Z. Turns a Year

Zinnia's first birthday was a smashing success! Her mother looked marvelous in a pair of Old Navy designer jeans and a Calvin Klein, robin egg, short sleeve blouse ($125 at Sack's), while her father exhibited his usual stylish flair with cotton dockers and a wife beater tee, both courtesy of Good Will (total ensemble--$3.75 plus tax). The guest of honor wore her usual, Cookie Monster disposable diaper, roughly 27 cents per.

Jenn and I invited people from all walks ... several walks of life to celebrate the fact that we kept our daughter alive for an entire year. Really. One year. Elizabeth and Carrie were there, Charlene and Dan, Martin, Jerri, and their miracle baby, Kiko; Chris and Shara attended with Gracie-kins and Evie-kins, Marc, Susan, and their lovely Guatemalan Princess, Sofia, attended as well, as did Jenn's mom, Margaret and her Bill ( I asked him what I should call him (e.g. Margaret's husband, Jenn's step dad, etc--and he said, "Bill.") Lynda "Who Refers to Herself As" Leonard graced us with her presence, Kathleen, Mark, and their one year and change Madeleine (who Jenn's mom caught on video wacking Zinnia on the shoulder for looking a little too longingly at her own mother), and last but not least, the guest of honor, she whom I call Baby Ba-Zinnia.

I have attended parties for three one-year-old's in my life, and every single one of these kids was at Zinnia's bash. Sofia, the first baby I ever held for over a minute (and it took me a good year for me to work up to it); Madeleine, who turned a year four months ago; and Z-Rain. I have no memory of Sofia's party, but spoke to Susan, and we are both relatively confident I attended; Madeleine's I found ... a little odd. The party was divided between people who knew her and babies in general well and childless friends who hugged the wall, drank, and made small talk.

From a father's bird's eye perspective, I now notice things that I never had before. For example, we recently took Zinnia to a gathering at Dick and Elizabeth (whom the Hollywood tabloids have dubbed Dicklebeth). A dear friend and Long Dance brother, John H., was their from out of town. When he sat on the floor to get a better look at Zinnia, he smiled at her and said, "Watch this. Babies are afraid of me."

No sooner had the words come from his lips than Zinnia recoiled as if a potential molester of adult and children alike had just joined the party. Over the course of the evening, it was clear John was simultaneously enamored with our child and a little clumsy around her, as if he didn't know quite how to interact with babe-age or what to say. He made several jokes that were ... they were okay, but just a tad askew; the kind of jokes that are more likely to cause parents to smile politely while cringing a little on the inside.

I know this one well, for I used to be the ... Thomas Bender, P.B. (Perpetual Bachelor.) For years, I didn't know or want to know how to hold  a baby. When I did, as soon as the thing (and things is how i thought of them) began to move, I would hold him/her out with stiff arms and say, "Uh, here. I'm done." Additionally, I just assumed that most of my parent/friends actually related to my graceless attempts at humor because, hell, didn't every parent secretly resent their kids?*

And speaking of my mother, she has been gone for approaching two months now. I told the partial story of her death to Chris yesterday at Z's party. While doing so, I looked, I searched, I scanned the entire neighborhood for my grief. I finally found it, but it was only a speed bump of heartache. Where the hell did my well of sadness and pain go? For a while, i thought I was in denial, then thought it was perhaps because I didn't like my mother terribly so, then I realized it was because I did much of my grieving while sitting bedside vigil at the hospital.

But back to John: Zinnia had reached the end of her rope and was this close from breaking into a full wailed cry  (she saved it for the car ride home). John--Big Hearted John who once fell to his knees in tearful gratitude at a Long dance check-out, paused for a moment, began to speak, stumbled a little over what he wanted to say, then spoke.

"I envy you your life." He looked for something to add to it or elaborate, but couldn't. "That's all I have to say," he said, near tears.

I let it in. I love my life. Jenn and Zinnia, the cats, our cookie cutter house and our proximity to the health food store, and my '95 pick-up.  I love the New Mexican heat and the occasional cools down. I love God and how blessed Jenn and I have been since moving to the desert. And I find it almost unbearably poignant and cute that every time a car drives by, Zinnia waves in her clumsy whole-arm wave until either the driver waves back or they are somehow able to resist Z's charms and go on by. Sometimes she waves to nothing at all, and tt's those times that I imagine she is waving to her guardian angels whom I often bid good morning after we wake up.   

Prior to Jenn's and my arrival. a friend reminded us that we didn't have to worry, that Zinnia was already calling in all the resources she needed to make our stay in New Mexico a success. It took me a while to wrap my brain around that one, to not to mistake the small, baby-sized package of our daughter for the enormity of the soul.


*The dearly departed, Barbara "You're Just Doing This to Spite Me" Bender did (to name one), which is why I grew up thinking this was true of all parents.