...or for those looking to become more compassionate in life. The author is a dear friend.
http://writingmywaysober.blogspot.com/
Sunday, March 20, 2011
An Alien Among Us
There is a scene from the movie Alien where the crew of a spaceship are in the dining room calmly eating dinner when one of the crew members starts to thrash about before hurling himself onto the table. The others look on in horror as the poor man clutches at his stomach, which is starting to pooch out. The alien bursts out of the guy's belly, takes in the horrified people, gives a menacing screech, and bolts from the room.
More and more, Jenn is feeling our baby kick, push, and move around in her belly. I haven't personally felt little Celia/Zinnia/other move yet and am a little glad for it. The concept will take me some time to get used to. To state the obvious, my wife has a little human being inside of her. INSIDE OF HER! Not sitting in a stroller, mind you, or holding her hand, but actually in her body. I get a little claustrophobic just thinking about it, which may or may not reflect issues from my own childhood. One of my earliest memories was doing The Big Push Away of my own mother, a person from whom I literally couldn't get enough distance. So naturally, knowing that a human being--our future daughter--is inside of Jenn, can't help but remind me that I too was once inside (read in air quotes) somebody, and that this somebody was pretty much the last somebody from whom I would like to have emerged.
Thus, when Jenn talks about us eventually being able to see a little hand or foot pushing out from the inside of her belly, I sometimes imagine the above movie scene and even act it out. I place the back of my hand on Jenn's pregnant belly, make a few gasping sounds and then thrust my arm in the air as if bursting from her stomach. With bent wrist to form the alien's head, my fist rotates around looking for someone to attack. The alien sees me and lunges for my throat. Nooooooooooo!
End scene.
Jenn, of course, rolls her eyes--she does this a lot--and reminds me gently that no, that's not how it's going to be. Now if one wanted to get analytical, perhaps one would make the leap that this image of an alien bursting through my wife's belly reflects some deeper, darker parts of myself; shadow material from my unconscious, no doubt, that reflects how I truly feel about having a baby. Perhaps it demonstrates how much I've repressed my own inner child over the years, and now, like a great, bloody Rorschach test, I take the disowned parts of myself, parts that I don't want to admit originated from that somebody mentioned above, and project them upon the sweet, lovely, innocent alien seahorse currently residing in Jenn's womb.
Good thing I don't buy into all of that Freudian crap. (Which reminds me of a Far Side cartoon: Sigmund Freud is diving into second base during a baseball game. The caption reads: "A Freudian Slide.")
So yes, Jenn has a baby human inside of her, and to my surprise, the anticipation I feel at meeting our little daughter grows daily. I look forward to laughing with little Celia/Zinnia/other and showing her the world from the confines of her stroller. I can't wait to dress her up in cute little outfits and tickle her under the chin to make her giggle. And I will offer Jenn moral support while she changes yet another of CZO's diapers or soothes our little jewel in those middle-of-the-night hours when our baby won't stop crying. At meal times, I will hand Jenn a damp sponge to clean-up CZO's messes and offer her helpful suggestions like, "Here, this spatula would be much more efficient to scrape the spaghetti off the walls." And in those moments when Jenn has reached wit's end because she has spent every waking hour with our adorable cherub (who was up much of the night teething), I will soothe my wife with my patented guided visualization voice (TM) to calm her when sleep deprivation has made her -- how shall I put this -- a little snappy. And at the end of the day, little CZO will fall asleep on my chest amidst a sea of coos and baby's breath, and I will look on my beautiful daughter and exhausted wife and feel the fruits of my labor.
I'm going to be the world's greatest dad.
More and more, Jenn is feeling our baby kick, push, and move around in her belly. I haven't personally felt little Celia/Zinnia/other move yet and am a little glad for it. The concept will take me some time to get used to. To state the obvious, my wife has a little human being inside of her. INSIDE OF HER! Not sitting in a stroller, mind you, or holding her hand, but actually in her body. I get a little claustrophobic just thinking about it, which may or may not reflect issues from my own childhood. One of my earliest memories was doing The Big Push Away of my own mother, a person from whom I literally couldn't get enough distance. So naturally, knowing that a human being--our future daughter--is inside of Jenn, can't help but remind me that I too was once inside (read in air quotes) somebody, and that this somebody was pretty much the last somebody from whom I would like to have emerged.
Thus, when Jenn talks about us eventually being able to see a little hand or foot pushing out from the inside of her belly, I sometimes imagine the above movie scene and even act it out. I place the back of my hand on Jenn's pregnant belly, make a few gasping sounds and then thrust my arm in the air as if bursting from her stomach. With bent wrist to form the alien's head, my fist rotates around looking for someone to attack. The alien sees me and lunges for my throat. Nooooooooooo!
End scene.
Jenn, of course, rolls her eyes--she does this a lot--and reminds me gently that no, that's not how it's going to be. Now if one wanted to get analytical, perhaps one would make the leap that this image of an alien bursting through my wife's belly reflects some deeper, darker parts of myself; shadow material from my unconscious, no doubt, that reflects how I truly feel about having a baby. Perhaps it demonstrates how much I've repressed my own inner child over the years, and now, like a great, bloody Rorschach test, I take the disowned parts of myself, parts that I don't want to admit originated from that somebody mentioned above, and project them upon the sweet, lovely, innocent alien seahorse currently residing in Jenn's womb.
Good thing I don't buy into all of that Freudian crap. (Which reminds me of a Far Side cartoon: Sigmund Freud is diving into second base during a baseball game. The caption reads: "A Freudian Slide.")
So yes, Jenn has a baby human inside of her, and to my surprise, the anticipation I feel at meeting our little daughter grows daily. I look forward to laughing with little Celia/Zinnia/other and showing her the world from the confines of her stroller. I can't wait to dress her up in cute little outfits and tickle her under the chin to make her giggle. And I will offer Jenn moral support while she changes yet another of CZO's diapers or soothes our little jewel in those middle-of-the-night hours when our baby won't stop crying. At meal times, I will hand Jenn a damp sponge to clean-up CZO's messes and offer her helpful suggestions like, "Here, this spatula would be much more efficient to scrape the spaghetti off the walls." And in those moments when Jenn has reached wit's end because she has spent every waking hour with our adorable cherub (who was up much of the night teething), I will soothe my wife with my patented guided visualization voice (TM) to calm her when sleep deprivation has made her -- how shall I put this -- a little snappy. And at the end of the day, little CZO will fall asleep on my chest amidst a sea of coos and baby's breath, and I will look on my beautiful daughter and exhausted wife and feel the fruits of my labor.
I'm going to be the world's greatest dad.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Bacon, Lettuce, and Placenta
Jenn has been looking into something called Placenta Encapsulation. It's just what it sounds like. Someone called a Placenta Encapsulation Specialist takes the placenta, slices it, dries it, powders it up, and then encapsulates it for the mother to practice the art of placentophagy--which is Greek for "eating the placenta of your young." (Those darn Greeks had a word for everything!)
The first time Jenn told me about this practice, she was reading from the plethora birthing books we now have in our lives. And while many women choose to eat a dried encapsulated form, Jenn also discovered several recipes where one can actually prepare the placenta as one would a slab of meat. One site suggested thinly slicing it and treating it with a meat tenderizer or cubing it. It also offered recipes for classic meals such as placenta stew, placenta spaghetti, and placenta fondue. Here are some photos: http://www.twilightheadquarters.com/placenta.html * *
Now I am a man of fifty years, a worldly man, one who has seen and experienced much. I have traveled to Peru and the Middle East; I've stayed up all night partaking in South American and American Indian vision ceremonies; I attended a Buddhist school and have experienced a number of supernatural (or other-natural) events in my life. So naturally, as a man of the world, my initial reaction to my wife telling me she was considering eating her own placenta was, "Ewwwww!"
This, of course, was followed by some obligatory suggestions on my part, offering savory recipes for various afterbirth dishes. If the reader would but close his or her eyes for a moment, imagine plump mushrooms, succulent peppers, and slices of red onion, all skewered together and sizzling on the grill with alternating chunks of fresh afterbirth--a placenta kabob. For the new mother on the go, there's the classic bacon, lettuce, and placenta on rye. And for that most important meal of the day, let us not forget the placenta breakfast smoothie.
Jenn rolled her eyes at most of my suggestions (which only reflects her good sense), but laughed at the latter. Then she read further down the page. "Oh my God, they do have a recipe for a placenta smoothie!"
Like many things that sound a little "queer," I outwardly made fun of the cult of placenta while inwardly feeling a certain curiosity. I started thinking about all the animals who naturally eat their afterbirth. In fact, on the wiki page for placentophagy, it shows a photo of a goat happily munching away on her kid's placenta. All very natural, and as a Natural Man, one who has backpacked many trails, snowshoed the Rockies, skied the Austrian Alps, and hiked from nude beach to nude beach on the island of Crete, I looked at the photograph of this goat, and internally went, "Ewwww!"
Clearly there is something in nature that compels any number of species to eat their placenta. Placentophagy has been observed in members of the orders of rodentia (rodents), chiroptera (bats), insectivora (hedgehogs), and lagomorpha (rabbits). Other placenta-connoisseur include cows, ungulates (which is a fun word to say and spell), and, of course, many members of the carnivora family, as well as primates. The last group is soon to be joined by one redheaded sapient member of a subbranch of the Hominidae family, my wife and future mother from the genus, Jennus Lukeshia.
Jenn continued to read, and recited some of the potential benefits of placentophagy:
Jenn continued to read, and recited some of the potential benefits of placentophagy:
• Increase in energy
• Allow a quicker return to health after birth
• Increase production of breast milk
• Decrease likelihood of baby blues and postnatal depression
• Decrease likelihood of iron deficiency
• Decrease likelihood of insomnia or sleep disorders
Here is one a recipe I found online:
Steam the Placenta with lemon, ginger and green chili (I like the green chili part--fits with our move to New Mexico). Dehydrate the placenta using a food dehydrator or oven for 8-10 hours until crisp (I know we're basically talking about meat here, but the word "crisp" made me want to gag a little)
Ground the dried placenta into a powder and put into vegetable capsules.
I am behind Jenn (perhaps "standing beside her" is a better way of putting it) in her desire to make the birthing process her own. She has chosen to have a home birth, which I support, but I would have been equally as supportive if she had chosen a hospital birthing room. If my wife wants to listen to New Age music every evening (and she does), well, wonderful ... and soothing. However, if she had felt a strong compulsion for head banging heavy metal music or even--god forbid--polka, well, okay then. And if Jenn wants to alternate between voraciously reading baby books and incredibly depressing novels, so be it.
My running joke about virtually everything my wife does at this point--watching a movie, pooping, eating chocolate, bitching about a co-worker--is, "Remember, you're (fill in the blank-ing) for two now." * * *
I have complete (or near complete) faith that any unusual urges Jenn experiences along the path of her pregnancy also reflect the desire of the little soul residing within her body. If Jenn believes that ingesting her placenta will benefit her in a manifest of ways, then it will. I may even try a cap myself.
Bon Appetit.
I have complete (or near complete) faith that any unusual urges Jenn experiences along the path of her pregnancy also reflect the desire of the little soul residing within her body. If Jenn believes that ingesting her placenta will benefit her in a manifest of ways, then it will. I may even try a cap myself.
Bon Appetit.
**(Author's note--View on an empty stomach)
*** Jenn spoke to a woman who referred to her second baby as her "Payday Baby" because she spent the entire pregnancy gorging on Payday candy bars. The baby turned out healthy and fine, but perhaps this is an argument for the body's wisdom not always speaking loudly and clearly.
*** Jenn spoke to a woman who referred to her second baby as her "Payday Baby" because she spent the entire pregnancy gorging on Payday candy bars. The baby turned out healthy and fine, but perhaps this is an argument for the body's wisdom not always speaking loudly and clearly.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Three Lines, Two Words
Durning the sonogram, we waited until the fetus shifted enough for us to get a good shot of gender. Three little lines between her legs on the ultrasound screen indicated our child had a wee-wee rather than a pee-pee. I looked closer and thought I spied a small protuberance where the ultrasound tech pointed to our child's genitalia. "What about that?" I said. "That's not a penis?"
The tech patiently explained that a penis would be more pronounced, and that the three little lines indicated the labia of a bouncing baby vagina ... I mean baby. Given that we were talking about a fetus that weighed approximately 12 ounces and could fit into the palm of my hand, I needed to hear the logic behind her declaration. The lines were cute and delicate, and I wondered at how such a small detail could relay such earth-shattering news.
But the tech wasn't allowed to interpret or tell us anything except the gender of the baby. For the actual results, we would have to wait a minimum of three days for the hospital to send the report to our midwife.
Nonetheless, it was with overflowing hearts that we called or emailed various family members and friends to let them know the gender of our child-to-be. But by the beginning of the second day, I started to become aware of a growing anxiety in my gut. By the end of the day I realized what it was: We still didn't actually know anything about the health of our daughter.
By the end of the third day, Jenn and I were bouncing off our internal emotional walls. Margy, our midwife, had told us she would give us a call as soon as she received the results.
Not fast enough for us.
Jenn got home from work and told me she had contacted Margy who informed her she would make a follow-up call and see if the report was finished. She called us back an hour later while we were trolling the aisles of a local grocery store, and I watched anxiously as Jenn listened in silence. At last, she broke into a relieved smile. When she hung up, she uttered two words that I could never have imagined would make me want to laugh and cry at the same time--"No anomalies."
The tech patiently explained that a penis would be more pronounced, and that the three little lines indicated the labia of a bouncing baby vagina ... I mean baby. Given that we were talking about a fetus that weighed approximately 12 ounces and could fit into the palm of my hand, I needed to hear the logic behind her declaration. The lines were cute and delicate, and I wondered at how such a small detail could relay such earth-shattering news.
But the tech wasn't allowed to interpret or tell us anything except the gender of the baby. For the actual results, we would have to wait a minimum of three days for the hospital to send the report to our midwife.
Nonetheless, it was with overflowing hearts that we called or emailed various family members and friends to let them know the gender of our child-to-be. But by the beginning of the second day, I started to become aware of a growing anxiety in my gut. By the end of the day I realized what it was: We still didn't actually know anything about the health of our daughter.
By the end of the third day, Jenn and I were bouncing off our internal emotional walls. Margy, our midwife, had told us she would give us a call as soon as she received the results.
Not fast enough for us.
Jenn got home from work and told me she had contacted Margy who informed her she would make a follow-up call and see if the report was finished. She called us back an hour later while we were trolling the aisles of a local grocery store, and I watched anxiously as Jenn listened in silence. At last, she broke into a relieved smile. When she hung up, she uttered two words that I could never have imagined would make me want to laugh and cry at the same time--"No anomalies."
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Eighty-Two Cats
Last month Jenn and I were watching a clip from the reality TV show, "Hoarders." The show was a complete let down. I mean, if I'm going to debase myself enough to watch people with serious mental health issues humiliated on national television, I at least want to be entertained.
The woman on the show had 84 cats which she referred to as her "babies." The camera caught cats milling about, licking their paws, and lolling around on the furniture in the background. Her husband remained resolutely silent during the interview, but seemed to be on-board with his wife's obsession.
The rest of her family were quite concerned about their cat-obsessed relative. And like any loving relations, they called a cable network to see if they might make a quick buck (and acquire a little national fame) from this woman who broke down in tears at the idea of anyone telling her to give up even one of her children. The camera followed a mental health counselor into the cat lady's house where he tried to convince her into accepting his belief that keeping 84 cats prowling about her home was a little, uhm, unhygienic. (Author's note: Why, the monthly kitty litter bill alone must be astronomical!)
We tuned in just as the therapist was going in for his second visit. He walked around a bit, asked the woman a few questions, listened to her compassionately, and then left five minutes after he arrived, shaking his head, grim-faced, as if to say, "I've done all I can. The rest is in God's hands." Back in his office, the therapist spoke in all seriousness about how the woman "just wasn't ready to give them up yet."
That was it. That was the end of the show. Four years of undergraduate school, a masters in psych, and no doubt a PhD. for a guy to shake his head and tell us a severely mentally ill woman hadn't been cured.
How is this related to my quest to keep a blog about becoming a father? Very loosely, very taking-the-long-way-around-the-baby-cul-de-sac kind of way. After watching the show--aside from wondering how much the cat woman had been been paid for subjecting herself to national ridicule--I was forced to look at my relationship with my own two cats, Duma and Honey.
Jenn says I am one of the great male cat lovers. It is true, I do fawn over them. I like to make sure they have fresh water in both their upstairs and downstairs water dishes; I turn their food over in their food bowl so the fresh stuff is on top; when I come home, I scoop the younger one up, throw her over my shoulder and stroke her back while she happily twitches her tail and purrs; and yes, I do talk to our kitties using what can only be described as baby intonations (but in a manly sort of way). I have come to the conclusion that the main difference between myself and the woman on "Hoarders" is 82 cats.
However, our kitties have given me another gift: they are training me to be a father. Yes, I know, big difference--cats and kids--but as someone who has avoided having dependents of any kind most of my life, Honey and Duma have primed the pump. For years I didn't keep even so much as a house plant. I preferred, rather, the freedom of being able to pick up and leave without being accountable to anyone or anything. Now I am married and have -- and please prepare to have your gag reflex triggered -- two fuzzie-wuzzies to look after. Jenn and I have plants, our finances have become intertwined, and there is a mutant sea horse--our daughter-to-be--swimming laps in my wife's womb.
During the ultrasound, we got to see Zinnia moving around. It made parenthood that much more real and immediate. I have long compared my impending fatherhood to a shamanic ceremony. Once you are in -- once you drink the medicine -- you are all in, and there is no turning back. Seeing our baby shifting and sliding in Jenn's belly drove this home. We saw her kidneys, her head and stomach, we heard the gallop of her heartbeat and saw her little feet. And with life itself moving around on the ultrasound screen, I witnessed my dreams of traveling the world and spiritual retreats, of self-indulgent depression and my no-strings-attached lifestyle, disintegrating before my eyes. I felt fear. I continued to watch and felt the fear lessen, and continued to watch and started to experience a quiet fascination with this being, and felt the realization that before long, our lives and karma will be hopelessly, irretractably intertwined.
The woman on the show had 84 cats which she referred to as her "babies." The camera caught cats milling about, licking their paws, and lolling around on the furniture in the background. Her husband remained resolutely silent during the interview, but seemed to be on-board with his wife's obsession.
The rest of her family were quite concerned about their cat-obsessed relative. And like any loving relations, they called a cable network to see if they might make a quick buck (and acquire a little national fame) from this woman who broke down in tears at the idea of anyone telling her to give up even one of her children. The camera followed a mental health counselor into the cat lady's house where he tried to convince her into accepting his belief that keeping 84 cats prowling about her home was a little, uhm, unhygienic. (Author's note: Why, the monthly kitty litter bill alone must be astronomical!)
We tuned in just as the therapist was going in for his second visit. He walked around a bit, asked the woman a few questions, listened to her compassionately, and then left five minutes after he arrived, shaking his head, grim-faced, as if to say, "I've done all I can. The rest is in God's hands." Back in his office, the therapist spoke in all seriousness about how the woman "just wasn't ready to give them up yet."
That was it. That was the end of the show. Four years of undergraduate school, a masters in psych, and no doubt a PhD. for a guy to shake his head and tell us a severely mentally ill woman hadn't been cured.
How is this related to my quest to keep a blog about becoming a father? Very loosely, very taking-the-long-way-around-the-baby-cul-de-sac kind of way. After watching the show--aside from wondering how much the cat woman had been been paid for subjecting herself to national ridicule--I was forced to look at my relationship with my own two cats, Duma and Honey.
Jenn says I am one of the great male cat lovers. It is true, I do fawn over them. I like to make sure they have fresh water in both their upstairs and downstairs water dishes; I turn their food over in their food bowl so the fresh stuff is on top; when I come home, I scoop the younger one up, throw her over my shoulder and stroke her back while she happily twitches her tail and purrs; and yes, I do talk to our kitties using what can only be described as baby intonations (but in a manly sort of way). I have come to the conclusion that the main difference between myself and the woman on "Hoarders" is 82 cats.
However, our kitties have given me another gift: they are training me to be a father. Yes, I know, big difference--cats and kids--but as someone who has avoided having dependents of any kind most of my life, Honey and Duma have primed the pump. For years I didn't keep even so much as a house plant. I preferred, rather, the freedom of being able to pick up and leave without being accountable to anyone or anything. Now I am married and have -- and please prepare to have your gag reflex triggered -- two fuzzie-wuzzies to look after. Jenn and I have plants, our finances have become intertwined, and there is a mutant sea horse--our daughter-to-be--swimming laps in my wife's womb.
During the ultrasound, we got to see Zinnia moving around. It made parenthood that much more real and immediate. I have long compared my impending fatherhood to a shamanic ceremony. Once you are in -- once you drink the medicine -- you are all in, and there is no turning back. Seeing our baby shifting and sliding in Jenn's belly drove this home. We saw her kidneys, her head and stomach, we heard the gallop of her heartbeat and saw her little feet. And with life itself moving around on the ultrasound screen, I witnessed my dreams of traveling the world and spiritual retreats, of self-indulgent depression and my no-strings-attached lifestyle, disintegrating before my eyes. I felt fear. I continued to watch and felt the fear lessen, and continued to watch and started to experience a quiet fascination with this being, and felt the realization that before long, our lives and karma will be hopelessly, irretractably intertwined.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Ultrasound
In a little less than two hours Jenn and I will be going in for an ultrasound. Yes, we have chosen to find out what gender the little being growing inside of her will be as well as--and more importantly--the health of the baby.
At 36, Jenn has just crossed the line into what traditional medicine would lable "older motherhood." The risk of being a slightly-past-her-prime young woman is, of course, that something could be "wrong" with our child, i.e. Down Syndrome. We had a discussion about a month ago, prompted by a list of questions give to us by our midwife, Margy. Jenn looked at me and asked, "How would you feel if your baby had Downs Syndrome?"
Very tempting to be politically correct in the face of such a question and say, "It doesn't matter. I'll love our baby no matter what." As a father-to-be and my wife's biggest source of support, I know I am suppose to maintain a positive attitude, think good thoughts, pray, visualize a healthy baby, welcome in the mystery of creation, have faith, etc, etc. But the thought of having a Downs kid or a child on the autistic spectrum made me tremble a little inside.
I searched my brain for the right words. "I ... I would be profoundly disappointed," I said at last.
Jenn nodded her head and smiled, as she often does when I speak from my heart. She knew my words did not mean I would love our baby any less, but for her/his sake, it is my sincere hope that our baby is in perfect health and, as Garrison Keillor would say, above average.
(An hour and a half later) Speaking of "her" and "his," we have run into many, MANY prognosticians who fancied themselves soothsayers and offered us knowing a smile and a guarantee of the sex of the baby. Three months ago, Jenn and I were certain a girl was on the way. Her name came to me in the middle of the night after I woke-up from a deep sleep and heard a whisper inside my head from somewhere ethereal. "My name is Zinnia." Not Sue or Judy or Sara, mind you, but Zinnia. I wasn't even sure what a Zinnia was, and had to ask Jenn the next morning if it was a bush or a flower or what. The name seemed to fit, however, and we decided we were having a girl.
Then we decided to exert our dictatorial powers as parents-to-be and name her after my dearly departed (and sainted) Yiddish grandmother, Celia, whom I quote on a regular basis whether she actually said what I attirbuted to her or not. I quote her whenever it suits me, and usually start it off with, "Well, you know what my grandma used to say ..." One statement that she did actually make was when I was 16. I was at Grandma Cele's apartment in Milwaukee eating burgers form Solly's and watching a documentary about Ghandi on Public Television, My grandma looked at me and said with the expression of someone who had just taken a whiff of milk well passed its prime: "Oy! That Mahatma Ghandi, what a trouble maker he was. Oy, what a trouble maker!" How could we not name our daughter after someone who could say that in all seriousness? And after all, Celia was a nice name. The kid would get over it.
When I let my mother know that we might be naming her granddaughter after her mother, but that Zinnia was in the lead, she let her preference be known in her own subtle-to-fault, circumvent way.
"I would really love it if you named your daughter Celia. Really love it. That would be so wonderful if you named her Celia. I would be soooo happy. If I had a vote--not that I do--but if I did, Celia would be my choice." (Note: If anyone can help me decipher what the message is here, please leave a comment.)
The easy money of late seems to be riding heavily on a child of the male persuasion, so say the soothsayers.. If it's a boy? Raymond is in the lead, but we would call him Ray (or Raymundo as Jenn just informed me). Ray like the sun, Rey like a king in Spanish. Raymond Jebediah Bender-Lukesh Humming Dolphin. I just hope the kid has a sense of humor.
I still think it's a girl. We are leaving in three minutes.
At 36, Jenn has just crossed the line into what traditional medicine would lable "older motherhood." The risk of being a slightly-past-her-prime young woman is, of course, that something could be "wrong" with our child, i.e. Down Syndrome. We had a discussion about a month ago, prompted by a list of questions give to us by our midwife, Margy. Jenn looked at me and asked, "How would you feel if your baby had Downs Syndrome?"
Very tempting to be politically correct in the face of such a question and say, "It doesn't matter. I'll love our baby no matter what." As a father-to-be and my wife's biggest source of support, I know I am suppose to maintain a positive attitude, think good thoughts, pray, visualize a healthy baby, welcome in the mystery of creation, have faith, etc, etc. But the thought of having a Downs kid or a child on the autistic spectrum made me tremble a little inside.
I searched my brain for the right words. "I ... I would be profoundly disappointed," I said at last.
Jenn nodded her head and smiled, as she often does when I speak from my heart. She knew my words did not mean I would love our baby any less, but for her/his sake, it is my sincere hope that our baby is in perfect health and, as Garrison Keillor would say, above average.
(An hour and a half later) Speaking of "her" and "his," we have run into many, MANY prognosticians who fancied themselves soothsayers and offered us knowing a smile and a guarantee of the sex of the baby. Three months ago, Jenn and I were certain a girl was on the way. Her name came to me in the middle of the night after I woke-up from a deep sleep and heard a whisper inside my head from somewhere ethereal. "My name is Zinnia." Not Sue or Judy or Sara, mind you, but Zinnia. I wasn't even sure what a Zinnia was, and had to ask Jenn the next morning if it was a bush or a flower or what. The name seemed to fit, however, and we decided we were having a girl.
Then we decided to exert our dictatorial powers as parents-to-be and name her after my dearly departed (and sainted) Yiddish grandmother, Celia, whom I quote on a regular basis whether she actually said what I attirbuted to her or not. I quote her whenever it suits me, and usually start it off with, "Well, you know what my grandma used to say ..." One statement that she did actually make was when I was 16. I was at Grandma Cele's apartment in Milwaukee eating burgers form Solly's and watching a documentary about Ghandi on Public Television, My grandma looked at me and said with the expression of someone who had just taken a whiff of milk well passed its prime: "Oy! That Mahatma Ghandi, what a trouble maker he was. Oy, what a trouble maker!" How could we not name our daughter after someone who could say that in all seriousness? And after all, Celia was a nice name. The kid would get over it.
When I let my mother know that we might be naming her granddaughter after her mother, but that Zinnia was in the lead, she let her preference be known in her own subtle-to-fault, circumvent way.
"I would really love it if you named your daughter Celia. Really love it. That would be so wonderful if you named her Celia. I would be soooo happy. If I had a vote--not that I do--but if I did, Celia would be my choice." (Note: If anyone can help me decipher what the message is here, please leave a comment.)
The easy money of late seems to be riding heavily on a child of the male persuasion, so say the soothsayers.. If it's a boy? Raymond is in the lead, but we would call him Ray (or Raymundo as Jenn just informed me). Ray like the sun, Rey like a king in Spanish. Raymond Jebediah Bender-Lukesh Humming Dolphin. I just hope the kid has a sense of humor.
I still think it's a girl. We are leaving in three minutes.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
An Introduction
I informed Jenn not so long ago that if it wasn’t for her boobs—if she had been flat-chested, in other words—I likely would not be where I am today, that is, married to her and living in the dank, dripping Northwest. Shallow, I know, but true.
Four and a half years ago, I took a leap of faith, quit my job and left the high desert of New Mexico to take a break from the field of counseling and finish a book about the life (and death) of my father. I did not expect to be gone this long, not even remotely, not even a smidgeon, and I certainly never imagined that the area I would land would be a place so devoid of sunlight, so saturated with water, that its native inhabitants, slog umbrella-less into the seasonless world as they lean into sideways-blowing downpours.
My wife has short red hair and fair skin. She loves the climate here, and though nothing in her resembles a New Age type (aside from the mildly unique preference of spelling her first name with two “N’s” instead of one), she has been known on occasion, generally during one of Oregon’s many rain showers, to talk in all seriousness of dancing water faeries and the like.
Native Oregonians scoff at transplants such as myself who pronounce Oregon phonetically, as if it rhymed with “origami” (sans the “i”), instead of using a more regional pronunciation, which sounds like Organ with the slightest hiccough of a "y" between the r and the g.
Most Oregonians feel that protecting one’s head from downpours with strange, waterproofed, expandable devices are the supreme sign of wussie-dom. They view umbrellas, in fact, much like the apes in 2001--A Space Odyssey viewed the black obelisk that mysteriously appeared in their midst--with fear, wonder, and finally, aggression. One co-worker, who witnessed my approach toward our entrance beneath the shelter of an umbrella while sheets of rain fell from the sky, waited until I got inside before prancing down the hallway, mocking me as if I were a dancing monkey.
Back to point: Aside from a brief six-month stint in Central America her junior year in college, Jenn has never lived more than an hour from where she was born and raised in southeast Portland. Now, in less than one month, we will be moving to Albuquerque, New Mexico. We are doing so despite the fact that the desert is decidedly not her clime. It is, in fact, her anti-clime, with summer heat routinely topping a hundred degrees and a pulsing sun that beats down upon the head of all who tread along New Mexico's crunchy gravel. Ironically, it may be this very sun that forces Jenn to finally push the aluminum runner over the top spring of a desert parasol, expanding its wooden stretchers in an effort to offer a bit of shade to her fair and easily freckled skin. There’s more: Neither of us has a job lined up as yet, though I do have what they refer to in literature as “promising leads.”
And more: Jenn is pregnant. Twenty weeks, to be exact, and starting to show. It will be the first child for both of us. Jenn, in fact, is the first woman i have ever lived with. This would not be noteworthy except for the fact that at the time we moved in together, I had recently turned 47 and had not been in a relationship longer than six months for nearly 15 years.
A handful of years ago, while on yet another painful blind date, I was asked point blank: "How come a man your age has never lived with a woman before?" It was a question to which I had no response, and after sputtering for a bit I shrugged my shoulders and told her I had no idea. What might I have said if I had voiced my unspoken thoughts? I suck with women, secretly suspect I'm damaged goods, and now have been alone for so long that I can't picture living any other way. Needless to say, there was no second date.
When I reached 41, I promised myself that if by my mid-forties I had not at least met the woman with whom I wanted to spend my life, I would forgo parenthood forever. Yet here I am, a fifty-year-old father-to-be, wedded to a saucy 36 year-old jewelry maker who is the least guarded, most available woman I have ever been with. It was, in fact, her availability that nearly torpedoed the relationship before it even left the dock. I have always had an unerring nose for unavailable women, and couldn't help but wonder about Jenn what my blind date had wondered about me lo these many years ago (i.e. what was wrong with this person?). And yeah, okay, maybe this was the pot calling the kettle black, since on our first date I wore a straw hat, a pair of Bermuda shorts, Teva sandals, and white socks, but still.
Had I not been intrigued by Jenn's other charms (read: boobs), I would already have sailed back to New Mexico, would probably still be single, and spending my Saturday nights alone, eating Reduced Fat Ruffle Potato Chips, watching movies, playing marimba, and going for late night walks. This may be hard to believe, but I don't miss that life a whole lot.
This blog, then, among other things, will be a running diary of an middle aged, future-father’s journey into parenthood. Blessings.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)