I keep getting congratulated, which I appreciate, since of course I didn't do squat. This is a great position.
So here's what I know. He, the stubborn uteral bump he was, refused to be forcibly induced last week, causing his frustrated mother to endure 24 hours of labor, only to go home empty handed (shaaaaaaady). Of course, he didn't seem to realize that causing such mama drama would affect him -- he too got hard-core pulsed for 24 hours, which I am sure could not have been pleasant.
This week he refused induction again, though he moved enough that his mama's water broke. One c-section later, he arrived, still a week ahead of predictions, weighing in at (let's just quote my brother here) "37 weeks, 5lbs 10oz of pure He-flesh" pounds, most of which could be credited to his Yoda-chihuahua eyes (see below).
So his punishment is that he is being named for some long gone old school Jews: my mom's paternal grandfather (Morde(c)hai), followed by her dad (Osc(k)ar). Yes, two very modern and therefore not at all torture-me-on-the-playground-screaming names, right? So don't worry -- the first one got anglicized to the Russian
Maxim (pronounced MaXEHM, sorta)
which results in his final monograms for all future preppy sweaters and luggage being: M.O.B. Now, discounting (1) Tupac's use to mean "$$ of b*%&#es" and (2) the previous "$$ over b%$#*es" and more classic (3) "Member of Bloods" and the more related (4) Medical Office Building and the unfortunate (5) Mail-Order Bride, M.O.B. could be really a great help to his rep as a tough guy or for cute phrases when he is in trouble, like:
"Listen, MOB Boss, you are gonna have a time out if you keep putting marbles in the dog's ear."
And somehow this all passed the kindergarten playground test. How that is possible, I don't know. I tried to warn them. I already cannot help calling him The Max-i-pad. I don't know why, apart from my emotional maturity apparently being stuck at 6 years old. But since it is all relative, I am seen as comparatively staid once you know that the local Hogan left me a message asking after little "Gluteus," which (un)fortunately might stick.
And while I appreciate for my new nephew's sake that Mordechai was l'chaimed right out of the running, isn't everyone gonna say, "Um, isn't Maxim a men's "fashion" magazine?" or "Hey, you know that is the name of a condom, right?" like I did when I first got wind of such ideas.
And now let's envision this name-as-destiny superimposed over the picture that my brother sent me on my phone. Aaaaw, the first view of the baby post those airbrushed black and whites they take with that darned ultrasound. And just to make sure you understand how not "every baby = automatically cute" I am, here's a transcript from the conversation with my parents.
Me: Hey, Will sent a picture to my phone.
Mom: Why did you get a picture and I didn't?!!
Me: Let's ignore the 'all about you' aspect for one minute, shall we?
Dad: I wanna see. What does he look like?
Me: He looks like a pink squishy gelatinous eggplant. Ya know, like a litter of mice, or a newborn white baby. Oh, but he does have serious marbles for eyes. That makes him look especially alien and creepy.
Mom and dad (collective moan, which is weird because it indicates that they both 1. are shocked I would say such a thing about a baby AND 2. actually heard anything I said -- despite being deaf in one ear and super hard of hearing in both ears respectively)
Dad: Will says he looks a lot like me. Jamie calls him 'a baby L' [that's Flappy to you].
Me: I would say that really sells you short. You are definitely pink and squishy, but you are much cuter. And you are a little taller.
Me: (internally) Weirdly, I DO see the resemblance, especially in their hands, which makes me think differently about my dad's features. And not in a good way, though I still think of Flappy is cute as a button.
Me (show them the picture)
Dad: Oh he is so beautiful! He is so cute! (Background noise ratchets up as my mom, between her puh-puh-puh spitting into the Evil EYE so it cannot HEAR my dad's comments, is yelling at my dad to quit cursing the kid.)
Mom: Look how alert he is! He DOES look like dad! (Somehow, that is apparently not seen as a compliment, because she doesn't puh-puh her own words. And on a side-note, I would like to point out that my dad, while many things, would never be accurately described as 'alert' looking.)
Mom (again): He is clearly a genius, a scholar, a thinker, a puzzler; look at that wrist pose (her own puh-puh-puh round ensues... in a frenzy, she has cursed her own grandchild and tempted the Evil Eye to come down on wee Mordechai the Jew and take him because he sounds so appealing. Greeeaaat. I am just glad we are not repeatedly spitting on any upholstery of mine.)
Mom and Dad (collective sighs, a tear slides down my dad's cheek - literally - because, it turns out, my dad starts to cry every time he even THINKS about this little ball of squish, which is of course every third second.)
Dad: I get get teary even thinking of him (cue quiver lip). Every time. It is just such an emotional thing for me. He does look like me, does he? (Flappy smile and flapping)
Me: Again, alien gelatinous old-man blob versus cute squishy dad who just got his haircut short enough that he can see through it. Yes, he is your spittin image, sweetie. Now give it a rest or I will send the M.O.B. after ya.
(NOTE: OK, I admit that, despite 2/3rds of his weight coming from his eyeballs, I understand that I am gonna inevitably love every ounce of him nonetheless. Sigh.)
And lest you indiscriminate baby lovers out there think my assessment of this nephew of mine is unkind, allow me to leave you with his visage.... bemoaning the historic persecution of our tribe? Trying out for The Sopranos? Proving that he is reincarnated from the model for David Alfaro Siqueiros' 1937 "Echo of a Scream"? Practicing his first cuss words? You decide.
1 comment:
Wow-- that last one might be a still photo but I think I can hear the wail that goes with it from here! Congrats to the tribe.
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