And on the Eighth Day You Shall . . .
Debra B. Darvick

And who's going to be there to celebrate if we have a boy? I was eight months pregnant and about to be transferred from New York to the wilds of the Midwest.

I had just realized that if our first child were a boy, we would have just the barest handful of family at his b'ris. Our immediate family would make the spur-of-the moment trip no matter when the eighth day fell. But my aunts, uncles, and cousins wouldn't travel from Manhattan to Michigan for a b'ris, nor would my husband's thirty or so relatives who had watched my pregnancy with loving and not-too-overbearing interest. All our friends would be left behind. How many caring friendships could be cultivated in twenty-one days -- the time between our arrival in Michigan and my due date? I began hoping for a girl, even though I'd been getting boy vibes since the little blue circle appeared in the E.P.T. glass tube seven months before.

But when the plane touched down in Detroit, a b'ris was the last thing on my mind. We had three weeks to settle in, three weeks to unpack, scope out the grocery and drug store, interview pediatricians, and learn the shortest route to the hospital.

As it turned out, I did have one acquaintance, a woman I'd known briefly from B'nai Brith Girls in high school in Atlanta, who now lived ten minutes away. On our first weekend in Michigan, she and her husband threw us a party to introduce us to their circle of friends. Her friends were in various stages of diaperhood and warmly invited me to join their playgroups when I felt ready. There were few Jews in our neighborhood but, in something reminiscent of the old Farmer in the Dell game, one introduced us to another until we had met them all. The couple from whom we'd bought our house kept in touch, even offering to take me to the hospital if my husband couldn't make it home from work in time.

One morning I called a baby nurse recommended to me by our future pediatrician. "Lord, you called way too late," she said when I asked if she could come twelve days hence. "But I will give you this....If you have a boy, don't let anyone near him but Cantor Greenbaum. I've taken care of plenty of boys in my time and Cantor Greenbaum does it better than anyone else." Her well-meaning advice only reminded me that we knew barely enough people to make a minyan. I called the cantor and then, feeling lonelier than ever, hoped against hope I wouldn't need his services...

Debra Darvick © 2003