is any indication of being in the right spot, of those co-workers I've met, I have been able to remember an (albeit slim) majority of their names--roughly 40-50 people--even with my usually spotty recall.

My new boss tells me that my packet is somewhere amidst the stack to go before the credentialing committee today. I will soon know if I will be allowed to start seeing clients or if I will indeed spend the next month boning up on methadone, Buprenorphine, Narcan, observing groups and intakes, and learning a complicated electronic medical records system until the committee next meets. I feel confident all systems will be go and/but will know for sure before I finish this entry.#

Jenn and Zinnia are in Oregon visiting the fam.* It is the first time I've been apart from them for any real length time since Z. joined the earth party, and I am finding it oddly disorientating. The three of us flew out to Portland last Friday so Jenn could get her fix of rain, relatives, and ocean, and to introduce Zinnia to those members of her family who had not yet been blessed by Z.'s smile and stunning personality. It was Zinnie's first flight, and aside from a brief crying jag when her ears popped as the plane descended, our daughter proved to be a natural born traveler. She enchanted passenger and flight attendant alike, and we even passed her to a woman across the aisle--a mother of five--who had been flirting with Z. like it was second nature, which, after five kids, it no doubt was.

I am still amazed at the emotional response a baby evokes from the general female public. At both the Albuquerque and Utah airports, I strolled around the terminal with Zinnia balanced on one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. Women melted before her gaze; they smiled and cooed at our little angel even while avoiding eye contact with Zinnia's father (i.e. your humble author). Many of the male travelers were somehow able to resist Z.'s charms, but several of my more heart-opened brethren would glance briefly at my child and offer me a silent nod of approval.

Zinnia makes life interesting wherever she goes and offers me the unique experience of observing a being who is living each moment as if for the first time. Below, the usual suspect gleefully perches atop her papa's shoulders while absolutely soaking the back of his head with baby drool.

Yesterday, Jenn told me over the phone that she and Zinnia had gone for a stroll on a rare, semi-translucent Oregon day and came across two neighbor kids playing basketball in their driveway. Z was so mesmerized by the sport that as soon as Jenn put her down, she let out a squeal of delight and crawled down the sidewalk toward the boys as quickly as her little baby butt could scamper (an image that, without any further details, is utterly endearing).

"I guess she's going to be some sort of athlete," Jenn said.

Here, then, is an updated list of potential vocations for our daughter based on activities that have fascinated her: A pilot, a ceiling fan installer, a dental hygienist (she often indulges herself by sucking on dental floss box), a world-renowned peace activist (possibly a parental projection), a comedian,** a professional soccer player, a hat-taker-offer,*** and a cat wrangler. She is also the acknowledged fiance of one of the babies in Jenn's Mama/Baby group--at least according to the boy's mother--but I have yet to meet the young lad or his family to see if he comes from upstanding stock. Plus--who knows--Zinnia might be a lesbian, and while lesbianism is more of a calling than a vocation, we will tack it onto the list nonetheless.

(One week later) Two days ago, Jenn, Zinnia, and I went to Trader Joe's to shop for sundry items. A mother strolled toward us down one of the aisles, her two daughters in tow. The younger one, perhaps five, was dressed like a little princess.

"That's a quite the pretty dress you have there," Jenn said with a smile.

The girl looked up and beamed. "Yes, it is."

Her older sister and mother laughed, but then corrected her and told her to say thank you. The little girl had already started down the aisle, but called over her shoulder, "Thanks."

When I am out in public with Zinnia, I do have a bit of a sense of pride, as if I'm sharing a long-time dream fulfilled: Hey, look everybody, see what I helped create? However, while I take credit for helping to manifest this sweet being, I subscribe more to The Prophet's description of my job as a parent:

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.


To take responsibility for such a wonderful creation strikes me as ludicrous. Credit goes to God and God alone. Jenn and I are Zinnia's stewards, nothing more. It is our job to aim our smiling, giggling, crying-from-teething pain little seahorse--to the best of our ability--in the direction of her karmic destiny. To the degree that we teach our daughter to love and be loved will gauge our success as parents.


#I'm in : )

* Hip lingo for "family."

** Zinnia loves a good double-take, and while she is not quite old enough for a spit take, ala' Danny Thomas, she has the spitting-up down pat.

***Not sure how this will translate into the real world