Stephanie and Somebody

A couple of nights ago Eden was a bit fussy, where "fussy" stands for "screaming like we were murdering her slowly until the neighbors were ready to gather a lynch mob and break into our apartment to stop the atrocity, torches and clubs in hand," and "a bit" stands for "reaching the level of general public alarm not seen since the days when Los Angeles went black for fear of Japanese long range balloon bombs." I think you know exactly what I mean.

So we swaddled her up tight ("...baby's first straight jacket...") and took turns trying to calm her, which typically consists of striking the right balance between volume and spit in the otherwise rude but nevertheless effective "shush." Eventually she did calm, and we were mostly asleep. At some point I woke up and had the hardest time trying to figure out if I was at that moment holding Eden. I had nearly determined that I was, in fact, holding my pillow when all at once I thought I traced the contours of a little foot enveloped in soft blankets. I honestly could not figure out what was going on.

So I asked Stephanie, "Where is she?" Not getting a straight answer, I became more emphatic, "Is she even in here?"

I would rate Stephanie's overall response somewhere closer to amused than informative. In fact, before I rejoined the living the following morning, I think Stephanie's mom and sister-in-law both had sufficient command of the story to be able to repeat my questions to me as punchlines rather than statements of fatherly concern.

So I thought of posting the story here a day or two ago for the world's enjoyment. But then I realized that I was becoming what I did not want to become. Actually, I realized it earlier than that, when Stephanie and I went to a wedding last Saturday. And yes, everyone there marveled at how quickly we were out in public after having a baby. Their surprise at times bordered on criminal disgust at our emerging negligence in being parents, parting with our precious newborn so soon. Why, if I were not indomitably at home in even the most hostile social situations, I would have felt like going to the wedding was not a sign of fraternal commitment to our friends, but of parental ineptitude in setting priorities. Which is to say, as the ceremonial bliss heightened, I wondered if I were not actually a complete failure already.

Even before that dark experience (it was a night wedding, after all), there was the brighter moment of getting parenting advice from a passing stranger who, by all accounts, had just finished very badly in the seventeenth annual Diana Ross Look Alike Contest, although in all fairness she may have only had Diana's police mugshots available to her, in which case I am sure she was counseled to accept her honorable mention trophy under protest. It was a brighter moment, as astute readers have already concluded, simply because it was daytime, and certainly not because the brilliance of my parenting instincts were being written about with such superlative praise that critics would be forced to conclude that the real story must be buried somewhere far beneath the crust of legendary accretion.

We were walking through the park in the cool of the day (Random Reaching Biblical Allusion Man makes his return...). I had Eden in a Baby Bjorn (think more baby carrier, less stork dress) as we walked along with Steph's mom. Diana interrupted her rendition of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" for the sweet, understated expression of concern: "Your baby is burning!" ... Yeah ... So before she could follow that up with, "And you're going to burn too for what you're doing to her!" we ran away with tears in our eyes.

So by the time I got to the wedding, I was a good bit wiser. I was not afraid of public ridicule once I remembered that I had come to the wedding armed, though perhaps not in the manner I would have wished to be. I came with pictures and video of Eden loaded up my iPod for the world to see (it would have been disruptive to have Eden at the ceremony, and besides, when she's asleep in the back seat who can wake her?). For most inquisitors, the ploy worked. Those baby pictures sure make people pee all over themselves. But about halfway through the reception the jig was up. I reached triumphantly into my pocket to pull out the iPod in a move of sheer social brilliance and before my finger could brush the magic wheel... "Oh, you're that dad now."

That's the point where you're supposed to fold your cards and push away from the table as gracefully as possible, or with gentle resignation tip your king onto his side, or push the button for floor two and make your best attempt at a facial gesture that says, "Why does it smell so bad in here?" If it had been a military wedding, I surely would have been the French commander invited to fall upon his own sword.

So when we got to the pillow incident, you can see the rationale for my hesitation at posting the story. That's not because I am afraid people will think I am a bad father--as far as I can tell, the jury came back while I was getting warmed up for my opening statement. Rather, it's because profuse public affection for your new child is so annoyingly predictable that it borders on mundane. Quite frankly, no one is as interested in your child as you are. No one gives a crap how good your kid can crap, and even if someone did, a swift technical report would be much preferable to a novella as full of crap as the poor kid's diaper. No one wants to read it, no one needs to know it, and no one thinks Jesus Christ, Jr., has been born to you.

And yet....

And yet when I hold her as she sleeps I find myself convinced that peace is not a meaningless term, but a deep, perhaps even eternal calm that we could know if only we stopped splashing around long enough to let it settle in. And yet when she smiles the day is over for me and nothing more needs to be accomplished, even if it is just a gas bubble that could have as easily surfaced as a shriek--it makes no difference to me. And yet I celebrate every poop, pee, burp, fart, cry, and sneeze as achievements to be applauded because they are signs that a life I cannot guarantee yet surges up within her from the deepest well. And yet on the eve of returning to work at a time when my influence on an organization has never been higher, I hold on to a pillow story and put off sleep to keep the morning from sneaking up on me all at once.

And yet I am that dad.