Eye Contact

Two weekends ago, I hit a wall. I came home from a round of paperwork at the place I like to call my office, but what other, less genteel folk refer to as Starbucks. Jenn and I immediately started preparing for an outing to Lowe's to look for a couple of stools, to be followed by a stop at Trader Joe's for various sundries.

As we drove out of Lowe's parking lot heading for Paseo Del Norte, I was engulfed by a brooding discontent. Zinnia had started to wail as soon as we left the store, and I suddenly felt her and Jenn weighing down on me like an emotional ballast. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to simply, blissfully, deliciously be alone; to once again having a quiet home without a baby crying or music playing or a wife who wanted me to spend time with both her and our new daughter.

My heart hardened as we progressed to the Trader Joe's, and I drove in a fuming silence that shocked and surprised me with the ferocity of its arrival.

Fuck, I thought, its even gotten to the point where I'm checking in before I go for a fucking bike ride.

I grew more sullen as we turned into the TJ's parking lot and had very little to say while we trolled the store looking for food items. As we wove our way up-and-down the store's trademark narrow aisles, we were forced to do what i refer to as the Trader Joe's Shuffle: stop, back-up, turn sideways, while the maddening crowd squeezes past with slightly embarrassed "excuse me's."

Any dust mites of goodwill I had left were wearing dying off, and worse, I still couldn't think of a thing to say to Jenn, who seemed caught off guard by my sudden withdrawal. We checked out, silently loaded Zinnia in the back seat, and made for home. At last, when we were a few miles down Paseo, I spoke: "I need to go for a bike ride when we get home." Not a question.

"Alright," Jenn said, not looking up from where she sat in backseat.

When we got home, I put all the groceries away as if performing some sort of penance for the dark cloud I had brought to our lives. I went to the rear bedroom to change into my riding duds while Jenn went to our bedroom to soothe a now-quiet Zinnia Rain. I joined them while I laced up my shoes, and we sat across from each other in silence.

Last weekend I was a volunteer assistant at a workshop called Relationship Boot Camp. The workshop was lead by a lovely couple and based on the work of Terrence Real, a man who has been doing couple's work for 30 years. In his book, "The New Rules of Marriage" (highly recommend), Real discusses five losing strategies that individuals can fall into:

1) A Need to Be Right
2) Controlling their partner
3) Unbridled self-expression
4) Retaliation
5) Withdrawing

As Jenn and I sat across from each other in our bedroom, I asked myself if what I what I was about to say was an example of number three, Unbridled Self Expression. I interpret this to mean being brutally honest no matter how much it hurts one's partner or, more to the point, because we know it will hurt one's partner. A person may use this strategy ostensibly in the name of, "Hey, I'm just sharing my truth." In reality, we are using our words like blunt instruments for maximum damage.

I decided this wasn't my intention and spoke: "There is very little," I said in measured tones, "that I am enjoying about being a parent right now."

Jenn's eyed welled. "I know." She looked hopeless and incredibly alone.

"Look, I know you're taking on the lion's share of childcare, and not that it's a competition, but even if I were putting in 60 hours a week at work, I would still consider your job the harder of the two. It's just that--and you said as much as the other day--for the time being there is very little I get to experience about parenting that is pleasurable right now. I know I'm being unfair as hell, but I come home after seeing six clients and doing a group, and then have maybe a half-hour to eat and be with Zinnia before she goes into her two hours of wailing. I'm exhausted, have a shitload of paperwork every night, and have exercised exactly once in the last eight days. I can't wait for Zinnia to get a little older so there's actually something there for me to relate to. I know I'll get there, but I'm not there yet and I can't fake it"

"I don't want you to," Jenn said. She holding Zinnia in her lap, but not really seeing her, more intent on not effecting our daughter with the intense sadness she was feeling.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, I have been told any number of times, Oh look, Zinnia is looking at her papa. More often then not, she was glancing at the ceiling fan or a light or her little hanging ducky bell. I wasn't hurt by this fact. I just wasn't terribly engaged.

I got up to leave, and walked over and stood by where Jenn was sitting. "I'm going go for my bike ride," I said. I paused next to her chair. Jenn was bracing Zinnia under her arms, and both her feet were resting on Jenn's belly, giving her the appearance of a listing, drunken sailor.

Then something happened.

I looked down at my daughter and all her excruciating cuteness.
She turned her head and looked back at me.
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
I leaned in closer and looked at her.
She held my gaze.
We stared at each other for a good 45 seconds.

In Navajo culture, it is said that a person's soul has fully entered the body when the baby laughs for the first time. They even have a ceremony celebrating the occasion. For me, it was when Zinnia turned her wobbly head that day and made intentional eye contact. It was perhaps the first solid time I viscerally experienced her as a sentient and sacred being.

I thought about her face for the entire bike ride. I was in.