“Hi, Mindy.” It was Rina on the line. “You must be very busy; I know what it’s like to be making a Bar Mitzvah.”

“Oh, hi Rina. How are you?” Where’s that prescription? “Yes, I guess I am pretty busy, Baruch Hashem.” I better remember to call the pulmonologist. “Not too busy to be talking to you, though. What’s doing?”

“That’s what I’m calling to know; tell me what I can do for you. I won’t forget how you helped me when I was so overwhelmed before Pinchos’s Bar Mitzvah three months ago.”

Oh - the Bar Mitzvah.

“I mean, I’m not very worried about you, Mindy. If anyone has it together, it’s you. Maybe I can help you with errands, though? Or a salad for the bar?”

“Thanks so much, Rina; it’s so sweet of you to offer.” What time is it? When does the lab close? “Right now, I feel pretty under control.” At least for the Bar Mizvah. “Maybe I’ll need some errands next week. I’ll let you know when we get a little closer.”

“Please do, Mindy. I’m circling the date on my calendar. Tons of hatzlacha. If you need anything else before then, give me a ring.”

If you need anything else.

I needed many things before then.

Many, many things.

Nothing, though, that Rina, or anybody else, could give me.

There are certain moments that remain etched in one’s mind forever. No matter how many years pass, no matter how many encounters overlap that piece of history, one can always tap into that moment and recapture it with startling clarity.

The birth of one’s first child is one such time. Life may wind along many unforeseen bends; successive children may be born, simchos and hardships may wax and wane, but still, one can never forget the rapture of that beautiful, almost sublime moment.

Poems have been written describing the velvety softness, the silken newness, the almost fragrant purity, of these newborn treasures. When it is one’s own first miracle, those adjectives are compounded by a sense of enormity, by the heady, tingling awe of receiving the gift of parenthood.

We were a couple like any other, jittery with nervous excitement as we walked through those swinging doors that would usher in that magical moment. I went through my first labor while my husband fervently recited Tehillim, stopping intermittently to support and encourage me.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel the chill of the air conditioning - a little too cold - still see the hanging fluorescent fixtures, the big clock on the wall. And the scale.

Every time I felt my stamina waning, I stole a glance at the baby scale standing ready in the corner. It gave me the fortitude I needed. In just another short while, there would be another human being in the room, a little, screaming, wriggling infant that would make us into a family.

I remember discussing the name with Akiva. If it was a boy, we had both agreed we would call him Shragi, after Akiva’s grandfather, who had been niftar recently. Although, technically, the choice belonged to me, I know what the name meant to Akiva.

Hashem had showered us with His blessings, and I was brimming with gratitude. The least I could do was to start our family on the cornerstone of love and vatranus - foregoing my own rights for the sake of another.

Indeed, it was a boy. A lovely, little newborn bundle, six pounds, seven ounces, swaddled in sterile hospital whites. Akiva was jubilant. He held him up proudly, and my eyes filled with tears. Baruch shehecheyanu lazman hazeh. We were actually the parents of a tiny baby boy.

I spent a while in recovery while Akiva made the phone calls. A few hours later, I held the baby in my arms to nurse him for the first time.

Like every new mother, I marveled at the perfection of his miniscule features, his hair and eyebrows, his tiny nose and perfectly formed ears. The lines on his palms, his fingers and toes, eyelashes and nails, everything was there in perfect symmetry. I was overwhelmed with appreciation. Such a little body with everything inside.

Suddenly, as I beheld his adorable face, I was struck by the oddity that his lips seemed blue-tinged. When Akiva came into the room soon afterward, I shared my observation with him. For a moment, we both hovered worriedly over the baby; then we laughed together at our overanxious, first-time-parent phobias.

“I’ll ask the nurse about it when she comes in,” I said, just to allay our fears. I was sure she would chuckle and tell me something about the circulation regulating itself during the first few hours.

Instead, the nurse looked at the baby gravely. She marked something down on his chart and asked me to put him back into the little Lucite bassinet. She smiled tensely and said she needed to take him back immediately for testing. I felt my heart drop...

To read more, buy this edition of Spirit Magazine at your local Book Store.
Reprinted with permission from Yated Ne’eman.

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