Failure to Connect

Water, Laptop, Phone
Originally uploaded by earthdog

I am faced with the possibility that I am not interesting. Possibly a little desperate. Possibly even socially obnoxious.

When you spend time with a baby this age, you live in a world of big and sudden emotions. Joy is all-encompassing. Fear and overwhelm abruptly appear and disappear. A cuddle against the bosoms solves almost everything. We might spend long minutes trying to stand, or picking at a piece of floor dirt, or we might refuse to be put down and demand to ride around on mama all day. Although we are in a happy groove of togetherness and rapport, the instinctual physicality of this life doesn’t translate so well to the outside world of adult society.

Plus, I’m just lonely. Obviously, thanks to the baby, I have plenty of company all day long. But it’s been a while since I had the luxury of connecting—really connecting—with another adult. Too long since I faced someone and felt as if we understood one another, without hurry, without a baby inserting itself into the conversation.

Walking down the street, I called out a greeting to a mother and her son. She had stopped me on the street a week ago to chat about the baby carrier we were both using. Today, my baby rode on my back, playing with my scarf. You couldn’t see him. And so my too-friendly “Hi there!” fell flat. I got the ‘You’re Insane’ look as they went past.

Vowing to lighten up on the social enthusiasm, I made my way to the bank. By the time I left, I’d charmed the teller to pieces, or else frightened him entirely. He and his colleague were treated to a fascinating narrative of the baby’s habits and behavior, the reasons for my visit, my plans for the money in my account, and so forth.

I didn’t like what I was seeing of myself. The resolution to lighten up was renewed.

The little guy and I ducked into a swanky neighborhood bar (“My First Drinking Establishment”?) to say hi to someone. My excited conversation with my friend caused the only other person at the bar to move several seats farther away.

Finally we came home. The baby gave me a broad smile, like we shared some special secret. I let him play on the floor diaperless, while I checked my email. Incredibly enough, there were no new messages, for the fifteenth time just that day!

Strangely, those friends I wrote to—and those people I put off writing to for a week but got back to eventually—still hadn’t responded. Perhaps because they have jobs and things to do. Perhaps I used an outdated e-mail address. Perhaps our game of has gone on so long they’ve forgotten they’re “it.” Or quite possibly they have other things to think about besides me and my baby-development monologues. And perhaps they just aren’t feeling the spark of relationship, the energy that makes us interesting staying in contact.

No messages either on the phone I so carefully carry with me, in case one of my out-of-touch buddies should call. They don’t. Although calls do come in. The optometrist’s office wants to inform me that they can’t confirm my insurance coverage. Someone is looking for Dave. The baby grins whenever he sees the phone, and makes a lunge for it. He says it tastes good. And he’s in love with the camera part. I could just cancel my plan with Sprint and let him have it as a fancy toy.

Maybe it’s time to accept life, just as it is. I’m supposed to know all about this—it’s a classic theme in Zen circles. Probably for a reason: accepting life just as it is poses a real challenge! Put here is my life: I have a baby. I am a baby-plus-woman. Every conscious moment is infused with awareness of my son. Even in the formlessness of meditation, breath and body sit expanded by love.

When socializing does happen, and people ask how I am, I say “we’re fine.” The conversation will turn to the baby sooner if not later, because for me that’s what matters. How interesting is our conversation really going to be? If you’re not mad about babies, you will eventually tire of talking to someone who is.

So perhaps I should make friends with other mothers. Unfortunately, if another woman and I both have babies, chances are that’s about the only point of common reference. Having given birth within a year of another person doesn’t actually provide much of a connection once you’ve compared your babies’ weights, physical skills, eating habits, and sleeping patterns. Soon we come to the unorthodox details that have so naturally filled out my life: home birth, breast feeding, co-sleeping, few toys, mostly wood, fewer vaccinations, no baby “gear” to speak of, afternoons spent exploring the closet or smiling at strangers rather than engaging with toys or videos.

Perhaps it’s time to really believe what I already know: the deepest connection does not come from social-stroke-and-return-stroke. Obsessing about whether or not my friends are as in need of me as I think they should be—that’s just silliness. In time, the ties that are not supported will dissolve, and new ones will gradually form. That’s not being a good friend, or a bad one; it’s just the way of the world, the way things naturally grow, strengthen, and fall away.

Perhaps I should be enjoying the rare luxury of staying home with the baby, giving him attention, and having time to write and to sit zazen. The life I have affords a better opportunity than most for turning my focus to exploring that Deepest Connection, the one that doesn’t come from social superficialities, the one no one else can give you.