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.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
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.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Lodge of Life
It is 6:37 a.m. Monday morning. Jenn usually goes to our back bedroom for a few hours sleep, but this morning she was chased back to the bosom of her family by a cockroach--our first sighting of the season! I don't think I saw even one of the little buggers while I lived in Oregon, but was nauseatingly awakened last year by a little tickle on my skin. The cats had brought in a good sized roach as a gift for their lord and master, ans the poor, disgusting thing scurried across my arm looking for escape. Blech, exclamation point!
Segue #1: A number of years ago, from my desire to honor and learn about a number of religions of the world, I had a mini-Christian bible by my bed. There it gathered dust for a good 18 months until finally, in the deepest, darkest middle of the night, I felt inspired to open it up and read a few parables. I turned on the reading light, took a sip of water, and lifted the small chap bible to see what I might see. An absolutely enormous cockroach had got itself wedged between the bibles pages and was writhing its front legs at me. I dropped the book in horror, and saw it as a sign and got rid of the artifact the next day. The unfortunate image was, needless to say, seared into my brain. God and that wacky sense of humor again.
And speaking of God, just yesterday I rode my bike to REI to pick up a pair of shoes. When I exited the store with my purchase, the horseshoe lock securing my bike to the metal rack wouldn't open. I cursed, I pleaded, I cajoled, I exhorted the lock to open, but no amount of pulling, pushing, yanking, and tweeking of the key could get it to budge.
I'm a person who, if I don't get enough exercise, every other day or so, I start to climb the walls. I've been feeling dark of late, unable (or unwilling) to do my happy dance. I've been snippy with Jenn and impatient with Zinnia, who has entered a clingy/whiney stage. I'm sleep deprived, stressed from the rigors of learning the ropes of a new job, and am "working on" changing my diet from one of a pure, unadulterated carb addict who used to shoot-up half a bag of Reduced Fat Ruffles, to a diet that is more protein-rich.
And now my bike was tethered to a bike rack like a baby elephant tied to a sapling in Thailand. I felt a mild sense of panic, and more, the first pangs of a deep emotional attachment to this old clunker that I hadn't even known existed. What had this bicycle ever done to deserved such a fate--to be permanently lashed to a rack outside of REI while uber-rich hikers scoffed and spit at it like yesterdays trash? I did what any sane bicycling enthusiast would do: I began to strip my old paint of whatever parts weren't bolted down and called my super-competent wife for help. Jenn immediately Googled "How to crack a Kryptonite lock."*
I began to fantasize about what my next bike would be. Maybe I'll finally get that $1500 road bike I have longed for for five years. I'll even get the bike garb: the silly shorts that accent my package, the water bottles, the odometer.
I turned toward the entrance to let the manager know that my bright yellow Motobecane would remain locked in front of their building into perpetuity unless they helped me liberate it, but paused. Something moved inside of me, a quiet whisper. It said: Stop, ask for help.
"Okay," I said out loud. In that moment I felt more connected to spirit than I had in months simply through the act of leaning in. "Please, God, let this key work just one more time."
I lifted up the lock to give it a final go, and just like that, one end of the horseshoe popped free from its prison. How could I not smile.
Of late, I had been resentful toward God for various grievances. Resentful for giving me a body that won't let me run marathons or sleep soundly; for giving me a body that can't practice yoga every day and won't allow me to eat whatever I please; a body whose natural cholesterol setting routinely spikes between 280-300. And don't get me started on how God adamantly refuses to send a publisher my way, one who recognizes my pure, polished gift as a writer and creative genius, and who wants to sign me to a three book deal with movie options.
And then that lock popped open and reminded me that perhaps it's just as easy as asking for what I want with a sincere heart and clear mind.
And speaking of which ... (insert wavy flashback lines)
Way back in 1998 I moved to Portland. I was struggling to find a job and watched as my savings dwindle down to a trickle. One gray Saturday morning, I was sitting alone in my haunted apartment,* donning a pair of boxers and black socks and wondering how the hell I was going to pay the bills.
"How much do you need?" a quiet voice within asked.
It gave me pause. I took a moment to tally up all of my expenses. My ebst guess was, I needed enough to cover three months worth of rent, bills, and food. "$1500," I said out loud. "Fifteen hundred dollars, and I can relax until I find a job."
The next day, my father called out of the blue to let me know that my aunt wanted to give me a monetary gift for the amount of $1500 to help me on my way.
So why not have routine daily talks with the Big Guy? At night, rather than talk to God, I tell myself I don't have time or I don't know what to pray for or Spirit already knows what I need/want. But really, I am simply out of praying shape. It's like going back to the gym after taking a year off. The first few work-outs are like landing in a sweaty, lunar dream-scape, but one quickly builds up stamina until it become a pure pleasure. The need to pray--my need to pray--to talk to God, to connect with the Universe is, I'm convinced, as important to my existence as my very breath.
Communing with Spirit seems to come down to three words, Practice, Practice, Practice. I was speaking to a dear friend recently about my struggles in finding the energy for spiritual practice these days and how I missed sweat lodge and ceremony and a strong meditation practice.
"Well, Honey (he calls everyone Honey), I hear, but you already are in sweat lodge. Maybe the rocks aren't there, and your not sitting in the dark in the heat with someone pouring water, but you are in lodge every day. You're a father and a husband, a provider and a creative being, and you are walking consciously on the planet and being of service to others. You are in lodge every day. And thank God for that."
Aho ...
... please, Spirit, send the publisher anyway.
*With a crowbar
**At that time I didn't know it was haunted. I was eventually chased from the apartment due to too much supernatural shenanigans. Very creepy.
Segue #1: A number of years ago, from my desire to honor and learn about a number of religions of the world, I had a mini-Christian bible by my bed. There it gathered dust for a good 18 months until finally, in the deepest, darkest middle of the night, I felt inspired to open it up and read a few parables. I turned on the reading light, took a sip of water, and lifted the small chap bible to see what I might see. An absolutely enormous cockroach had got itself wedged between the bibles pages and was writhing its front legs at me. I dropped the book in horror, and saw it as a sign and got rid of the artifact the next day. The unfortunate image was, needless to say, seared into my brain. God and that wacky sense of humor again.
And speaking of God, just yesterday I rode my bike to REI to pick up a pair of shoes. When I exited the store with my purchase, the horseshoe lock securing my bike to the metal rack wouldn't open. I cursed, I pleaded, I cajoled, I exhorted the lock to open, but no amount of pulling, pushing, yanking, and tweeking of the key could get it to budge.
I'm a person who, if I don't get enough exercise, every other day or so, I start to climb the walls. I've been feeling dark of late, unable (or unwilling) to do my happy dance. I've been snippy with Jenn and impatient with Zinnia, who has entered a clingy/whiney stage. I'm sleep deprived, stressed from the rigors of learning the ropes of a new job, and am "working on" changing my diet from one of a pure, unadulterated carb addict who used to shoot-up half a bag of Reduced Fat Ruffles, to a diet that is more protein-rich.
And now my bike was tethered to a bike rack like a baby elephant tied to a sapling in Thailand. I felt a mild sense of panic, and more, the first pangs of a deep emotional attachment to this old clunker that I hadn't even known existed. What had this bicycle ever done to deserved such a fate--to be permanently lashed to a rack outside of REI while uber-rich hikers scoffed and spit at it like yesterdays trash? I did what any sane bicycling enthusiast would do: I began to strip my old paint of whatever parts weren't bolted down and called my super-competent wife for help. Jenn immediately Googled "How to crack a Kryptonite lock."*
I began to fantasize about what my next bike would be. Maybe I'll finally get that $1500 road bike I have longed for for five years. I'll even get the bike garb: the silly shorts that accent my package, the water bottles, the odometer.
I turned toward the entrance to let the manager know that my bright yellow Motobecane would remain locked in front of their building into perpetuity unless they helped me liberate it, but paused. Something moved inside of me, a quiet whisper. It said: Stop, ask for help.
"Okay," I said out loud. In that moment I felt more connected to spirit than I had in months simply through the act of leaning in. "Please, God, let this key work just one more time."
I lifted up the lock to give it a final go, and just like that, one end of the horseshoe popped free from its prison. How could I not smile.
Of late, I had been resentful toward God for various grievances. Resentful for giving me a body that won't let me run marathons or sleep soundly; for giving me a body that can't practice yoga every day and won't allow me to eat whatever I please; a body whose natural cholesterol setting routinely spikes between 280-300. And don't get me started on how God adamantly refuses to send a publisher my way, one who recognizes my pure, polished gift as a writer and creative genius, and who wants to sign me to a three book deal with movie options.
And then that lock popped open and reminded me that perhaps it's just as easy as asking for what I want with a sincere heart and clear mind.
And speaking of which ... (insert wavy flashback lines)
Way back in 1998 I moved to Portland. I was struggling to find a job and watched as my savings dwindle down to a trickle. One gray Saturday morning, I was sitting alone in my haunted apartment,* donning a pair of boxers and black socks and wondering how the hell I was going to pay the bills.
"How much do you need?" a quiet voice within asked.
It gave me pause. I took a moment to tally up all of my expenses. My ebst guess was, I needed enough to cover three months worth of rent, bills, and food. "$1500," I said out loud. "Fifteen hundred dollars, and I can relax until I find a job."
The next day, my father called out of the blue to let me know that my aunt wanted to give me a monetary gift for the amount of $1500 to help me on my way.
So why not have routine daily talks with the Big Guy? At night, rather than talk to God, I tell myself I don't have time or I don't know what to pray for or Spirit already knows what I need/want. But really, I am simply out of praying shape. It's like going back to the gym after taking a year off. The first few work-outs are like landing in a sweaty, lunar dream-scape, but one quickly builds up stamina until it become a pure pleasure. The need to pray--my need to pray--to talk to God, to connect with the Universe is, I'm convinced, as important to my existence as my very breath.
Communing with Spirit seems to come down to three words, Practice, Practice, Practice. I was speaking to a dear friend recently about my struggles in finding the energy for spiritual practice these days and how I missed sweat lodge and ceremony and a strong meditation practice.
"Well, Honey (he calls everyone Honey), I hear, but you already are in sweat lodge. Maybe the rocks aren't there, and your not sitting in the dark in the heat with someone pouring water, but you are in lodge every day. You're a father and a husband, a provider and a creative being, and you are walking consciously on the planet and being of service to others. You are in lodge every day. And thank God for that."
Aho ...
... please, Spirit, send the publisher anyway.
*With a crowbar
**At that time I didn't know it was haunted. I was eventually chased from the apartment due to too much supernatural shenanigans. Very creepy.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Zinnia the Traveler
It's March 8th. For those of you who don't know, I've started a new job, a 28 hour a week position working at a clinic for people with co-occurring disorders, i.e. people with some sort of substance addiction and mood or thought disorder. The organization is set in a large, warehouse building out by the airport, and the team that works there is undauntably cheerful, sincere, and real. If name recognition is any indication of being in the right spot, of those co-workers I've met, I have been able to remember an (albeit slim) majority of their names--roughly 40-50 people--even with my usually spotty recall.
My new boss tells me that my packet is somewhere amidst the stack to go before the credentialing committee today. I will soon know if I will be allowed to start seeing clients or if I will indeed spend the next month boning up on methadone, Buprenorphine, Narcan, observing groups and intakes, and learning a complicated electronic medical records system until the committee next meets. I feel confident all systems will be go and/but will know for sure before I finish this entry.#
Jenn and Zinnia are in Oregon visiting the fam.* It is the first time I've been apart from them for any real length time since Z. joined the earth party, and I am finding it oddly disorientating. The three of us flew out to Portland last Friday so Jenn could get her fix of rain, relatives, and ocean, and to introduce Zinnia to those members of her family who had not yet been blessed by Z.'s smile and stunning personality. It was Zinnie's first flight, and aside from a brief crying jag when her ears popped as the plane descended, our daughter proved to be a natural born traveler. She enchanted passenger and flight attendant alike, and we even passed her to a woman across the aisle--a mother of five--who had been flirting with Z. like it was second nature, which, after five kids, it no doubt was.
I am still amazed at the emotional response a baby evokes from the general female public. At both the Albuquerque and Utah airports, I strolled around the terminal with Zinnia balanced on one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. Women melted before her gaze; they smiled and cooed at our little angel even while avoiding eye contact with Zinnia's father (i.e. your humble author). Many of the male travelers were somehow able to resist Z.'s charms, but several of my more heart-opened brethren would glance briefly at my child and offer me a silent nod of approval.
Zinnia makes life interesting wherever she goes and offers me the unique experience of observing a being who is living each moment as if for the first time. Below, the usual suspect gleefully perches atop her papa's shoulders while absolutely soaking the back of his head with baby drool.
Yesterday, Jenn told me over the phone that she and Zinnia had gone for a stroll on a rare, semi-translucent Oregon day and came across two neighbor kids playing basketball in their driveway. Z was so mesmerized by the sport that as soon as Jenn put her down, she let out a squeal of delight and crawled down the sidewalk toward the boys as quickly as her little baby butt could scamper (an image that, without any further details, is utterly endearing).
"I guess she's going to be some sort of athlete," Jenn said.
Here, then, is an updated list of potential vocations for our daughter based on activities that have fascinated her: A pilot, a ceiling fan installer, a dental hygienist (she often indulges herself by sucking on dental floss box), a world-renowned peace activist (possibly a parental projection), a comedian,** a professional soccer player, a hat-taker-offer,*** and a cat wrangler. She is also the acknowledged fiance of one of the babies in Jenn's Mama/Baby group--at least according to the boy's mother--but I have yet to meet the young lad or his family to see if he comes from upstanding stock. Plus--who knows--Zinnia might be a lesbian, and while lesbianism is more of a calling than a vocation, we will tack it onto the list nonetheless.
(One week later) Two days ago, Jenn, Zinnia, and I went to Trader Joe's to shop for sundry items. A mother strolled toward us down one of the aisles, her two daughters in tow. The younger one, perhaps five, was dressed like a little princess.
"That's a quite the pretty dress you have there," Jenn said with a smile.
The girl looked up and beamed. "Yes, it is."
Her older sister and mother laughed, but then corrected her and told her to say thank you. The little girl had already started down the aisle, but called over her shoulder, "Thanks."
When I am out in public with Zinnia, I do have a bit of a sense of pride, as if I'm sharing a long-time dream fulfilled: Hey, look everybody, see what I helped create? However, while I take credit for helping to manifest this sweet being, I subscribe more to The Prophet's description of my job as a parent:
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
To take responsibility for such a wonderful creation strikes me as ludicrous. Credit goes to God and God alone. Jenn and I are Zinnia's stewards, nothing more. It is our job to aim our smiling, giggling, crying-from-teething pain little seahorse--to the best of our ability--in the direction of her karmic destiny. To the degree that we teach our daughter to love and be loved will gauge our success as parents.
#I'm in : )
* Hip lingo for "family."
** Zinnia loves a good double-take, and while she is not quite old enough for a spit take, ala' Danny Thomas, she has the spitting-up down pat.
***Not sure how this will translate into the real world
My new boss tells me that my packet is somewhere amidst the stack to go before the credentialing committee today. I will soon know if I will be allowed to start seeing clients or if I will indeed spend the next month boning up on methadone, Buprenorphine, Narcan, observing groups and intakes, and learning a complicated electronic medical records system until the committee next meets. I feel confident all systems will be go and/but will know for sure before I finish this entry.#
Jenn and Zinnia are in Oregon visiting the fam.* It is the first time I've been apart from them for any real length time since Z. joined the earth party, and I am finding it oddly disorientating. The three of us flew out to Portland last Friday so Jenn could get her fix of rain, relatives, and ocean, and to introduce Zinnia to those members of her family who had not yet been blessed by Z.'s smile and stunning personality. It was Zinnie's first flight, and aside from a brief crying jag when her ears popped as the plane descended, our daughter proved to be a natural born traveler. She enchanted passenger and flight attendant alike, and we even passed her to a woman across the aisle--a mother of five--who had been flirting with Z. like it was second nature, which, after five kids, it no doubt was.
I am still amazed at the emotional response a baby evokes from the general female public. At both the Albuquerque and Utah airports, I strolled around the terminal with Zinnia balanced on one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. Women melted before her gaze; they smiled and cooed at our little angel even while avoiding eye contact with Zinnia's father (i.e. your humble author). Many of the male travelers were somehow able to resist Z.'s charms, but several of my more heart-opened brethren would glance briefly at my child and offer me a silent nod of approval.
Zinnia makes life interesting wherever she goes and offers me the unique experience of observing a being who is living each moment as if for the first time. Below, the usual suspect gleefully perches atop her papa's shoulders while absolutely soaking the back of his head with baby drool.
Yesterday, Jenn told me over the phone that she and Zinnia had gone for a stroll on a rare, semi-translucent Oregon day and came across two neighbor kids playing basketball in their driveway. Z was so mesmerized by the sport that as soon as Jenn put her down, she let out a squeal of delight and crawled down the sidewalk toward the boys as quickly as her little baby butt could scamper (an image that, without any further details, is utterly endearing).
"I guess she's going to be some sort of athlete," Jenn said.
Here, then, is an updated list of potential vocations for our daughter based on activities that have fascinated her: A pilot, a ceiling fan installer, a dental hygienist (she often indulges herself by sucking on dental floss box), a world-renowned peace activist (possibly a parental projection), a comedian,** a professional soccer player, a hat-taker-offer,*** and a cat wrangler. She is also the acknowledged fiance of one of the babies in Jenn's Mama/Baby group--at least according to the boy's mother--but I have yet to meet the young lad or his family to see if he comes from upstanding stock. Plus--who knows--Zinnia might be a lesbian, and while lesbianism is more of a calling than a vocation, we will tack it onto the list nonetheless.
(One week later) Two days ago, Jenn, Zinnia, and I went to Trader Joe's to shop for sundry items. A mother strolled toward us down one of the aisles, her two daughters in tow. The younger one, perhaps five, was dressed like a little princess.
"That's a quite the pretty dress you have there," Jenn said with a smile.
The girl looked up and beamed. "Yes, it is."
Her older sister and mother laughed, but then corrected her and told her to say thank you. The little girl had already started down the aisle, but called over her shoulder, "Thanks."
When I am out in public with Zinnia, I do have a bit of a sense of pride, as if I'm sharing a long-time dream fulfilled: Hey, look everybody, see what I helped create? However, while I take credit for helping to manifest this sweet being, I subscribe more to The Prophet's description of my job as a parent:
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.To take responsibility for such a wonderful creation strikes me as ludicrous. Credit goes to God and God alone. Jenn and I are Zinnia's stewards, nothing more. It is our job to aim our smiling, giggling, crying-from-teething pain little seahorse--to the best of our ability--in the direction of her karmic destiny. To the degree that we teach our daughter to love and be loved will gauge our success as parents.
#I'm in : )
* Hip lingo for "family."
** Zinnia loves a good double-take, and while she is not quite old enough for a spit take, ala' Danny Thomas, she has the spitting-up down pat.
***Not sure how this will translate into the real world
Sunday, February 12, 2012
You've Gotta Walk Before You Can Crawl
Our precocious daughter is crawling! Zinnia crawleth! It crawls, precious, and may God have mercy on our souls. Her gait is a bit clumsy, a bit side-windy, and just when she starts to pick up a head of steam, one of her legs twitches out before she again finds her footing ... er, kneeing?
Anyway, I blame the cats. Actually, blame isn't quite the right word. I credit our felines for inflaming Zinnia toward movement, though our lives will never be the same.
Two weeks ago, Honey and Duma officially entered Zinnia's awareness. For Z.'s first 5 1/2 months, she and the cats co-habitated, but more or less ignored each other. Zinnia's attentions was drawn more to colors and shapes, the warmth of her mother's bosom, the embracing masculine energy of her father's hairy arms. She was a creature of the senses, a slave to hunger, joy, exhaustion, and injustice (e.g. she would and cries bitter, bitter tears every time Jenn or I have the audacity to lay her on her back so we can cram her arms into her pajama sleeves.)
Then one day, Honey sauntered by, brushing her tail across Zinnia's face as she passed as if to say, Look at me--aren't I pretty.
Zinnia looked up mouth agape with an expression of delight and awe. Wait! Papa, did you see ... ? My goodness, I'm simply enchanted. I must have that.
She has been in hot pursuit of the cats ever since. If Zinnia is sitting on her bum when Honey or Duma float by, she will start to bounce up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down, until she gains enough momentum to propel herself forward to all fours, aaaand she's off, chasing whichever kitty happened to have crossed her line of sight. If Z. has the good fortune to actually touch one of the cats, well, pure bliss. She grabs a handful of fur and gives it a good yank until the cat yelps and leaps out of harm's way. Honey, to her credit, has been much more indulgent than Duma and lets Zinnia "pet" her longer than one might expect.
Recently, however, a battle raged in the house of Bender-Lukesh, one that risked fracturing the harmony of our abode and had me wondering if a curse had been placed upon all of our heads. Zinnia, you see, loves the crackle of a good plastic bag ... but so does Honey, who has a penchant for lying on top of various objects around the house in a conquering sort of way. Two days ago Zinnia, exploring her new found freedom, crawled over to liberate a plastic grocery bag upon which Honey had pounced. After Z. made several passes at the bag, she latched onto one of the handles and yanked. Honey rolled to her side and grabbed at the bag with her front paws to pull it back. Zinnia continued to reach and grab while Honey, not yet willing to give up the fight, swiped at the plastic with her claws. Our daughter, undeterred, finally wrested the bag from underneath Honey's body.
Although I had been ready to separate the two the moment things got out of hand, I was curious how it would play out. Honey was careful to only claw at the plastic and did not come close to snagging Zinnia. I was in awe of the awareness that she brought to the game. Too, this face-off reminded me of that news story about a pack of wild dogs who viciously attacked an alligator. The photo (below) was prefaced with this bit of narrative:
(Keep Going ... )
(Almost there ... )
Hand-in-hand with Zinnia's new found mobility is the necessity for Jenn and I to be even more vigilant as to her whereabouts. Accompanying this vigilance is an even deeper level of exhaustion, which has been Jenn's and my companion lo these last six months.
Prior to Zinnia's birth, sleep deprivation was one of the things other parents warned us about with a just-you-wait twinkle in their eye. I would listen politely while thinking with an internal eye roll, Thanks for the sage wisdom. I had never heard that having a kid could be exhausting. However, until one is actually living it, yeah, okay, I kinda see what all the hub-bub is about. Having a kid is fucking exhausting.
Of late, I've been more snappy toward Jenn than usual, my libido has bottomed-out (but pays a visit several times a month just to remind me what I'm missing), and each morning at 5:00 a.m. I pray for Zinnia to go back to sleep before I surrender to the reality of her charming smile.
Additionally, and to my dismay, a wave of baby-related items are now strewn about the house like flotsam after a tsunami; the bedroom carpet is starting to resemble a shaggy Rorschach blot; Jenn and I are arguing more (or sometimes just withdraw into our respective bubbles); and the cats are thanking their lucky stars if I even get to their litter box most mornings. A slew of bills magically arrives on the same day each month; I squeeze exercise in when I can; and my writing practice has been whittled down to catch-as-catch-can nub. Also, I still have times when I feel like an unfit father, particularly when Z. is squirming around while I endeavor to spoon her into her pee-jay's. When she starts to cry in what I call her, "Deep-Sea-Diver-Writhing-From-the-Bends" wail, it affects me like nails on a chalkboard. During these moments, what I want to do (and actually do do sometimes**) is shove Z. back at Jenn, walk out of the bedroom, and close the door.
Anyway, I blame the cats. Actually, blame isn't quite the right word. I credit our felines for inflaming Zinnia toward movement, though our lives will never be the same.
Two weeks ago, Honey and Duma officially entered Zinnia's awareness. For Z.'s first 5 1/2 months, she and the cats co-habitated, but more or less ignored each other. Zinnia's attentions was drawn more to colors and shapes, the warmth of her mother's bosom, the embracing masculine energy of her father's hairy arms. She was a creature of the senses, a slave to hunger, joy, exhaustion, and injustice (e.g. she would and cries bitter, bitter tears every time Jenn or I have the audacity to lay her on her back so we can cram her arms into her pajama sleeves.)
Then one day, Honey sauntered by, brushing her tail across Zinnia's face as she passed as if to say, Look at me--aren't I pretty.
Zinnia looked up mouth agape with an expression of delight and awe. Wait! Papa, did you see ... ? My goodness, I'm simply enchanted. I must have that.
She has been in hot pursuit of the cats ever since. If Zinnia is sitting on her bum when Honey or Duma float by, she will start to bounce up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down, until she gains enough momentum to propel herself forward to all fours, aaaand she's off, chasing whichever kitty happened to have crossed her line of sight. If Z. has the good fortune to actually touch one of the cats, well, pure bliss. She grabs a handful of fur and gives it a good yank until the cat yelps and leaps out of harm's way. Honey, to her credit, has been much more indulgent than Duma and lets Zinnia "pet" her longer than one might expect.
Recently, however, a battle raged in the house of Bender-Lukesh, one that risked fracturing the harmony of our abode and had me wondering if a curse had been placed upon all of our heads. Zinnia, you see, loves the crackle of a good plastic bag ... but so does Honey, who has a penchant for lying on top of various objects around the house in a conquering sort of way. Two days ago Zinnia, exploring her new found freedom, crawled over to liberate a plastic grocery bag upon which Honey had pounced. After Z. made several passes at the bag, she latched onto one of the handles and yanked. Honey rolled to her side and grabbed at the bag with her front paws to pull it back. Zinnia continued to reach and grab while Honey, not yet willing to give up the fight, swiped at the plastic with her claws. Our daughter, undeterred, finally wrested the bag from underneath Honey's body.
Although I had been ready to separate the two the moment things got out of hand, I was curious how it would play out. Honey was careful to only claw at the plastic and did not come close to snagging Zinnia. I was in awe of the awareness that she brought to the game. Too, this face-off reminded me of that news story about a pack of wild dogs who viciously attacked an alligator. The photo (below) was prefaced with this bit of narrative:
At times nature can be cruel, but there is also a raw beauty, and even a certain justice manifested within that cruelty. The alligator, one of the oldest and ultimate predators, normally considered the apex predator in its natural ecosystem, can still fall victim to implemented team work strategy, made possible by the tight knit social structure and survival of the fittest pack mentality bred into canines over the last thousands of years by natural selection. See the remarkable photograph attached, courtesy of Nature Magazine. Note that the Alpha dog has a muzzle hold on the gator preventing it from breathing, while the remainder of the pack prevents the beast from rolling. Beware! This is not for the squeamish!
(Keep Going ... )
(Almost there ... )
Hand-in-hand with Zinnia's new found mobility is the necessity for Jenn and I to be even more vigilant as to her whereabouts. Accompanying this vigilance is an even deeper level of exhaustion, which has been Jenn's and my companion lo these last six months.
Prior to Zinnia's birth, sleep deprivation was one of the things other parents warned us about with a just-you-wait twinkle in their eye. I would listen politely while thinking with an internal eye roll, Thanks for the sage wisdom. I had never heard that having a kid could be exhausting. However, until one is actually living it, yeah, okay, I kinda see what all the hub-bub is about. Having a kid is fucking exhausting.
Of late, I've been more snappy toward Jenn than usual, my libido has bottomed-out (but pays a visit several times a month just to remind me what I'm missing), and each morning at 5:00 a.m. I pray for Zinnia to go back to sleep before I surrender to the reality of her charming smile.
Additionally, and to my dismay, a wave of baby-related items are now strewn about the house like flotsam after a tsunami; the bedroom carpet is starting to resemble a shaggy Rorschach blot; Jenn and I are arguing more (or sometimes just withdraw into our respective bubbles); and the cats are thanking their lucky stars if I even get to their litter box most mornings. A slew of bills magically arrives on the same day each month; I squeeze exercise in when I can; and my writing practice has been whittled down to catch-as-catch-can nub. Also, I still have times when I feel like an unfit father, particularly when Z. is squirming around while I endeavor to spoon her into her pee-jay's. When she starts to cry in what I call her, "Deep-Sea-Diver-Writhing-From-the-Bends" wail, it affects me like nails on a chalkboard. During these moments, what I want to do (and actually do do sometimes**) is shove Z. back at Jenn, walk out of the bedroom, and close the door.
Given the above, then, why on earth are Jenn and I even discussing having a second kid. (Oh no he di-int!) It is more a fleeting fantasy than close to reality, but if I were five years younger a second kid would be a distinct possibility. Each and every day, Zinnia can (and often does) present me with a peak emotional experience that is so precious and pure and delightful, the idea of being able to experience this sweet stage all over again is quite alluring. Z's laugh and smile stand on their own as the highlight of my day, and when I enter a room after being gone for any length of time, she reaches out an arm as if to say, I'm ready to shower you with my love now. Her coos in the early hours of the day have become my morning song.
*But we continue to hold steady
** Hee-hee! I said "do-do."
The happy nudist fulfilling her heart's desire to play with the cat's water dish.
*But we continue to hold steady
** Hee-hee! I said "do-do."
You've Gotta Walk Before You Can Crawl
Our precocious daughter is crawling! Zinnia crawleth! It crawls, precious, and may God have mercy on our souls. Her gait is a bit clumsy, a bit side-windy, and just when she starts to pick up a head of steam, one of her legs twitches out before she again finds her footing ... er, kneeing?
Anyway, I blame the cats. Actually, blame isn't quite the right word. I credit our felines for inflaming Zinnia toward movement, though our lives will never be the same.
Two weeks ago, Honey and Duma officially entered Zinnia's awareness. For Z.'s first 5 1/2 months, she and the cats co-habitated, but more or less ignored each other. Zinnia's attentions was drawn more to colors and shapes, the warmth of her mother's bosom, the embracing masculine energy of her father's hairy arms. She was a creature of the senses, a slave to hunger, joy, exhaustion, and injustice (e.g. she would and cries bitter, bitter tears every time Jenn or I have the audacity to lay her on her back so we can cram her arms into her pajama sleeves.)
Then one day, Honey sauntered by, brushing her tail across Zinnia's face as she passed as if to say, Look at me--aren't I pretty.
Zinnia looked up mouth agape with an expression of delight and awe. Wait! Papa, did you see ... ? My goodness, I'm simply enchanted. I must have that.
She has been in hot pursuit of the cats ever since. If Zinnia is sitting on her bum when Honey or Duma float by, she will start to bounce up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down, until she gains enough momentum to propel herself forward to all fours, aaaand she's off, chasing whichever kitty happened to have crossed her line of sight. If Z. has the good fortune to actually touch one of the cats, well, pure bliss. She grabs a handful of fur and gives it a good yank until the cat yelps and leaps out of harm's way. Honey, to her credit, has been much more indulgent than Duma and lets Zinnia "pet" her longer than one might expect.
Recently, however, a battle raged in the house of Bender-Lukesh, one that risked fracturing the harmony of our abode and had me wondering if a curse had been placed upon all of our heads. Zinnia, you see, loves the crackle of a good plastic bag ... but so does Honey, who has a penchant for lying on top of various objects around the house in a conquering sort of way. Two days ago Zinnia, exploring her new found freedom, crawled over to liberate a plastic grocery bag upon which Honey had pounced. After Z. made several passes at the bag, she latched onto one of the handles and yanked. Honey rolled to her side and grabbed at the bag with her front paws to pull it back. Zinnia continued to reach and grab while Honey, not yet willing to give up the fight, swiped at the plastic with her claws. Our daughter, undeterred, finally wrested the bag from underneath Honey's body.
Although I had been ready to separate the two the moment things got out of hand, I was curious how it would play out. Honey was careful to only claw at the plastic and did not come close to snagging Zinnia. I was in awe of the awareness that she brought to the game. Too, this face-off reminded me of that news story about a pack of wild dogs who viciously attacked an alligator. The photo (below) was prefaced with this bit of narrative:
(Keep Going ... )
(Almost there ... )
Hand-in-hand with Zinnia's new found mobility is the necessity for Jenn and I to be even more vigilant as to her whereabouts. Accompanying this vigilance is an even deeper level of exhaustion, which has been Jenn's and my companion lo these last six months.
Prior to Zinnia's birth, sleep deprivation was one of the things other parents warned us about with a just-you-wait twinkle in their eye. I would listen politely while thinking with an internal eye roll, Thanks for the sage wisdom. I had never heard that having a kid could be exhausting. However, until one is actually living it, yeah, okay, I kinda see what all the hub-bub is about. Having a kid is fucking exhausting.
Of late, I've been more snappy toward Jenn than usual, my libido has bottomed-out (but pays a visit several times a month just to remind me what I'm missing), and each morning at 5:00 a.m. I pray for Zinnia to go back to sleep before I surrender to the reality of her charming smile.
Additionally, and to my dismay, a wave of baby-related items are now strewn about the house like flotsam after a tsunami; the bedroom carpet is starting to resemble a shaggy Rorschach blot; Jenn and I are arguing more (or sometimes just withdraw into our respective bubbles); and the cats are thanking their lucky stars if I even get to their litter box most mornings. A slew of bills magically arrives on the same day each month; I squeeze exercise in when I can; and my writing practice has been whittled down to catch-as-catch-can nub. Also, I still have times when I feel like an unfit father, particularly when Z. is squirming around while I endeavor to spoon her into her pee-jay's. When she starts to cry in what I call her, "Deep-Sea-Diver-Writhing-From-the-Bends" wail, it affects me like nails on a chalkboard. During these moments, what I want to do (and actually do do ... sometimes**) is shove Z. back at Jenn, walk out of the bedroom, and close the door.
Anyway, I blame the cats. Actually, blame isn't quite the right word. I credit our felines for inflaming Zinnia toward movement, though our lives will never be the same.
Two weeks ago, Honey and Duma officially entered Zinnia's awareness. For Z.'s first 5 1/2 months, she and the cats co-habitated, but more or less ignored each other. Zinnia's attentions was drawn more to colors and shapes, the warmth of her mother's bosom, the embracing masculine energy of her father's hairy arms. She was a creature of the senses, a slave to hunger, joy, exhaustion, and injustice (e.g. she would and cries bitter, bitter tears every time Jenn or I have the audacity to lay her on her back so we can cram her arms into her pajama sleeves.)
Then one day, Honey sauntered by, brushing her tail across Zinnia's face as she passed as if to say, Look at me--aren't I pretty.
Zinnia looked up mouth agape with an expression of delight and awe. Wait! Papa, did you see ... ? My goodness, I'm simply enchanted. I must have that.
She has been in hot pursuit of the cats ever since. If Zinnia is sitting on her bum when Honey or Duma float by, she will start to bounce up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down, until she gains enough momentum to propel herself forward to all fours, aaaand she's off, chasing whichever kitty happened to have crossed her line of sight. If Z. has the good fortune to actually touch one of the cats, well, pure bliss. She grabs a handful of fur and gives it a good yank until the cat yelps and leaps out of harm's way. Honey, to her credit, has been much more indulgent than Duma and lets Zinnia "pet" her longer than one might expect.
Recently, however, a battle raged in the house of Bender-Lukesh, one that risked fracturing the harmony of our abode and had me wondering if a curse had been placed upon all of our heads. Zinnia, you see, loves the crackle of a good plastic bag ... but so does Honey, who has a penchant for lying on top of various objects around the house in a conquering sort of way. Two days ago Zinnia, exploring her new found freedom, crawled over to liberate a plastic grocery bag upon which Honey had pounced. After Z. made several passes at the bag, she latched onto one of the handles and yanked. Honey rolled to her side and grabbed at the bag with her front paws to pull it back. Zinnia continued to reach and grab while Honey, not yet willing to give up the fight, swiped at the plastic with her claws. Our daughter, undeterred, finally wrested the bag from underneath Honey's body.
Although I had been ready to separate the two the moment things got out of hand, I was curious how it would play out. Honey was careful to only claw at the plastic and did not come close to snagging Zinnia. I was in awe of the awareness that she brought to the game. Too, this face-off reminded me of that news story about a pack of wild dogs who viciously attacked an alligator. The photo (below) was prefaced with this bit of narrative:
At times nature can be cruel, but there is also a raw beauty, and even a certain justice manifested within that cruelty. The alligator, one of the oldest and ultimate predators, normally considered the apex predator in its natural ecosystem, can still fall victim to implemented team work strategy, made possible by the tight knit social structure and survival of the fittest pack mentality bred into canines over the last thousands of years by natural selection. See the remarkable photograph attached, courtesy of Nature Magazine. Note that the Alpha dog has a muzzle hold on the gator preventing it from breathing, while the remainder of the pack prevents the beast from rolling. Beware! This is not for the squeamish!
(Keep Going ... )
(Almost there ... )
Hand-in-hand with Zinnia's new found mobility is the necessity for Jenn and I to be even more vigilant as to her whereabouts. Accompanying this vigilance is an even deeper level of exhaustion, which has been Jenn's and my companion lo these last six months.
Prior to Zinnia's birth, sleep deprivation was one of the things other parents warned us about with a just-you-wait twinkle in their eye. I would listen politely while thinking with an internal eye roll, Thanks for the sage wisdom. I had never heard that having a kid could be exhausting. However, until one is actually living it, yeah, okay, I kinda see what all the hub-bub is about. Having a kid is fucking exhausting.
Of late, I've been more snappy toward Jenn than usual, my libido has bottomed-out (but pays a visit several times a month just to remind me what I'm missing), and each morning at 5:00 a.m. I pray for Zinnia to go back to sleep before I surrender to the reality of her charming smile.
Additionally, and to my dismay, a wave of baby-related items are now strewn about the house like flotsam after a tsunami; the bedroom carpet is starting to resemble a shaggy Rorschach blot; Jenn and I are arguing more (or sometimes just withdraw into our respective bubbles); and the cats are thanking their lucky stars if I even get to their litter box most mornings. A slew of bills magically arrives on the same day each month; I squeeze exercise in when I can; and my writing practice has been whittled down to catch-as-catch-can nub. Also, I still have times when I feel like an unfit father, particularly when Z. is squirming around while I endeavor to spoon her into her pee-jay's. When she starts to cry in what I call her, "Deep-Sea-Diver-Writhing-From-the-Bends" wail, it affects me like nails on a chalkboard. During these moments, what I want to do (and actually do do ... sometimes**) is shove Z. back at Jenn, walk out of the bedroom, and close the door.
Given the above, then, why on earth are Jenn and I even discussing having a second kid. (Oh no he di-int!) It is more a fleeting fantasy than close to reality, but if I were five years younger a second kid would be a distinct possibility. Each and every day, Zinnia can (and often does) present me with a peak emotional experience that is so precious and pure and delightful, the idea of being able to experience this sweet stage all over again is quite alluring. Z's laugh and smile stand on their own as the highlight of my day, and when I enter a room after being gone for any length of time, she reaches out an arm as if to say, I'm ready to shower you with my love now. Her coos in the early hours of the day have become my morning song.
*But we continue to hold steady
** Hee-hee! I said "do-do."
The happy nudist fulfilling her heart's desire to play with the cat's water dish.
*But we continue to hold steady
** Hee-hee! I said "do-do."
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