B'Sha'ah Tovah is a wish for the parents-to-be that the baby is born in a favorable hour for the baby and the mother. This is not the same as wishing them Mazel Tov, which is a wish of congratulations.
According to Jewish law, although the human soul exists before the baby is born, human life actually begins at birth, when the baby is more than halfway out of the mother's body. There are many superstitions that reflect this: we typically do not utter the baby's name before the post birth ceremonies*, we don't have baby showers until after the baby is born (though some people, like myself, have them late in pregnancy when - if born - the baby would be viable in the outside world), many do not find out the gender of their child through ultrasound (though I think this is also shifting). For some, they don't even talk about the baby much.
When I was pregnant, I talked about my little guy all the time, I accepted all good wishes with gratitude, because every baby is a miracle, after all, and I knew that every positive prayer was in his favor. Just over 3 weeks before his due date, however, I had an ultrasound that showed something less than favorable. I have Lupus, so I was considered "high risk" despite my overall health and my age. Being considered high risk, I had probably close to 20 ultrasounds (maybe more) during my pregnancy, and the 37 week ultrasound indicated that maybe my little guy had stopped growing (what?! With as much as I was eating and gaining?? We wondered how that was even possible.). Based on the previous measurement, it appeared he had gained a mere 5 ounces in 3 weeks. He should have gained much closer in the range of 12 ounces to 1 pound. Panic ensued, and I was given the option to check in to the hospital in two days, having the little man by Friday evening, or wait the weekend out and come in on Monday for another ultrasound and round of Non-Stress-Tests (NSTs). I was warned, however, that since we would be going over the weekend they wouldn't be able to monitor me for 2 days, and therefore we'd have no way of measuring his health outside of my kick counts until Monday morning.
My husband and I consulted his father, who happens to be a high risk OB/GYN. He felt that, at 37 weeks with all other indications the baby was healthy, that we should check in and get induced. So, we told very few people, made sure we had some food in the fridge, dropped the dog off with my parents, I went and got a manicure and a pedicure (hey, a girl's gotta feel pretty - even if she's 47 pounds heavier than normal and swollen from head to toe from being an incubator for 9 months), and we made our way to the hospital.
Being induced is rough. I was in labor for nearly 22 hours. Despite the fact that I had practiced yoga up through the end, and despite the fact that I felt like he was going to fall out of me when I walked, er, waddled, my little guy did NOT want to leave his cozy jacuzzi in my belly. I can't say I blame him, really...we were evicting him at least 3 weeks early**. Post birth, my body was a wreck, though I'll spare you the gory details. My baby was teeny (not nearly as teeny as they thought he was - in fact, he was a full 8 ounces larger than what had been projected just 3 days earlier) and his beautiful face was bruised from being stuck in the birth canal. After a scare in the hours after his birth (the nurses thought he wasn't getting oxygen because his face was blue, but it turned out to be the aforementioned bruising), we were in a state of new-parent-bliss.
Once the excitement died down, after the emails slowed, and in the week following his bris, I became really sad. I cried on his due date. Not because I was sad about my baby, but because I felt like I had robbed him of more time in the womb. More time to grow, to connect with me, to prepare for this bright, cold world. We found out that nothing had been wrong with my placenta at all, the measurements - which are subject to human error - were just off. I felt like I had failed at my first task as his mother: I let him be literally yanked into the world before he was really ready. I wondered how I could believe that everything happens for a reason, when the reason my baby was born 3 weeks early turned out to not be a reason at all.
I have amazing doctors. I know this, I am ever so grateful for them, and I trust them, which is why I followed their advice. But I still feel a twinge of sadness every now and then when my son is a bit behind other babies his age***, or when I look at his head which still misshapen from the suction used to get him unstuck, and I wonder if forcing my body into giving birth before my baby or my body were ready was really the best thing for us. At these times, I remind myself that I have a healthy, very happy, and gorgeously fat little boy, and that there are a lot of people who would trade places with me in a heartbeat, if given the opportunity.
I don't really think anything would have been wrong with waiting another week or even 2 to see if he decided to come out on his own, but I know that a lot can happen in two weeks, and for whatever reason, by Gd's hand this guy was meant to arrive here when he did. We have no idea what would have happened had we waited, and this is why we say B'Sha'ah Tovah. The reasons aren't always clear, but I understand the purpose so much more.
*Baby boys have a brit milah/bris, a ceremonial circumcision performed by a mohel, a person in the Jewish community who is trained appropriately (by Jewish law and, at least in the US, by medical standards). They receive their names at this time. Baby girls are given a ceremonial naming. Both are often done in conjunction with a large celebration.
**In the medical community, a generous 2 weeks past the projected due date is allowed for a "healthy" mom to carry her baby before medical intervention, meaning my son could have been born 5 weeks from when I actually gave birth.
***This is typical for babies born early, they are often behind developmentally in however many weeks they were early. Often they catch up pretty quickly, and for the most part, my son has as well.
When I was pregnant, I talked about my little guy all the time, I accepted all good wishes with gratitude, because every baby is a miracle, after all, and I knew that every positive prayer was in his favor. Just over 3 weeks before his due date, however, I had an ultrasound that showed something less than favorable. I have Lupus, so I was considered "high risk" despite my overall health and my age. Being considered high risk, I had probably close to 20 ultrasounds (maybe more) during my pregnancy, and the 37 week ultrasound indicated that maybe my little guy had stopped growing (what?! With as much as I was eating and gaining?? We wondered how that was even possible.). Based on the previous measurement, it appeared he had gained a mere 5 ounces in 3 weeks. He should have gained much closer in the range of 12 ounces to 1 pound. Panic ensued, and I was given the option to check in to the hospital in two days, having the little man by Friday evening, or wait the weekend out and come in on Monday for another ultrasound and round of Non-Stress-Tests (NSTs). I was warned, however, that since we would be going over the weekend they wouldn't be able to monitor me for 2 days, and therefore we'd have no way of measuring his health outside of my kick counts until Monday morning.
My husband and I consulted his father, who happens to be a high risk OB/GYN. He felt that, at 37 weeks with all other indications the baby was healthy, that we should check in and get induced. So, we told very few people, made sure we had some food in the fridge, dropped the dog off with my parents, I went and got a manicure and a pedicure (hey, a girl's gotta feel pretty - even if she's 47 pounds heavier than normal and swollen from head to toe from being an incubator for 9 months), and we made our way to the hospital.
Being induced is rough. I was in labor for nearly 22 hours. Despite the fact that I had practiced yoga up through the end, and despite the fact that I felt like he was going to fall out of me when I walked, er, waddled, my little guy did NOT want to leave his cozy jacuzzi in my belly. I can't say I blame him, really...we were evicting him at least 3 weeks early**. Post birth, my body was a wreck, though I'll spare you the gory details. My baby was teeny (not nearly as teeny as they thought he was - in fact, he was a full 8 ounces larger than what had been projected just 3 days earlier) and his beautiful face was bruised from being stuck in the birth canal. After a scare in the hours after his birth (the nurses thought he wasn't getting oxygen because his face was blue, but it turned out to be the aforementioned bruising), we were in a state of new-parent-bliss.
Once the excitement died down, after the emails slowed, and in the week following his bris, I became really sad. I cried on his due date. Not because I was sad about my baby, but because I felt like I had robbed him of more time in the womb. More time to grow, to connect with me, to prepare for this bright, cold world. We found out that nothing had been wrong with my placenta at all, the measurements - which are subject to human error - were just off. I felt like I had failed at my first task as his mother: I let him be literally yanked into the world before he was really ready. I wondered how I could believe that everything happens for a reason, when the reason my baby was born 3 weeks early turned out to not be a reason at all.
I have amazing doctors. I know this, I am ever so grateful for them, and I trust them, which is why I followed their advice. But I still feel a twinge of sadness every now and then when my son is a bit behind other babies his age***, or when I look at his head which still misshapen from the suction used to get him unstuck, and I wonder if forcing my body into giving birth before my baby or my body were ready was really the best thing for us. At these times, I remind myself that I have a healthy, very happy, and gorgeously fat little boy, and that there are a lot of people who would trade places with me in a heartbeat, if given the opportunity.
I don't really think anything would have been wrong with waiting another week or even 2 to see if he decided to come out on his own, but I know that a lot can happen in two weeks, and for whatever reason, by Gd's hand this guy was meant to arrive here when he did. We have no idea what would have happened had we waited, and this is why we say B'Sha'ah Tovah. The reasons aren't always clear, but I understand the purpose so much more.
*Baby boys have a brit milah/bris, a ceremonial circumcision performed by a mohel, a person in the Jewish community who is trained appropriately (by Jewish law and, at least in the US, by medical standards). They receive their names at this time. Baby girls are given a ceremonial naming. Both are often done in conjunction with a large celebration.
**In the medical community, a generous 2 weeks past the projected due date is allowed for a "healthy" mom to carry her baby before medical intervention, meaning my son could have been born 5 weeks from when I actually gave birth.
***This is typical for babies born early, they are often behind developmentally in however many weeks they were early. Often they catch up pretty quickly, and for the most part, my son has as well.
Wonderful blog Halli! I went through some of the same emotions with my son being born 3 months early. I agree that once they are here and healthy we as mothers are blessed to have the healthy child God gave us! I wish your family more happiness during this holiday season. -LaTreva
ReplyDeleteB'Sha'ah Tovah sure did work for you and that sweetie, didn't it! Remember that we don't say "B'Sha'ah Meitavah," or "May it be at the best time," we just hope for a baby to be born at a time and place where everything will work out. I had birth disappointment with Nesi too (ended up with an emergency C) and it was that little mantra that helped me feel better.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful post, lady, as always!