Poop-Pee-Eat-Belch-Cuddle-Sleep-Cry

I write to you from a local, cafe, and as it so happens, while I work on one of the swells of an endless ocean of paperwork, the place has been invaded by several mothers with small, crying children in tow.

I have a different relationships with wailing toddlers now. My first thought after the onslaught was: Damn.  My next thought was, Oh, this doesn't bother me as much as it used to. My third thought, as i watched a wide-eyed little girl half-toddling, half-falling across the room was, That is so fucking cute.  My fourth thought was this: I can't wait for Zinnia to get to a slightly more interactive age.

To be honest, I find babies on the boring side, newborns more than most. By way of explanation, as well as offering a helpful parenting tip, my brother put it this way: "Their needs are pretty basic at this age." Right. Eat-sleep-poop-belch-cry-repeat. Put Zinnia in a Packer jersey and prop her up in front of a large screen TV on football Sunday, and that pretty much describes a third of American males over the age of 30.   

If I were to should myself in this moment, I would say, I should look on this time as one of the most special periods of my life; that someday I will reflect back on 2011 and long for the innocence of what it was like when Zinnia was a tiny newborn, as opposed to, say, thirteen years hence when she's a hormonally-fueled teenager with the temper of a honey badger and an eye roll that can drop a parent at fifty yards.

The night my daughter was born, within the very hour of her birth, as matter of fact, I had a great pang of fear, a death throe of doubt that led me to agonize over my decision to become a dad at this late stage in life.  I slept (to use a term from English literature) "fitfully" for three hours, while waking to the periodic wailings of a complete stranger in our bed.  Oh, my God, I said to myself, what have I gotten myself into?

I awoke a little after dawn to a shower of sunlight, fed the cats and birds, watered the garden, and made a phone call or two. When I was done, I tiptoed into the bedroom and leaned over the bed.  Jenn was fast asleep and with new baby Zinnia curled up under her chin.

In that moment, I felt my heart crack open a little, and it has been cracking open and shut ever since. 

Yesterday, my daughter and I had one of those moments. Jenn handed her to me ("Here--feed this"), and just like that, Zinnia was in my arms. She looked up at me as if trying to decide whether to cry or not before letting out a couple of halfhearted whoops and settling into my arms. She sucked on the bottle with her eyes shut and gently fell asleep. Periodically I tried to remove the nipple from her mouth, which set her lips to moving like a Plecostomus sucking algae from an aquarium wall. When Zinnia coughed the bottle, I plucked it from her mouth without her waking, and she melted into my lap.

There we were.

Jenn entered the room, stood over us and beamed. She lives for these moments and, frankly, so do I.
I have been open with Jenn about my struggles with new parenthood. To her credit, she has not panicked or gotten angry. She knows how big my heart is and understands that beneath my meanderings about whether Zinnia might stay her current size for the rest of her life (thus becoming the worlds tiniest Buddhist nun) or grow into a giantess by the age of 12 (and earning us millions of dollars on the talk show circuit), I do love her, deeply, and my love will only continue to grow, as will my connection to her.

For the time being, however--poop-pee-eat-belch-cuddle-sleep-cry.  

Unnatural Father

It is I, the new papa, writing to you from the brave new world of parenthood. Hello.

To all this talk of parenthood being exhausting and consuming, I say Pshaw! All one needs to feel rested is a baby with an uncommon calm and pleasant disposition, a wife who is willing to do the lion's share of middle-of-the-night baby duty, and a doting grandmother who will be with us for another five days. 

Having said that, yes, I am still exhausted.

As a therapist, it is my job to remain dispassionate and objective in the face of drama, so you can trust me when I say that little Zinnia Rain is an infant with exceptional intelligence, charm, and wit. She's also a gal who knows how to ask for what she wants.  She cries when she's hungry, cries when her diaper is brimming, cries when her inexperienced papa is holding her in a stiff, "I-Hope-I'm-Doing-This-Right" sort of way, and cries when she's tired.

One friend, a computer scientist and a new father himself, said not so long ago: "It (crying) strikes me as an inefficient way of communicating." I disagree. As soon as Zinnia starts to stick her tongue out and smack her lips in rooting behavior, I lunge for the hot water pitcher so we can warm up her formula before she goes into full-bore, crisis-mode wailing. Actually, Zinnia's fine. I'm the one who goes into crisis mode.

Both Jenn and her mother are able to sling our baby about like a small sack of potatoes without disturbing her serenity. Often, however, when they hand her to me ("Hey fellah, take this little human, willya?") or I pick her up like a rare piece of China, within minutes, Zinnia starts to shift. Then she begins to squirm. Next, she raises her hand to her mouth in a kind of self-comforting gesture. Her squirming becomes more pronounced until she starts to kick her legs like a professional wrestler practicing a flying biel kick. At last, her eyes close, her lip curls, and she starts to wail. 

Recently, I received an email from a friend--a father of two. He has been keeping up with my blog and noted with some amusement that it cracked him up how little I know about parenting. I see his point. Zinnia Rain is 9 1/2 days old today, and though it should come as no surprise, I am amazed at how little I know about babies. The reality is, I have never been terribly interested in infants and never held a newborn prior to Zinnia entering my life. In the past, when I have been around new parent/friends, rather than showering praise upon the little infant, my internal response has been more along the lines of, "Yep, looks like a baby." Since Zinnia's birth, this still holds pretty close to the truth.

A friend asked me recently with an expectant smile on her face, "Can you even remember what your life was like before she was born?" I understand this is not politically correct to say, but after a lifetime of baby disinterest, the faucet of newborn infatuation has not turned into a gusher simply because it is my baby I am looking at. I studied my friend for a moment before saying, "Let me get back to you on that one."

I've been told by many that I will fall instantly in love with Zinnia and want to stare at her for hours. This is partially true. I love her, deeply, calmly, and do love looking at her, but I also enjoy looking away, towards a book, towards a cat, towards the hummingbirds buzzing around the feeder out front, toward my clients, towards Jenn's beauty and her sudden shift into a mature, confident womanhood. My interest in the outside world has not diminished with the advent of my daughter.

I have been told that Zinnia looks like me. I think she's a combination of Jenn and her youngest brother. Here's a picture:

Really, it doesn't matter whom she resembles. I don't need my child to look like me in order to fulfill some unresolved bit of narcissistic longing. The reality is, day-by-day, she has gone from being a newborn baby blob to a breathtakingly cute, newborn baby blob. She eats, poops/pees, sleeps, and cuddles. That's it, that's her life right now, which means that's our life right now.

And this might sound odd, and I'm sure I'm the only one out there that feels this way, but I've noticed I'm not crazy about the crying thing. I have always been sensitive to sound, and Zinnia's wails effect my spine like a jackhammer. I understand this is by design, but I am only now starting to get to the point where I don't wince when she expresses herself in full-lunged indignation at not having her hunger slaked within ten seconds of becoming aware of it.

However, as Jenn, Margaret (Zinnia's grandmother), and Zinnia's father (i.e. your humble tour guide) have noticed, for the most part my daughter is an exceptionally calm and happy baby. Her joy is contagious. I have witnessed the effect seeing her has on the feminine world. When Zinnia is out and about for a stroll, women's faces take on a dreamy "Oooooo..." expression, as if seeing a newborn hearkens them back to a time that once was, or one they hope shall be again. 

Jenn's mom, who has produced six progeny, tells me she thinks I'm "a natural born father." She is being kind. I believe all four of us--Jenn, her mother, Zinnia, and myself can all see that Tom is anything but a natural at this parenting business. Indeed, I have spent the past week trying to find my fatherly footing and consider it a minor victory when I hold our child without her bursting into a wail.

Having said that, there have been some spectacular moments. We set up the birthing pool in our living room shortly after Jenn's contractions started, thinking we would have some time before she went into full-blown labor. So much for the best laid plans. Jenn's contractions kicked-in fast and furious.  Here's the pool.

It's a sturdy kiddie inflatable made in China and illustrated by a crack team of domestic marine biologists. We had heard a number of nightmare stories about birthing pools. One woman said her's sprung a leak in the middle of the event, and the laboring mother tried not to fret about the steady stream of bubbles worked their way to the pool's surface. Another friend stated that only after she went into labor did her husband start to frantically blow-up the pool with a hand pump. To be on the safe side, Jenn and I borrowed an air pump from our friends and blew up the pool some 2-3 weeks before Jenn went into labor. It held the air fine.

One of the best things we got from our "Ecstatic Birthing" class was that Jenn should trust her body. It would know when to contract and when to push; it would know when it was time rest and when to give birth. In the movies, there is often some tight-jawed, courageous nurse coaching the mother to "bear down" and "push!" But Jenn's pushing was not so much her own decision but her body's, as if a great hand were squeezing her womb like a cake decorator handling a tube of frosting. Jenn entered into full-blown contractions and 4:30 p.m. and was in labor until Zinnia's birth at 1:00 a.m. During that time, her body was not her own. The contractions came in ever quickening waves, and toward the end, when it was time to push, this too was primal and involuntary. 

Jenn alternated between two different stations for most of the night. She was either sitting on the toilet--a comfortable and supportive throne--or in the pool on hands and knees, hanging over the side in the throes of her contractions.

The woman in the background of the above photo is our midwife. The one in the foreground is her assistant. We tried to time the move from bathroom and pool  in-between the contractions, but were not always successfully. As the night progressed, Jenn's water had still not burst, and she was wearing out. One of the midwives punctured her bag of water and things moved along quickly, but not quite fast enough. Jenn strained mightily in the pool, but the labor did not seem to be advancing as fast as we would like. 

Moving back to the bathroom was an option, but did not seem like a fruitful one. Our midwife suggested that Jenn lie on her back on the bed and hike her knees to her chest to simulate a squat. For the first time that night, Jenn laughed at what seemed like a daunting (if not impossible) task.

"We'll help you," said the midwife, looking at me.

We assisted Jenn over to the bed. She first hung over the side to see if she could maintain her own squat, but this was a no go. Jenn climbed up on the mattress just as another contraction kicked in. I grabbed one of her legs, the midwife the other, and we pulled her knees toward her chest. She groaned. More contractions, more Jenn bravely surrendering to the process.

Our midwife asked if I wanted to see the baby's crown.

"Sure," I said, not really all that sure.

The midwife angled a mirror between Jenn's legs and aimed a flashlight into her opening.

"I can't see anything."

We waited for another contraction, and the midwife tried again. Jenn dialated  a bit further, and I could see the top of-- 

Wait, what? Is that...? This thing was really happening. My God, I thought, I am really going to be a father. Probably in the next few hours. There is actually a living being inside of Jenn waiting to--

And 1,2,3, just like that, with one last effort, Jenn pushed and Zinnia Rain squirted out like a watermelon seed. One moment Jenn was 4 centimeters dialated, and the next our midwife was lifting up our daughter and handing her to her mother. Zinnia's eyes squeaked open, and she looked dazed and in shock, as if to say, "What the hell just happened?"

Jenn tried to lift Zinnia up to her heart, but the position of the placenta in her womb was high and prevented the cord for reaching all the way to Jenn's chest. Hence in the photo below, taken a minute after birth, Zinnia is resting on the lower belly of the proud mama.

"Here," our midwife said, "do you want to feel the cord? It's still pulsing."

I reached down--it was warm, alive, and throbbing. "Wow," I said, and meant it.

Today is the 15th, and Z. is 11 days old. Jenn is propped up on some pillows, snoring away, and Zinnia is asleep on her bosom.

Life is good.

Zinnia Rain Bender and Happy Mother

 

Born August 4th, 2011, at 1:02 a.m. 

Six pounds, seven ounces.

Nice Parenting Article

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jd-roberto/the-best-parenting-advice_b_897076.html

Countdown

Jenn once shared a dream, how "I was at Starbucks, but rather than order a no-whip frappuccino I ordered a vanilla late' with extra whip, but the barista couldn't seem to get it right and ..."

I kept waiting for something exciting to happen, some twist to make the dream interesting in any way to anyone but the dreamer, but it never happened. I yawned in a sort of exaggerated way and asked Jenn to tell me about her childhood stamp collection and how she was the fifth youngest member of the American Philatelic Society in the state of Oregon.

In other words, unless you're a Jungian therapist, there are very few things less interesting than hearing someone else's dream in detail. Nevertheless, here ya go:

Jenn and I are driving through the inner city of Milwaukee--the black side of town--admiring the gritty grace and realness of the run-down A-frames and tiled roofs.

"Wow," Jenn said, "This is really beautiful."

A door to one of the houses is open, and we enter unbidden. I feel nervous about what the owner might think, but Jenn smiles and walks ahead toward the center of the house. I'm standing in the kitchen. It's old and a little run-down, but clean. I glance down, and half-obscured beneath a drape is one of those baby bouncy-things. A small child--not quite an infant--with caramel skin and big eyes is looking straight ahead. I walk around to see the baby's face and we stare at each other. His/her eyes are big and sentient, and though I wondered where the baby's mother is, there is a sense of peace from the child. When Jenn and I reach the living room, the mother and owner of the house enter from the opposite doorway. I expect her to be alarmed to see us, but she merely looked sad.

We walk through to the other side of the house and peer out through a dilapidated screen door. In that magical way that dreams have, the baby is now out on the driveway with a group of other kids and a medium-sized pit bull. Though I pose no threat to the baby, the dog snaps and snarls at me, and attempts to lunge through the ripped screen door. I block it as best I can, but don't want to hurt the dog or be hurt by him. I merely want him to understand that I intend no harm.

I have no idea what this dream means. The baby symbology is obviously relevant, as is the house--dilapidated but beautiful. And if I substitute "sweet purring kitty" for "scary snarling dog," the pit bull might well represent Honey, our tan-colored love muffin.

On the other hand, maybe I do know what the dream means and am afraid to put it into words. I have said it before: I expect the birth of this child--my daughter--to change/demolish/cream everything I once thought I knew about myself. Not a bad thing, but obviously the ego views obliteration as some sort of threat. When I told Jenn that a friend of mine used this word--"obliterating"--to describe what it was like to become a parent, her very brave and sincere response was: "Sign me up."

Tom's reaction: Gulp!

Today is August 3rd. We are on the cusp of Zinnia Rain's entry onto the planet. Jenn has been having regular contractions/surges/twinges/what-have-you every five minutes throughout most of the day. They don't have the velocity or strength as to how we imagine "major" contractions to be, but more the quality of an orchestra warming up before the grand performance.

Jenn is uncomfortable, but doing well. I feel at peace, ready, and a little out of my body.

Thanks, everybody, for your comments and support.

Yee-haw! Gulp! Yee-gulp!

Birthday Poem fo Zinnia (written by Jenn's good friend, Carrie Heimer)

How to Light Your wish

It's not fat pink candles
on a frosted birthday cake.
It's not like shooting star-blaze
gone before a wish can take.
It's not like flashlights beaming
in the dark of dimming skies.
It's more like what goes flashing
in the center of your eyes.

This wish comes out of patience,
for the waiting makes it dear.
This wish is built on wisdom,
for the insight makes it clear.
This wish is grown with courage,
for the heart to make it strong.
To light this wish takes loving
which will give the wish its song.

To light this wish, you hope it
by believing hidden things.
To light this wish, you joy in
all the blessings this world brings.
To light this wish, your peace must
come in calm amid the storm.
Once lit, this wish will flame inside
and keep your vision warm.

This wish is someone's secret,
someone's deepest dream of heart.
This secret is a masterpiece,
a peerless work of art.
This artwork is your heartbeat, so
your hands, your feet, your new.
This wish, this secret art, is
someone else's best wish: you.