On New Mexico and Impending Parenthood: A Brief Conversation with Jenn

Tom:  ... So Jenn, you have left everything you once knew in Oregon to move to the windy, drought-ridden desert where you will soon be giving birth to our new, butternut squash-sized baby girl. How are you liking your new home and what are your thoughts on impending motherhood? (Remember, be completely honest, and don't forget to use a number two pencil.) 

Jenn:  I'll be honest, but I won't use a number two pencil.

Aside from the sinus crusties and the sunburn on my eyeballs, I'm feeling remarkably comfortable here. It doesn't feel quite like Home, yet, however, I found myself gazing up at the Sandias this week, feeling welcomed.  Elizabeth told me that she found that she needed to ask permission to be here to make her transition.  Just to be on the safe side, I did this, even though I've felt like whatever Forces are at work have been inviting me to be here from the beginning. 

My thoughts on impending motherhood...  I'm glad we're doing this here, in NM.  I'm pleased with the support and resources we've found.  Impending motherhood...  I'm a little nervous.  Everyone I've talked to in the Mamma & Babies group has told me I'll feel like I've been hit by a truck for a while, that the birth is the "easy" part. 

Being the oldest of six kids, the physical care of a baby isn't scary to me.  What I think about is how the quality of my being will affect this new life coming into the world, how it's already affecting her now.  I didn't feel her moving much after my last emotional meltdowon and I wondered if she was retreating because of it.  I worry about things like that when I'm looking for something to worry about.  Mostly, I feel excited.  When I sit in the Mamma & Babies group and watch these women interacting with their children, I feel intensely excited to meet OUR daughter.  I wonder what kind of traits she'll have, who she'll look like, what her preferences will be and how we'll discover her personality and get to know her.  I know she's going to be a tremendous gift. 

What are your biggest concerns about your impending fatherhood?

 

Tom:  What about a #2 computer font? Needless to say--but I'll say it anyway--I am pleasantly surprised to see and hear that you are feeling comfortable here. 

I myself am not quite there yet, even though I lived here for nine years. Part of this, no doubt, has to do with the free-floating nature of my employment situation.  Aside from one glorious year of travel and rest, I have been working, going to school or both for most of 22 years. As you have bore witness, the lack of steady income has been trying for me at times, and this has been the most difficult part of impending fatherhood for me. I'm not used to worrying about or even giving much thought to finances. The money has simply always been there. We knew this would be a challenge from the get go, but I had no idea I'd be freaking-out over a packet of Trader Joe chicken sausages or spending 170 bucks on a new (and necessary) printer. It is a side of myself I am trying to simultaneously breathe into, have compassion for, and change, all at the same time.

And this isn't even addressing the fact that we have a little human being on the way that is going to change our lives forever. Our discussion with Dan about the birth of his son cracked me up. One night you can be watching a cheesy movie with your pregnant partner (in his case, "Space Cowboys") and the next moment--wham!--your woman goes into labor and the life you knew is completely obliterated.  I know Celia/Zinnia is coming, I can feel her move in your belly, and yet on some level it still doesn't feel real.

So, my biggest concerns about impending fatherhood (in no particular order) go something like this:

--The health and well being of our daughter and her mother, (i.e you)
 
--Money (already addressed)

--What feels like the probable loss of privacy and personal time.
 
--OH MY GOD!! WE'RE HAVING A KID!!!

--How to maintain a creative, spiritual, and physical life

--The condition of the planet

--NO, REALLY, WE ARE HAVING A FRIGGIN' KID!!!

--How the cats will adjust to the new edition to our family

As far as discovering ol' what's-her-name's personality and preferences, my guess is she'll let us know pretty quick. Just so she's a Packer fan, I'll take no issue with her.

What are the things you look most forward to about motherhood and the things that may be most challenging?
 

Jenn:  Give it up, Tommy!  No #2 anything!

I have to say, I'm pleasantly surprised with how comfortable I am here, too.  I do miss the proximity of the ocean (I never realized I could feel it before).  I think the Sandia Mountains are taking it's place for me.  I love looking at them in the evenings especially. 

I know that the nebulous nature of your employment has you at your edge.  I also think that things are still "on schedule".  I think June is going to be the month when you really see movement there. 

I really appreciate your commitment to being a good provider.  I like that Elizabeth referred to you as a "magic money man" and I know without a doubt that this is true.  I am also frequently reminded that this new being emerging into the world through us will also be attracting her own resources.  This is something I've had a sense of from the very beginning.  I've been surprised at how much more easly this transition (to unemployment) has been for me than I initially expected.  Hearing that growing a baby is "enough" right now has helped. Believing this has also helped me to take some of the energy I might've used to fret and refocus focus it on my jewelry business.  In so many ways, for both of us, it feels like this is a time of incubation.  When I tap into this knowing, I feel elated. 

The things I am most looking forward to:

--Holding our daughter

--Watching you hold our daughter

--Growing into my role as a mother

--Getting to know who she is

The things I think will be the most challenging:

--The initial recovery period after birth

--Staying connected to you from  inside the "mom/baby bubble" I'm told I'll be in

--Letting go of needing to do any of this "right"

--Loss of personal time or the time I spend making jewelry and growing my business.  While I feel this, my sense is that I'll be strapping her onto me in some kind of wrap and doing what I would be doing anyway.  I think this feels different to me because she's already hanging out with me all the time and having my attention (like right now, she's kicking hard enough to bump the computer on my lap). 

--OH, MY GOD!  WE'RE HAVING A KID!

--Maintaining some grace in the face of unsolicited advice and not wreaking too much havoc on certain familial relationships as my "good girl" filter disintegrates. 

--Setting healthy boundaries.

I could really go on for quite a while about what challenges I can imagine or anticipate and then drive myself batty with how I ought to prepare for these things.  I'd rather bask in the glow of how I'm going to feel when I see you hold her for the first time, how melting with love we'll both feel.  I'm sure we'll be exhausted and sleep-deprived and worn out as well (like everyone else).  But what's the point of dwelling on that? 

Remember when you were asking me about the happiest moments of my life?  It was a real revelation for me to realize that these moments were not the ones in which I was the most comfortable. 

I have this idea that she might come a little early (in spite of what Margy the midwife said).  Do you think you'd be prepared to catch her on your own?

Tom:  Catch who, again? Just kidding. I have my mitt oiled up and ready to cradle our little seahorse right out of the shoot, if necessary ... But I still hope the midwives are on hand.

Ode to a Man

I found out last week that the man who was my boss and mentor at the jail, Dale Warrington, died last October from lung cancer at the age of 57. I had been trying to locate him off-and-on for a couple years to thank him and express my appreciation for how he influenced and inspired me as a therapist and a human being. His number was unlisted, and at the last known places of employment I had for him they didn't even know who he was.

Here's his obit:  http://obits.abqjournal.com/obits/show/209923

I probably shouldn't be surprised. Dale was a hard drinking, Marlboro-smoking, Harley-riding man. I last saw him in December of 2000--Christ, has it already been a decade?--and without knowing the details around his death, I have little reason to believe he changed his habits over the years. In fact, it would be a fair to assume quite the contrary; if anything, he most likely died exactly the way he lived. And yet the news of his passing shocked the hell out of me, as death often does when a larger-than-life figure finally meets his maker.

Years ago while a grad student at Naropa, I was having a discussion/debate with a friend who had been around during the wild Trungpa years. Chogyam Trugnpa Rinpoche was a Tibetan Buddhist monk, the  eleventh Trungpa Tulku as well as the holder of both the Karma Kagyu and Nyingma lineages. He was the founder of the Naropa Institute as well as the inspiration for a large number of meditation centers around the U.S. and abroad. He also happened to be a sake-swilling alcoholic and sex addict who, it was alleged by more than one person, not only slept with many of his female students but a not insignificant number of male devotees as well.  I was told the Rincpoche died (from liver disease at the age of 48) while screaming from his deathbed for more sake.

I felt outraged from what I had learned of Trungpa's escapades, and was fed-up with the hypocrisy of his ex-students, many of whom were teachers and administrators at Naropa. They would dismiss Chogyam's behavior as "crazy wisdom," often doing so with wistful expressions on their faces, presumably longing for the good old days.

However, not everyone was wistful. One woman I spoke to was, to put it mildly, no longer a Trungpa fan. She stated that some of the men of the community (including her own husband) encouraged their women to offer themselves to their "teacher," as if bedding down with the Rinpoche (Precious Jewel) was some sort of blessing.

I asked the friend with whom I was having the debate how he could defend such behavior when if it were coming from me (or anybody else for that matter), he would have cut the person out of his life.
 "What is it," I said, "that made this man so special in your eyes?"

He thought about it for a good 30 seconds before saying three words that have stuck with me to this day. "He was fearless," he said.

As unseemly as Trungpa's behavior could be, he never tried to hide who he was. If he wanted to do donuts on the grass field behind the school in his stretch limo, well, hey, crazy wisdom. If he showed up for a dharma talk an hour late (and drunk) before giving what I've been told were often remarkable seven minute discourses, okay then.

As much as I was disgusted by what I learned of Trungpa's antics, his books were (and are) pure insight and light. What I learned from him (and other teachers in my life) was the importance of learning to separate the man--any man--from the spiritual being underneath. In all honesty, I would have loved to have met the Rinpoche. Here's his wiki page. It's a good read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C%C3%B6gyam_Trungpa

How is this related to Dale Warrington?

Dale was one of perhaps three people I have known who would fit the description of  fearlessly themselves. He lived his life full throttle. He did not try to hide the fact that he drank a pint of JD every night (and more on weekends); nor did he even bother to feign a desire to quit his pack-and-a-half-a-day cigarette habit. The vast majority of the time, when Dale spoke, he did so in a booming baritone voice that filled the room. His voice carried, in other words. And while this alone isn't particularly of note, when Dale did speak, it was often without the aid of internal editing or filters. Needless to say, his judgment was far from impeccable. Dale could (and did) fuck-up with the best of them, but when he did dive into a situation, he jumped in full-bore, with both rattle snake boots.

To wit: He once referred to his boss at the mental health center as a "conniving, polyester
suit-wearing, back-stabbing, bitch."

Not a big deal behind closed doors, but true to form, Dale voiced this not terribly ambiguous opinion in his typical unmuted tones which, as a rule, could be heard quite easily from 75 paces. He also happened to do so with the front door to our office wide open. It remained a mystery whose ears overheard Dale's comment that day--his enemies at the jail were legion--but the comment did indeed make it back to his boss leaving, shall we say, a few fences to mend.

I can not put too fine a point on it: the words subtle and Dale Warrington rarely bumped into each other in the same sentence. To some, his behavior might be said to reflect a certain lack of tact to the point of foolhardiness. But I would argue that Dale's willingness to speak his mind in that booming voice of his and then stand behind it regardless of who was in the vicinity, reflected a type of courage that is rare in our society. It said, What you see is exactly what you get. If you have a problem with this, it is your problem.


I met Dale six months out of grad school. A friend told me that the Mental Health Center had contracted with the jail to provide psych services, and that they were hiring a slew of full-time counselors. I applied, and so desperate were they to get people to work at that toilet bowl of a facility that I tried to sabotage my own hiring by answering the drug portion of the background check form truthfully. I listed the 11-12 different drugs I had used or ever tried, and even admitted that, yes, for a brief time I did indeed deal marijuana. Nobody said a peep.

What they don't tell you in your graduate school training--thank G-d--is that when a budding counselor passed through the doors of whatever institution they attended for the final time, they would be entering into the world with a diploma in one hand, a world of debt in the other, and almost no counseling skills whatsoever. The real education would come afterward. It would come from working in the field and stumbling around some agency while trying to help people or, at least, attempting to follow the Hypocratic oath of doing no harm.  The education would come during client case reviews and from the occasional scrap of positive feedback from a clients; and it would come after even more stumbling around.

My mantra back when I fist started at the jail was: Please, G-d, let this person be alive when I get into work tomorrow. I hated everything about working there. The smell of recirculated air and sweat, the cluh-clang of sliding doors, the dishonest, manipulative inmates and (sometimes) corrections staff, and the guy who pressed his face against the one-way glass to see into the control room where I was standing and shouted that he "wanted me." And if all that weren't bad enough, here was this guy with an Amish beard, cowboy boots and an endless supply of garish ties and a megaphone voice who I was looking at calling my boss for the foreseeable future. I was in hell.

One morning a few weeks in,  I was out on the patio staring up at the sky through the barbwire and chain link roof lamenting my employment fate when Dale joined me for stress-relieving smoke.  He took a seat and lit up without a word until at last, I lowered my gaze to find him studying me with a Mona Lisa smile on his goateed face.

I looked at him, he looked at me, I looked at him. "What?" I said at last.

"Tommy," he boomed, spontaneously using my childhood name, "where were you born?"

"Uhm, Milwaukee, why?"

"Any brothers and sisters?"

This line of questioning went on for roughly two cigarettes or, in laymen terms, about ten minutes. For reasons I never quite understood, out of the blue, Dale seemed to have taken a shine to me. What I found out later was that he did not take shines lightly. To be on his shit list was, as far as I could tell, to be there forever. If you worked hard, were honest, and cared about helping the mentally ill, you were golden in Dale's book, but if you were there to slough-off and collect a paycheck he could make things a little ... unpleasant. Okay, quite unpleasant.

Another story I want to tell about him because I can, and because it sent a bolt of admiration down my spine when he told me, occurred prior to Dale's working at the jail while he was a nurse at the mental health center.  One day, an out-of-his-mind, floridly psychotic behemoth (and why the paranoid schizophrenics are often huge, burly me is beyond me) was running amok on one of the units.

In a mental health setting, employees are expected and trained to help restrain out-of-control patients; but this guy wasn't going down and had already hurt 3-4 people. As the psychotic man (or "toon" as Dale liked to call them) took a swing at another psych tech, he slipped and fell. Dale, who had just arrived on the scene, saw his opening. He galloped up to the scrum like the cavalry and kicked the guy full force on the side of the head, briefly knocking him out. The giant was quickly restrained, medicated, and locked down. Dale, of course, was reprimanded for his behavior, but oddly or no, was not fired. Afterward, he told me, he and the schizophrenic became good friends.

I believe Dale was able to keep his job with the Mental Health Center (and at the jail) for as long as he did because his "polyester-wearing, back-stabbing bitch" of a supervisor astutely recognized that--like him or hate him--there was a indeed a place for such men as Dale; men who seemingly reveled in taking on the jobs that no one else wanted; men who were the fixer-uppers in dirty situations; men who were the mental health equivalent of the Wolfe in Pulp Fiction.

As stated so beautifully in his obituary, Dale Warrington's priorities lay first and always with the well being of the mentally ill. In fact, the only time I ever remembered him modulating his voice was when he was sitting across from a one of the toon inmates.  He would take a seat at the table across from some angry bipolar or schizophrenic man, lean in, lower his voice and ask how he could be of service. Dale would listen for as long as the person needed, the very picture of deference and sincerity, as if it were the most important thing he could possibly be doing. And it was. He would generally end things with a handshake or back slap, and a quick, "Okay, bueno."

The presence he brought to his interactions were without either affectation or manipulation. Dale genuinely cared for and respected these downtroddenest of the downtrodden, and did so without a hint of patronization.

His big heart was unquestioned, if not lacking in even a hint of sentimentality. He had a simple rule-of-thumb that I still go by in my practice today: Mental illness is no excuse. "Tommy," he said, "we give them the best care possible, treat them with complete respect and dignity, but the mentally ill are responsible for their actions and deeds just like the rest of us."

I have been struggling with this blog entry for five days trying to do this man justice, and yet still feel that my words have fallen hopelessly short . The four plus years I spent on the psych unit with Dale were life changing for me--both as a therapist and a man. It was a place where I did things and handled situations I never imagined I could or would. With his undying faith and support, I started to believe in myself in ways I never had. Many a time I ran up to Dale with some perceived problem or dilemma. He would simply smile, slap me on the back, and say in his booming voice, "I have faith in you, Tommy. Whatever you decide is fine."

The last time I saw him was my final day at the detention center. Typically, when someone left the team, there was a potluck and a grand send-off. But when party time arrived, Dale was nowhere to be found. I'd seen him earlier in the day, but he took off without saying goodbye. I have always viewed this as both intentional and unconscious on his part. Dale and I had gotten quite close over the years. I  always wondered if Dale's absence was his reaction to my departure--the betrayal of the son leaving the fold against his father's wishes. An act of love, in other words. I'd like to think I had his blessing.

Babies in Flight

(I wrote this blog entry on April 9th from my plane at the Albuquerque Sunport. The body of the text was written while under the euphoric haze of a benzodiazapine cloud. Disclaimer: Parents, please, don't let your children try this at home.) 


Flying the friendly skies on two migs of lorazapam. Sitting on the tarmac of a Southwest flight waiting for my "happy pills" to slowly begin to wield their magic.

Years ago, while on a midwinter flight to Holland, the plane I was on was getting tossed around in turbulence like the proverbial tin can. I knew realistically that planes were designed to handle such tumult. I had even spoke with pilots who said they enjoyed turbulence much like a surfer enjoys bouncing atop the big wave, but my visceral response that day on my way to The Netherlands was grim-faced, white-knuckled terror. 

We got tossed around 45 minutes, including some not insignificant sudden plunges in altitude. I sat with my my eyes scrunched closed while I hyper-ventilated and throttled the arm rests. I imagined myself and my two seat mates embracing in a moment of clarity and love right before the plane barrel rolled into the ocean. As I summoned the courage to look around the cabin, I expected to see the other passengers in equal shades of terror. Instead, when I opened my eyes, the couple sitting next to me had moved as far away from me as their seat belts would allow. They were glancing at me sideways with concern, no doubt wondering if I was going to have a heart attack. I was certain they were silently reciting some sort of prayer along the lines of, "Please, G-d, don't let this guy up-chunk into our laps."


Clearly no sympathy there. I closed my eyes again, tried to slow down my breathing, and started to pray. Needless to say, we made it.

And now here I am on yet another flight waiting, hoping to be reunited with my wife who I haven’t seen in 10 days.Today is windy, as are many days during the sand-blown New Mexican springs. It is the only place I’ve ever lived where Spring is more a season to tolerate then celebrate.And just now, the pilot got on the intercom to announce that take-off would be “pretty bumpy” until we reached cruising altitude. 

I manfully resist taking another half lorazapam and begin to fervently pray for my own safe arrival in Portland as well as a speedy, mind-calming medication haze to fall over my furrowed brow like a red movie theater curtain. Abject terror is a wonderful source of spiritual inspiration.

Here are my thoughts as they arise:

It is my strong desire to see my wife again. 


Here are a few others:

Planes take off in high winds all the time ...

Planes take off in high winds all the time ...

Planes take off in high winds all the time ...

 Always a nervous flyer, after the flight to Holland I decided to raise the white flag and do what I needed to do to make flying a more tolerable experience. Now I take a little white pill that has made much of my flying anxiety fade. I completely understand why people get addicted to these things--and they are highly addictive--which is why I only take them when flying. Lorazapam is my co-pilot, as it were. Antidepressants are a slow climb to normal--the tea cups at Disneyland. Anti-anxiety meds are more a roller coaster doing a slow climb, but with an immediate payoff. And while my happy pills don't entirely mute the nervousness, right now in this moment, during an incredibly choppy take-off, they do make things tolerable. 


And now, let us bow our heads in prayer: Dear G-d, Let me and all air travelers arrive safely to their destination ... but especially me. Amen.


I look around, and see nothing but calm, seasoned travelers. What is wrong with these people? Don't they know this ... this flying thing we have squeezed ourselves into is getting tossed around the skies like a skipping stone?


(Two minutes later) And just like that, we burst through the clouds and reach cruising altitude.  Life is good again.


Two people sit to my left in the middle and window seats with their five month-old baby. Though there was a dearth of aisle seats throughout the plane, no one wanted to sit in the second row--the second row!--next to two black-wearing, twenty-something slackers, their faces pierced and uncheerful. They also have a baby who--lets face it--will probably be howling the entire flight.


As a future father myself, I resisted the tried--and-true code of single fliers everywhere: Do not sit within two rows of babies. They will cry and disrupt one's harmony, and generally get in the way of people like myself who need to use our super-human concentration to keep the plane afloat. 


I spotted the aisle seat next to the couple, and decided to intentionally expose myself to a flying baby. 
 I ask myself: What is the trick to successful baby flying?


"Is anyone sitting here?" I asked politely.


"No," said the mother with perhaps a tad less enthusiasm than I would prefer.


"Wonderful," I said with a smile and settled in. The burly father in the window seat is holding the baby who, in fact, is not crying as all. By all appearances the infant appears to be a braver traveler than your intrepid author. (Although in all fairness, I would probably be brave too if I had a breast on which to suckle during take-off. I'm just saying.)


Uhp, I spoke too soon, The baby in question has just started to cry. The mother, no doubt the host for a cooking show called, "The Discerning Palate," expertly mixes water and powder into a bottle, shakes it up, and  gives it to dad to feed the wailing child. Mom folds her arms on the drop down tray from the seat in front of her, lowers her head and tries to get to sleep. 


Many fathers do their parts and do it well, but I'm not sure we men will ever fully understand how much it takes to be a mother. 


Jenn thought getting pregnant was taking too long and was still a little gun shy from her miscarriage last year. However, with kudos and inspiration from Maude Lebowski, she got pregnant relatively quick. Jenn has shifted from being hyper-vigilante about every little ache, sensation, and movement inside her belly to a place of quiet faith. She and I both know we "got it right" this time. Her belly is growing, and I have missed witnessing this growth these last ten days. 


Last night on the phone, Jenn informed me that even I could feel the baby at move at this point, as if I was some sort of drooling, tactile retard who doesn't quite have the capacity to feel the subtle ballet going on inside her belly. It's like we're watching the super suspenseful movie, "Baby on a Train," and I keep turning my head at every exciting part. To wit: I have never felt the kid move. Sometimes Jenn looks at me like I'm trying not to feel our baby move on purpose. There may be a hint of truth to this, but not much. 


As I write this blog in handwritten print, I notice that I press down on the pen with way too much pressure. I often do this, sometimes to the point that my wrist aches. My theory is that unconsciously I want to make damn sure I've made myself understood. If I'm not cracking jokes, I've been told my eyes can take on a rather intense and piercing glare (Jenn calls it "hawkish"), and can lead people to think that I am a quite serious bloke. When angered, my mood either fills the room or fills my head. Everything I do seems to be geared toward getting my point across in a clear, concise way. It's probably a control issue that says, "Understand me."


With our baby, it's different. When little Celia/Zinnia is kicking around, I'll put my hands where Jenn instructs, but and she stops almost immediately. But I don't feel a need to understand or be understood. In my head, what I tell myself is this: "Let's give the kid a break. She's only, what, the size of a ... a --what the hell was the last fruit we were told--a small plantain? I trust that our little daughter will tell me when it's time to for Tom to play Feel Baby Play with Mommies Innards. When Celia/Zinnia moves, Jenn sometimes tells me to push a little deeper into her belly, but it feels like such an invasion of privacy. On the other hand, what do I know? Maybe the kid enjoys the stimulation.


As my plane heads toward Oregon, who knows, maybe I'll feel our baby move in Jenn's belly tonight. Perhaps we'll write each other messages through my wife's uterus. I'll spell mine backwards so she'll be able to read my words of love, and she, our child-to-be, will press a foot or a hand against the wall of Jenn's womb, pooching it out like E.T. reaching a finger toward Elliot.


In the seat next me--now in her mother's arms--the top of the baby's head is 12 inches from mine. I want to lean over and smell it. 

On Film, Music, Courage, and the Art of the Bromance

Jenn and I went to see Johnny Clegg last night at the New Mexico Expo Center. Clegg, a South African musician, was here as part of his North American tour to support his first album release in 17 years. The outdoor venue was perfection, with grandstands toward the back fronted by sections of folding chairs and a huge dance space toward the stage. There were perhaps 500 people in attendance, and at least half the crowd was shaking their collective booties to Clegg's music which, in today's parlance, might be called "World Music." To me, this label says nothing and does little to capture Clegg's own brand of electric South African pop. His music is catchy, danceable, and political--a rare combination. He peppers his lyrics with Zulu phrases and supports it with rich harmonies. Clegg, who used to participate in Zulu dance competitions, was enthusiastic and sincere, and his contagious rhythms got  the crowd to its feet by the middle of the second song. Here's a couple of youtube clips:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Puy3XwykfAE&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wX9H40q1vlI

In the past, Johnny Clegg has played before thousands and shared the stage with the likes of Peter Gabriel, Joan Baez, and Nelson Mandela. His wiki page said that he was once so popular in Europe, he was a bigger draw than Michael Jackson. Yet here we were, a few hundred people on a beautiful New Mexican evening enjoying the music of this now semi-obscure, lovely man and musician.

Yes, I admit it: I have a mild man crush on Johnny Clegg.

Typically, my bromances have been limited to actors. My first love--despite deep reservations as to who he was as a man, and more importantly, a human being--was (and I feel only a little embarrassed to admit this): Hugh Grant. I loved him in Four Weddings, Notting Hill, Love Actually, and About a Boy. And after he got caught trolling for prostitutes in L.A. (see Hugh below not in his finest moment), he made a brilliant comeback with an understated performance in Sense and Sensibility.




I enjoyed Grant's unapologetic, womanizing scoundrel in "Bridget Jones Diary," a role, I suspect, that was not too much of a stretch for the actor to nail. On the director's commentary for "Two Weeks Notice," Grant comes across as a charming rogue with a sharp-wit and good sense of humor.  At one point, he mentioned to Sandra Bullock (his co-star and fellow commentator) that he had been told she had a crush on him while on set. There was brief, awkward pause before Bullock laughed in a breezy sort of actor's way and denied it, which, of course meant it was true.

Grant brings a subtlety and humor to most of his roles. Additionally, I admire his boyish good looks and his success with the ladies. The fact that a fellow Virgo--the least sexy of the Zodiac signs--could strike it so rich in the bedroom department was, to me, a reason to hope.

However, a man has to move on, and so I did. To James McAvoy.

McAvoy is a young Scottish actor who is not only extremely engaging on screen, but exudes a certain joie de vivre that so many Scottish performers seems to have. (Has anyone spent time in Scotland? Are they indeed a cheerful folk?) And while not ever cinematic choice of his has been impeccable (see "Wanted," or rather, don't, unless you enjoy vacuous, heavy-handed, special effects-laden movies), there is a certain quality he brings to his films that guarantees to make even a mediocre movie a little more watchable. **

Jenn and I saw one of McAvoy's movies a mere two nights ago, (Atonement). Afterwards, of course, we Googled his ass. My respect grew as I listened to Jenn read about his personal life. As it turns out, McAvoy is the anti-Hugh. He is monogamous, a dutiful father, and a devoted husband. Jenn quoted an actress who worked with the 32 year-old McAvoy on a film. She claimed that through her interactions with McAvoy and his wife on set, she was profoundly influence in her views of love and relationship.

I enjoyed this bromance while it lasted, but there was something missing. A man matures. I am fifty years old, long of tooth and gray of beard (or would be if I had one) and have come to the conclusion that what one wants in life is not a bad boy (Hugh) or the vibrancy of youth (McAvoy). No. As one grows older, one starts to long for something more substantial, something with depth and stability, something that can survive the ravages of time when the bloom has faded from the rose without the drama and emotional tumult of romantic love. In short, as a man matures, he begins to seek the intimacy of a deeper connection on all four levels: the heart, mind, spirit, and gonads. I decide to move on.

To Alec Baldwin.

I never gave Baldwin much thought until I saw him in, "It's Complicated." He had a deft touch and such wonderful comic timing, I couldn't help but swoon. The director's commentary (yes, there are people who actually listen to the commentaries) only confirmed what I had sensed--that Baldwin is an impeccable performer, loved and respected by directors and fellow actors alike.  This perception was only enhanced when I discovered the hilarious, "30 Rock," on Netflix.

I know, I know. These days, when people hear Baldwin's name, the first thing that comes to mind is his, "You are a rude, thoughtless little pig" comment to his 12 year-old daughter. His estranged (and very angry) wife, Kim Basinger, taped and broadcast Baldwin's gaffe to the entire tabloid consuming world. (I would argue that this says as much about her as about Baldwin, but for another day.) I conducted some research on this sordid event and discovered that Baldwin was so distraught afterwards that he--gasp!--entered into counseling and briefly contemplated suicide. Whether he was more upset about what he had said or about being caught, of course, is a matter for debate. I suspect it was somewhere in the middle.

Yet, it's times like these that we get to test the mettle of a relationship, to see if it's strong enough to withstand the stormy waters of our emotional baggage. Now, I'm a therapist by trade. It's a great profession for reflecting back when one is being hypocritical in one's life, what one friend called "being out of alignment." Often times, a therapist can (and does) find himself offering advice to a client who is struggling with the exact same issue the clinician is struggling with in his own life. The invitation is always there--it's more a reminder really--to do one's best to walk the walk. I can't, for example, ask my clients to negotiate the tightrope of forgiveness without trying to live it in my own life. I decided o give Baldwin another chance and to trust that his verbal mishap (okay, assault) of his daughter was a terrible, aberrant mistake rather then the rule of who he was as a person.

One of the nice things about bromances is that there's no need to be monogamous. It's okay to have more than one guy crush at a time, as each seems to reflect a quality or projection that I either want in my life, already have, or would like to magnify. Additionally, I can indulge in an unrequited man crushes without any heartbreak or repercussions to my current relationship.  Jenn, in facts, seems amused that I flit about from one actor to the next like a dilettante butterfly.

Yesterday, I was visiting some friends in the east mountains. One shared that recently she was watching Oprah and the question was raised: If you could choose two people to have lunch with, who would they be? Oprah chose Julia Roberts as one of hers (which I found a bit pedestrian, but whatever), while my friend picked Gloria Steinem and and Nelson Mandela (solid choices in my book). My other friend chose Desmond Tutu, who I have seen interviewed and found him delightful, but she couldn't come up with a female lunch partner. For my female lunch date, I chose the very friend with whom I was having the discussion with. She beamed. For my male lunch companion, I tapped the Boss, Bruce Springsteen, but the choice rang a little hollow. (Although if I could go back in time, say Springsteen circa 1978, well then, lunch it is. Check this clip out to see as rascally and charming a performer as there ever was at the height of his power:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5PoIrcyd34 )    

The point: After the concert last night, I changed my lunch date partner to  Johnny Clegg. The unassuming Clegg grew up in South Africa under the rule of apartheid and was the first white musician to play in public with a mixed colored band. Clegg and his band mates were arrested and jailed several times for the offense, and his concerts were routinely broken up by the South African police. Yet he continued to perform. I admire and am inspired by this type of courage more than I can say. Johnny Clegg, Tutu, Dali Lama, Aung San Suu Kyl, Mandela, people who risked it all for the sake of doing what they know to be right. This seems to me the highest form of courage. During his show last night, Clegg exuded what everyone on this list seems to have--humility, unquenchable good humor, and an unshakable belief in humanity. He reminded me what true strength really is and how one person can move mountains when guided by a clear internal compass.



**(Phillip Seymor Hoffman is the king in uplifting any movie he is part of, but he doesn't cross the threshold into bromance, and therefore will not be part of this discussion.)

Celia the Rutabaga

My in utero-daughter and I have a little game we play. Whenever Jenn says, "Wow, she's really moving around," or "She's kicking up a storm," I put my hand on Jenn's belly and little Celia (this week's name) stops moving. 

"Yeah, right," I say.

"You don't feel that?" Jenn grabs my hand and places it on her lower belly.

"Nope," I say, and roll over to read my sports book.

With all peaceful and quiet on the western womb, Jenn falls quickly asleep.

At first I found it frustrating, and oddly or no, took it just the slightest bit personally. How come Celia stops moving every time I try to feel her? Maybe she's surly because I don't talk to her more or sing lullabies to Jenn's belly. What a concept--to sing to Jenn's pregnancy bump with the knowledge that on the other side of it is a floating head of cauliflower snapping her tiny, fetal fingers to my off-key crooning.

The observant reader may have caught a recent and subtle allusion to my daughter's size. Why, as recently as two sentences ago -- in this very blog as a matter of fact! -- I compared her to (and I quote) "a head of cauliflower." I do this because, apparently, it is common practice to compare the size of a baby's progressive stages of growth to various types of grains and produce.

Early on in the pregnancy, Jenn informed me with genuine excitement that Celia was "half the size of a small grain of rice."

My internal reaction to this news (read with affected enthusiasm): Big Whoop.

From there, our daughter sprouted to half the size of a lentil (evoking much the same response) before graduating to the size of an entire lentil. The latter garnered a mild raise of the eyebrow from the author and a semi-feigned "Wow!" I offered this, of course, to demonstrate to Jenn that I would indeed be an involved father.

A month or so later, the handful of congregated cells in Jenn's uterus had grown to the size of a pea, which is when I informed Jenn that it was hard for me to get excited about this. I asked her to let me know when Celia/Zinnia had reached the size of a grapefruit--the produce of choice for many comparisons in life. However, I got on board with the food comparisons sooner than expected. Jenn's mother, a nurse and very happy future-grandmother, started giving us semi-regular, produce-based updates. She called one day to inform us that Celia was now half the size of a small banana. I felt a little twinge of excitement with this one. I paused to evoke the image. Half a banana. Hmmmm ...
I visualized a banana, cut it in half, then replaced its spotted yellow peel with pink, glowing baby skin and placed it in Jenn's womb.

"Cool," I said at last. And I meant it, by G-d.

From there, and somewhat predictably, Celia grew to the size of an entire small banana (albeit a really grotesque banana with squiggly arms and legs). Then one day two weeks ago, she graduated to zucchini status. I nearly burst my buttons with pride and mused aloud what it would be like for Jenn to give birth to a bouncing baby summer squash.  Jenn, of course, refused to play along, and frankly, I don't blame her.

Yesterday, Jenn's mom informed us that our child was now the size of a cauliflower. Not, presumably, one of those monster heads one sees on sale at the tail end of cauliflower season for $3.50, but more a smaller, organic cauliflower with nice, crisp florets and tender, spade-shaped leaves encasing the head in a green crown. Now that's produce I could wrap my brain around!

I asked Jenn to tell her mom to let us know when her grandchild-to-be had reached the size of a watermelon.

"No," Jenn said, slamming the door on that fantasy in the bud. "I will not be passing a watermelon through my body."

I whined. "But I like watermelo--"

"No."

Jenn's mom, M., can not wait to be a grandmother to our child. She has knit countless booties and made a number of hooded sweaters to protect little Celia from the harsh southwest sun. Due to M.'s medical background (as well has having brought into the world six kids of her own), she has offered various suggestions as to what Jenn should expect and what could help her during her pregnancy. Ironic or no from a woman who had three home births herself, she seems neutral-to-slightly-disapproving of our decision to have our child at home. This sometimes manifests as a sore of smiling, measured neutrality. But what I know about M. is, she wants what we all want--a healthy, happy baby following a smooth, uncomplicated birthing process.

Regarding the birth itself: I have long held a scene in my head from a movie. (I think it was, "Little Big Man.") A Native American woman is about to give birth to her baby even while her people are being attacked and killed by marauding band of Calvary soldiers. The woman is in a squat behind some bushes, biting down on a dirty strip of cloth to stifle her cries as beads of sweat pour from her forehead. The image was unspeakably poignant, so naturally I suggested that Jenn, too, could bite down on a rolled up bit of cloth, and I even offered to roll it up for her. She must have been having one of those days (wink, wink) because she nixed the idea out of hand with little (if any) consideration to its merit.

However, lest the reader get the idea that my wife is some sort of female curmudgeon who walks around with her smile perpetually upside-down. it was Jenn's sense of humor that won me over early on and, in fact, was (and is) the very mortar of our relationship.

What I consider to be Jenn's crowning achievement occurred one day in our kitchen back in Oregon.  She was encouraging me to try some food or other that I held a decided antipathy towards.

"Come on," she said, "You might like it."

"Hey," I said trying out one of my favorite lines from Pulp Fiction, "sewer rat might taste like pumpkin pie, but ... " I paused, unsure how the rest of the line.

Jenn saw me struggling. "... but that doesn't mean I want to eat the motherfucker," she said as cool as can be.

It nearly brought a tear to my eye. I clapped my hands with delight and spread my arms. "I'm so proud of my baby," I said. "Come here so I can give you some sugar."