I just got off the phone with my sister, who is not sure she wants to come to my baby shower. She says she is superstitious, but I really don't undersand why. I've never been much for superstition, although I do read my horoscope sometimes. Anyway, I never even knew Jewish women didn't have baby showers until 2 years ago when my friend Nitza was pregnant. I was like, oh, let's make her a baby shower, and everyone was like, no, you can't because of the evil eye.
The evil eye is very annoying and inconvenient, if you ask me. When my mother was born, my grandparents kept her in a drawer. A drawer - I swear to god! When I was a kid, I always thought they meant that they pulled out a drawer, stuck her in it, and then closed it back up, still full of socks and everything. I guess they must have kept it on the ground by their bed and had it lined with blankets and stuff. Actually, it probably made quite a cozy little bassinett, but that's not why they did it -- they did it out of fear.
Historically, when mothers and babies survived childbirth far less often than they do today, I suppose it made sense. After all, how terrible to have to return all those gifts and furniture and everything. But I was always taught to prepare well ahead of time for new situations and this seems like a situation you'd want to be really prepared for. You don't want to be out shopping for a crib 3 days after giving birth, when you're sleep-deprived and just learning how to breastfeed and stuff - right?
But the thing I was trying to explain to my sister is I don't want the baby shower for all the presents -- as my mother pointed out, people are going to give us plenty of stuff no matter what. And whatever we don't get, we'll just buy on Craigslist (much to my grandmother's horror). For me, the party is right of passage, a welcoming into this stage of womanhood. My sister pointed out that some Jewish people have parties after they give birth with men and women and the baby there -- but that's really a party for the baby, not the mom. This is really about femaleness and fertility. I don't know if it's corny or too anthropological to describe it this way, but I would be so sad not to have this little celebration. I am completely grateful to Larry's sisters for organizing it for me. It also really means a lot that my mom is going to come - even if she's not going to bring a present (actually, she already sent me a stroller/car seat, which I promised to keep in the basement until the actual arrival). Anyway, it means a lot to me, even if it's cheesy, so I hope she'll change her mind and come, because that would be really sweet and it would be so nice to have her there.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
A Quail's Coffin
I watched Babette's Feast tonight. Good winter movie. I was making beef stew. It's not quite the lush perfection of the Cafe Anglais, but it smelled good and I know it will warm Larry's belly when he gets home soon.
It's so cold out and he has to wait alone for the subway. It makes me feel like some sort of prarie wife, waiting for her man to come in off the barren plains. It is nice to be home, covered in a blanket like a shawl, having put in a hard day's work myself. I love working from home, even if I do get a little lonely sometimes. I have a new peace.
I think it's like the movie - how good food links the physical with the spiritual world and breaks down the stoicism of this religious community. Sometimes we get so caught up in the rat race of it all, it's hard to remember the joys of earthly basics like good food and it's hard to remember that so many of the things that seem like such big deals don't really matter in the end. I choose a bread and chocolate life.
I looked deep into the mirror as I was brushing my teeth just now. I get lost like that sometimes, wondering who that woman on the other side is and what she has to do with me, other than a snaggletooth that needs fixing and some chin hairs that need desperate plucking. For the first time in a long time my eyes don't have bags; its the third trimester exhaustion and the former job stress --- but that feels lifted. I saw my big eyes and my round face and the zits by my hairline. I saw the blond streaks growing out and the shiny brown coming in. The elastic of my black shirt caught the hollow light of our tiny bathroom because it is stretched so thin across my belly and breasts. I looked at that woman in the mirror, a woman who makes mistakes, but, I think, a good woman, and I thought, I am ready to be a mother. For the first time in a very long time, that thought didn't scare me.
My baby is all but bursting out of me already (so it's a good thing I'm getting used to the idea of him in my life). I am all belly. I am a ripe fruit. He bolts around inside me like a torpedo. I think he must be very squished in there.
We need to come up with a middle name for this baby. Dylan is such a hard name for an infant, I think. I know it will suit him later on - I still love the name - but when he comes out all tiny and bloody, when he's screaming and cold and wrinkled, I think it will be too solid a name just yet. Larry still won't go for Sawyer as a middle name. It's still my favorite, but I guess I can't win all arguments (even though we all know I should!!!). So, I've been thinking Solomon, Sebastian, Stefan, Sagi. Sagi means strong - and that would certainly be a name to do justice to my grandmother's dirt-tough legacy - but I'm not sure I love the sound of the name. Sebastian sounds like a young, royal paige with blond bangs flopping in his eyes. It was also the name of the boy in the Never Ending Story, and I would love for my child to grow up with that sense of wonder, imagination, fortitute, and, of course, indulgence in the power of the written word. 'Course that kid was also a dork that had to hide from bullies and I don't want a sissy for a son (or a daughter).
The other thing we still have to figure out is the ceremony of it all. Larry convinced me to do a bris. It wasn't hard, because it would be such a fight with everyone not to have it, but I really don't see much of a point to it. It's weird to me to decide to chop off a piece of his little body - especially as I consider the "natural" alternatives of not giving him every vaccine on the list. I also don't think he needs a nicked noodle to be a part of the Jewish people. I mean, I know rabbis would say he does, but shouldn't religion, faith, and peoplehood emanate from the mind and spirit? Then again, Judaism certainly teaches a strong connection between the two hemispheres - something I believe in strongly -- I'm just not sure I see this particular connection. I mean, is he going to think about being Jewish every time he pees or has sex?
Well, Larry should be home soon, and I should get this belly to bed. I was up at 6:30 this morning, working on a spec assignment. I feel good about that. I like working for myself. It feels so much more meaningful. It feels solid, rooted. I just hope I can keep up that feeling as I enter this sacred, liminal space of emergence and life. Namaste, I guess.
It's so cold out and he has to wait alone for the subway. It makes me feel like some sort of prarie wife, waiting for her man to come in off the barren plains. It is nice to be home, covered in a blanket like a shawl, having put in a hard day's work myself. I love working from home, even if I do get a little lonely sometimes. I have a new peace.
I think it's like the movie - how good food links the physical with the spiritual world and breaks down the stoicism of this religious community. Sometimes we get so caught up in the rat race of it all, it's hard to remember the joys of earthly basics like good food and it's hard to remember that so many of the things that seem like such big deals don't really matter in the end. I choose a bread and chocolate life.
I looked deep into the mirror as I was brushing my teeth just now. I get lost like that sometimes, wondering who that woman on the other side is and what she has to do with me, other than a snaggletooth that needs fixing and some chin hairs that need desperate plucking. For the first time in a long time my eyes don't have bags; its the third trimester exhaustion and the former job stress --- but that feels lifted. I saw my big eyes and my round face and the zits by my hairline. I saw the blond streaks growing out and the shiny brown coming in. The elastic of my black shirt caught the hollow light of our tiny bathroom because it is stretched so thin across my belly and breasts. I looked at that woman in the mirror, a woman who makes mistakes, but, I think, a good woman, and I thought, I am ready to be a mother. For the first time in a very long time, that thought didn't scare me.
My baby is all but bursting out of me already (so it's a good thing I'm getting used to the idea of him in my life). I am all belly. I am a ripe fruit. He bolts around inside me like a torpedo. I think he must be very squished in there.
We need to come up with a middle name for this baby. Dylan is such a hard name for an infant, I think. I know it will suit him later on - I still love the name - but when he comes out all tiny and bloody, when he's screaming and cold and wrinkled, I think it will be too solid a name just yet. Larry still won't go for Sawyer as a middle name. It's still my favorite, but I guess I can't win all arguments (even though we all know I should!!!). So, I've been thinking Solomon, Sebastian, Stefan, Sagi. Sagi means strong - and that would certainly be a name to do justice to my grandmother's dirt-tough legacy - but I'm not sure I love the sound of the name. Sebastian sounds like a young, royal paige with blond bangs flopping in his eyes. It was also the name of the boy in the Never Ending Story, and I would love for my child to grow up with that sense of wonder, imagination, fortitute, and, of course, indulgence in the power of the written word. 'Course that kid was also a dork that had to hide from bullies and I don't want a sissy for a son (or a daughter).
The other thing we still have to figure out is the ceremony of it all. Larry convinced me to do a bris. It wasn't hard, because it would be such a fight with everyone not to have it, but I really don't see much of a point to it. It's weird to me to decide to chop off a piece of his little body - especially as I consider the "natural" alternatives of not giving him every vaccine on the list. I also don't think he needs a nicked noodle to be a part of the Jewish people. I mean, I know rabbis would say he does, but shouldn't religion, faith, and peoplehood emanate from the mind and spirit? Then again, Judaism certainly teaches a strong connection between the two hemispheres - something I believe in strongly -- I'm just not sure I see this particular connection. I mean, is he going to think about being Jewish every time he pees or has sex?
Well, Larry should be home soon, and I should get this belly to bed. I was up at 6:30 this morning, working on a spec assignment. I feel good about that. I like working for myself. It feels so much more meaningful. It feels solid, rooted. I just hope I can keep up that feeling as I enter this sacred, liminal space of emergence and life. Namaste, I guess.
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