Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Bunnies and Babies... Spring is nigh


Despite all this fabulous snow, spring is in the air – birds' song has changed and quickened into little spirited arias. The wind feels different. We've gained an hour of daylight. People are checking airfares to tropical destinations. And lately, there's been an epidemic of round bellies parading around town that have nothing to do with calories from excessive beer consumption. Suspiciously timed with the last gas outage, an epically cold year and nothing better to do, a new batch of Buttians is emerging onto the scene. In Crested Butte, pregnant women's bellies are as cute as puppies and considered just as approachable. They are public domain and it is appropriate for the rounded one to be admired, patted for good luck and to familiarize the incoming bundle of joy with the locals who speak directly to the belly when greeting.

Baby showers have evolved into elegant and cultural parties from catered gourmet disco events to sushi soirees with belly dancing lessons for the attendees. It's a good thing that friends can chip in and help because Buttian babies need more equipment than babies elsewhere. They have to be prepared for the outdoor lifestyles of their parents. Today's parents have to practically mortgage the home to buy chariots, slings, bike attachments, ski attachments, sleds with dog harnesses, wagons... the list is extensive for the well outfitted infant.

At a recent shower, I was introduced to an ancient apparatus... a swaddling cloth with the added technology of velcro wrap-around wings... but it more resembled a miniature straight jacket. Horrified at the thought of something so restrictive (that wasn't a bustier,) one set of young parents assured me that both their babies slept well when bound up tightly rather than letting them flail through the night. My school of thought had been that the thrashing of limbs was a baby's strengthening work out as well as an expressive substitute for lack of language. I'm quite sure my mother's generation never bound any of us and as a result perhaps, the hippie generation was born into freedom of expression. I shutter to think it could be a conservative conspiracy promoting the stifling swaddling of babies...

Pregnancy tests have also advanced leaps and bounds in the past few decades from the barbaric bunny death where the hormone injected rabbit would die, not because the pregnancy was positive but because the lab had to surgically examine the animal’s enlarged ovaries – and the results took at least a week. Prospective parents can now get an instant answer from a pregnancy test bought at a supermarket and administered soon after the deed to ascertain if they've conceived and if not, go back to studying to get the right answer. Bunnies all over the world silently rejoiced and commenced to their own practicing.

“I don't remember a thing,” my mother admitted of 3 of the 5 child births she went through when I asked her what to expect of the birthing process. Back in the 50s, it was common practice to simply knock the mother out of the entire experience with heavy drugs so that most moms had no memory of the event. By the time I had my daughter in '73, natural birth had taken hold.
“Can't you just knock me out? “ I whined.
“Just breathe and focus on relaxing,” the nurse smiled.
“What happened to all that really great mind altering stuff they gave my mother's generation?” I wondered as I hyperventilated through Lamaze breathing techniques.

Currently there is much discourse about the ethical implications of planned gender through advanced technology, but women have been perfecting that for thousands of years already. Back in the 70s, when several in my group of young twenty-something friends were trying to start families, I had called a girlfriend to see if she wanted to go have lunch.
“I can't,” she hurriedly explained, “My temperature says the time is ripe for a boy right at this moment! Mike's coming home for lunch...” That trumped my plans for brunch at the W Cafe and certainly sounded like more fun.

In old world Italian families, the desired firstborn is a boy so he can carry on the lineage name – generations of Salvatore, Michelangelo or Guiseppi. Since I was the firstborn and a girl in a large southern Italian family, it was of course my mother's fault when she didn't immediately produce the family's namesake. By the time I was old enough to explain to my father that it was actually the male's contribution that determined the sex of the child it no longer mattered as my mother had overcompensated for her initial shortcoming by producing 4 boys after me. In retrospect, perhaps it was a good thing gender choice wasn't an option...

“Not that we're going to...” my recently married, academic career-oriented daughter confided,” but for some reason this week we've both entertained thoughts of having a kid.” After I collected myself from the fall off my chair with the frightening thought of “GRANDMA” resounding in my head, I thought, ah... after all, it's spring... the herald of new beginnings, the spark of new life, the promise of eventual green. It's like finding hidden Easter eggs – even though it's anticipated – basket, chocolate bunny, jelly beans and squishy yellow marshmallow chicks – every year, spring still brings the excitement of renewal and a new Paas egg coloring kit. Happy Vernal Equinox (March 20).

No comments: