Yes, in true English style, our baby showed up to
his brit in suspenders and a bow tie!
On Thursday, we had the brit milah for our son. Yes, that's circumcision for the squeamish and a covenantal commitment for those of us in the Jewish world.
The wee one didn't cry much (about the same as he cries when we're changing his diaper), but boy oh boy did this mama cry plenty when she heard those cries. The truth is babies cry during their brit out of the sheer fact that they're exposed to cold air, not from pain. Watching the recovery process over the past few days, I can tell you that this little man is in no pain at all. Except, of course, for the chill of the air when it's diaper time.
During the brit milah ceremony, the baby's name is finally announced, and I'm happy to share that our beautiful boy is named Asher Yitzhak, meaning "happy laughter." The latter name was Mr. T's grandfather's name and the first name was a name that both Mr. T and I fell in love with ages ago long before the idea of this baby or one another was planted.
For me, the name Asher, meaning happiness, perfectly describes this baby, as he encompasses true happiness. After a long and winding road of ups and downs and crazy madness, HaShem gave me Mr. T, and I found my happiness. Little Asher is that happiness manifest, as evidenced by how very quickly we got pregnant after getting married. I think HaShem was rewarding the both of us for time well spent doing teshuva and searching for that happy we all deserve.
Of course, this little baby being 10 days old and mostly peaceful natured has been a huge blessing. But it would seem that those first few nights at home of the five-hour stretch of sleep are long gone and a few of the "I'll never do that" rules I set for myself have already been very broken. Constant feedings for a baby in perpetual growth-spurt mode have me exhausted and in a bit of a fog, but content none the less knowing it all goes by so quickly. I'm actually writing this post in our now-dark bedroom because this happens to be where the baby fell asleep (finally) after a feeding. Much like how we must bend to the Torah (the Torah does not bend to our needs and wants), I'm in a position of bending to the baby because gosh knows that mommy wanting a shower is not top priority for an adorably squiggling little lump of baby.
I'm still preparing the labor story, and I'm still preparing to figure out how to approach getting into a rhythm with work, especially on days like today when baby just doesn't want to sleep after a hearty helping of mother's milk. I mean, who wouldn't go into a coma after that? I know, I know. "Take it easy!" everyone says. But it's tough. The baby's food might be free, but mommy and tatty have to eat, too. I'm seriously considering taking Mr. T up on his "stay-at-home tatty" offer.
The sun has set, the baby shivers, and mommy types away. This is motherhood. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
