Saturday, December 29, 2012
She Works Hard for Her Formula
Even at 17 months, Zinnia is exceptionally helpful and busy around the house. She already has any number of chores in which she has become quite accomplished, chores that if Jenn or I (in an effort to expedite things) presume to take on ourselves, Zinnia will--yes, I'll say it--start to cry. She takes her work that seriously.
One of her most important and longest standing duties is to help her mama take the clothes from the drier and place them in the laundry basket. I, of course, use place loosely, as it's more a dragging out of socks, undies, and washcloths while Jenn assists with the larger items. Naturally this is followed by Zinnia climbing onto the still-warm clothes, which Jenn carries to the bedroom and dumps baby and clothes, kit-and-kaboodle, onto the bed.
She also--and I cannot say this strongly enough--insists on throwing her own (non-poopy) diapers into the diaper bin. Anymore, if there is a balled up disposable on the floor from where Jenn hurled it in the middle of the night, we either have to lower the waste basket for Zinnia to toss it in, or I have to sneak- throw-it-away when she's not looking. She takes this job quite seriously, and to to not let her do it would be akin to allowing her to climb into my therapist chair during a work day: "Dont' worry, papa. I got this one."
Zinnia is also a gardening enthusiast, and even has her own rake. It's fire engine yellow and toddler size. When mother and daughter are outside doing yard work, Zinnia will drag her little rake through various bits of brush, leaves, or simply across the concrete of our driveway, looking very focused and important. It's not unlike watching Picasso painting Guernica or, say, eavesdropping while Lennon and McCartney compose one of their masterpieces. It's that level of concentration.
Another chore that Z has fully embraced is feeding of the cats and the birds. Each morning we go out to the garage, I scoop the cat food into an old gellato container, screw on the top, hand it to Z, and she carries it over to the wooden cat bowl. I hold the dish while Zinnia pours. The first couple of times she didn't quite get the concept, and instead of tilting the container away from her body into the awaiting bowl, she dumped it towards her, emptying the cat food all over her shirt, shoes, and the floor. However, my daughter is nothing if not the picture of undauntability. After several trial-and-error runs she, through repetition and practice can now, with understandable pride, get every nib of cat food into the dish.*
The familiar reader is no doubt aware that we live in sunny New Mexico, a rather dry and deserty state. Since we are in the midst of a years-long drought and with a globally-warmed planet, no end in sight, I started to notice where I was literally flushing water down the tubes. I became aware of how many gallons of water I am wasting each day simply in waiting for the shower to warm up. I understand it may not make one iota's difference anywhere but in my mind, but I have started to take it upon my self to catch that wasted shower water each morning and use it to water the garden. The three gallon bucket generally fills up in two showers, after which I lug it outside to offer moisture to the lavender bush, the prickly pear, the wild grass, or the bodhi tree.
To wit: Zinnia has taken to eagerly watching me watering the garden through our sliding glass back door. Why eagerly? Because yet another task we have assigned to our daughter--slave drivers that we are--is to carry the now-empty bucket back to the rear bathroom where I keep it next to the bathtub. The bucket is not much smaller than Zinnia herself, but she does her job with the enthusiasm of one who takes pride in her work. Occasionally, Z. puts the bucket down to the right of the toilet, turns to go, then pauses. She turns, picks the bucket back up, and places it in its proper place to the left of the toilet. Now satisfied, Z. tools out toward the kitchen for some chow.
Her newest job she picked up from her mother. After Jenn showers, she often twirls a cut tip in each ear to fully dry them out. It is also possible that Zinnia has seen me swabbing out the wax from my own ears on occasion. Wherever she picked it up, Zinnia now considers it part of her sacred duty to clean out our ears. She'll take one of the cotton swabs, poke it for half second into one of our ears, shift to the other, and then do the other parent. Dare I hope? Could our daughter be a budding ENT specialist?
Additionally, if I'm not quick to put the cat box out in the morning--we bring in every night so the kitties have a place to potty--boy, does Zinnia lets me know about it. She'll walk over to the litter box, grab the handle, and make an "Uhhh!" sound while looking at me with no small amount of impatience. One could imagine her placing a balled up fist onto one of her little hips and offering up a single-yet-pointed, throat-clearing "Ahem!"
As any parent has experienced, there are daily miracles for which i am grateful. My daughter makes me laugh daily with her ever-growing, greatest hits list of idiosyncratic mannerisms. She, of course, picks up many of these from the repertoire of well established idiosyncrasies of her parents. My current favorite occurs when we are preparing to go somewhere. Z. often makes a beeline for the door without hat or coat.
"Zinnia," Jenn explains, "you have to put on a coat. It's cold outside."
Upon hearing the word "cold," Zinnia wraps her arms around herself, hunches up her shoulders as if to protect herself from the weather, sucks in her breath, and chatters her teeth together in the universal, "Ooo, so chilly" gesture.
I could die a happy man on this gesture alone.
*Authors note: Feeding the birds is new, more complicated. It requires Zinnia to pour itsy-bitsy seeds into the smallish top of the bird feeder. It is a work in progress, but she is getting the hang of it, and the little peal of delight she gives after each attempt makes the exponential growth of our bird food bill well worth it.)
One of her most important and longest standing duties is to help her mama take the clothes from the drier and place them in the laundry basket. I, of course, use place loosely, as it's more a dragging out of socks, undies, and washcloths while Jenn assists with the larger items. Naturally this is followed by Zinnia climbing onto the still-warm clothes, which Jenn carries to the bedroom and dumps baby and clothes, kit-and-kaboodle, onto the bed.
She also--and I cannot say this strongly enough--insists on throwing her own (non-poopy) diapers into the diaper bin. Anymore, if there is a balled up disposable on the floor from where Jenn hurled it in the middle of the night, we either have to lower the waste basket for Zinnia to toss it in, or I have to sneak- throw-it-away when she's not looking. She takes this job quite seriously, and to to not let her do it would be akin to allowing her to climb into my therapist chair during a work day: "Dont' worry, papa. I got this one."
Zinnia is also a gardening enthusiast, and even has her own rake. It's fire engine yellow and toddler size. When mother and daughter are outside doing yard work, Zinnia will drag her little rake through various bits of brush, leaves, or simply across the concrete of our driveway, looking very focused and important. It's not unlike watching Picasso painting Guernica or, say, eavesdropping while Lennon and McCartney compose one of their masterpieces. It's that level of concentration.
Another chore that Z has fully embraced is feeding of the cats and the birds. Each morning we go out to the garage, I scoop the cat food into an old gellato container, screw on the top, hand it to Z, and she carries it over to the wooden cat bowl. I hold the dish while Zinnia pours. The first couple of times she didn't quite get the concept, and instead of tilting the container away from her body into the awaiting bowl, she dumped it towards her, emptying the cat food all over her shirt, shoes, and the floor. However, my daughter is nothing if not the picture of undauntability. After several trial-and-error runs she, through repetition and practice can now, with understandable pride, get every nib of cat food into the dish.*
The familiar reader is no doubt aware that we live in sunny New Mexico, a rather dry and deserty state. Since we are in the midst of a years-long drought and with a globally-warmed planet, no end in sight, I started to notice where I was literally flushing water down the tubes. I became aware of how many gallons of water I am wasting each day simply in waiting for the shower to warm up. I understand it may not make one iota's difference anywhere but in my mind, but I have started to take it upon my self to catch that wasted shower water each morning and use it to water the garden. The three gallon bucket generally fills up in two showers, after which I lug it outside to offer moisture to the lavender bush, the prickly pear, the wild grass, or the bodhi tree.
To wit: Zinnia has taken to eagerly watching me watering the garden through our sliding glass back door. Why eagerly? Because yet another task we have assigned to our daughter--slave drivers that we are--is to carry the now-empty bucket back to the rear bathroom where I keep it next to the bathtub. The bucket is not much smaller than Zinnia herself, but she does her job with the enthusiasm of one who takes pride in her work. Occasionally, Z. puts the bucket down to the right of the toilet, turns to go, then pauses. She turns, picks the bucket back up, and places it in its proper place to the left of the toilet. Now satisfied, Z. tools out toward the kitchen for some chow.
Her newest job she picked up from her mother. After Jenn showers, she often twirls a cut tip in each ear to fully dry them out. It is also possible that Zinnia has seen me swabbing out the wax from my own ears on occasion. Wherever she picked it up, Zinnia now considers it part of her sacred duty to clean out our ears. She'll take one of the cotton swabs, poke it for half second into one of our ears, shift to the other, and then do the other parent. Dare I hope? Could our daughter be a budding ENT specialist?
Additionally, if I'm not quick to put the cat box out in the morning--we bring in every night so the kitties have a place to potty--boy, does Zinnia lets me know about it. She'll walk over to the litter box, grab the handle, and make an "Uhhh!" sound while looking at me with no small amount of impatience. One could imagine her placing a balled up fist onto one of her little hips and offering up a single-yet-pointed, throat-clearing "Ahem!"
As any parent has experienced, there are daily miracles for which i am grateful. My daughter makes me laugh daily with her ever-growing, greatest hits list of idiosyncratic mannerisms. She, of course, picks up many of these from the repertoire of well established idiosyncrasies of her parents. My current favorite occurs when we are preparing to go somewhere. Z. often makes a beeline for the door without hat or coat.
"Zinnia," Jenn explains, "you have to put on a coat. It's cold outside."
Upon hearing the word "cold," Zinnia wraps her arms around herself, hunches up her shoulders as if to protect herself from the weather, sucks in her breath, and chatters her teeth together in the universal, "Ooo, so chilly" gesture.
I could die a happy man on this gesture alone.
*Authors note: Feeding the birds is new, more complicated. It requires Zinnia to pour itsy-bitsy seeds into the smallish top of the bird feeder. It is a work in progress, but she is getting the hang of it, and the little peal of delight she gives after each attempt makes the exponential growth of our bird food bill well worth it.)
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Zin-Zin
Speaks for Itself
Daredevil Baby on the rocking horse her Great Grandfather made for her
 | ||||||||
| Happy Girl Doing Down Dog |
Zinnia looking at Jenn through the gap in the stroller
Papa Demonstrating the Proper and Improper Way to Ride the Pony: "Zinni, you should always keep both hands on the horse ... and never play poker with your back to the door."
Tom's Office
"Baby's are of Nature" (This is what are Ecstatic Birthing teacher kept driving home)
Out of Focus ... but who cares. Still cute.
Zinnia happily playing in the dirt. She started to cry when we pulled her away after 15 minutes.
Zinnia Refused to ride in the backpack. "No, that's okay. Your shoulders will do just fine."
Love these
Baby and Mama during the Balloon Fiesta
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Baby's Breath
Zinnia likes to give kisses. She's a great kisser. I took them personally at first--Oh, look how much she loves me--until I saw her kissing the cat, her stuffed bear, the mirror, and story book characters. Why, just yesterday she even blew our old, watchdog neighbor, John, a smooch. Is she too young to be called a hussy?
Her kisses are one of the sweetest things I have ever experienced. She doesn't quite have the physical coordination down, so when she leans in to plant one, she presses her lips against mine (or the cat ... or the cereal box) without moving or pursing them, and then when she breaks contact and starts to pull back, only then does she makes the actual kissing sound. The lag time between kiss and "mwah" reminds me of one of those old Bruce Lee films where the sound effects were always a half-second behind the action.
Yesterday I experienced one of my proudest moments as a father. I would like to preface this by saying that until I met Jenn, I had never been terribly comfortable expressing myself in a flatulent manner in front of a girlfriend. In fact, if anything, I would go way out of my way not to share any gaseous expressions with whomever I was dating.
I'm not sure who did it first in our relationship, but my earliest memory of sharing my poly-tonal harmonies with Jenn was when were sitting on my bed in McMinnville shortly before we moved in together.
"Hey, pull my toe," I said to her out the blue.
Jenn, thinking I had some sort of cramp, pulled, and I let go with what Jack Black called "The Wind of the Lion." (El Viento de Leon!!!)
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her face reflecting that that wasn't at all what she had expected. I laughed until tears rolled down my face. No doubt my mirth was fueled in part by years of repressed (and literal) anal retentiveness. After this, anything became fair game. When Jenn started to refuse to release the Lion's Wind with a strategic finger pull, I began to do it myself by pulling my own finger, Jenn's ear, the cat's tail--it really didn't matter--and each time I tooted, I would laugh like a fifth grader at camp.*
Since Zinnia was born, I have tried it both ways--either pulling her ear or mine, but until recently she failed to fully comprehend the sophisticated humor I was attempting to convey. In fact, I started to wonder if we shouldn't get Zinnia tested to see if something wasn't a little, you know, off, cognitively speaking.
Then it happened: several weeks ago, I pulled Z's ear and tooted. Zinnia giggled. My little girl had grown up, and in that moment I couldn't have been prouder. But my joy was short lived. As time marched on, I realized there was still something missing. It was one thing for me to do the ol' "pull-and-fart" routine, but quite another for her to be an active participant.
Last night--a breakthrough. Z. and I were playing on the bed, when I pulled my own ear and tooted. She offered a wry smile. A few minutes later--oops--another short toot. This time my darling, brilliant daughter grabbed her own ear and pulled, delayed like her kisses, but perfectly acceptable.
"Jenn, quick!" I shouted out to the kitchen. "You won't believe what just happened."
I see it as a nod to the fact that I am married to someone who, though not Christian, has a lifelong family connection to the holiday of Christmas. I know having little-to-nothing by way of decorations last year was quite the stretch for her and almost felt to me like lying by omission. Even so, I remained doggedly determined to follow through with our "No Decorations" agreement.
A number of years ago, I wrote a novelette about my first full-on experience of X-mas with Jenn's family. I culled an excerpt from the 75 page essay, culled it some more, and sent it in to Albuquerque's free entertainment rag, The Weekly Alibi, who published it the week leading up to Christmas. I had a number of responses (mainly positive), but one religious Jew wrote me a letter with much vitriolic fervor, accusing me of being a self-hating Jew and asked me who I thought I was writing such a piece of dog doo-doo.
I considered not responding ... for about three minutes, then wrote him back and told him that I was fine with my Jewish identity, loved it as a matter of fact, but by the hatred in his tone--slung at someone he didn't even know--I suggested that he himself was insecure in his own Jewishness. I politely suggested that if that is what all his studying and praying has gotten him, he may want to consider seeing a therapist to help him discover the vein of compassion that lies within all of us.
He did not write back, and I felt a little disappointed.
Of late, however, I've been feeling the complicated-albeit-subtle effect that can occur when a Jew marries a non-Jew. This point is all the more salient due to the fact that since Jenn--Zinnia's mother--is not Jewish, barring conversion, Zinnia herself will never be considered a Jew.
Jenn has done her best to honor our differences. She has picked up a surprising amount of Yiddish sayings and respects my desire to stay connected--even on the periphery--to my heritage. However, there are limits. Jenn doesn't like Woody Allen,** has no connection with Shabbos, and needed an explanation as to why I was laughing so hard when John Goodman's Jewish convert character in The Big Lebowski declared that he was "as Jewish as fucking Tevye."***
I have no idea how this is going to play out in the future and cringe a little at the mere thought of Zinnia sitting on Santa's lap or singing Christmas carols in school. I also know what it's like to be Jewish in a largely Christian society where I grew up envying all my friends who had the beautiful trees, the colored lights, the cookies, the family closeness.
In three days, I will do something I haven't done since I was a kid--light the menorah. We purchased a lovely faux stained glass chanukkiyah at Target. I have even begun to pick up my siddur (prayerbook) to recite the evening prayers.
Quick story behind this siddur: In the early nineties I was depressed, alone and living in Portland. My therapist told me about a woman who channels angels. I called her, and continued to call her every month or so, and we would talk for maybe a half hour. She was delightful and quite sane, and heard the angels so clearly that when she was on the road They would even warn her about speed traps ahead.
So, I was sitting at my desk one night speaking to this woman (or more accurately, them), when she interrupted the flow of my health complaints.
"They (the angels) are saying there is something on your desk that is quite holy."
I looked around. There was an array of clutter.
"These beads?" I said picking up a strand.
"No, that's not it."
"Hmmm...I know, my tarot cards."
"They're saying no."
I mentioned one or two other items.
"No, not those."
Things had been sitting on my desk so long as to render some of the items virtually invisible. Then my eyes lit on this same siddur. As I touched it, but before I could say a word ...
"Oh, that's it! They're bowing. Their bowing to you and to it. They say it's very holy."
I recently saw a You Tube clip of a now deceased rabbi (whose name escapes me). He said that we don't pray to G-d to ask for things for ourselves, but more to make ourselves worthy to be in His presence.
I had thought with some sadness that I had lost this little silver-covered prayer book a few years ago, but then it turned up out of the blue a couple months ago. At the time it felt like a minor miracle, but perhaps like that evening back in Portland, it had been under my nose the whole time waiting to be rediscovered.
It feels good to be praying again.
To you, all 10 of my loyal readers (and to all beings), may your lives in the upcoming year be peaceful and at ease, may you be happy and free from suffering. May your hearts be filled with countless blessings, and may these blessings extend not only to everyone you know and care about, but to everyone you struggle with. May you be gifted with a deeper understanding of compassion and forgiveness, and may you laugh all of your laughter and weep all of your tears.****
*Hi, Andy
**Not a huge deal as I find half his stuff crap and half masterful.
***The Dude had questioned Goodman's not wanting to drive on the Sabbath when he had only converted so he could marry his now- ex-wife. Tevye is the beloved lead character from Fiddler on the Roof.
****Thank you, Gibran.
Her kisses are one of the sweetest things I have ever experienced. She doesn't quite have the physical coordination down, so when she leans in to plant one, she presses her lips against mine (or the cat ... or the cereal box) without moving or pursing them, and then when she breaks contact and starts to pull back, only then does she makes the actual kissing sound. The lag time between kiss and "mwah" reminds me of one of those old Bruce Lee films where the sound effects were always a half-second behind the action.
* * *
Yesterday I experienced one of my proudest moments as a father. I would like to preface this by saying that until I met Jenn, I had never been terribly comfortable expressing myself in a flatulent manner in front of a girlfriend. In fact, if anything, I would go way out of my way not to share any gaseous expressions with whomever I was dating.
I'm not sure who did it first in our relationship, but my earliest memory of sharing my poly-tonal harmonies with Jenn was when were sitting on my bed in McMinnville shortly before we moved in together.
"Hey, pull my toe," I said to her out the blue.
Jenn, thinking I had some sort of cramp, pulled, and I let go with what Jack Black called "The Wind of the Lion." (El Viento de Leon!!!)
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her face reflecting that that wasn't at all what she had expected. I laughed until tears rolled down my face. No doubt my mirth was fueled in part by years of repressed (and literal) anal retentiveness. After this, anything became fair game. When Jenn started to refuse to release the Lion's Wind with a strategic finger pull, I began to do it myself by pulling my own finger, Jenn's ear, the cat's tail--it really didn't matter--and each time I tooted, I would laugh like a fifth grader at camp.*
Since Zinnia was born, I have tried it both ways--either pulling her ear or mine, but until recently she failed to fully comprehend the sophisticated humor I was attempting to convey. In fact, I started to wonder if we shouldn't get Zinnia tested to see if something wasn't a little, you know, off, cognitively speaking.
Then it happened: several weeks ago, I pulled Z's ear and tooted. Zinnia giggled. My little girl had grown up, and in that moment I couldn't have been prouder. But my joy was short lived. As time marched on, I realized there was still something missing. It was one thing for me to do the ol' "pull-and-fart" routine, but quite another for her to be an active participant.
Last night--a breakthrough. Z. and I were playing on the bed, when I pulled my own ear and tooted. She offered a wry smile. A few minutes later--oops--another short toot. This time my darling, brilliant daughter grabbed her own ear and pulled, delayed like her kisses, but perfectly acceptable.
"Jenn, quick!" I shouted out to the kitchen. "You won't believe what just happened."
* * *
Cholla in Full Bloom
Porous section of dried cholla
Jenn and I have set up a "Holiday Cholla" skeleton on top the bookshelf in our
living room. Two years ago, around this time, I returned home from work to see that in my absence, Jenn had brought home and decorated a small Christmas tree. It was tasteful without being gaudy, and elegantly done.
I wouldn't say I was furious, but I was pissed. Our cultural differences are one of the things that we haven't talked a lot about--the fact that, despite outward appearances, Jenn and I are indeed a mixed couple. I felt a Christmas tree was one of those things that--being married to a Jewish man--she should have run by me before setting up. Upon seeing my reaction, she went from having the beaming smile of anticipation to a look of crushed spirit, as if the bluebird of happiness had just shat on her forehead.
This year, Zinnia's presence has been a bit of a deal breaker. Every time we walk into a store or around the neighborhood and Z. sees a strings of lights or decorations, she takes on a look of wonder, as if looking at--if not the most beautiful thing she has ever seen--then clearly something in the top three.
After the tree argument, Jenn and I agreed to alternate every-other-year between No-Decorations- Whatsoever and having what we (but more often, I) euphimistically refer to as a Holiday Cactus. In true New Mexican fashion, we decided to weave two strings of lights around the branches of a cholla cadaver, and while I was somewhat naively unaware that Jenn wanted to hang ornaments on it, the effect is not entirely unpleasing.
After the tree argument, Jenn and I agreed to alternate every-other-year between No-Decorations- Whatsoever and having what we (but more often, I) euphimistically refer to as a Holiday Cactus. In true New Mexican fashion, we decided to weave two strings of lights around the branches of a cholla cadaver, and while I was somewhat naively unaware that Jenn wanted to hang ornaments on it, the effect is not entirely unpleasing.
I see it as a nod to the fact that I am married to someone who, though not Christian, has a lifelong family connection to the holiday of Christmas. I know having little-to-nothing by way of decorations last year was quite the stretch for her and almost felt to me like lying by omission. Even so, I remained doggedly determined to follow through with our "No Decorations" agreement.
A number of years ago, I wrote a novelette about my first full-on experience of X-mas with Jenn's family. I culled an excerpt from the 75 page essay, culled it some more, and sent it in to Albuquerque's free entertainment rag, The Weekly Alibi, who published it the week leading up to Christmas. I had a number of responses (mainly positive), but one religious Jew wrote me a letter with much vitriolic fervor, accusing me of being a self-hating Jew and asked me who I thought I was writing such a piece of dog doo-doo.
I considered not responding ... for about three minutes, then wrote him back and told him that I was fine with my Jewish identity, loved it as a matter of fact, but by the hatred in his tone--slung at someone he didn't even know--I suggested that he himself was insecure in his own Jewishness. I politely suggested that if that is what all his studying and praying has gotten him, he may want to consider seeing a therapist to help him discover the vein of compassion that lies within all of us.
He did not write back, and I felt a little disappointed.
Of late, however, I've been feeling the complicated-albeit-subtle effect that can occur when a Jew marries a non-Jew. This point is all the more salient due to the fact that since Jenn--Zinnia's mother--is not Jewish, barring conversion, Zinnia herself will never be considered a Jew.
Jenn has done her best to honor our differences. She has picked up a surprising amount of Yiddish sayings and respects my desire to stay connected--even on the periphery--to my heritage. However, there are limits. Jenn doesn't like Woody Allen,** has no connection with Shabbos, and needed an explanation as to why I was laughing so hard when John Goodman's Jewish convert character in The Big Lebowski declared that he was "as Jewish as fucking Tevye."***
I have no idea how this is going to play out in the future and cringe a little at the mere thought of Zinnia sitting on Santa's lap or singing Christmas carols in school. I also know what it's like to be Jewish in a largely Christian society where I grew up envying all my friends who had the beautiful trees, the colored lights, the cookies, the family closeness.
In three days, I will do something I haven't done since I was a kid--light the menorah. We purchased a lovely faux stained glass chanukkiyah at Target. I have even begun to pick up my siddur (prayerbook) to recite the evening prayers.
Quick story behind this siddur: In the early nineties I was depressed, alone and living in Portland. My therapist told me about a woman who channels angels. I called her, and continued to call her every month or so, and we would talk for maybe a half hour. She was delightful and quite sane, and heard the angels so clearly that when she was on the road They would even warn her about speed traps ahead.
So, I was sitting at my desk one night speaking to this woman (or more accurately, them), when she interrupted the flow of my health complaints.
"They (the angels) are saying there is something on your desk that is quite holy."
I looked around. There was an array of clutter.
"These beads?" I said picking up a strand.
"No, that's not it."
"Hmmm...I know, my tarot cards."
"They're saying no."
I mentioned one or two other items.
"No, not those."
Things had been sitting on my desk so long as to render some of the items virtually invisible. Then my eyes lit on this same siddur. As I touched it, but before I could say a word ...
"Oh, that's it! They're bowing. Their bowing to you and to it. They say it's very holy."
I recently saw a You Tube clip of a now deceased rabbi (whose name escapes me). He said that we don't pray to G-d to ask for things for ourselves, but more to make ourselves worthy to be in His presence.
I had thought with some sadness that I had lost this little silver-covered prayer book a few years ago, but then it turned up out of the blue a couple months ago. At the time it felt like a minor miracle, but perhaps like that evening back in Portland, it had been under my nose the whole time waiting to be rediscovered.
It feels good to be praying again.
To you, all 10 of my loyal readers (and to all beings), may your lives in the upcoming year be peaceful and at ease, may you be happy and free from suffering. May your hearts be filled with countless blessings, and may these blessings extend not only to everyone you know and care about, but to everyone you struggle with. May you be gifted with a deeper understanding of compassion and forgiveness, and may you laugh all of your laughter and weep all of your tears.****
**Not a huge deal as I find half his stuff crap and half masterful.
***The Dude had questioned Goodman's not wanting to drive on the Sabbath when he had only converted so he could marry his now- ex-wife. Tevye is the beloved lead character from Fiddler on the Roof.
****Thank you, Gibran.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Roger Ebert Reviews Mother Goose
I do believe I'm getting ready to take a break from blogging. Not immediamente, mind you, but soon. Life has gotten quite busy, and I am feeling pulled to turn to other projects, writing and otherwise. One such project is my long unfinished novel, a "hilarious" urban-fantastical romp pitting good against evil in battle to the death for the soul of the planet. You know, that old saw.
I am also well aware that despite my pledge to begin a memoir-ette about the life and times of one Barbara May Bender, I have barely carved out a word. A photo of Barb even now stares out at me from my computer wall paper. She is sitting in a forest green library chair on the first floor of the Jewish home, and affecting an uncharacteristically easy-going, lip smile. She is donning a pair of faded old person's jeans and a white, long-sleeved sweatshirt with a pudgy cartoon cat on the front saying (via a thought bubble), Stress, What Stress?
Despite Barb's shock of white hair, her twisted arthritic hands folded uneasily in her lap, her sunken bosom, and her head propped up between two angular, bony shoulders, it's hard for me to see her as elderly. When I look at any photo of Barb I see--and will always see--a woman in her mid-forties, neurotic to the core, ornery, needy, and alive. Even now, four months later, my mother's death barely feels like a reality, though this very afternoon I met with a broker at my bank to help me to make financial arrangements with my portion of the inheritance.
Three nights ago, I found myself staring at her picture on my computer: "I can't believe you fucking died," I told her image. "You, of all people, were suppose to live for-fucking-ever."
Tears ensued as they do even now.
Zinnia has added several words to her astonishing vocabulary: Mama, papa, woo-woo (as in, woof-woof, (i.e. dog), and occasionally, Bzzzzzzzzz, when she says a picture of a bee. She also occasionally hisses when were are reading one of Eric Carle's beautifully illustrated but mind-numbingly dull books, and her eyes light on a picture of "a slithery snake."
My daughter loves to read. That's L-O-V-E. She has discovered--as Don Cheadle pointed out in the film "Out of Sight" after a a prison guard interrupted a fight between he and George Clooney in the prison library--"You know, reading is fundamental and shit. We got all excited and everything."
Yes, indeedy, it's official--Zinnia is a genius.
We are up to--conservatively--25-30 books a day. Some are quite short and an easy read, like an eight page, large print book about smiles. It features a group of toddlers who--even though most kids this age are incapable of affectation--somehow still appear as if they are being forced into a smile as if one of their parents is being held by gun point off camera unless they do what the photographer says. The photos are posted above saccharine-sweet captions like, "Give us a smile, won't you please?"
Others books are a little wordier, and Zinnia's attention quickly wanes. She has learned to subtly let us know when she is ready for the next story by simply toddling away mid-reading (often to get a different book) or by grabbing whatever book we are in the middle of from our hands, closing its cover, and hurling it to the floor like yesterday's trash.
Jenn often teases me for having what I call a discerning pallet when it comes to movies. If there is even the smallest of plot holes I will pick up on it and make fun of the film. If the hole is too gaping, the plot too weak, I disengage from the movie entirely and fire verbal spitballs at the actors and director from the confines of our microfiber couch.
Likewise, I have become a bit of a children's book critic. The classics seem to have stood the test of time. Goodnight Moon and most Dr. Seuss books are still quite readable, though the Seuss knock-off's by Eastman suck. The Hungry Caterpillar is a lovely book about, er, a hungry caterpillar and how it transforms into ... a yellow dump truck. (Ha, ha! I mean butterfly). There's one called "Papa Hugs" which Zinnia and I both approve of. It counts the kinds of papa hugs there are all the way up to 10. "Zinnia's Garden," is a book about a girl's first garden and how she keeps a diary about her successes which one can see in the corner of the page. "Dear diary, I'm so excited! My first sprout popped up today. I can't wait for all the other ones." Kinda sweet, really.
However, a number of books have what i consider to be a slight, anti-father leaning to them. "Wide Awake Jake" tells of a little boy struggling to go back to sleep. He keeps going downstairs to ask his parents for advice. The father says things like, "Why don't you count to a million?" One can almost hear the sarcasm dripping from his gruff father's voice. Mom counters with, ""Pretend your a little mouse going to your mouse hole to sleep for the night." Jake never thinks his father's suggestions are very good ideas (they aren't), but he tries every single one of mom's suggestions. Needless to say, I started to come up with my own suggestions, which gave Jenn perhaps the slightest of smiles: "So then Jakes father said, 'Hey Jake, why don't you go run around the block in nothing but your Garanimals until your utterly exhausted?' But Jake didn't think that was a very good idea. Then mom said, 'Pretend your a sunflower folding up its petals for the night.'
Another book is about a father who takes his kids on a bear hunt. Without mom, of course. They go through a grassy field, a dark forest, across a rushing river, and even hazard a blustery snow storm until they enter a cave. Of course there's a bear in it, and of course they all run back through all the obstacles they just come through--bear hot on their trails--until they make it home and hide under the covers. It ends with, "We're never going on another bear hunt ever again."
No shit. Call me old-fashioned, but I would have turned around once my jacket-less kids got slammed by the howling blizzard.
Another book that Jenn likes and I loathe is about a baby bunny and a parent bunny of unspecified gender, but because of the dialogue, I strongly suspect it is the little rabbit's father. The baby bunny stretches out its arms or climbs a hill or points to a cloud and says, "I love you thisssss much." The bigger bunny opens its arms wider, higher, etc, and tells the baby with a smile, "Well, I love you this much." And being the adult, the parent's love is always bigger, higher, greater than the baby's.
If I had that papa bunny in front of me, I'd smack him upside the head and say, "Look, get off your narcissistic high horse and stop comparing your love to your kid's. You're going to make him feel bad about himself." I might even go into a spiritual discourse about the nature of love and how there are no shades of gray. I would tell him about the purity of a child's love and the fact that the older bunny can't let his baby's love in without comparing it to his own says more about his own fucked-up-ness than anything. Then, of course, I would remember that I'm talking to a fictional rabbit and get some help.
One of the great literary culprits in the kids book pantheon is, I believe, the highest selling kid's book in history. I speak, of course, of that ode to codependence and selfishness, "The Giving Tree." Through the years, the tree gives and gives and gives to a boy as he transitions from young lad to youth to young man to adult to decrepit elder. Through it all, the boy takes and takes and takes without a thought for the tree or giving anything in return. In the end, all that is left of the tree is a stump, which he even still offers to the selfish old man as a seat to rest his bones. The man wordlessly sits on the stump looking alone, sad, and confused. The end.
If I have any say-so, the pages of The Giving Tree will never darken Zinnia's crib unless it's to show her the hazards of being selfish and self-centered, and how important it is to value the earth ... or am I taking these things a little too seriously?
I am also well aware that despite my pledge to begin a memoir-ette about the life and times of one Barbara May Bender, I have barely carved out a word. A photo of Barb even now stares out at me from my computer wall paper. She is sitting in a forest green library chair on the first floor of the Jewish home, and affecting an uncharacteristically easy-going, lip smile. She is donning a pair of faded old person's jeans and a white, long-sleeved sweatshirt with a pudgy cartoon cat on the front saying (via a thought bubble), Stress, What Stress?
Despite Barb's shock of white hair, her twisted arthritic hands folded uneasily in her lap, her sunken bosom, and her head propped up between two angular, bony shoulders, it's hard for me to see her as elderly. When I look at any photo of Barb I see--and will always see--a woman in her mid-forties, neurotic to the core, ornery, needy, and alive. Even now, four months later, my mother's death barely feels like a reality, though this very afternoon I met with a broker at my bank to help me to make financial arrangements with my portion of the inheritance.
Three nights ago, I found myself staring at her picture on my computer: "I can't believe you fucking died," I told her image. "You, of all people, were suppose to live for-fucking-ever."
Tears ensued as they do even now.
* * *
Zinnia has added several words to her astonishing vocabulary: Mama, papa, woo-woo (as in, woof-woof, (i.e. dog), and occasionally, Bzzzzzzzzz, when she says a picture of a bee. She also occasionally hisses when were are reading one of Eric Carle's beautifully illustrated but mind-numbingly dull books, and her eyes light on a picture of "a slithery snake."
My daughter loves to read. That's L-O-V-E. She has discovered--as Don Cheadle pointed out in the film "Out of Sight" after a a prison guard interrupted a fight between he and George Clooney in the prison library--"You know, reading is fundamental and shit. We got all excited and everything."
Yes, indeedy, it's official--Zinnia is a genius.
We are up to--conservatively--25-30 books a day. Some are quite short and an easy read, like an eight page, large print book about smiles. It features a group of toddlers who--even though most kids this age are incapable of affectation--somehow still appear as if they are being forced into a smile as if one of their parents is being held by gun point off camera unless they do what the photographer says. The photos are posted above saccharine-sweet captions like, "Give us a smile, won't you please?"
Others books are a little wordier, and Zinnia's attention quickly wanes. She has learned to subtly let us know when she is ready for the next story by simply toddling away mid-reading (often to get a different book) or by grabbing whatever book we are in the middle of from our hands, closing its cover, and hurling it to the floor like yesterday's trash.
Jenn often teases me for having what I call a discerning pallet when it comes to movies. If there is even the smallest of plot holes I will pick up on it and make fun of the film. If the hole is too gaping, the plot too weak, I disengage from the movie entirely and fire verbal spitballs at the actors and director from the confines of our microfiber couch.
Likewise, I have become a bit of a children's book critic. The classics seem to have stood the test of time. Goodnight Moon and most Dr. Seuss books are still quite readable, though the Seuss knock-off's by Eastman suck. The Hungry Caterpillar is a lovely book about, er, a hungry caterpillar and how it transforms into ... a yellow dump truck. (Ha, ha! I mean butterfly). There's one called "Papa Hugs" which Zinnia and I both approve of. It counts the kinds of papa hugs there are all the way up to 10. "Zinnia's Garden," is a book about a girl's first garden and how she keeps a diary about her successes which one can see in the corner of the page. "Dear diary, I'm so excited! My first sprout popped up today. I can't wait for all the other ones." Kinda sweet, really.
However, a number of books have what i consider to be a slight, anti-father leaning to them. "Wide Awake Jake" tells of a little boy struggling to go back to sleep. He keeps going downstairs to ask his parents for advice. The father says things like, "Why don't you count to a million?" One can almost hear the sarcasm dripping from his gruff father's voice. Mom counters with, ""Pretend your a little mouse going to your mouse hole to sleep for the night." Jake never thinks his father's suggestions are very good ideas (they aren't), but he tries every single one of mom's suggestions. Needless to say, I started to come up with my own suggestions, which gave Jenn perhaps the slightest of smiles: "So then Jakes father said, 'Hey Jake, why don't you go run around the block in nothing but your Garanimals until your utterly exhausted?' But Jake didn't think that was a very good idea. Then mom said, 'Pretend your a sunflower folding up its petals for the night.'
Another book is about a father who takes his kids on a bear hunt. Without mom, of course. They go through a grassy field, a dark forest, across a rushing river, and even hazard a blustery snow storm until they enter a cave. Of course there's a bear in it, and of course they all run back through all the obstacles they just come through--bear hot on their trails--until they make it home and hide under the covers. It ends with, "We're never going on another bear hunt ever again."
No shit. Call me old-fashioned, but I would have turned around once my jacket-less kids got slammed by the howling blizzard.
Another book that Jenn likes and I loathe is about a baby bunny and a parent bunny of unspecified gender, but because of the dialogue, I strongly suspect it is the little rabbit's father. The baby bunny stretches out its arms or climbs a hill or points to a cloud and says, "I love you thisssss much." The bigger bunny opens its arms wider, higher, etc, and tells the baby with a smile, "Well, I love you this much." And being the adult, the parent's love is always bigger, higher, greater than the baby's.
If I had that papa bunny in front of me, I'd smack him upside the head and say, "Look, get off your narcissistic high horse and stop comparing your love to your kid's. You're going to make him feel bad about himself." I might even go into a spiritual discourse about the nature of love and how there are no shades of gray. I would tell him about the purity of a child's love and the fact that the older bunny can't let his baby's love in without comparing it to his own says more about his own fucked-up-ness than anything. Then, of course, I would remember that I'm talking to a fictional rabbit and get some help.
One of the great literary culprits in the kids book pantheon is, I believe, the highest selling kid's book in history. I speak, of course, of that ode to codependence and selfishness, "The Giving Tree." Through the years, the tree gives and gives and gives to a boy as he transitions from young lad to youth to young man to adult to decrepit elder. Through it all, the boy takes and takes and takes without a thought for the tree or giving anything in return. In the end, all that is left of the tree is a stump, which he even still offers to the selfish old man as a seat to rest his bones. The man wordlessly sits on the stump looking alone, sad, and confused. The end.
If I have any say-so, the pages of The Giving Tree will never darken Zinnia's crib unless it's to show her the hazards of being selfish and self-centered, and how important it is to value the earth ... or am I taking these things a little too seriously?
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Zinnie Takes a Tumble
We--Jenn, Baby Z. and I--were at a gathering last night, an eighth birthday party for my "niece," the adopted daughter of my good friends, M. and S. Things were chugging along as they usually do when we attend a social event. Jenn and I took turns carrying, watching, following, and generally hoovering over Zinnia, while the other parent ate, shmoozed, and generally enjoyed the festivities.
The last gathering we attended was Zinnia's own first birthday party. I wrote about it two to three blog entries ago. It was a good scene, but with so many hands touching Baby Z, it resulted in her getting sick for the first time in months ... which, of course, lead to Jenn getting sick which was quickly followed by you-know-who. Thus, we decided to set a boundary at future gatherings by requesting that people not touch her face.($) In doing so, we understood that some people would think we were overreacting, but our decision not to have Zinnia vaccinated has inspired us to err on the side of prudence. Our "Don't touch her face!" rule became a kind of good natured running joke during the above alluded to party, and just so it got the point across, I was okay with this.
I have written in the past about not being a baby person. Over a beer at a local brew pub recently, I told a friend that before I had my own kid, I viewed babies as parasitic, personality-less blobs, something more to tolerate than enjoy. They were like jellyfish to me, at least until they learned to talk and interact like, you know, real humans.
Zinnia changed all of this for me. When said-friend invited me to tell him what I appreciated about my daughter's personality (albeit in a tone that I interpreted as his jaundiced skepticism), I described her thus:
Zinnia is extremely intelligent and independent and very very sharp. She has a great sense of humor, she's sensitive and adventurous, and very possibly musically inclined. She is stubborn--none of this holding of mama or papa's fingers as she walks--and she never let us feed her by hand. She will either put something in her own mouth, or more likely, takes what we handed her and tries to shove it back into our mouths. She is generous, but not to a fault.
Once I finished, my friend declined to comment ... as I expected him to. For many male, non-parents, they view babies as I once did: "Yeah, yeah, cute--now what's for dinner?" It probably doesn't help that when we have people over, Zinnia is our dominant topic of discussion.
Anyway last night was going well. A flock of kids banged away at a pinada hanging from one of the porch beams nearly braining each other in the process while the adult attendees hung out and conversed on the periphery.
I passed the baby-torch to Jenn who was sitting on the second step and entered through the back door into the house to get some food. To both Jenn's and my amazement, Zinnia had actually negotiated these very steps in both directions shortly after we arrived. Clearly our daughter was some sort of stairway savant, perhaps a future gymnast.
I loaded up my plate with food and had just turned to head back outside when I heard a chorus of "Ooooo's!" It was the type of sound one hears at a football game when a linebacker has just laid-out a wide receiver with a particularly violent hit. My first reaction was that one of the kids had cracked open the pinanda, but the "Ooo's" were quickly followed by a moment of silence. This lead me to think something had happened, like one of the kids had gotten beaned or ...
Jenn came walking in, cradling our crying child in her arms. When Zinnia is hurt--if it's a Big Owie--she opens her mouth in a silently wail before finding her breath and shifting into a full lunged cry. A nasty bruise was already forming on her forehead.
Apparently without warning and before the lunging Jenn could grab her, Zinnia decided--on a whim--that she was a big enough girl now to negotiate the first stair all by herself. Wrong. She plummeted to the pavement below and scraped her forehead in an imperfect half gainer, before finishing with a somersault that came to completion when the back of her head smacked against the concrete with a discernible thud.
When Jenn passed me carrying Zinnia into the lliving room, my initial reaction was concern and fear, but with the absence of blood and Zinnia slowly calming down, these feeling was quickly replaced with anger and a kind of silent accusatory energy towards Jenn. What made things worse (and yes, I know this should have been the last thing on my mind), was that it happened in a completely public venue--a birthday party with 20+ kids and adults all bearing witness to the event. I know this absolutely shouldn't matter, but for some reason it did.
What made it even more glaring was that one of the couples attending the party stood silently by in the living room watching with concern, while another attendee hovered around offering to be--and actually was--helpful. The cumulative effect for the author, however, was that it left me feeling exposed and irritated.* Mainly exposed.
When Zinnia was back to her old, smiley self, Jenn and I took time to compare notes. We both had the standard guilt-laden thoughts that everyone must have been asking themselves how we could allow such a thing to happen. Even worse for Jenn was that she was painfully aware of my judging energy (i.e. How could you let this happen?). When we returned home, she tearfully informed me that she felt "totally betrayed" by the one person whose approval mattered most and disappointed that I would choose that moment to dispense blame.**
I admit my timing could have been better, but I'd like to think pointing an accusing finger somehow contributed to Zinnia's speedy recovery as well as strengthened my emotional connection with my wife.*** Bottom line, yeah, I did judge Jenn for "allowing" Zinnia to get hurt and also felt like a complete asshole for not being more supportive. Even while in the midst of it, I knew Z's tumble could have just as easily happened on my watch, and I was aware that my reaction was not remotely useful. All I can say is that it was me at my most fatherly human.
The good news is that babies are tough. Really tough. If one of us big people plummeted from, say, a second step into a full somersault and then landed on our back with a thud, we would either end up in the hospital or, at the very least, at home on the couch with a ice pack on her heads. As our helpful friend reminded us at the time, "That's why their heads are so soft."
$ And by people, I mean complete strangers and a myriad of germ-ridden kids who tend to interact with babies like they're little dolls.
*With hindsight, I probably should have thanked everybody for their concern and politely asked them if we could please have a little space.
** Jenn shared with me yesterday that a mama friend of hers came out to the garage just after her daughter had taken a spill and started to bawl. Her friend pointed a accusing finger at her husband who had been outside with their daughter at the time. He informed her that their little girl had been walking across the garage with her new and developing legs and had just gone--splat!--face first onto the pavement. It felt like a nod to my reaction at the party and also to say, "See? Sometimes these things just happen."
***Kidding.
The last gathering we attended was Zinnia's own first birthday party. I wrote about it two to three blog entries ago. It was a good scene, but with so many hands touching Baby Z, it resulted in her getting sick for the first time in months ... which, of course, lead to Jenn getting sick which was quickly followed by you-know-who. Thus, we decided to set a boundary at future gatherings by requesting that people not touch her face.($) In doing so, we understood that some people would think we were overreacting, but our decision not to have Zinnia vaccinated has inspired us to err on the side of prudence. Our "Don't touch her face!" rule became a kind of good natured running joke during the above alluded to party, and just so it got the point across, I was okay with this.
I have written in the past about not being a baby person. Over a beer at a local brew pub recently, I told a friend that before I had my own kid, I viewed babies as parasitic, personality-less blobs, something more to tolerate than enjoy. They were like jellyfish to me, at least until they learned to talk and interact like, you know, real humans.
Zinnia changed all of this for me. When said-friend invited me to tell him what I appreciated about my daughter's personality (albeit in a tone that I interpreted as his jaundiced skepticism), I described her thus:
Zinnia is extremely intelligent and independent and very very sharp. She has a great sense of humor, she's sensitive and adventurous, and very possibly musically inclined. She is stubborn--none of this holding of mama or papa's fingers as she walks--and she never let us feed her by hand. She will either put something in her own mouth, or more likely, takes what we handed her and tries to shove it back into our mouths. She is generous, but not to a fault.
Once I finished, my friend declined to comment ... as I expected him to. For many male, non-parents, they view babies as I once did: "Yeah, yeah, cute--now what's for dinner?" It probably doesn't help that when we have people over, Zinnia is our dominant topic of discussion.
Anyway last night was going well. A flock of kids banged away at a pinada hanging from one of the porch beams nearly braining each other in the process while the adult attendees hung out and conversed on the periphery.
I passed the baby-torch to Jenn who was sitting on the second step and entered through the back door into the house to get some food. To both Jenn's and my amazement, Zinnia had actually negotiated these very steps in both directions shortly after we arrived. Clearly our daughter was some sort of stairway savant, perhaps a future gymnast.
I loaded up my plate with food and had just turned to head back outside when I heard a chorus of "Ooooo's!" It was the type of sound one hears at a football game when a linebacker has just laid-out a wide receiver with a particularly violent hit. My first reaction was that one of the kids had cracked open the pinanda, but the "Ooo's" were quickly followed by a moment of silence. This lead me to think something had happened, like one of the kids had gotten beaned or ...
Jenn came walking in, cradling our crying child in her arms. When Zinnia is hurt--if it's a Big Owie--she opens her mouth in a silently wail before finding her breath and shifting into a full lunged cry. A nasty bruise was already forming on her forehead.
Apparently without warning and before the lunging Jenn could grab her, Zinnia decided--on a whim--that she was a big enough girl now to negotiate the first stair all by herself. Wrong. She plummeted to the pavement below and scraped her forehead in an imperfect half gainer, before finishing with a somersault that came to completion when the back of her head smacked against the concrete with a discernible thud.
When Jenn passed me carrying Zinnia into the lliving room, my initial reaction was concern and fear, but with the absence of blood and Zinnia slowly calming down, these feeling was quickly replaced with anger and a kind of silent accusatory energy towards Jenn. What made things worse (and yes, I know this should have been the last thing on my mind), was that it happened in a completely public venue--a birthday party with 20+ kids and adults all bearing witness to the event. I know this absolutely shouldn't matter, but for some reason it did.
What made it even more glaring was that one of the couples attending the party stood silently by in the living room watching with concern, while another attendee hovered around offering to be--and actually was--helpful. The cumulative effect for the author, however, was that it left me feeling exposed and irritated.* Mainly exposed.
When Zinnia was back to her old, smiley self, Jenn and I took time to compare notes. We both had the standard guilt-laden thoughts that everyone must have been asking themselves how we could allow such a thing to happen. Even worse for Jenn was that she was painfully aware of my judging energy (i.e. How could you let this happen?). When we returned home, she tearfully informed me that she felt "totally betrayed" by the one person whose approval mattered most and disappointed that I would choose that moment to dispense blame.**
I admit my timing could have been better, but I'd like to think pointing an accusing finger somehow contributed to Zinnia's speedy recovery as well as strengthened my emotional connection with my wife.*** Bottom line, yeah, I did judge Jenn for "allowing" Zinnia to get hurt and also felt like a complete asshole for not being more supportive. Even while in the midst of it, I knew Z's tumble could have just as easily happened on my watch, and I was aware that my reaction was not remotely useful. All I can say is that it was me at my most fatherly human.
The good news is that babies are tough. Really tough. If one of us big people plummeted from, say, a second step into a full somersault and then landed on our back with a thud, we would either end up in the hospital or, at the very least, at home on the couch with a ice pack on her heads. As our helpful friend reminded us at the time, "That's why their heads are so soft."
$ And by people, I mean complete strangers and a myriad of germ-ridden kids who tend to interact with babies like they're little dolls.
*With hindsight, I probably should have thanked everybody for their concern and politely asked them if we could please have a little space.
** Jenn shared with me yesterday that a mama friend of hers came out to the garage just after her daughter had taken a spill and started to bawl. Her friend pointed a accusing finger at her husband who had been outside with their daughter at the time. He informed her that their little girl had been walking across the garage with her new and developing legs and had just gone--splat!--face first onto the pavement. It felt like a nod to my reaction at the party and also to say, "See? Sometimes these things just happen."
***Kidding.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Hail, Mamas!
Poor baby Zinnia is pulling on her ears and drooling by the bucket, a sure sign of teething. Why God designed babies to go through so much pain this early on in life is beyond me.
Last night, I arrived home at 9:15 p.m. As I walked in the door, I was greeted by a squeal of delight. Zinnia was still up (sadly, this would be the case for another hour and a half) and came, for lack of a better word, sprinting towards me.
It's one of the nice things about being dad. I get to be gone all day, busting my hump for the man, and by the time I arrive home Zinnia is so in need of a break from her mother (and vice-versa) that she lights up like a menorah and toddles towards me, arms in the air in an "Up, up!" command. Our ritual is this: I pick her up, and she grabs a handful of my shirt and secures her position on my forearm. All is once again right in the world.
But last night Zinnie was even more excited than usual. As she bounced towards me, she beamed with delighted happy baby sounds. I held my arms out--the proud papa--and waited for my victorious embrace. But before I could scoop her up, Z. veered to the left ... toward the cat. My face must have dropped, because Jenn laughed and said, "Now you know how it feels." I ignored her comment and decided, as is my wont, to be the mature adult and make myself some buttered toast.
Since Jenn and Zinnia are together 21-22 hours out of the day, Jenn rarely gets to make a grand entrance. Let me back up and repeat that: Jenn spends 21, that's two-one hours a day with a being who leaves a trail of clothes, dirty diapers, singing toys, spit-up, ripped pages from books, half masticated food, and drool everywhere she goes; a being whose neediness is only surpassed by her flair for the dramatic if there is even the slightest delay in her immediate gratification;* a being who, on a good day, will allow Jenn to finish one or two bracelets, read a few pages from her book, or clean up around the house. I honestly don't know how she (and her mama friends) do it.
Perhaps this is a good time to own something. Since Zinnia's birth, I have thus far spent one full day, that's a "one" with no second digit after it--"one" as in the loneliest number--one, lone solitary day with our darling child since her birth. And let me tell you, it was one of the longest fucking days of my life. Not longest as in most difficult or most grueling, just long as in, "Okay, now what should we do." During lulls in action, Zinnie, being the pre-verbal baby that she is, would only look back at me, waiting, waiting, always waiting. To do this day in and day out would drive me out of my sku--I mean, be extremely challenging, old chap.
Star Date--Two Days Ago: Labor day. I went to Starbucks and did some paperwork. Then we--the family Bender-Luki--went for a drive, followed by a pit stop to DQ, and at last back home. Now what? It's mid-day and too hot to play outside. I asked myself what would a good father do, but came up blank. Zinnia toddled across the house, so I followed her; she chased Honey the Cat around the dining room table, and I corraled her; we made for the bedroom for a while to play with--well, it really doesn't matter. We played. She went back out to the living room where her music box was, as well as her singing vacuum cleaner ("We're going to clean the house today, doo-dah, doo-dah ..."), and also a musical laptop, and under the premise that three saccharine-sweet voices chiming in with really bad children's songs are always better than one, Zinnia got all her toys going simultaneously and then--hilariously cute--she looked up at me and beamed as she started to bounce and dance to the cacophony. How could I resist? I walked over to the marimba and added a fourth musical voice to the din. Somehow through it all, Jenn was able to keep reading her book.
Which brings me back to mothers. Probably more than anything else, I am in awe of their multi-tasking ability. If I am in a hurry to get going or Jenn asks me to do something while I'm holding Zinnia, I'll look at her, one part indignant ("Good Lord! Can't you see I'm holding our baby here?") and one part flustered. It's during these times that Jenn--the picture of kindness and patience--says in a tone generally reserved for one's retarded half-brother, "Wellll, you could put her down."
"Oh," I say sheepishly and lower our daughter to the floor. "That's right."
For her part, Jenn can shower with Zinnia, get both of them dried off and dressed, put a load of wash in, do the dishes, prepare a diaper bag for a foray out into the world--but wait!--first she needs to fire off an email, and do all of this while still keeping Zinnia amused/occupied with, say, the magic of the Tupperware cupboard or our child's stuffed kitty. Then, mother and daughter run out to do errands, visit their mama-baby friends, go shopping at Trader Joes, and finally return home where Jenn will wrestle with our sleepless little beast until finally, Zinnia sends some z's floating into the atmosphere. This is always a good time for Jenn to get some jewelry done or straighten the house a bit before her husband (i.e. yours truly) returns home from the aforementioned hump-busting.
By this time, Jenn is often ready for a bit of a baby break. If she's looking particularly haggard, I will lift our daughter up in happy embrace, roll my eyes, and make some sort of helpful comment along the lines of: "What, do I have to do everything around here?"
It used to get a rise out of her, but now only garners a knowing smile.
* Generally, she does this with a wave of tears and then hurls herself to the floor and buries her face in her hands at the injustice of it all
Last night, I arrived home at 9:15 p.m. As I walked in the door, I was greeted by a squeal of delight. Zinnia was still up (sadly, this would be the case for another hour and a half) and came, for lack of a better word, sprinting towards me.
It's one of the nice things about being dad. I get to be gone all day, busting my hump for the man, and by the time I arrive home Zinnia is so in need of a break from her mother (and vice-versa) that she lights up like a menorah and toddles towards me, arms in the air in an "Up, up!" command. Our ritual is this: I pick her up, and she grabs a handful of my shirt and secures her position on my forearm. All is once again right in the world.
But last night Zinnie was even more excited than usual. As she bounced towards me, she beamed with delighted happy baby sounds. I held my arms out--the proud papa--and waited for my victorious embrace. But before I could scoop her up, Z. veered to the left ... toward the cat. My face must have dropped, because Jenn laughed and said, "Now you know how it feels." I ignored her comment and decided, as is my wont, to be the mature adult and make myself some buttered toast.
Since Jenn and Zinnia are together 21-22 hours out of the day, Jenn rarely gets to make a grand entrance. Let me back up and repeat that: Jenn spends 21, that's two-one hours a day with a being who leaves a trail of clothes, dirty diapers, singing toys, spit-up, ripped pages from books, half masticated food, and drool everywhere she goes; a being whose neediness is only surpassed by her flair for the dramatic if there is even the slightest delay in her immediate gratification;* a being who, on a good day, will allow Jenn to finish one or two bracelets, read a few pages from her book, or clean up around the house. I honestly don't know how she (and her mama friends) do it.
Perhaps this is a good time to own something. Since Zinnia's birth, I have thus far spent one full day, that's a "one" with no second digit after it--"one" as in the loneliest number--one, lone solitary day with our darling child since her birth. And let me tell you, it was one of the longest fucking days of my life. Not longest as in most difficult or most grueling, just long as in, "Okay, now what should we do." During lulls in action, Zinnie, being the pre-verbal baby that she is, would only look back at me, waiting, waiting, always waiting. To do this day in and day out would drive me out of my sku--I mean, be extremely challenging, old chap.
Star Date--Two Days Ago: Labor day. I went to Starbucks and did some paperwork. Then we--the family Bender-Luki--went for a drive, followed by a pit stop to DQ, and at last back home. Now what? It's mid-day and too hot to play outside. I asked myself what would a good father do, but came up blank. Zinnia toddled across the house, so I followed her; she chased Honey the Cat around the dining room table, and I corraled her; we made for the bedroom for a while to play with--well, it really doesn't matter. We played. She went back out to the living room where her music box was, as well as her singing vacuum cleaner ("We're going to clean the house today, doo-dah, doo-dah ..."), and also a musical laptop, and under the premise that three saccharine-sweet voices chiming in with really bad children's songs are always better than one, Zinnia got all her toys going simultaneously and then--hilariously cute--she looked up at me and beamed as she started to bounce and dance to the cacophony. How could I resist? I walked over to the marimba and added a fourth musical voice to the din. Somehow through it all, Jenn was able to keep reading her book.
Which brings me back to mothers. Probably more than anything else, I am in awe of their multi-tasking ability. If I am in a hurry to get going or Jenn asks me to do something while I'm holding Zinnia, I'll look at her, one part indignant ("Good Lord! Can't you see I'm holding our baby here?") and one part flustered. It's during these times that Jenn--the picture of kindness and patience--says in a tone generally reserved for one's retarded half-brother, "Wellll, you could put her down."
"Oh," I say sheepishly and lower our daughter to the floor. "That's right."
For her part, Jenn can shower with Zinnia, get both of them dried off and dressed, put a load of wash in, do the dishes, prepare a diaper bag for a foray out into the world--but wait!--first she needs to fire off an email, and do all of this while still keeping Zinnia amused/occupied with, say, the magic of the Tupperware cupboard or our child's stuffed kitty. Then, mother and daughter run out to do errands, visit their mama-baby friends, go shopping at Trader Joes, and finally return home where Jenn will wrestle with our sleepless little beast until finally, Zinnia sends some z's floating into the atmosphere. This is always a good time for Jenn to get some jewelry done or straighten the house a bit before her husband (i.e. yours truly) returns home from the aforementioned hump-busting.
By this time, Jenn is often ready for a bit of a baby break. If she's looking particularly haggard, I will lift our daughter up in happy embrace, roll my eyes, and make some sort of helpful comment along the lines of: "What, do I have to do everything around here?"
It used to get a rise out of her, but now only garners a knowing smile.
* Generally, she does this with a wave of tears and then hurls herself to the floor and buries her face in her hands at the injustice of it all
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Two Segues and a Funeral
It was about four years ago that Jenn and I moved in together in McMinnville, Oregon. At 45, I felt I had finally reached the age where I was willing to make the leap. It wasn't love or lust or even a pragmatic financial decision that prompted the impetus to move in together. It was, in fact, turkey hot dogs.
At the time, I was living with a vegetarian yoga teacher/massage therapist, renting the rear portion of her house while I got acclimated to my new town. I had my own entrance, my own toi-toi, and became good friends with both she and her 1/4 wolf 3/4 German Shepard mix named, Timber.
"Tom," my landlord said one night as we hung out in the kitchen. "Could you please not cook those things anymore?" Referring to my turkey dogs. "Or if you do, leave the back door open. The smell is making me nauseous."
I said sure, but was caught off guard by the request, and it took me all of five minutes to work up a good head of steam: Who the fuck does she think she is, telling me what i can or can't eat? Man I hate living with people, especially when ...
I made turkey dogs once or twice during the next week (with the door open), and decided I was too old for this shit. I called Jenn.
"I was wondering ... that is, how would you feel about ... do you want to move in together?"
She sounded surprised at this sudden turn, but also game. "Okay when?"
It was mid- March. "I dunno, how about ... May 1st?"
We moved in six weeks later, and got married a little over two years after that. In a sense, Zinnia might not be here if it weren't for turkey hot dogs.
(Okay, here it comes, one big flying leap into an oncoming segue ...)
A similar turn of events recently lead me to give notice at my 28 hour a week job with university. The steady paycheck has been wonderful, the team I worked with outstanding, my supervisor couldn't have been better. In this case, however, the proverbial turkey dog was the prodigious amount of required paperwork.
Every place I've ever worked has had a one page treatment plan that a clinician can kick out in 10 minutes and never think about again. My current place of employment has a six to eight to occasionally ten page beast that the client's are required to update every 90 days. The treatment plan also has to be frequently referenced during therapy sessions and then documented in a progress note to make sure that the objectives on the plan have been completed by the appointed time.
I tried to buy in, I wanted to buy in, I yearned to buy in, I just couldnt'. Since my arrival there, it has taken me a minimum of two 50 minute sessions to complete one of these plans--sometimes more--and I've reached the point where I find myself apologizing to my clients for spending so much time on a document that neither one of us believes in or cares about.
Is it possible to complete one in a single session? Absolutely! Many (if not most) of my colleagues do it on a regular basis. But I have grown to detest these things that I see as a symbol of everything wrong with agency mental health. The system has been so overrun by bureaucrats and auditors justifying their jobs with ever increasing amounts of paperwork, that actual, you know, treatment, has taken a back seat to what one person referred to as "treating to the chart."*
One sure fire sign that it's time for me to move on is a marked spike in my bitching. For example, when Jenn and I and baby-to-be first moved back to New Mexico, I would return home from my first agency complaining almost daily about the "work conditions.** With my current (and soon to be former) place of employment, my complaining is trending in a similar fashion, but for very different reasons. I love the my coworkers, love my boss, love my clients, but hate the bureaucracy and cover Your Ass-ness of it all. Inevitably, my tone has begun to take on an unfortunate whiny quality while I relay various complaints to Jenn:
... so I'm on my third session trying to get this treatment plan done, but I have to make sure I include tobacco use on the plan. It's like, 'I know you're addicted to crack and have lost custody of your three kids and were just fired from your job and are living out of your car, but lets focus on that nasty nicotine habit.
I'm not justifying my reaction. In fact, it reeks a little of tantrum and makes me cringe to even put into words. But my visceral resistance has become so strong that, in the immortal words of REO Speedwagon, it has become quite clear that It's time for me to fly.***
But what next, Tom? We knowest from whence thou came, but where goest thou anon?
We goest--Jenn and Zinnia and I--into private practice and are currently looking for an office upon which to rent-eth. I will be hanging my shingle by October 1st.
"Good lord!" the astute reader might exclaim. "In this economy? Have you gone mad?"
Well, er, no ... or maybe a little. I fully understand that the above quote from the fictitious "astute reader" is merely my own projected fear; I further understand that my current job offers me the security of being part of a solid, fun-loving team while guaranteeing a steady paycheck into perpetuity; furthermore, I get that if I slowed down enough to truly feel my feelings around leaping and hoping/praying/screaming for the net to appear, I would ...
... still feel completely solid about the decision. I have my wife's support, all three of us have our possies (aka--our Spirit Guides), and I feel guided in a way that I have only experienced a handful of times in my life. They were, in no particular order:
While writing
When I participated in shamanic ceremonies (both here and in Peru)
Hiking in various parts of the world
When, as a wee lad (or is that Wheeee!!! lad) I discovered the wonders of the semenless-climax.
And when I was able to support my parents as they went through their deathing process.
This brings us to segue #2:
When I realized I was unwilling to stay at my job--a fairly agonizing decision--Jenn and I talked. My plan had been to continue to work my 28 hours a week, while squeezing in as many clients as I could during off hours, both Saturdays and Sundays. Essentially, I would work my ass off for two months, save enough money to support us while I grew my practice, and then make the leap.
Then my mother died.
After Barb became sick and started taking regular falls in her apartment, one of the reasons she offered for not wanting to move into the Jewish Independent Living place in Milwaukee (aside, of course, from the fact that she would be giving up her car and leaving her home of 20+ years to move into a place with a bunch of aging Jews), was the fact that she wanted to have money left over to leave her kids, i.e. myself and my three siblings (or rather two siblings, which was bumped up to three every time my oldest sister gave our mother a call).
When my father passed, he left this: His love of golf, his passion for the Green Bay Packers, and his enamored, heartbroken wife. Here's what he didn't leave: A red hot cent for his kids. This was unsurprising and as it should be. While there has been the occasional lamentation at the fortunes my father didn't make and the poker hands he left un-raked in, the way he went out was consistent with how he lived his live--spending freely, saving nothing, and leaving his kids to fend for themselves.
My mother, too, left the planet the way she lived--in chaos, fear, and generosity. The money she had in savings, IRA's, and investments was a remnant of the money she made from the sale of our childhood house, some stocks and bonds, and I believe, my father's social security money.
It was one of those situations where even while she was in the hospital, I was doing my best not to feel what I detected to be a glimmer of daylight--lets call it relief--simmering just below the surface. It didn't wortk. With my mother's tragic and untimely demise, the inheritance--whatever it may be--will support my family and myself, and help us purchase a new/used car for Jenn and Zinnie-binnie without my having to put in grueling 60-70 hour work weeks.
With my mother's help and, I would like to think, her blessing, I will now be able to launch my private practice not from a place of sheer exhaustion and missing any number of Baby Ba-Zinnia's milestones, but from a place of faith and gratitude.
Thank you, mom. Even if you struggled to be happy while you walked the earth, I know you would feel good knowing your grandchild is being well taken care of in the air conditioned cab of a sparkling teal Toyota.
Here are some potential names for my practice:
Prickly Pear Counseling
Living Gratitude Counseling
Man, Do You Need Help Counseling
Bendersky Unlimited
Cheerful Meat Counseling (found in one of Jenn's cookbooks. Made us laugh for obvious reasons)
The Counseling Station (all aboard!!!)
Needless to say, I am open to suggestions. Please email me with your votes or ideas.
* Very much like our wise ex-president's "No Child Left Behind" initiative, a system where teachers are not so much teaching kids how to learn and be independent thinkers as they are instructing them on how to pass a standardized test. This law from a man who was recently quoted as saying, “Eight years was awesome and I was famous and I was powerful,” Bush told the Hoover Institute’s Peter Robinson. “But I have no desire for fame and power anymore. … I crawled out of the swamp and I’m not crawling back in.” A bit of a cry from "Ask not what your country can do for you ..." speech, but point taken. Being president for eight years is an awesome thing to do.
**A euphemism for "Did that just fucking happen?"
***Gotta love aging rockers. They want to prove they still got what it takes. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o51baQWH5Ec&feature=related
At the time, I was living with a vegetarian yoga teacher/massage therapist, renting the rear portion of her house while I got acclimated to my new town. I had my own entrance, my own toi-toi, and became good friends with both she and her 1/4 wolf 3/4 German Shepard mix named, Timber.
"Tom," my landlord said one night as we hung out in the kitchen. "Could you please not cook those things anymore?" Referring to my turkey dogs. "Or if you do, leave the back door open. The smell is making me nauseous."
I said sure, but was caught off guard by the request, and it took me all of five minutes to work up a good head of steam: Who the fuck does she think she is, telling me what i can or can't eat? Man I hate living with people, especially when ...
I made turkey dogs once or twice during the next week (with the door open), and decided I was too old for this shit. I called Jenn.
"I was wondering ... that is, how would you feel about ... do you want to move in together?"
She sounded surprised at this sudden turn, but also game. "Okay when?"
It was mid- March. "I dunno, how about ... May 1st?"
We moved in six weeks later, and got married a little over two years after that. In a sense, Zinnia might not be here if it weren't for turkey hot dogs.
(Okay, here it comes, one big flying leap into an oncoming segue ...)
A similar turn of events recently lead me to give notice at my 28 hour a week job with university. The steady paycheck has been wonderful, the team I worked with outstanding, my supervisor couldn't have been better. In this case, however, the proverbial turkey dog was the prodigious amount of required paperwork.
Every place I've ever worked has had a one page treatment plan that a clinician can kick out in 10 minutes and never think about again. My current place of employment has a six to eight to occasionally ten page beast that the client's are required to update every 90 days. The treatment plan also has to be frequently referenced during therapy sessions and then documented in a progress note to make sure that the objectives on the plan have been completed by the appointed time.
I tried to buy in, I wanted to buy in, I yearned to buy in, I just couldnt'. Since my arrival there, it has taken me a minimum of two 50 minute sessions to complete one of these plans--sometimes more--and I've reached the point where I find myself apologizing to my clients for spending so much time on a document that neither one of us believes in or cares about.
Is it possible to complete one in a single session? Absolutely! Many (if not most) of my colleagues do it on a regular basis. But I have grown to detest these things that I see as a symbol of everything wrong with agency mental health. The system has been so overrun by bureaucrats and auditors justifying their jobs with ever increasing amounts of paperwork, that actual, you know, treatment, has taken a back seat to what one person referred to as "treating to the chart."*
One sure fire sign that it's time for me to move on is a marked spike in my bitching. For example, when Jenn and I and baby-to-be first moved back to New Mexico, I would return home from my first agency complaining almost daily about the "work conditions.** With my current (and soon to be former) place of employment, my complaining is trending in a similar fashion, but for very different reasons. I love the my coworkers, love my boss, love my clients, but hate the bureaucracy and cover Your Ass-ness of it all. Inevitably, my tone has begun to take on an unfortunate whiny quality while I relay various complaints to Jenn:
... so I'm on my third session trying to get this treatment plan done, but I have to make sure I include tobacco use on the plan. It's like, 'I know you're addicted to crack and have lost custody of your three kids and were just fired from your job and are living out of your car, but lets focus on that nasty nicotine habit.
I'm not justifying my reaction. In fact, it reeks a little of tantrum and makes me cringe to even put into words. But my visceral resistance has become so strong that, in the immortal words of REO Speedwagon, it has become quite clear that It's time for me to fly.***
But what next, Tom? We knowest from whence thou came, but where goest thou anon?
We goest--Jenn and Zinnia and I--into private practice and are currently looking for an office upon which to rent-eth. I will be hanging my shingle by October 1st.
"Good lord!" the astute reader might exclaim. "In this economy? Have you gone mad?"
Well, er, no ... or maybe a little. I fully understand that the above quote from the fictitious "astute reader" is merely my own projected fear; I further understand that my current job offers me the security of being part of a solid, fun-loving team while guaranteeing a steady paycheck into perpetuity; furthermore, I get that if I slowed down enough to truly feel my feelings around leaping and hoping/praying/screaming for the net to appear, I would ...
... still feel completely solid about the decision. I have my wife's support, all three of us have our possies (aka--our Spirit Guides), and I feel guided in a way that I have only experienced a handful of times in my life. They were, in no particular order:
While writing
When I participated in shamanic ceremonies (both here and in Peru)
Hiking in various parts of the world
When, as a wee lad (or is that Wheeee!!! lad) I discovered the wonders of the semenless-climax.
And when I was able to support my parents as they went through their deathing process.
This brings us to segue #2:
When I realized I was unwilling to stay at my job--a fairly agonizing decision--Jenn and I talked. My plan had been to continue to work my 28 hours a week, while squeezing in as many clients as I could during off hours, both Saturdays and Sundays. Essentially, I would work my ass off for two months, save enough money to support us while I grew my practice, and then make the leap.
Then my mother died.
After Barb became sick and started taking regular falls in her apartment, one of the reasons she offered for not wanting to move into the Jewish Independent Living place in Milwaukee (aside, of course, from the fact that she would be giving up her car and leaving her home of 20+ years to move into a place with a bunch of aging Jews), was the fact that she wanted to have money left over to leave her kids, i.e. myself and my three siblings (or rather two siblings, which was bumped up to three every time my oldest sister gave our mother a call).
When my father passed, he left this: His love of golf, his passion for the Green Bay Packers, and his enamored, heartbroken wife. Here's what he didn't leave: A red hot cent for his kids. This was unsurprising and as it should be. While there has been the occasional lamentation at the fortunes my father didn't make and the poker hands he left un-raked in, the way he went out was consistent with how he lived his live--spending freely, saving nothing, and leaving his kids to fend for themselves.
My mother, too, left the planet the way she lived--in chaos, fear, and generosity. The money she had in savings, IRA's, and investments was a remnant of the money she made from the sale of our childhood house, some stocks and bonds, and I believe, my father's social security money.
It was one of those situations where even while she was in the hospital, I was doing my best not to feel what I detected to be a glimmer of daylight--lets call it relief--simmering just below the surface. It didn't wortk. With my mother's tragic and untimely demise, the inheritance--whatever it may be--will support my family and myself, and help us purchase a new/used car for Jenn and Zinnie-binnie without my having to put in grueling 60-70 hour work weeks.
With my mother's help and, I would like to think, her blessing, I will now be able to launch my private practice not from a place of sheer exhaustion and missing any number of Baby Ba-Zinnia's milestones, but from a place of faith and gratitude.
Thank you, mom. Even if you struggled to be happy while you walked the earth, I know you would feel good knowing your grandchild is being well taken care of in the air conditioned cab of a sparkling teal Toyota.
Here are some potential names for my practice:
Prickly Pear Counseling
Living Gratitude Counseling
Man, Do You Need Help Counseling
Bendersky Unlimited
Cheerful Meat Counseling (found in one of Jenn's cookbooks. Made us laugh for obvious reasons)
The Counseling Station (all aboard!!!)
Needless to say, I am open to suggestions. Please email me with your votes or ideas.
* Very much like our wise ex-president's "No Child Left Behind" initiative, a system where teachers are not so much teaching kids how to learn and be independent thinkers as they are instructing them on how to pass a standardized test. This law from a man who was recently quoted as saying, “Eight years was awesome and I was famous and I was powerful,” Bush told the Hoover Institute’s Peter Robinson. “But I have no desire for fame and power anymore. … I crawled out of the swamp and I’m not crawling back in.” A bit of a cry from "Ask not what your country can do for you ..." speech, but point taken. Being president for eight years is an awesome thing to do.
**A euphemism for "Did that just fucking happen?"
***Gotta love aging rockers. They want to prove they still got what it takes. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o51baQWH5Ec&feature=related
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Z. Turns a Year
Zinnia's first birthday was a smashing success! Her mother looked marvelous in a pair of Old Navy designer jeans and a Calvin Klein, robin egg, short sleeve blouse ($125 at Sack's), while her father exhibited his usual stylish flair with cotton dockers and a wife beater tee, both courtesy of Good Will (total ensemble--$3.75 plus tax). The guest of honor wore her usual, Cookie Monster disposable diaper, roughly 27 cents per.
Jenn and I invited people from all walks ... several walks of life to celebrate the fact that we kept our daughter alive for an entire year. Really. One year. Elizabeth and Carrie were there, Charlene and Dan, Martin, Jerri, and their miracle baby, Kiko; Chris and Shara attended with Gracie-kins and Evie-kins, Marc, Susan, and their lovely Guatemalan Princess, Sofia, attended as well, as did Jenn's mom, Margaret and her Bill ( I asked him what I should call him (e.g. Margaret's husband, Jenn's step dad, etc--and he said, "Bill.") Lynda "Who Refers to Herself As" Leonard graced us with her presence, Kathleen, Mark, and their one year and change Madeleine (who Jenn's mom caught on video wacking Zinnia on the shoulder for looking a little too longingly at her own mother), and last but not least, the guest of honor, she whom I call Baby Ba-Zinnia.
I have attended parties for three one-year-old's in my life, and every single one of these kids was at Zinnia's bash. Sofia, the first baby I ever held for over a minute (and it took me a good year for me to work up to it); Madeleine, who turned a year four months ago; and Z-Rain. I have no memory of Sofia's party, but spoke to Susan, and we are both relatively confident I attended; Madeleine's I found ... a little odd. The party was divided between people who knew her and babies in general well and childless friends who hugged the wall, drank, and made small talk.
From a father's bird's eye perspective, I now notice things that I never had before. For example, we recently took Zinnia to a gathering at Dick and Elizabeth (whom the Hollywood tabloids have dubbed Dicklebeth). A dear friend and Long Dance brother, John H., was their from out of town. When he sat on the floor to get a better look at Zinnia, he smiled at her and said, "Watch this. Babies are afraid of me."
No sooner had the words come from his lips than Zinnia recoiled as if a potential molester of adult and children alike had just joined the party. Over the course of the evening, it was clear John was simultaneously enamored with our child and a little clumsy around her, as if he didn't know quite how to interact with babe-age or what to say. He made several jokes that were ... they were okay, but just a tad askew; the kind of jokes that are more likely to cause parents to smile politely while cringing a little on the inside.
I know this one well, for I used to be the ... Thomas Bender, P.B. (Perpetual Bachelor.) For years, I didn't know or want to know how to hold a baby. When I did, as soon as the thing (and things is how i thought of them) began to move, I would hold him/her out with stiff arms and say, "Uh, here. I'm done." Additionally, I just assumed that most of my parent/friends actually related to my graceless attempts at humor because, hell, didn't every parent secretly resent their kids?*
And speaking of my mother, she has been gone for approaching two months now. I told the partial story of her death to Chris yesterday at Z's party. While doing so, I looked, I searched, I scanned the entire neighborhood for my grief. I finally found it, but it was only a speed bump of heartache. Where the hell did my well of sadness and pain go? For a while, i thought I was in denial, then thought it was perhaps because I didn't like my mother terribly so, then I realized it was because I did much of my grieving while sitting bedside vigil at the hospital.
But back to John: Zinnia had reached the end of her rope and was this close from breaking into a full wailed cry (she saved it for the car ride home). John--Big Hearted John who once fell to his knees in tearful gratitude at a Long dance check-out, paused for a moment, began to speak, stumbled a little over what he wanted to say, then spoke.
"I envy you your life." He looked for something to add to it or elaborate, but couldn't. "That's all I have to say," he said, near tears.
I let it in. I love my life. Jenn and Zinnia, the cats, our cookie cutter house and our proximity to the health food store, and my '95 pick-up. I love the New Mexican heat and the occasional cools down. I love God and how blessed Jenn and I have been since moving to the desert. And I find it almost unbearably poignant and cute that every time a car drives by, Zinnia waves in her clumsy whole-arm wave until either the driver waves back or they are somehow able to resist Z's charms and go on by. Sometimes she waves to nothing at all, and tt's those times that I imagine she is waving to her guardian angels whom I often bid good morning after we wake up.
Prior to Jenn's and my arrival. a friend reminded us that we didn't have to worry, that Zinnia was already calling in all the resources she needed to make our stay in New Mexico a success. It took me a while to wrap my brain around that one, to not to mistake the small, baby-sized package of our daughter for the enormity of the soul.
*The dearly departed, Barbara "You're Just Doing This to Spite Me" Bender did (to name one), which is why I grew up thinking this was true of all parents.
Jenn and I invited people from all walks ... several walks of life to celebrate the fact that we kept our daughter alive for an entire year. Really. One year. Elizabeth and Carrie were there, Charlene and Dan, Martin, Jerri, and their miracle baby, Kiko; Chris and Shara attended with Gracie-kins and Evie-kins, Marc, Susan, and their lovely Guatemalan Princess, Sofia, attended as well, as did Jenn's mom, Margaret and her Bill ( I asked him what I should call him (e.g. Margaret's husband, Jenn's step dad, etc--and he said, "Bill.") Lynda "Who Refers to Herself As" Leonard graced us with her presence, Kathleen, Mark, and their one year and change Madeleine (who Jenn's mom caught on video wacking Zinnia on the shoulder for looking a little too longingly at her own mother), and last but not least, the guest of honor, she whom I call Baby Ba-Zinnia.
I have attended parties for three one-year-old's in my life, and every single one of these kids was at Zinnia's bash. Sofia, the first baby I ever held for over a minute (and it took me a good year for me to work up to it); Madeleine, who turned a year four months ago; and Z-Rain. I have no memory of Sofia's party, but spoke to Susan, and we are both relatively confident I attended; Madeleine's I found ... a little odd. The party was divided between people who knew her and babies in general well and childless friends who hugged the wall, drank, and made small talk.
From a father's bird's eye perspective, I now notice things that I never had before. For example, we recently took Zinnia to a gathering at Dick and Elizabeth (whom the Hollywood tabloids have dubbed Dicklebeth). A dear friend and Long Dance brother, John H., was their from out of town. When he sat on the floor to get a better look at Zinnia, he smiled at her and said, "Watch this. Babies are afraid of me."
No sooner had the words come from his lips than Zinnia recoiled as if a potential molester of adult and children alike had just joined the party. Over the course of the evening, it was clear John was simultaneously enamored with our child and a little clumsy around her, as if he didn't know quite how to interact with babe-age or what to say. He made several jokes that were ... they were okay, but just a tad askew; the kind of jokes that are more likely to cause parents to smile politely while cringing a little on the inside.
I know this one well, for I used to be the ... Thomas Bender, P.B. (Perpetual Bachelor.) For years, I didn't know or want to know how to hold a baby. When I did, as soon as the thing (and things is how i thought of them) began to move, I would hold him/her out with stiff arms and say, "Uh, here. I'm done." Additionally, I just assumed that most of my parent/friends actually related to my graceless attempts at humor because, hell, didn't every parent secretly resent their kids?*
And speaking of my mother, she has been gone for approaching two months now. I told the partial story of her death to Chris yesterday at Z's party. While doing so, I looked, I searched, I scanned the entire neighborhood for my grief. I finally found it, but it was only a speed bump of heartache. Where the hell did my well of sadness and pain go? For a while, i thought I was in denial, then thought it was perhaps because I didn't like my mother terribly so, then I realized it was because I did much of my grieving while sitting bedside vigil at the hospital.
But back to John: Zinnia had reached the end of her rope and was this close from breaking into a full wailed cry (she saved it for the car ride home). John--Big Hearted John who once fell to his knees in tearful gratitude at a Long dance check-out, paused for a moment, began to speak, stumbled a little over what he wanted to say, then spoke.
"I envy you your life." He looked for something to add to it or elaborate, but couldn't. "That's all I have to say," he said, near tears.
I let it in. I love my life. Jenn and Zinnia, the cats, our cookie cutter house and our proximity to the health food store, and my '95 pick-up. I love the New Mexican heat and the occasional cools down. I love God and how blessed Jenn and I have been since moving to the desert. And I find it almost unbearably poignant and cute that every time a car drives by, Zinnia waves in her clumsy whole-arm wave until either the driver waves back or they are somehow able to resist Z's charms and go on by. Sometimes she waves to nothing at all, and tt's those times that I imagine she is waving to her guardian angels whom I often bid good morning after we wake up.
Prior to Jenn's and my arrival. a friend reminded us that we didn't have to worry, that Zinnia was already calling in all the resources she needed to make our stay in New Mexico a success. It took me a while to wrap my brain around that one, to not to mistake the small, baby-sized package of our daughter for the enormity of the soul.
*The dearly departed, Barbara "You're Just Doing This to Spite Me" Bender did (to name one), which is why I grew up thinking this was true of all parents.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Checking In
Holy-fucking-shlamoly! It's been months since I posted a blog. And as has been the case throughout much of my life when things go awry (i.e. not the way I had hoped or expected), I would like to take this opportunity to once again blame my mother.
I know, I know, it's incredibly crass to lay responsibility down at the feet of the recently deceased, but I see it as a way of maintaining my connection to my mother, the dearly departed, one Barbra May Bender. She up and died on us June 15th after a quick and very unexpected death.** Since then, I have been working on a longer, extended piece that I started in my mother's hospital room even while she lay breathing her last. I could think of nothing else to do, what with sleepless hours of bedside vigil interspersed with bouts of weeping, prayer, and socializing with family.
Of late, however, I have been internally confounded as to whether or not I should truncate the piece about my mother's death and publish it as longish blog entry and move on, or risk a full narrative description of the chain of events that lead to Barb's eventual death and where ever this may lead. The last time I did this was after my father passed. I had just witnessed--just participated in one of the most beautiful and heart crushing things I had ever experienced. From the bitter Wisconsin cold, I caught an Amtrak train back to New Mexico. One night, while sitting at my antique, single-drawered, wooden desk I heard a voice within say one word: Write. So I wrote ... and wrote ... and wrote some more, until the memoir/spiritual tome/joke book topped off at--Gadzooks!--just shy of 700 pages.
You see the risk. If I fully engage with the events around my mother's death, there is no telling how far that road will go or how much emotional pain it will dredge up. It is thus with much contemplation and not an insignificant amount of hesitation that I have come to a decision: Take the road I shall, because take this road I must. Do I anticipate a thousand page encyclopedia of my mother's life? To quote Barb herself who said from behind her cracked bedroom door one evening, in response to my threat to move in with her so she could cook, pick up after, and take care of me for the rest of my life: "Oy, I should slit my wrists."
So no, no more 700page romps. But might I go on for a while? You bet.
The dilemma: How to find the time/energy to write a book that fully captures the tropical storm that was Barbara M. Bender when I am already struggling to juggle fatherhood, work, exercise, spiritual practice, this blog, and editing the book of a friend, all while trying to be a dutiful husband and a conscientious cat owner and somehow still maintain my natural sunny disposition and positive attitude. Why it's enough to make a violet shrink ... or at least wilt a little.
Let us, then, shift gears back to the original purpose of this blog: to celebrate all things Zinnia. Zinnia walks! She walketh! It's more of a controlled fall really, but still so cute, especially when viewed from behind. When she staggers forward, arms up and wagging from side to side, wrists bent for balance, Zinnia takes on the simian gait of a baby orangutan. She is a delight ... a delight who is about to celebrate he first birthday! One year, four seasons, 365 days, and there will never, ever be a way to shove the genie back in the bottle.
A few weeks ago I watched her little, 20 pound body sleeping on top the sheet in the center of our queen sized bed. She was dwarfed by our mattress, and her chest gently rose and fell with each breath.
Such a small body, such a huge presence, I thought. This kid, this being who is teaching me about new levels of loving, is completely, utterly running this house ... and my life. And I'm okay with it.
**Do not mistake my glib tone as a true reflection of feeling. My mother's death was--and continues to be--sporadically heart-wrenching.
I know, I know, it's incredibly crass to lay responsibility down at the feet of the recently deceased, but I see it as a way of maintaining my connection to my mother, the dearly departed, one Barbra May Bender. She up and died on us June 15th after a quick and very unexpected death.** Since then, I have been working on a longer, extended piece that I started in my mother's hospital room even while she lay breathing her last. I could think of nothing else to do, what with sleepless hours of bedside vigil interspersed with bouts of weeping, prayer, and socializing with family.
Of late, however, I have been internally confounded as to whether or not I should truncate the piece about my mother's death and publish it as longish blog entry and move on, or risk a full narrative description of the chain of events that lead to Barb's eventual death and where ever this may lead. The last time I did this was after my father passed. I had just witnessed--just participated in one of the most beautiful and heart crushing things I had ever experienced. From the bitter Wisconsin cold, I caught an Amtrak train back to New Mexico. One night, while sitting at my antique, single-drawered, wooden desk I heard a voice within say one word: Write. So I wrote ... and wrote ... and wrote some more, until the memoir/spiritual tome/joke book topped off at--Gadzooks!--just shy of 700 pages.
You see the risk. If I fully engage with the events around my mother's death, there is no telling how far that road will go or how much emotional pain it will dredge up. It is thus with much contemplation and not an insignificant amount of hesitation that I have come to a decision: Take the road I shall, because take this road I must. Do I anticipate a thousand page encyclopedia of my mother's life? To quote Barb herself who said from behind her cracked bedroom door one evening, in response to my threat to move in with her so she could cook, pick up after, and take care of me for the rest of my life: "Oy, I should slit my wrists."
So no, no more 700page romps. But might I go on for a while? You bet.
The dilemma: How to find the time/energy to write a book that fully captures the tropical storm that was Barbara M. Bender when I am already struggling to juggle fatherhood, work, exercise, spiritual practice, this blog, and editing the book of a friend, all while trying to be a dutiful husband and a conscientious cat owner and somehow still maintain my natural sunny disposition and positive attitude. Why it's enough to make a violet shrink ... or at least wilt a little.
Let us, then, shift gears back to the original purpose of this blog: to celebrate all things Zinnia. Zinnia walks! She walketh! It's more of a controlled fall really, but still so cute, especially when viewed from behind. When she staggers forward, arms up and wagging from side to side, wrists bent for balance, Zinnia takes on the simian gait of a baby orangutan. She is a delight ... a delight who is about to celebrate he first birthday! One year, four seasons, 365 days, and there will never, ever be a way to shove the genie back in the bottle.
A few weeks ago I watched her little, 20 pound body sleeping on top the sheet in the center of our queen sized bed. She was dwarfed by our mattress, and her chest gently rose and fell with each breath.
Such a small body, such a huge presence, I thought. This kid, this being who is teaching me about new levels of loving, is completely, utterly running this house ... and my life. And I'm okay with it.
Gone, but Never Forgotten.
Love you, Mom.
**Do not mistake my glib tone as a true reflection of feeling. My mother's death was--and continues to be--sporadically heart-wrenching.
Friday, June 1, 2012
If I Were to Share the Events from Our Milwaukee Trip ...
In this blog entry, I was going to relay the events about our visit to Milwaukee ad nauseum. I had planned to tell the reader how Zinnia was delightful and traveled well on all except the second leg of a three-flight marathon back to New Mexico where she cried and cried and cried until the plane at long last leveled off, and I was allowed to walk our squirmy, ears-popping child up and down the aisle. I might have written about how we feared my mother's C-Diff infection had returned and we decided to hold all family meetings between grandmother and granddaughter in the lobby of the Jewish home, which was fine, except that we were interrupted multiple times by every ilk of Jewish crone including one vulture-backed nonagenarian with coke bottle lenses who, beaming a dentured smile, toddled over to our party, interrupted our conversation as if we hadn't be talking at all, leaned her face toward a tentative Zinnia, and with a tremulous, penetrating voice told Z. over and over, "You are so wonderful! You are so precious. I love you very, very much!" I might also have noted how my mother--eager for any sort of affective response from her active, exploring granddaughter--would crane her neck toward Zinnia whenever she could catch her eye and say, "Boo!" And how everytime she did this, I would think to myself, Really? We came 1500 miles and this is all you got? I might have relayed how, out of all the pictures Jenn and I had sent my mother over the last ten months, resting on her coffee table were two--only two--framed photos: one of Zinnia, and one of Zinnia and your humble author, with Jenn nowhere to be found, which irritated her a bit being that, you know, she was Zinnia's mother and all; and the fact that Jenn took it a little personally gave me much myrth since the omission of Jenn's image from Barb's coffee table is so in character with who my mother is that it's pointless to take anything she does personally.* And no doubt I would have written how my mother became so confused when we went to our friend Liz's house for a fantastic, gourmet dinner that she said, as we helped her out of the car, "I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but where are we again?" and how I drove Barb home mid-appetizer, as she had suddenly become
so chilled that even a thick blanket couldn't warm her up. And how my mother got really upset because after I escorted her to her apartment, not only would I not give her a goodnight kiss on the cheek (because of my concerns around C-Diff and, lets face it, a lack of desire on my part), but I wouldn't even blow her a kiss after she blew me one (a gesture that not once in my 51 years had we ever exchanged and, frankly, creeped me out a bit). And how Barb stood in her doorway and grew even more upset that I wouldn't offer her this simple but (to me) weird gesture until I said at last, "How are you not getting this? I don't blow kisses," to which she responded with wounded silence, her eyes pleading for me to do this one simple thing for her, to which I responded with a blank stare and turning toward the elevator to give the button one more needless jab. Bing! I bid my mother a perfunctory goodnight--no eye contact--before the elevator doors slid shut. I might have also added with a chuckle how when I did return to Liz's house, I raised a glass, wished everyone a l' Chaim (to which the party responded in boisterous kind) and took a large swig of wine as I caught the tail end of a story told by Liz's hilarious brother who finished with, "...so they said the body was found in the freezer stuffed between the frozen peas and a 100 pounds of beefsteak," to which I responded by laughing until tears rolled down my cheeks. Then, of course, I would have had to include how two nights later my mother was found unconscious by a nurse on her bedroom floor and was taken to the hospital** where the next morning she informed me--and I quote--"I don't want to be here" (i.e. the hospital), to which i replied with something less than the Buddha's compassion, "Of course you don't. Nobody wants to be here," and we proceeded to spend my surprisingly pleasant last five hours in Milwaukee shmoozing about this and that before I left to meet Jenn and Zinnia at the hotel to pack and catch the above mentioned flight(s) back to New Mexico.
(Breath in, out.)
And as I left my mother's hospital room, who knows, perhaps never to see her again since she is rounding the corner to 80 and sickly, she blew me yet another goodbye kiss and then stared at me intensely, waiting, and I thought to myself, You clever fox. Did you arrange all of this just to get a fucking air kiss?*** but then I thought, What the hell, we could all be dead in two years, but more likely her, and I gave her what she wanted.
As I headed out of the hospital, I reflected on how my mother's credo can be summed up by that line from the Cheryl Crow song, Strong Enough: "Lie to me, I promise I'll believe," and how sad to be heading down the homestretch of one's life, so starved for love and attention, that one would prefer a dishonest blown kiss from across a hospital room over true contact of the heart; and sad, too, that I would choose to leave my mother at her doorstep in fuming silence at rather than offer her a brief act of kindness.
* Although G-d knows I have a long, sordid history of taking much of what my mother says as personal attack.
** Kidney infection, not C-Diff.
*** If so, it was no doubt unconsciously done, but still.
(Breath in, out.)
And as I left my mother's hospital room, who knows, perhaps never to see her again since she is rounding the corner to 80 and sickly, she blew me yet another goodbye kiss and then stared at me intensely, waiting, and I thought to myself, You clever fox. Did you arrange all of this just to get a fucking air kiss?*** but then I thought, What the hell, we could all be dead in two years, but more likely her, and I gave her what she wanted.
As I headed out of the hospital, I reflected on how my mother's credo can be summed up by that line from the Cheryl Crow song, Strong Enough: "Lie to me, I promise I'll believe," and how sad to be heading down the homestretch of one's life, so starved for love and attention, that one would prefer a dishonest blown kiss from across a hospital room over true contact of the heart; and sad, too, that I would choose to leave my mother at her doorstep in fuming silence at rather than offer her a brief act of kindness.
* Although G-d knows I have a long, sordid history of taking much of what my mother says as personal attack.
** Kidney infection, not C-Diff.
*** If so, it was no doubt unconsciously done, but still.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Late Entry from Recent Trip to Milwaukee (Stardate--about a month ago)
I write to you, dear reader, friend of dear reader, and yes, even the milk man of the friend of dear reader, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Every so often there is a confluence of minds, a perfect storm of personalities who come together to either clash like the titans or fall hopelessly in love at first sight. I am genuinely curious as to how these two potential reactions will play out between the meeting of the precious grandchild--our dear little Zinnia--and her maternal grandmother, Barbus Benderus. Not, I might add, that I expect sparks to fly, but Zinnie is such a smiley engaging soul, and so is my mother (only, if it were opposite day), that like chocolate and vanilla, salty and sweet, Edgar Al and AnPoe, one never knows what one will get when two seemingly contradictory energies greet each other first the first time.
Jenn, Zinia and myself are currently staying under the gracious auspices of an old friend of mine. Jenn and Zinnie are upstairs napping. When said nap is compete and the Zinn-meister once again raises her reptilian head,* we will hop in our rented car and head to my mothers.
Jenn and I made the decision to visit sooner than later because, well, one never knows. My mother was unable to attend our wedding due to her health, and I would hate for her never to meet her newest (and last) grandchild. You see, Barb has not been doing well in the health department of late. Not terribly, mind you, especially compared to a few weeks ago, but not sterling either. She is on an oxygen tank now, and her blood pressure seemingly has a mind of it's own. And Barb's once sharp mind is a bit frayed around the edges, worn down from age and medication.
On both legs of the flight to Milwaukee, Zinnia flew wonderfully. She charmed everyone in her wake except for the cranky old guy sitting in front of her ... and myself, her father. The depth of my hatred of air travel hit a new low when I missed most of our little Miss's exploits doing to being in a half-asleep, drug stupor after taking my requisite sleeping aid.
However, enough of that. I will not self-castigate or self-flagelate in these pages. Not with Zinnia's greatest test set to come: A cage match between Zinnie the Pooh and Grandma Eeyore. Positive ion meets negative, immovable object meets irresistible force, black meets white; right meets not-exactly-wrong, and honesty and non-imbecilism meets Republicanism.
Stayed tuned, dear reader, for a blow-blow-update.
Every so often there is a confluence of minds, a perfect storm of personalities who come together to either clash like the titans or fall hopelessly in love at first sight. I am genuinely curious as to how these two potential reactions will play out between the meeting of the precious grandchild--our dear little Zinnia--and her maternal grandmother, Barbus Benderus. Not, I might add, that I expect sparks to fly, but Zinnie is such a smiley engaging soul, and so is my mother (only, if it were opposite day), that like chocolate and vanilla, salty and sweet, Edgar Al and AnPoe, one never knows what one will get when two seemingly contradictory energies greet each other first the first time.
Jenn, Zinia and myself are currently staying under the gracious auspices of an old friend of mine. Jenn and Zinnie are upstairs napping. When said nap is compete and the Zinn-meister once again raises her reptilian head,* we will hop in our rented car and head to my mothers.
Jenn and I made the decision to visit sooner than later because, well, one never knows. My mother was unable to attend our wedding due to her health, and I would hate for her never to meet her newest (and last) grandchild. You see, Barb has not been doing well in the health department of late. Not terribly, mind you, especially compared to a few weeks ago, but not sterling either. She is on an oxygen tank now, and her blood pressure seemingly has a mind of it's own. And Barb's once sharp mind is a bit frayed around the edges, worn down from age and medication.
On both legs of the flight to Milwaukee, Zinnia flew wonderfully. She charmed everyone in her wake except for the cranky old guy sitting in front of her ... and myself, her father. The depth of my hatred of air travel hit a new low when I missed most of our little Miss's exploits doing to being in a half-asleep, drug stupor after taking my requisite sleeping aid.
However, enough of that. I will not self-castigate or self-flagelate in these pages. Not with Zinnia's greatest test set to come: A cage match between Zinnie the Pooh and Grandma Eeyore. Positive ion meets negative, immovable object meets irresistible force, black meets white; right meets not-exactly-wrong, and honesty and non-imbecilism meets Republicanism.
Stayed tuned, dear reader, for a blow-blow-update.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Drive-By Psychic
"Oy, these bones, Jenn, these bones ..." I said, working my way to my feet.
She smiled and waited.
",,, I wouldn't say I feel 51, but for the first time in my life, I feel 45."
Zinnia has a new routine. It's called, "Every-time-you-try-to-get-me-to-go-to-sleep-no-matter- how-tired-I-am-I-will-arch-my-back-and-cry-until-you-let-me-do-as-I-please-by-which-I-mean-stay-up-long-past-the-point-of-exhaustion ... and-then-some." Our daughter no longer slumbers when I have her cradled in the Baby K'taan, nor will she deign to let me lie down with her with a bottle and a fuzzy blanket. Only mama is allowed to do that.
Sigh. They grow-up so fast.
Zinnia advances by leaps and a number of bounds, and will no doubt be walking in a few months. She has learned how to wave in that clumsy baby way that looks like she swatting at flies, and her baby babble has begun to take on the pre-verbal intonations and lilt of actual, viable vocabulary. The good money is riding on "kitty" or "mama" for her first word, but every once in a while a curse crosses mine or Jenn's lips (okay, mine), and this has inadvertently inserted "fuck" and "shit" into the running.
When one of the cats strolls by, Zinnia's face lights up, and she bolts after them--not on hands and knees-- but on hands and feet, her baby butt high in the air like a puppy. Even with her constant fur-pulling and cat chasing, Zinnia has sustained only two cat scratches. Undeterred, she is ever hot on the feline trail.
Of late, Jenn has been her usual uncomplaining self, and only occasionally surrenders to exhaustion and crankiness at the never-ending neediness of our lovely, smiling daughter. Yesterday, when I informed Jenn that I didn't think I would be able to do her job (i.e. be a stay-at-home dad), she said with all due humility: "We're her favorite people in the world. When I'm hitting the wall, I just remind myself of that and how much I love her, and then surrender to the moment."
However, Jenn (aka Zinnia's Amusement Ride) has been sorely tested the last few days. The wear-and-tear of caring extra weight--first during pregnancy, and now in the form of our 18 pound squirming bundle of joy--has taken its toll. Jenn's necked has locked up to the point where she has to pivot her entire body to look in another direction. Thus, she resorted to chiropractic and had her spine violently cracked back into place so she can learn the womanly art of self-care. And by self care I mean not hauling by herself (as is her wont) hundreds of pounds of compost and sod that we just this day laid out in the oval shaped sandbox we call our backyard. We did this so our little princess could have green lawn upon which to crawl ... and graze. For Jenn, gardening is how she feeds her soul, and after working outside for any period of time, her eyes shine with the glow of one who has engaged in the luminescent.
I, too, have had a number of peak experiences recently, mainly with Zinnia as the conduit, and by "peak" I mean anything that cracks open my heart, floods me with joy, and makes me utterly grateful to be alive. Last week I was raining what we call papa kisses on Zinnia's neck, head and cheeks. At first she simply let it happen; then she started to giggle, which quickly turned to peels of delight. At last, she lifted up arms, threw her head back, and fell backwards into the down comforter, as if to say, "Go ahead--ravish me with love." It was such a human gesture, so innocent and ancient and completely delightful, that I couldn't help but wonder at the archetypal forces at play.
There is a man, Paul Ekman, who is a pioneer in the science of facial expressions. He studied cultures around. the world and categorized all face expressions reflecting the following emotions:
Ekman recalls the first time he saw Bill Clinton, during the 1992 Democratic primaries. "I was watching his facial expressions, and I said to my wife, 'This is Peck's Bad Boy,' " Ekman says. "This is a guy who wants to be caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and have us love him for it anyway. There was this expression that's one of his favorites. It's that hand-in-the-cookie-jar, love-me-Mommy-because-I'm-a-rascal look. It's A.U. twelve, fifteen, seventeen, and twenty-four, with an eye roll." Ekman paused, then reconstructed that particular sequence of expressions on his face. He contracted his zygomatic major, A.U. twelve, in a classic smile, then tugged the corners of his lips down with his triangularis, A.U. fifteen. He flexed the mentalis, A.U. seventeen, which raises the chin, slightly pressed his lips together in A.U. twenty-four, and finally rolled his eyes--and it was as if Slick Willie himself were suddenly in the room. "I knew someone who was on his communications staff. So I contacted him. I said, 'Look, Clinton's got this way of rolling his eyes along with a certain expression, and what it conveys is "I'm a bad boy." I don't think it's a good thing. I could teach him how not to do that in two to three hours.' And he said, 'Well, we can't take the risk that he's known to be seeing an expert on lying.' I think it's a great tragedy, because . . ." Ekman's voice trailed off. It was clear that he rather liked Clinton, and that he wanted Clinton's trademark expression to have been no more than a meaningless facial tic. Ekman shrugged. "Unfortunately, I guess, he needed to get caught--and he got caught."
Zinnia did not throw her head back in abandon from anything she learned from Jenn and I. She was hardwired with that reaction, just as she is hardwired with an expression of pure tragic injustice at, say, having a sheet of paper wrested from her grasp just as she is starting to take the small baby bites of pulp and store them on the roof of her mouth like a chipmonk.
Her gesture also gave me cause as to what else is hardwired into her 78 percentile brain; what karma has she burst into the world with? Surely she was placed on this earth to be more than the H-Vac queen of Albuquerque. Does her love of plastic hangers indicate a future as a renowned fashion designer or is it simply the right shape and weight for a tactile-driven infant? Does her love of cats reflect a future as a veterinarian or a more sordid path down the dead end road of a Marlborough-smoking, housecoat-wearing, cat lady?
Two years ago, Jenn and I had Zinnia's future illumined for us at an annual retreat we attend in the east mountains of Albuquerque. The gathering is called the Long Dance. It is an elevating gathering of fellow travelers gathered for the purpose of community building and to be remind of who we truly are. Each year, the couple who host the event invite one or two soothsayers--psychics who use tarot, palmistry (or other psychic talents) to guide and inform the attendees as to what may be coming down the pike and what they/we my want to consider for the future.
Before I go any further, I should probably clarify: Yes, I do believe in this stuff, and yes, I do read tarot, and if I sound a little defensive, I am.
Anyway, Jenn and I were washing and drying dishes in the kitchen of our lovely hosts, having a pleasant conversation about this and that, when one of the soothsayers, a thick framed man with graying temples and a penetrating eyes approached us unbidden. He wrapped an arm around each of our shoulders and looked at us with sincere grimness.
"Your child," he said at last, "will be born healthy, but will not speak for the first five years of her life. People will think she's retarded or autistic. You will be sorely tested, but at around age five she will begin to talk and start to manifest into what she was put on the planet to be--an Indigo Child. You both will struggle ... " He looked at me. "Especially you. But you'll get through it."
He gave our shoulders one last reassuring squeeze and left. Jenn and I were speechless from the psychic kidney punch we took from this drive-by psychic.*
Now the superstitious part of me hesitates even today to relay this story for fear of coming across as glib or Fate-testing. However, over the past year, this reading has become a point of humor and a running joke. I mean, for fucks sake, what kind of asshole tells two future parents, "Hey, every body's gonna think your kid's retarded, but don't worry. She'll be okay"?
Answer: A Really Big A-Hole.
Two days ago, Jenn and I were in the kitchen and we could hear our daughter vocalizing word-like sounds with a quality heretofore unbabbled. "I feel like we're witnessing a developmental milestone even as we speak," I said with awe.
If we pay close attention, this could probably be said for each and every day we share the planet with Baby Z.
I'll wrap up with this: I realize my blog entries have slowed to a trickle. Jenn and I both have hit a wall of late. She, due to illness and lack of sleep; me, due to the intensity of starting a new and fairly high-stress job, combined with lack of sleep and ... blah, blah, blah. Really, who cares? We are not reinventing the parenting wheel here. Being a father is incredibly rewarding and incredibly draining. I still suck at soothing our little daughter (let alone Jenn) when she's reeeally upset, and over the weekend even felt an irrational pang of resentment toward my wife for getting sick.
"I mean, I know you have a a temperature of 101.8, but a) You can't trust those crappy digital thermometers, and b) What, now I'm expected to go to work, see clients after work, and then take care of the two of you?"
*He approached me later on at the gathering--again uninvited--patted my back and said, "Don't worry. You two are going to make it through this."
He turned to walk away--another drive-by. What was this guy's problem? I went after him this time and caught up to him as he headed toward the Kiva.
"Look," I said "what do you mean 'we're going to get through this'? I know Jenn and I are going to get through whatever comes our way."
He looked decidedly uncomfortable. I had the feeling he wasn't used to being confronted on his bullshit.
"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," he said. "I know you two will be fine."
"I know we will," I said. "But you just said a moment ago that we would 'get through this.' What did you mean by that?"
"I was just kidding," he said and scurried off.
She smiled and waited.
",,, I wouldn't say I feel 51, but for the first time in my life, I feel 45."
Zinnia has a new routine. It's called, "Every-time-you-try-to-get-me-to-go-to-sleep-no-matter- how-tired-I-am-I-will-arch-my-back-and-cry-until-you-let-me-do-as-I-please-by-which-I-mean-stay-up-long-past-the-point-of-exhaustion ... and-then-some." Our daughter no longer slumbers when I have her cradled in the Baby K'taan, nor will she deign to let me lie down with her with a bottle and a fuzzy blanket. Only mama is allowed to do that.
Sigh. They grow-up so fast.
Zinnia advances by leaps and a number of bounds, and will no doubt be walking in a few months. She has learned how to wave in that clumsy baby way that looks like she swatting at flies, and her baby babble has begun to take on the pre-verbal intonations and lilt of actual, viable vocabulary. The good money is riding on "kitty" or "mama" for her first word, but every once in a while a curse crosses mine or Jenn's lips (okay, mine), and this has inadvertently inserted "fuck" and "shit" into the running.
When one of the cats strolls by, Zinnia's face lights up, and she bolts after them--not on hands and knees-- but on hands and feet, her baby butt high in the air like a puppy. Even with her constant fur-pulling and cat chasing, Zinnia has sustained only two cat scratches. Undeterred, she is ever hot on the feline trail.
Of late, Jenn has been her usual uncomplaining self, and only occasionally surrenders to exhaustion and crankiness at the never-ending neediness of our lovely, smiling daughter. Yesterday, when I informed Jenn that I didn't think I would be able to do her job (i.e. be a stay-at-home dad), she said with all due humility: "We're her favorite people in the world. When I'm hitting the wall, I just remind myself of that and how much I love her, and then surrender to the moment."
However, Jenn (aka Zinnia's Amusement Ride) has been sorely tested the last few days. The wear-and-tear of caring extra weight--first during pregnancy, and now in the form of our 18 pound squirming bundle of joy--has taken its toll. Jenn's necked has locked up to the point where she has to pivot her entire body to look in another direction. Thus, she resorted to chiropractic and had her spine violently cracked back into place so she can learn the womanly art of self-care. And by self care I mean not hauling by herself (as is her wont) hundreds of pounds of compost and sod that we just this day laid out in the oval shaped sandbox we call our backyard. We did this so our little princess could have green lawn upon which to crawl ... and graze. For Jenn, gardening is how she feeds her soul, and after working outside for any period of time, her eyes shine with the glow of one who has engaged in the luminescent.
I, too, have had a number of peak experiences recently, mainly with Zinnia as the conduit, and by "peak" I mean anything that cracks open my heart, floods me with joy, and makes me utterly grateful to be alive. Last week I was raining what we call papa kisses on Zinnia's neck, head and cheeks. At first she simply let it happen; then she started to giggle, which quickly turned to peels of delight. At last, she lifted up arms, threw her head back, and fell backwards into the down comforter, as if to say, "Go ahead--ravish me with love." It was such a human gesture, so innocent and ancient and completely delightful, that I couldn't help but wonder at the archetypal forces at play.
There is a man, Paul Ekman, who is a pioneer in the science of facial expressions. He studied cultures around. the world and categorized all face expressions reflecting the following emotions:
- Amusement
- Contempt
- Contentment
- Embarrassment
- Excitement
- Guilt
- Pride in Achievement
- Relief
- Satisfaction
- Sensory Pleasure
- Shame
Ekman recalls the first time he saw Bill Clinton, during the 1992 Democratic primaries. "I was watching his facial expressions, and I said to my wife, 'This is Peck's Bad Boy,' " Ekman says. "This is a guy who wants to be caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and have us love him for it anyway. There was this expression that's one of his favorites. It's that hand-in-the-cookie-jar, love-me-Mommy-because-I'm-a-rascal look. It's A.U. twelve, fifteen, seventeen, and twenty-four, with an eye roll." Ekman paused, then reconstructed that particular sequence of expressions on his face. He contracted his zygomatic major, A.U. twelve, in a classic smile, then tugged the corners of his lips down with his triangularis, A.U. fifteen. He flexed the mentalis, A.U. seventeen, which raises the chin, slightly pressed his lips together in A.U. twenty-four, and finally rolled his eyes--and it was as if Slick Willie himself were suddenly in the room. "I knew someone who was on his communications staff. So I contacted him. I said, 'Look, Clinton's got this way of rolling his eyes along with a certain expression, and what it conveys is "I'm a bad boy." I don't think it's a good thing. I could teach him how not to do that in two to three hours.' And he said, 'Well, we can't take the risk that he's known to be seeing an expert on lying.' I think it's a great tragedy, because . . ." Ekman's voice trailed off. It was clear that he rather liked Clinton, and that he wanted Clinton's trademark expression to have been no more than a meaningless facial tic. Ekman shrugged. "Unfortunately, I guess, he needed to get caught--and he got caught."
Zinnia did not throw her head back in abandon from anything she learned from Jenn and I. She was hardwired with that reaction, just as she is hardwired with an expression of pure tragic injustice at, say, having a sheet of paper wrested from her grasp just as she is starting to take the small baby bites of pulp and store them on the roof of her mouth like a chipmonk.
Her gesture also gave me cause as to what else is hardwired into her 78 percentile brain; what karma has she burst into the world with? Surely she was placed on this earth to be more than the H-Vac queen of Albuquerque. Does her love of plastic hangers indicate a future as a renowned fashion designer or is it simply the right shape and weight for a tactile-driven infant? Does her love of cats reflect a future as a veterinarian or a more sordid path down the dead end road of a Marlborough-smoking, housecoat-wearing, cat lady?
Two years ago, Jenn and I had Zinnia's future illumined for us at an annual retreat we attend in the east mountains of Albuquerque. The gathering is called the Long Dance. It is an elevating gathering of fellow travelers gathered for the purpose of community building and to be remind of who we truly are. Each year, the couple who host the event invite one or two soothsayers--psychics who use tarot, palmistry (or other psychic talents) to guide and inform the attendees as to what may be coming down the pike and what they/we my want to consider for the future.
Before I go any further, I should probably clarify: Yes, I do believe in this stuff, and yes, I do read tarot, and if I sound a little defensive, I am.
Anyway, Jenn and I were washing and drying dishes in the kitchen of our lovely hosts, having a pleasant conversation about this and that, when one of the soothsayers, a thick framed man with graying temples and a penetrating eyes approached us unbidden. He wrapped an arm around each of our shoulders and looked at us with sincere grimness.
"Your child," he said at last, "will be born healthy, but will not speak for the first five years of her life. People will think she's retarded or autistic. You will be sorely tested, but at around age five she will begin to talk and start to manifest into what she was put on the planet to be--an Indigo Child. You both will struggle ... " He looked at me. "Especially you. But you'll get through it."
He gave our shoulders one last reassuring squeeze and left. Jenn and I were speechless from the psychic kidney punch we took from this drive-by psychic.*
Now the superstitious part of me hesitates even today to relay this story for fear of coming across as glib or Fate-testing. However, over the past year, this reading has become a point of humor and a running joke. I mean, for fucks sake, what kind of asshole tells two future parents, "Hey, every body's gonna think your kid's retarded, but don't worry. She'll be okay"?
Answer: A Really Big A-Hole.
Two days ago, Jenn and I were in the kitchen and we could hear our daughter vocalizing word-like sounds with a quality heretofore unbabbled. "I feel like we're witnessing a developmental milestone even as we speak," I said with awe.
If we pay close attention, this could probably be said for each and every day we share the planet with Baby Z.
I'll wrap up with this: I realize my blog entries have slowed to a trickle. Jenn and I both have hit a wall of late. She, due to illness and lack of sleep; me, due to the intensity of starting a new and fairly high-stress job, combined with lack of sleep and ... blah, blah, blah. Really, who cares? We are not reinventing the parenting wheel here. Being a father is incredibly rewarding and incredibly draining. I still suck at soothing our little daughter (let alone Jenn) when she's reeeally upset, and over the weekend even felt an irrational pang of resentment toward my wife for getting sick.
"I mean, I know you have a a temperature of 101.8, but a) You can't trust those crappy digital thermometers, and b) What, now I'm expected to go to work, see clients after work, and then take care of the two of you?"
Yes. The answer is an unequivocal Yes. The next day, I owned up to the lack of perhaps the tiniest smattering of compassionate on my part from the day before.
Jenn did not, in her wisdom, disagree. "I'd rather have you not take care of me at all then do things for me and resent it," she said without bitterness to her voice.
Jenn did not, in her wisdom, disagree. "I'd rather have you not take care of me at all then do things for me and resent it," she said without bitterness to her voice.
"My mother taught me everything I know about comforting others," I said to her with a smile.
She wouldn't have it. "I know," she said in seriousness, "but you need to work on being a soothing. Zinnia needs this from you."
*He approached me later on at the gathering--again uninvited--patted my back and said, "Don't worry. You two are going to make it through this."
He turned to walk away--another drive-by. What was this guy's problem? I went after him this time and caught up to him as he headed toward the Kiva.
"Look," I said "what do you mean 'we're going to get through this'? I know Jenn and I are going to get through whatever comes our way."
He looked decidedly uncomfortable. I had the feeling he wasn't used to being confronted on his bullshit.
"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," he said. "I know you two will be fine."
"I know we will," I said. "But you just said a moment ago that we would 'get through this.' What did you mean by that?"
"I was just kidding," he said and scurried off.
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