days of  
n a z e  

A little audio gift (85 kb .wav)

for my Faithful readers on

the first anniversary (7/14/99) of

the site. Hand cranked to help

you on the long march.

An obnoxiously large

(101k .wav) audio greeting

from the Author.

New Naze

"He's got a huge crush on her."

Cathy lay in the hospital bed, explaining to her mother why it was a little hard to get my attention lately.

My chin rested against the side of the hospital changing table as I peered into my daughter's face. Not as a crystal ball of what would she be, but a sort of meditation of who is she now and a wonderment that she is mine forever.

These are strange days, Gentle Readers. This past week I've been living in a sort of liquid consciousness. I press the up elevator button when I want to go down, I miss freeway exits, and on Saturday when I went home to get the baby car seat after picking up Cathy's meds, I proceeded to eat lunch and drive back across town without the baby car seat.

I'm hitting my parenting marks, everybody is o.k., but I'm a beat behind on everything that isn't on the Papa Bear list. The fuzzy-headedness doesn't feel bad at all. I guess it's merely the product of a monster reality shift.

Elizabeth Catherine was a star at birth. The public relations people from the Oregon Health Sciences University were looking to shoot some dad and baby photos for some propaganda they're working on. Me, the biggest ham on the block, says "where do I sign?" (Whoa, talk about deadly prom photos... "Here you are, honey, on the cover of the OHSU Nursing School catalog fresh out of the womb!")

The caesarian went smoothly and Laura, the anesthesiologist performed especially well not only on the drugs, but shoots a pretty mean photo as well. (Not for the propaganda -- for home use only.)

(Incidentally, I love the surgery suit. When Jack (now 7) came out, they had these light green pajama type scrub things. Now they've got these white jump suits. I'm wearing it in post-op, I'm wearing it in Cathy's room later that afternoon. "Uh, Mr. Naze, you can take the suit off now if you want." Me: "No, I'm fine. Have you got any of these in khaki?")

Elizabeth Catherine made her entrance in grand style on the morning of May 23rd, clocking in at 9 lbs, 12 oz and a mighty 23 inches tall. She is strong and captivating with her squinched up face and thick dark hair. All the more captivating because me and my siblings all have had kids with lighter stuff on top. (At this point, if I were an old codger, you'd get one of these: "hey, doesn't the mailman/milkman/gardner have black hair?") Cathy's sibs sport the great thick, black hair that Elizabeth has. There is a genetic basis for this. Yes there is.

I got my first poopie diaper with her pretty early. And let me tell you, after 7 years with two boys, the arrangement in parts is a little bit of a shocker. I was well aware of the differences beforehand, but damn, it's one of those things you just have to mentally adjust to.

David, now the middle child, is having a bit of a rough go. We had a nice pirate birthday for him at his childcare and opened his presents up at the hospital with Cathy and Elizabeth. The baby began to cry. David (who still needs his pacifier on a regular basis) offered her his binky, insisting that it was the solution. Later, as he was playing with his toys, he stood up with an alarmed look on his face - "I have to pee!" Then he wet himself. David didn't seem too bothered by it. This is standard new baby regression, but it sort of broke my heart in sympathy for him.

We had to use Jack's underwear on him and then later when it was time to leave, I had to carry him along with his presents the half mile back to the car.

A couple of days ago I was momentarily set upon by the notion that I am now really different from you all, in that I am a father of three and you being Net hipsters, and that this was going to be the source of some distance and alienation. It's funny how these ideas and feelings float by (he said as they turned away, distanced and alienated...).

Of course, she chirps and whirs. When she's not asleep (my god, she sleeps) she sometimes opens her eyelids and looks into you with these deep, dark eyes. She is a goddess and also a poop machine. I was watching the game on Sunday (somebody, please shoot me). I swear to god, the pooping began at half-time and continued unabated right as I pulled the diaper off until the second half started. Wipes, diapers, blankets, socks, innocent bystanders. Soiled all.

Saturday night (her first night home), I took my first solo overnight with her. Tired, we went to bed early (11:30 p.m.). She got up at 1 a.m. Now, I have to tell you, I'm pretty good at this baby stuff. Three hours later, at 4 a.m., I wasn't so much tired as I was frustrated. Luckily, she conked out, finally satisfied with my treatment of bottles of breast milk and formula and burping and diaper changing and singing and...

Cathy's surgery scar isn't healing as well as it did before. When they took out the staples, the left side opened up a bit. The wound would require repacking of sterile gauze, thrice daily. The nurse took 5 minutes and showed me how it was done. She gave me all the supplies (loads o' saline, gauze, pads, swabs, gloves, etc.) and sent me on my way.

I don't want to make myself out to be some kind of hero, but you don't know all of the dimensions of commitment until you've looked into the open wound of your significant other and had to take care of business. You know the funny thing? It doesn't really bother me much. I think it's actually harder for her. (In fact I know it's harder for her. If you know Cathy, please don't talk with her about this. I'm serious.)

I know it's tempting Fate to say this (hubris can be a dangerous thing), but I can definitely handle all of this and then some. We've had support from some great people like Cindy and my mother-in-law, Lynn. And I certainly appreciate the e-mails of concern when I left everyone on the notification list with the cliffhanger message the night before the procedure.

Elizabeth Catherine Naze. You are here asleep at my side for your first new days. And you are my precious mystery. (Waitaminute...what's that smell?)

p.s. Rob Rummel-Hudson: don't make me open this (he said, pointing to his can of Whup Ass).

p.p.s. New days notification: sometimes, on rare occasions, secret messages go out to the list that never ever appear here. Tantalized? Hey, get away from that "back" button!

every

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