“Shouldn’t it be, ‘She’s a girl’?” I said, pointing to a package of paper plates announcing, “It’s a girl!”
My wife furrowed her brow, pondering the question.
“No, sorry, joking,” I said, immediately backtracking. “Just being a grammarian.”
We were in Party City, prepping for the baby shower we’re throwing for our older son and his wife, whom you saw married in July. Showers are co-ed now, or so I’m told, which is why my son and I will be there. (If you aren’t invited, don’t feel bad; we had to limit the guest list to mostly family, to keep it a manageable 40 people).
Coed baby showers feel strange. I always thought they were strictly No Boys Allowed.
Times change. But despite societal shifts, the choices at Party City were binary — “BABY BOY” said one sign. “BABY GIRL,” the other. Boy stuff was blue. Girl stuff, pink.
There was no third choice — no purple “It’s an ungendered person!” plates. Then again, Party City went bankrupt and is having a final sale, so maybe those were snapped up already.
Doubtful. Though honestly, I’d be fine if people bought those. I like living in a free country and can perform the mental gymnastics — impossible for many, apparently — of understanding that the freedom I enjoy myself can be utilized by other people who hold other beliefs and values not my own. I don’t need to posit imaginary harms and oppress blameless individuals in order to feel good about myself. Freaky, right?
Democrats, watching in stunned horror as the scaffold of what seems like a fascist state is set up, piece by piece, sometimes fault their general acceptance of the trans community. If only we’d been a bit more judgmental and callous to the vulnerable among us. If only we’d coughed into our fists while kids were bullied, we wouldn’t have to sacrifice our government now — fairness in girls high school athletics being the great moral issue of our time.
That doesn’t scan for me. Then again, I’m a roll-with-developments sort of guy. I accepted the news, before we even learned the gender, that we were not to even imagine kissing the baby on the head, lest we poison it with our germs.
“Can I kiss its little foot?” I asked, in a crushed whisper, even as my fingers flew to consult Dr. Google. Look at that — no kissing babies until they’re at least 6 months old.
Who knew? In my day we were content to cover the electrical outlets and keep babies away from construction sites.
My wife instantly announced she would be a bubbie — Yiddish for grandmother — because her mother was a bubbie. Tradition.
This put me in a pickle. I had grandfathers — those first-generation immigrant types, frantic to assimilate. “Grandpa Neil” does have a certain ring to it. “Grandpa, tell me about elections. What were they?” Zayde, Yiddish for grandfather, feels unfamiliar — that was my father-in-law. But I do see a value in being a matched set. Bubbie and Zayde.
Minor concerns. I’ve heard people suggest that, with the gathering night of doom, this might not be the time to bring a baby into the world. I asked my daughter-in-law if she agreed.
“She’ll have fewer constitutional rights than when I was born,” she replied. True that, particularly regarding reproductive rights.
For now. But progress takes a complex, labyrinthine path. I have a photograph of my mother, 3 years old, in a sun suit. On the back is written “Sept. 1, 1939.” The day Germany invaded Poland, kicking off World War II. Fifty million people were about to die.
But not her. She was resourceful enough to be born in Cleveland and not Bialystok, where the bulk of her family would be killed. Bad for them. But my mother would pass unmarked through 85 years of comfort and happiness, travel the world, largely untouched by its tragedies. She would live in a time of increasing prosperity and burgeoning freedom.
Not so much the past month. Maybe we have to go down for a while before going up again. Such is my hope.
Of course, I’m in a hopeful mode. A baby on the way. And female. Wonderful. Somebody has to fix this mess we’re making. America isn’t ready for a woman president, obviously. We had two supremely qualified women lose to a felon. Maybe in 40 years we will finally be ready. If so, I’ve got the perfect candidate, gathering her energies now in private, collecting her courage, scheduled to make her grand entrance into the world this June.
At Party City, I put a banner announcing “LOVE YOU ALREADY!” in the cart.
“We’re getting this,” I told my wife.