Hi All! This week Aviv is taking a hiatus and invited me to do a guest post in his absence. Not to worry, your fearless leader will be back next time!
(wife of Aviv, incubator of Baby Shamah)
Some of you might have heard, many of you from Aviv’s earlier blog post, that we are crazy excited to be expectant parents. Our album drops early June. It’s been a wild ride thus far and I know that this is only the beginning — and I can’t wait. I’m nesting, crafting up a storm, and doing my best not to obsess about things that are ultimately inconsequential, like what kind of stroller or crib or carseat or carrier or rocker or… yeah. These are things I think about now. In the end, I know Baby Shamah will be happy with two entertaining and competent parents who keep her fed, warm, happy and loved.
In the meantime, I’ll continue gestating, being weirded out by my belly button, kvetching about my back hurting, being out of breath, and missing being able to sleep on my tummy. And beer. I could really, really go for a cold beer. Or wine. Is it acceptable to want both at the same time?
Anyway, there are a few things that happen when I see friends and family these days:
- They touch, pat, rub or hug my tummy (if this was my blog, this would be it’s own post in and of itself so to keep in brief, I am on team Ask First/Almost Always Against)
- They ask if we know what we are having, (a human baby, duh) and then act shocked when I volunteer our baby’s gender without being asked a second time… almost like they don’t actually want to know? Or just want to know if we know? We do. We’ll share.
- Ask when I’m leaving my job. I’m not.
- They want to know where we are moving.
Aviv and I live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. A part of the city that I think has a neighborhood feel, is convenient for commuting to work , and easy access arguably the best museums and city parks in the city if not the country. Why do we have to leave once we have a baby?
This is home for us, and we love our home. We’ve become part of a vibrant community and have a strong network of great friends whom we love, most with small children of their own. We get in the Central Park on weekends, have Shabbat meals together, play board games, and it’s all awesome.
Growing up in Brooklyn and living the suburban-urban life, my parents made sure I had plenty of opportunities to be outdoors. In grass, in mud, in dirt, in nature. I grew up hiking, camping, kayaking, building fires and putting my own worms on fishing hooks. None of this happened in Brooklyn. Living in Manhattan doesn’t exclude our family from being in nature. Maybe it will even make them appreciate it more.
Does it mean we’ll never leave the city, and we’ll be city parents with city kids, #concretejungle4lyfe? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe one day we’ll live the other American [Parent] Dream. The one with the backyard and the porch swing, the vegetable garden and egg-laying chickens (Wait, everyone wants to have chickens, right?). Shoveling snow and mowing lawns. Barbecues and carpooling and pulling out the trash on garbage day.
Right now we’re living our dream. Where our baby will live comfortably in what was once our dining area that doesn’t quite have a door, in a building with over a thousand other people in a city of a couple million. Where I have no idea what day garbage day is, or alternate side parking, and only use my driver’s license as identification. Where seasons changing are celebrated by the different flowers planted on Park Avenue, and spring is our favorite. Where I hear a dozen languages on my commute but the guy I buy (decaf) coffee from knows my name and how I like it.
We’re having a blast. We’re the happiest we’ve ever been. And we’re home.