I attend a retreat each summer in the east mountains of Albuquerque called the Long Dance. It's several days of workshops and community building, and culminates in a dusk-to-dawn as a mother drum--boom, boom, boom!--pounds away
A handful of the attendees live to drum. I have seen people stay on it for four hours straight. When one of the three drummers gets tired, he/she raises their hand to signal that they need a breather. However, as the night wears on, it becomes more difficult to find someone to sit in, and toward the end of the dance the same five or six die hards rotate on and off the drum until sunrise.
Also at the Long Dance are a handful of people who, for their own personal reasons, do not feel compelled to heed the call of the drum. A few years back, I had been on the drum for an hour- and-a-half and raised my hand signaling for someone to fill in. No takers. At last, I waved one of the dancers over, someone who had been coming to the dance for years.
"Will you drum for a while?" I asked. "I need a break."
He smiled, and without a hint of guilt or hesitation said one word: "No."
Now, I have always tried to be a team player. I learned this from my late, great Grandma Cele who instilled in me an all-for-one mentality. "Tommy," she used to say, "always remember, there's no ' I ' in team." Thus, when I told her about the guy at Long dance who wouldn't spell me off the drum, she lowered her glasses, looked at me in that grandmotherly way she had, and said, "What an asshole."
Jenn and I have a parenting/life agreement. She will stay at home to mother our new daughter, and I will beat the pavement to earn two dimes to rub together to support our family in the way to which we have grown accustomed (i.e. food on the table, a roof overhead, kitty litter, Netflix).
At my current place of employment, I see anywhere from 18 ton 23 clients a week, co-facilitate three groups, am regularly inundated with a mountain of paperwork, and am in the process of learning two new types of therapy. Yet, after hearing Zinnia wail for the last hour-and-a-half (and counting) while Jenn continues her attempts to soothe our child in the bedroom, I feel much like that guy refusing to spell a tired drummer. If Jenn comes and asks me to give her a breather I, of course, will, but I won't like it, and I suspect neither will Zinnia. To my mind, it makes little sense for me to take our daughter from the one person who calms her the most in the world; but after hearing our baby cry for the last two hours, I feel (as my ancestor so delicately put it) like a bit of a fucking asshole.
Needless to say, I am still challenged by the piercing, inexplicable wail of our infant daughter. Earlier this evening, while I paced with Zinnia in my arms, she began to sniffle and squirm, clearly on the edge of a full-lunged, cacophony of rage.
I went over the check-list twice:
Diaper? Dry,
Hungry? Nope.
Wants to be held? Not by this motherfucker.
Tired and needs to sleep? Yes to both, but refuses to give into the latter.
Wants mama? Always a good bet, but tonight even the soft bosom of Zinnia's mother is of little consolation. What on earth does this baby need? Perhaps the answer can be found in Wikipedia:
Colic (also known as infant colic, three month colic, and Infantile colic) is a condition in which an otherwise healthy baby cries or screams frequently and for extended periods, without any discernible reason.
(Editors note: Hmmm, I feel strangely intrigued. Tell me more.)
The condition typically appears within the first month of life and often disappears rather suddenly, before the baby is three to four months old ...
(Editor's Note: Yes!)
... but can last up to 12 months of life.
(Editor's note: Noooooooooooooo!!!)
One study concludes that the chances of having colic is lower in breastfed babies.
This last point is a difficult one at the moment, but bears addressing: Jenn's breast milk never fully came in. I understood this was a big deal for a woman, but until I witnessed Jenn's agony around not being able to breast feed, I had no idea just how big a deal it actually was. Since Zinnia's birth, Jenn has spent many waking hours trying to induce milk production, thinking about how she can induce milk production, and conducting research into as-yet untried ways on how to induce milk production. She has run marathons on the breast pump, taken medication (domperidome) to induce her milk, consulted our midwife several times, and canvassed close friends and relatives for any sage advice. Jenn even spoke to a lactation specialist--a woman who had all the warmth and charm of a block of tofu--who gave us a bag full of accoutrements to help us try to trick Zinnia into nursing. (To do this, Jenn was supposed to wear a bottle of formula around her neck and then run a thin, plastic a tube down towards her nipple to encourage Zinnia to fully latch on. She tried the device several times before tossing it into one of our kitchen cabinets in disgust. When she last referenced the gadget, it was the first and only time I have ever heard the word "hate" cross Jenn's lips.)
As a stopgap, we even (and gratefully) received about five pounds of frozen breast milk from a mother whose son refused to nurse on anything but the good stuff straight from the tap. We figured any breast milk would be better than formula, but when Jenn offered it to Zinnia, she made a face as if we had given her a bottle of seawater.
Late last night, I asked my wife if I might disclose all of the above, as well as the following, on my blog. Her response: "We've been open about everything else up until now. Lets keep going."
Bravely spoken.
To wit: We have narrowed Jenn's lack of milk production to two likely possibilities--stress and/or Jenn's breast reduction at age 17. I will address both points, even with the knowledge that embedded in this attempt to "narrow" is the implication that someone or something is to blame, or that somehow things didn't unwind exactly as they should. I disagree with both of these premises, but lets dive in anyway.
Potential Contributing Factor #1: Breast Reduction
In 1991, an extremely self-conscious 17 year-old young woman was living and walking the earth of Portland, Oregon. Her sexual energy had not yet blossomed, and she wanted nothing more than to blend into the crowd to the point of invisibility. In this breast-obsessed society (and yes, I have been a card-carrying member since setting eyes my first National Geographic), Jenn would often feel her chest being visually raked over by male passers-by. She discussed the procedure with her mother and decided to get the reduction.At the time, the doctors told Jenn that it shouldn't/wouldn't interfere with nursing if, down the road, she should decide to have a child. With hindsight, it was one of those guarantees that a doctor had no right to make, but for Jenn, chronically shy and self-conscious about her body, any foresight into her future was outweighed by the immediate need for relief. The bottom line is, we have no idea how (or if) this affected her ability to nurse Zinnia, but it seems a strong possibility.
Potentially contributing Factor #2: Stress from spending Zinnia's first two-and-half-days of life in the hospital.
The night Zinnia was born, she was laboring to breathe. We expected the wheezing to go away once her lungs had cleared, but in the morning she was still snarfling like an asthmatic on a high pollen day. We called our midwife who told us to call the pediatric clinic who informed us we should take her to the Pediatric Urgent Care at UNM hospital immediately.
It was the one place it had been our greatest wish to avoid. For good reason, as it turns out. Our initial experience at UNM Hospital put us at the whim of a well-intentioned-but-fear-based doctor and the medical team equivalent of the Key Stone Cops. When we informed her about our home birth, the doctor raised a patronizing eyebrow and ran down the list of potential catastrophic infections and diseases that Zinnia could somehow have contracted, ignoring the fact that the most likely place she could pick up any of these bugs was the hospital itself. The doctor discussed the strong possibility that our 12 hour-old daughter--just to be safe--might require two types of IV antibiotics and any number of vaccinations. They poked Zinnia's heel 4-5 time to draw blood, and bent her hand so far down that it was pressed flat against her wrist while they attempted to hook her to an IV line in case she needed meds once she got downstairs to the NICU.
Through all of this, bright fluorescent lights beat down on our newborn's face--the face we had hoped to keep in a darkened, warm environment at home for at least a month to ease her entry into the sensory world. The medical aides attempted to take her blood pressure, but didn't have a small enough cuff to get a good read from Zinnia's undersized arm. (Mind you, this on a Pediatric Urgent Care unit.) They tried three different EKG machines, but each time a huddle of nurses and techs ended up scratching their heads in bewildered confusion, wondering if the machines actually worked. Why? Because each time they ran an EKG, the results were so widely disparate as to make the entire process less than useless. I pointed this out to the doctor, who denied what was going on before her eyes while explaining to me -- using lots of interesting medical jargon--why it was important to blah, blah, blah.
"Yeah," I said, interrupting, "but how does that explain how you can base any kind of decision on three EKG machines that keep giving us different readings?
She re-explained her first explanation, but this time with an even kindlier tone,
"Yes," I repeated, "but all of your machines are getting different results, and your trying to make decisions about our daughter's life based on these inaccuracies. How can you possibly do that when-"
The doctor interrupted and tried once more to get us to see the light, speaking more slowly so we could follow the wisdom of her words.
Zinnia was admitted to the Intermediate Care Unit downstairs. ,Jenn, stepping into her Mama Bear role, looked stressed and ferocious. When we got there, the nursing staff was in the middle of their shift change meeting. They requested that we leave our daughter with them in an incubator and step outside until their meeting was over.
"I am not leaving my daughter," Jenn said calmly.
The nurse tried to affect patience while not-so-subtly rolling her eyes toward her co-worker as if to say, Oh, we have another one.
"Ma'am," she said, "we can't have you stay here during our briefing. HIPPA requirements state--"
"Fine," Jenn interrupted, "We'll go sit out in the hallway until your done, but I am not leaving my daughter."
I couldn't have been prouder.
The nurse relented, and there we were, in the midst of incubators, nurses, and NICU babies. Zinnia had handled it all with the aplomb of a tightrope walker.
After shift change, a male nurse came over and talked to Jenn. She informed him about the chicken-with-head-cut-off response we received in Urgent Care, and when she told him about the antibiotics the doctor had suggested, the nurse frowned, gave Zinnia a quick once over, and declared, "There's nothing wrong with this baby. She doesn't need antibiotics."
He was half right. She didn't need the drugs, but there was a problem. Zinnia was still laboring to breathe and was jaundiced. The latter is common in newborns, but usually doesn't happen until somewhere between days three and five of life. The fact that her skin had a yellowish tint right out of the shoot meant she had excessive bilirubin (unwanted red blood cells). This can be potentially dangerous and, if left unmonitored and unchecked, can sometimes lead to brain damage.
The three of us spent the next two-and-half-days at the hospital. We availed ourselves of their family room--a small cubby hole just off the care unit. The room had a camp-cot foam mattress, a telephone that didn't work, ditto for the clock, and no sheets or blankets until we asked for them. However, it did have a lovely, spacious bathroom with a hot shower. For all its shortcomings, the room was a god-send, a place where we could nap and store our things behind a locked door.
We soon found our rhythm. Jenn and I spent most of the day (and Jenn--all of the night) by Zinnia's incubated bedside. I shuttled back home one or twice each day to get things that she/we needed (e.g. change of clothes, hygiene products, snacks) and to take care of the cats and water the garden.
On the third morning, we were told by the nurse that due to still-too-high bilirubin levels, we would be spending at least one more night in the hospital. Jenn looking frazzled but resigned, and left to make a phone call and get some food. While she was gone, the attending doctor (who is now Zinnia's pediatrician) approached with a smile and informed me that Zinnia's levels had dropped to within safe limits and we would be discharged with all due expediency.
When Jenn came back from the family room, she looked resolved and exhausted.
"We're going home," I told her with a smile. Jenn's eyes welled up with joy.
* * *
Day three at home--nothing. No milk.
Day Four--Very little
Day Five--The day Jenn had been told it was likely her milk faucets would start to run--Almost nothing.
We started to wonder if the stress from the last three days had somehow shocked her body and was preventing her from nursing. Jenn was sitting at the breast pump 4-5 times a day, but was only producing a teaspoon or two each time. We treated what milk we did get like liquid gold and would blend it with formula, pouring it back-and-forth from bottle-to-bottle like a mad scientist mixing a magic potion.
The breast pump itself provided a bit of amusement. Jenn's mother picked up on the subliminal message hidden among the nih-wuh sound it made with each contractive pull.
"It sounds like it's saying nip-ple, nip-ple."
Sure enough, when one tuned in, the machine emitted a breathy, mechanical whisper that sounded as if it were repeating the word "nipple." Naturally, this inspired the now famous Nipple Dance. To soothe Zinnia, I would hold her, belly down, and slide one foot in front of the other as I worked my way across the house, repeating nip-ple, nip-ple in imitation of the churning pump. Our daughter fell asleep to the Nipple Dance a number of times ... until she didn't. Now it just makes her cry.
When Jenn gave up on the pump, she had to work through it in layers, the self-recrimination, guilt, and grief that came with throwing in the towel. She had desperately wanted this bonding experience with our daughter, but had been denied. Jenn was mad at herself, mad at her body, presumably, at least a little mad at her mother for giving her permission to have the procedure at such a young age, and mad at the lying sons-of-bitches doctors** who mislead and misinformed her ...
(Here it comes--the requisite ... ) However, even though Jenn is still mourning the loss of this experience, there is a third explanation alluded to above: Things have played out perfectly the way they needed to, and no one and nothing is to blame. For whatever reason, our little Zinnia has chosen a mother who will nourish and love her in every way imaginable, but our daughter will grow her Michelin Man baby rolls not from a sweet fount of mother's milk, but from pulling on BPA-free bottles filled with blessed organic baby formula.
**Exaggerated for dramatic affect.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Are You Ready for Some Football?
I'm feeling a bit more connected with my daughter lately. Why, just two days ago I proudly told Jenn that, and I quote, er, myself: "Zinnia is running neck and neck with the cats." (Unquote, exclamation mark!)
Damning with faint praise, you say? If you knew how close I was with our kitties, you would know this was a high compliment. Pictured below the two sisters--fuzzy daughter and fuzzless daughter--sharing a special moment.
Duma (left) has taught herself a new trick. When the baby starts to wail and cry, she gets up on her hind legs, digs her claws lightly into Jenn's or my leg and gives us a quick, painless bite. The first time she did this, I thought, Oh, that's sweet. She's feeling protective. Jenn figured it out the next day after the cat did it to her and then made for the front door, as if to say, this really is too much. I'm only feline after all.
I used to believe that cats were aloof, so much so that to have one was akin to having a house plant. They were there, kind of nice to look at, but no real emotional relationship. I first discovered this wasn't the case when a woman who lived across the street from me came home one day to a small circle of people standing in the street. Her cat had been run over by a car. She sunk to her knees and wailed as if she had been stabbed in the heart.
Oh, I thought, people are actually attached to these things.
Now, I'll own that what I'm about to say is a crappy comparison, but here it is: The way I used to view babies has always been in the same ballpark--lets say the same state--that I used to view cats. I never held any interest in getting to know them or even being around one. I found babies to be lacking in personality or any ability to amuse.
To date, my opinion has not radically shifted ... but shifted it has. Zinnia becomes more human by the day. Why, just last night, to my amazement, Baby Z. was able to hold her head up ON HER OWN!!!!!!!!!! (Woo-hoo! Pop the champagne.) Her noggin was wobbly to be sure, but for a baby who a mere two weeks ago had so little neck strength that her head would flop forward or back as if the string attached to her skull had suddenly been severed, this was big stuff.
Jenn's mother, Margaret, is in town until this evening, when she will return to Oregon to haunt the hallways of the school where she serves as a school nurse. She is a God-send and believes Zinnia is the greatest thing since french toast. I have noticed that babies are--in psychological parlance--wonderful targets for our projections.
"Oh look how happy she is to see her papa," Margaret has observed on several occasions when, as far as I could tell, Zinnia's expression had not changed discernibly.
"I love how curious she is," Jenn will say when Z's eyes shift to the string of white lights hanging over the sliding patio door.
"Oh, look," I say as our daughter's brow furrows in consternation. "Zinnia is contemplating how to solve the global warming catastrophe while simultaneously feeling her disgust at the budget impasse in Washington."
In reality, she's probably pooping which--lets face it--is a completely reasonable response to Republican shenanigans and Tea Party imbecilism.
Last night, Z. and I played another round of, When-Papa-Picks-Me-Up-I'm-going-To-Scream-My-Lungs-Out-Until-He-Passes-Me-Back-To-Mama. (I would explain the rules, but you probably get the gist.)
Jenn came into the bedroom looking a little frantic as the baby continued to wail. "I'm going to take a shower," she said stripping down. "If you want to pass Zinnia to me, I can take in her in and give her a quick bath." (Translation: My daughter is crying, and I need to protect her." Mama Bear.)
"Thanks. We're good," I said. (Translation: No fucking way I'm handing this kid over until she calms down.)
Zinnia continued to cry as if she had never experienced anything quite this unjust and hoped to Dear God she never would again. Jenn continued her quest to drain our hot water tank in the hope that I would get the hint and pass her our little seahorse. (Translation: Please bring me our daughter so I can soothe her.)
I paced around the bedroom and spoke gently to Z., telling her how much I loved her and how she could cry as long as she needed to. (Translation: No fucking way I'm handing this kid over until she calms down.) I held Zinnia a little tighter and continued my attempts to succor. Eventually, our baby's cries began to ebb, and a minute later the water to the shower squeaked off. I gratefully turned her back over to her mother.
In Zinnia's calmer moments, we have another game we play. It's called "Baby-zilla." I lie on my back, grab her under her arms, lift her up, and then lower her feet to my belly while making a sound as if she's stomping New York City into dust. "Bchhhhhh!" she thunders. "I want milk!" Sometimes for effect, Z. will indulge her papa by rolling her eyes back in her head in her best zombie baby imitation
Yesterday, Jenn and I took a flash drive to Wal-Mart to print a few hundred photos for our aged, computer-impaired relatives (i.e. my mother and aunt, and Jenn's grandmaother). As we stared at the photo machine, each image would pop up, and we would decide whether it was a keeper or not.
"Oh, look," I said with more sarcasm than the event necessitated. "Here's one of Zinnia sleeping. And here's another one of Zinnia sleeping. Hey, what's this? Is she ... ?"
To Jenn's loving mother's eyes, each photo is a gorgeous masterpieces, and she couldn't fathom deleting even the blurriest of baby photos. I love this about her.
It is a Bender Family tradition (inspired by Austin Powers) to work with the photographer by "giving him/her the tiger." Here's the happy family in the requisite pose.
It is now 4:00 am, and Jenn and baby are asleep in the next room. I am restless and exhausted, but feel dogged in my research as to the level of sleep-deprivation a therapist can attain and still be affective. The Packers open the NFL season tomorrow against the Saints, and yes, I am aware it is unlikely that a single reader scanning this blog cares about this fact besides me. While every other aspect of my life is in a complete state of flux, I remain determined to maintain a semblance of normalcy. It's all sandcastles and mirrors, of course, a futile attempt to hold onto the ballast of what was even as the shapeless Phoenix of the new rises from the smoldering heap of my previous life.
Go Pack!
Damning with faint praise, you say? If you knew how close I was with our kitties, you would know this was a high compliment. Pictured below the two sisters--fuzzy daughter and fuzzless daughter--sharing a special moment.
Duma (left) has taught herself a new trick. When the baby starts to wail and cry, she gets up on her hind legs, digs her claws lightly into Jenn's or my leg and gives us a quick, painless bite. The first time she did this, I thought, Oh, that's sweet. She's feeling protective. Jenn figured it out the next day after the cat did it to her and then made for the front door, as if to say, this really is too much. I'm only feline after all.
I used to believe that cats were aloof, so much so that to have one was akin to having a house plant. They were there, kind of nice to look at, but no real emotional relationship. I first discovered this wasn't the case when a woman who lived across the street from me came home one day to a small circle of people standing in the street. Her cat had been run over by a car. She sunk to her knees and wailed as if she had been stabbed in the heart.
Oh, I thought, people are actually attached to these things.
Now, I'll own that what I'm about to say is a crappy comparison, but here it is: The way I used to view babies has always been in the same ballpark--lets say the same state--that I used to view cats. I never held any interest in getting to know them or even being around one. I found babies to be lacking in personality or any ability to amuse.
To date, my opinion has not radically shifted ... but shifted it has. Zinnia becomes more human by the day. Why, just last night, to my amazement, Baby Z. was able to hold her head up ON HER OWN!!!!!!!!!! (Woo-hoo! Pop the champagne.) Her noggin was wobbly to be sure, but for a baby who a mere two weeks ago had so little neck strength that her head would flop forward or back as if the string attached to her skull had suddenly been severed, this was big stuff.
Jenn's mother, Margaret, is in town until this evening, when she will return to Oregon to haunt the hallways of the school where she serves as a school nurse. She is a God-send and believes Zinnia is the greatest thing since french toast. I have noticed that babies are--in psychological parlance--wonderful targets for our projections.
"Oh look how happy she is to see her papa," Margaret has observed on several occasions when, as far as I could tell, Zinnia's expression had not changed discernibly.
"I love how curious she is," Jenn will say when Z's eyes shift to the string of white lights hanging over the sliding patio door.
"Oh, look," I say as our daughter's brow furrows in consternation. "Zinnia is contemplating how to solve the global warming catastrophe while simultaneously feeling her disgust at the budget impasse in Washington."
In reality, she's probably pooping which--lets face it--is a completely reasonable response to Republican shenanigans and Tea Party imbecilism.
Last night, Z. and I played another round of, When-Papa-Picks-Me-Up-I'm-going-To-Scream-My-Lungs-Out-Until-He-Passes-Me-Back-To-Mama. (I would explain the rules, but you probably get the gist.)
Jenn came into the bedroom looking a little frantic as the baby continued to wail. "I'm going to take a shower," she said stripping down. "If you want to pass Zinnia to me, I can take in her in and give her a quick bath." (Translation: My daughter is crying, and I need to protect her." Mama Bear.)
"Thanks. We're good," I said. (Translation: No fucking way I'm handing this kid over until she calms down.)
Zinnia continued to cry as if she had never experienced anything quite this unjust and hoped to Dear God she never would again. Jenn continued her quest to drain our hot water tank in the hope that I would get the hint and pass her our little seahorse. (Translation: Please bring me our daughter so I can soothe her.)
I paced around the bedroom and spoke gently to Z., telling her how much I loved her and how she could cry as long as she needed to. (Translation: No fucking way I'm handing this kid over until she calms down.) I held Zinnia a little tighter and continued my attempts to succor. Eventually, our baby's cries began to ebb, and a minute later the water to the shower squeaked off. I gratefully turned her back over to her mother.
In Zinnia's calmer moments, we have another game we play. It's called "Baby-zilla." I lie on my back, grab her under her arms, lift her up, and then lower her feet to my belly while making a sound as if she's stomping New York City into dust. "Bchhhhhh!" she thunders. "I want milk!" Sometimes for effect, Z. will indulge her papa by rolling her eyes back in her head in her best zombie baby imitation
Yesterday, Jenn and I took a flash drive to Wal-Mart to print a few hundred photos for our aged, computer-impaired relatives (i.e. my mother and aunt, and Jenn's grandmaother). As we stared at the photo machine, each image would pop up, and we would decide whether it was a keeper or not.
"Oh, look," I said with more sarcasm than the event necessitated. "Here's one of Zinnia sleeping. And here's another one of Zinnia sleeping. Hey, what's this? Is she ... ?"
To Jenn's loving mother's eyes, each photo is a gorgeous masterpieces, and she couldn't fathom deleting even the blurriest of baby photos. I love this about her.
It is a Bender Family tradition (inspired by Austin Powers) to work with the photographer by "giving him/her the tiger." Here's the happy family in the requisite pose.
It is now 4:00 am, and Jenn and baby are asleep in the next room. I am restless and exhausted, but feel dogged in my research as to the level of sleep-deprivation a therapist can attain and still be affective. The Packers open the NFL season tomorrow against the Saints, and yes, I am aware it is unlikely that a single reader scanning this blog cares about this fact besides me. While every other aspect of my life is in a complete state of flux, I remain determined to maintain a semblance of normalcy. It's all sandcastles and mirrors, of course, a futile attempt to hold onto the ballast of what was even as the shapeless Phoenix of the new rises from the smoldering heap of my previous life.
Go Pack!
(Above, the author prepares for the upcoming NFL season by posing with his
daughter in what is commonly known as the "football hold.")
daughter in what is commonly known as the "football hold.")
Friday, September 2, 2011
Cuddle Envy
Two nights ago, I briefly contemplated deep-sixing this blog for the sole reason that I felt ashamed and completely confused by my emotional state. I had returned home from work, had some food, checked the mail, pet the cats, and then took Zinnia from Jenn to give my wife a well-deserved break from a long day of mothering. I held our daughter, and for a moment thought all was well, and all was well ... until Zinnia realized I wasn't her mother. Her face broke into a startled expression, as if to say, "Wait, you're not-- What the...?" She began to squirm, then added a few half-hearted grunts, and before starting to writhe and kick. Within seconds she broke into a skull rattling wail.
I walked around with her for a bit (in Victorian terms, we took a few turns around the living room) while I hummed and chattered away. I even tried singing:
"Oh Zinnia, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away oh Zinnia..."
Her cries increased in volume and pitch. I smiled at her in what I thought approximated a loving, parental beam, but little Z. was not fooled. Jenn, who was busy pumping breast milk in the bedroom, and had spent the entire day with the baby, shot me a glance from the glider. It was more of a frustrated plea: Please find a way to help her shift her energy.
I kissed our daughter on the forehead and made "shhhhhhhh'ing" sounds, which often have a calming effect on her (theoretically because it emulates the sound of the placenta). Zinnia wails became more frantic, and there was true panic in her eyes. I gave up on the idea of calming her and merely hoped Zinnia would tire herself out from the sheer force of energy she was expelling. Nope. She redoubled the intensity of her cries, and then, just when I thought she couldn't possibly get any louder, she did. Zinnia was choking on her sobs and started to gasp for air.
At last, unable to restrain herself, Jenn sprung from her seat with a mother's urgency and took our daughter in her arms. She did so without any sign of resentment, although perhaps some frustration. I gladly turned her over.
No doubt many parents can relate to some version of this story, but for me--the ardent baby-avoider--I felt as if I have landed in hell. Even worse, while I paced back-and-forth with my daughter as she grew more and more agitated, I felt ... almost nothing. I knew she was beyond the point of me comforting her, and I felt irrationally resentful at the way she looked at me as if I were inserting bamboo slivers under her nails. Too, I felt resentful toward Jenn for handing me the baby in the first place, and just so I didn't leave anybody out, I felt kicked myself for not having the balls to say "No" when Jenn informed me four years ago that she wanted to have a child. What the hell had I been thinking?
While Zinnia's "fussiness" (a euphemism for, "Our-baby's-wailing-for-fucking-hours-and-we-don't- know-why") continued into the night, I reflected on all of the opportunities I would miss because we had been invaded by this ... this irrational crying thing. My mood darkened further as I lamented the fact that I would now never have the time to write, never travel the planet in the unfettered way to which I had grown accustomed, never again have a good night's sleep or, for lack of sleep, enjoy the small pleasures in life, like middle of the night "30 Rock" episodes. Worst of all, I would never have a peaceful, quiet home again. Ever.
As the evening progressed, Jenn, in her desire to promote father-daughter bonding (as well as her own personal cleanliness) asked, somewhat unreasonably I felt, if I would hold the baby so she could (insert eye roll here) go to the bathroom. I gave it a shot, but with the same result--Zinnia wailing for relief. While Jenn peed and showered, I stood in front of the mirror shushing and rocking our baby who, by her screams, was being nipped at by a pack of wild coyotes. I took in my own bleary-eyed reflection and said just loud enough to hear above my daughter's aching cries: I hate this.
I wandered into the dimly lit living room with zero actual hope to soothe, but more to find a way to pass the time until Jenn to finish up in the bathroom. Finally, the door opened with a cloud of steam, and she emerged, a towel wrapped around her middle. It is not much of an exaggeration to say that if I could have safely slingshot Zinnia to her mother to expedite the transfer, I would have.
Now safely in Jenn's arms, the sun once again rose in Zinnia's heart, and she responded as if she had reached a state of pristine, inner serenity. Me myself, I felt restless, upset, and pissed.
"Are you okay?" asked the woman who had carried our child for 10 months and was spending all of her waking (and non-waking) hours with her.
"No," I said. "Far from it. I can't stand this, and I feel no connection to her," I said indicating Zinnia. I added a little a dagger: "At all."
I have heard storied about husbands who become jealous when all the attention that had once been showered upon them was transferred to their newborn children. This is not that. I am fine with Jenn and Zinnia bonding deeply, and I love the idea of supporting my family, keeping the house clean (or at least a semblance thereof), and generally doing all I can to make their lives comfortable and happy. But it's clear to me that, except under very specific circumstance (i.e. when our daughter is both hungry and tired and conks out in my lap as soon as she is done feeding), Zinnia only wants me to hold her for short periods of time. The heartbreaking truth is, she can probably feel my energetic response to her, and given the choice between a loving, openhearted mother and a tentative, ambiguous papa, our little girl--sensitive soul that she is-- knows which side of the boob her toast is buttered.
If this were a fifties, I would hold a bouncing baby Zinnia for a couple of minutes a day, and Jenn would be with her the rest of the time, Zinnia strapped perpetually to her hip. I'd go to work each day, put in long hours, talk to my clients about the importance of compassion and forgiveness, of surrendering to the moment and learning better ways of communicating, and then return home to eat, write, do paperwork, exercise, and take in Zinnia from afar while Jenn tried to hold her while doing five things. At the end of the night, I would give our child a perfunctory, fifties sitcom forehead kiss and hit the hay in the spare bedroom. I would wake up in the morning refreshed and ready for another day.
In 2011, however, the bedroom was tense, and Jenn and I had little to say. She was (and is) struggling with her milk not fully coming in, and I've been struggling with a little thing I like to call, "I-Loathe-This-Crying-Baby-itis." Needless to say, we went to sleep feeling on edge.
It's tempting, very tempting to sugarcoat things at this juncture, to paint my own parenting skills in a slightly kinder light; to share with the reader my own lack of nurtuarnce while a wee-child, and how given my role models, I make Robert Young in "Father Knows Best" seem like a piker. But lets not.
Last night, the Family Bender had another rough go. Jenn thinks I'm being paranoid (possible) or taking too much personally (very possible), but while she (and visualize a big eye roll here) ate some food and brushed her teeth, Zinnia again grew a little ... fussy (i.e. Wailed really fucking loudly). However, as soon your humble author exited the room, baby Z. quieted down as if to say, "Aaaaaah, life is good again." Put more benignly, our daughter generally calms when I hand her back to mama.
This makes sense, I've been told, given her age and the need to ...
Yada, yada, yada. It's still difficult not to have the Rejection Button pressed. We had some friends over today. The female half of the couple held Zinnia as they strolled around the house together like they were lifelong pals (which they are, in a way. The woman was our photographer the night Zinnia was born). Little Z. chirped and cooed the entire time.
Yes, its true. I am not ashamed to admit (okay, maybe a little ashamed to admit): I have cuddle envy. Even today, Jenn and I could probably drive over to Central and find some strung out crack ho to hold our daughter, and Zinnia would likely respond less adversely than she does each time I pick her up.
I decided to run my dilemma past a panel of seasoned experts--my men's group, a Sanhedrin of masculine wisdom. Before Zinnia was born, I was attending the group on a weekly basis, but this was the first time I had been in attendance since her birth. I told them I was baffled by my reaction to being a dad and my visceral "Must-put-my-daughter-up-for-adoption" response to her wails. I described how I would hold my daughter until she would go into a full, body-shuddering cry, which is when I would gratefully hand her back to her mother. I told them that Jenn was stressing out at having to do all the baby holding duties, and more importantly, I was feeling completely disconnected to my own daughter.
I received several bits of wisdom from the men in circle:
--That in the wild, when papa bears hear the wail of the cubs, they are programmed to want to kill them (an urge to which I am sorry to say I kinda relate). In nature, it is the mother's job to protect. Jenn has no choice--she is physically and psychically compelled to act when she hears the baby cry. One of the men suggested that what I needed to consider creating some alone time with Zinnia, even if it meant she wails hysterically for a solid hour. To do this, Jenn would needs not be in the vicinity so she could resist the urge to swoop in and protect.
--That Zinnia and I would work things out, but for the time being I was taking care of the business--cleaning house, making money, paying bills, etc--and this was enough. The falling in love stage would happen soon enough.
--That the first three months of fatherhood sucked, but then it gets better and better. Oddly enough, this helped quite a bit, although when I shared this bit of wisdom with Jenn, she looked less than pleased.
I went home feeling strengthened and determined. The next day after work, I took the Zinnia from Jenn, and the baby immediately went into her puzzled-squirm-fuss-lower lip curl-cry-full scale wail routine. As I walked about with her in the living room, I felt less reactive than normal, and was able to hold and rock her even as she tried to push and kick away. Her cries got louder.
Jenn approached. "Do you want me to--"
"No, I got her."
I headed for the bedroom with Zinnia now in full-scale wail mode. I held her closer and told her it was okay, to let it out, that I was so happy she had joined us, that she could cry as long as she needed.
Jenn the mama bear poked her head in looking a little rattled. Must protect baby. "I can take her now if you want."
"No," I said, calmly. "We need to work this out. If it's difficult for you we can close the door."
Jenn smiled, getting it, and left. I closed the door as Zinnia continued her tryout for the Santa Fe Opera.
"That's it," I assured her, "let it out." I breathed into my heart and sent some love to her.
Ever so slowly, her wail became a sob, which became a cry, which became sputtering gasps for breaths, which slowed down to a quite sniffle. She looked up at me through her tears with unfathomable innocence and pain and vulnerability.
"Hey, hey, baby. I'm so glad your here."
I walked around with her for a bit (in Victorian terms, we took a few turns around the living room) while I hummed and chattered away. I even tried singing:
"Oh Zinnia, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away oh Zinnia..."
Her cries increased in volume and pitch. I smiled at her in what I thought approximated a loving, parental beam, but little Z. was not fooled. Jenn, who was busy pumping breast milk in the bedroom, and had spent the entire day with the baby, shot me a glance from the glider. It was more of a frustrated plea: Please find a way to help her shift her energy.
I kissed our daughter on the forehead and made "shhhhhhhh'ing" sounds, which often have a calming effect on her (theoretically because it emulates the sound of the placenta). Zinnia wails became more frantic, and there was true panic in her eyes. I gave up on the idea of calming her and merely hoped Zinnia would tire herself out from the sheer force of energy she was expelling. Nope. She redoubled the intensity of her cries, and then, just when I thought she couldn't possibly get any louder, she did. Zinnia was choking on her sobs and started to gasp for air.
At last, unable to restrain herself, Jenn sprung from her seat with a mother's urgency and took our daughter in her arms. She did so without any sign of resentment, although perhaps some frustration. I gladly turned her over.
No doubt many parents can relate to some version of this story, but for me--the ardent baby-avoider--I felt as if I have landed in hell. Even worse, while I paced back-and-forth with my daughter as she grew more and more agitated, I felt ... almost nothing. I knew she was beyond the point of me comforting her, and I felt irrationally resentful at the way she looked at me as if I were inserting bamboo slivers under her nails. Too, I felt resentful toward Jenn for handing me the baby in the first place, and just so I didn't leave anybody out, I felt kicked myself for not having the balls to say "No" when Jenn informed me four years ago that she wanted to have a child. What the hell had I been thinking?
While Zinnia's "fussiness" (a euphemism for, "Our-baby's-wailing-for-fucking-hours-and-we-don't- know-why") continued into the night, I reflected on all of the opportunities I would miss because we had been invaded by this ... this irrational crying thing. My mood darkened further as I lamented the fact that I would now never have the time to write, never travel the planet in the unfettered way to which I had grown accustomed, never again have a good night's sleep or, for lack of sleep, enjoy the small pleasures in life, like middle of the night "30 Rock" episodes. Worst of all, I would never have a peaceful, quiet home again. Ever.
As the evening progressed, Jenn, in her desire to promote father-daughter bonding (as well as her own personal cleanliness) asked, somewhat unreasonably I felt, if I would hold the baby so she could (insert eye roll here) go to the bathroom. I gave it a shot, but with the same result--Zinnia wailing for relief. While Jenn peed and showered, I stood in front of the mirror shushing and rocking our baby who, by her screams, was being nipped at by a pack of wild coyotes. I took in my own bleary-eyed reflection and said just loud enough to hear above my daughter's aching cries: I hate this.
I wandered into the dimly lit living room with zero actual hope to soothe, but more to find a way to pass the time until Jenn to finish up in the bathroom. Finally, the door opened with a cloud of steam, and she emerged, a towel wrapped around her middle. It is not much of an exaggeration to say that if I could have safely slingshot Zinnia to her mother to expedite the transfer, I would have.
Now safely in Jenn's arms, the sun once again rose in Zinnia's heart, and she responded as if she had reached a state of pristine, inner serenity. Me myself, I felt restless, upset, and pissed.
"Are you okay?" asked the woman who had carried our child for 10 months and was spending all of her waking (and non-waking) hours with her.
"No," I said. "Far from it. I can't stand this, and I feel no connection to her," I said indicating Zinnia. I added a little a dagger: "At all."
I have heard storied about husbands who become jealous when all the attention that had once been showered upon them was transferred to their newborn children. This is not that. I am fine with Jenn and Zinnia bonding deeply, and I love the idea of supporting my family, keeping the house clean (or at least a semblance thereof), and generally doing all I can to make their lives comfortable and happy. But it's clear to me that, except under very specific circumstance (i.e. when our daughter is both hungry and tired and conks out in my lap as soon as she is done feeding), Zinnia only wants me to hold her for short periods of time. The heartbreaking truth is, she can probably feel my energetic response to her, and given the choice between a loving, openhearted mother and a tentative, ambiguous papa, our little girl--sensitive soul that she is-- knows which side of the boob her toast is buttered.
If this were a fifties, I would hold a bouncing baby Zinnia for a couple of minutes a day, and Jenn would be with her the rest of the time, Zinnia strapped perpetually to her hip. I'd go to work each day, put in long hours, talk to my clients about the importance of compassion and forgiveness, of surrendering to the moment and learning better ways of communicating, and then return home to eat, write, do paperwork, exercise, and take in Zinnia from afar while Jenn tried to hold her while doing five things. At the end of the night, I would give our child a perfunctory, fifties sitcom forehead kiss and hit the hay in the spare bedroom. I would wake up in the morning refreshed and ready for another day.
In 2011, however, the bedroom was tense, and Jenn and I had little to say. She was (and is) struggling with her milk not fully coming in, and I've been struggling with a little thing I like to call, "I-Loathe-This-Crying-Baby-itis." Needless to say, we went to sleep feeling on edge.
It's tempting, very tempting to sugarcoat things at this juncture, to paint my own parenting skills in a slightly kinder light; to share with the reader my own lack of nurtuarnce while a wee-child, and how given my role models, I make Robert Young in "Father Knows Best" seem like a piker. But lets not.
Last night, the Family Bender had another rough go. Jenn thinks I'm being paranoid (possible) or taking too much personally (very possible), but while she (and visualize a big eye roll here) ate some food and brushed her teeth, Zinnia again grew a little ... fussy (i.e. Wailed really fucking loudly). However, as soon your humble author exited the room, baby Z. quieted down as if to say, "Aaaaaah, life is good again." Put more benignly, our daughter generally calms when I hand her back to mama.
This makes sense, I've been told, given her age and the need to ...
Yada, yada, yada. It's still difficult not to have the Rejection Button pressed. We had some friends over today. The female half of the couple held Zinnia as they strolled around the house together like they were lifelong pals (which they are, in a way. The woman was our photographer the night Zinnia was born). Little Z. chirped and cooed the entire time.
Yes, its true. I am not ashamed to admit (okay, maybe a little ashamed to admit): I have cuddle envy. Even today, Jenn and I could probably drive over to Central and find some strung out crack ho to hold our daughter, and Zinnia would likely respond less adversely than she does each time I pick her up.
I decided to run my dilemma past a panel of seasoned experts--my men's group, a Sanhedrin of masculine wisdom. Before Zinnia was born, I was attending the group on a weekly basis, but this was the first time I had been in attendance since her birth. I told them I was baffled by my reaction to being a dad and my visceral "Must-put-my-daughter-up-for-adoption" response to her wails. I described how I would hold my daughter until she would go into a full, body-shuddering cry, which is when I would gratefully hand her back to her mother. I told them that Jenn was stressing out at having to do all the baby holding duties, and more importantly, I was feeling completely disconnected to my own daughter.
I received several bits of wisdom from the men in circle:
--That in the wild, when papa bears hear the wail of the cubs, they are programmed to want to kill them (an urge to which I am sorry to say I kinda relate). In nature, it is the mother's job to protect. Jenn has no choice--she is physically and psychically compelled to act when she hears the baby cry. One of the men suggested that what I needed to consider creating some alone time with Zinnia, even if it meant she wails hysterically for a solid hour. To do this, Jenn would needs not be in the vicinity so she could resist the urge to swoop in and protect.
--That Zinnia and I would work things out, but for the time being I was taking care of the business--cleaning house, making money, paying bills, etc--and this was enough. The falling in love stage would happen soon enough.
--That the first three months of fatherhood sucked, but then it gets better and better. Oddly enough, this helped quite a bit, although when I shared this bit of wisdom with Jenn, she looked less than pleased.
I went home feeling strengthened and determined. The next day after work, I took the Zinnia from Jenn, and the baby immediately went into her puzzled-squirm-fuss-lower lip curl-cry-full scale wail routine. As I walked about with her in the living room, I felt less reactive than normal, and was able to hold and rock her even as she tried to push and kick away. Her cries got louder.
Jenn approached. "Do you want me to--"
"No, I got her."
I headed for the bedroom with Zinnia now in full-scale wail mode. I held her closer and told her it was okay, to let it out, that I was so happy she had joined us, that she could cry as long as she needed.
Jenn the mama bear poked her head in looking a little rattled. Must protect baby. "I can take her now if you want."
"No," I said, calmly. "We need to work this out. If it's difficult for you we can close the door."
Jenn smiled, getting it, and left. I closed the door as Zinnia continued her tryout for the Santa Fe Opera.
"That's it," I assured her, "let it out." I breathed into my heart and sent some love to her.
Ever so slowly, her wail became a sob, which became a cry, which became sputtering gasps for breaths, which slowed down to a quite sniffle. She looked up at me through her tears with unfathomable innocence and pain and vulnerability.
"Hey, hey, baby. I'm so glad your here."
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