By the Grace of Dog

I was always in touch with my Jewishness -- it's difficult not to be when you are raised in Brooklyn -- but I became markedly more devout with the birth of my first child. My transition into religious observance was as seamless and natural as the birth itself, even more so if you factor in the absence of epidurals or narcotics. By the grace of God, I started with a daughter, and I was still fifteen months away from the barbarism of the ritual circumcision. My introduction to observant Judaism was far less challenging: enter, the baby nurse.

Her name was Birdell. She was an outsized lady with arms so large you could barely see my newborn daughter when she was nestled within the folds of mahogany flesh. Nurse was a bit of a misnomer. Birdell did not wear scrubs, and, as far as I know, she had no medical training, probably no schooling at all beyond some obligatory high school grade. What she lacked in advanced degrees, though, she possessed in life experience. She seemed to function as a village matriarch, nurturing and raising all the babies born to a broad network of her extended family members on the west side of Chicago. Each day, she played the lottery and checked for possible winnings with a single minded determination I have never been able to muster up for anything; other than that, she seemed fairly unambitious. She rarely moved from her rocking chair, except to take care of essential hygiene and to bring my baby to me in the middle of the night for a feeding. And, once, she cooked me up some fried green tomatoes.

No amount of pricey advanced education prepares you for the tyranny of a newborn child. I relied on Birdell for everything. She was my 1980's version of Google, the possessor of answers to all my naive questions on the mysteries of miniature humans. I cried on the morning she left me alone with my baby. Before she left, she packed my new diaper bag for me so I would be well prepared for my visit to the pediatrician later that day. I know it never would have occurred to me to include extra diapers and wipes. It took me over an hour to get out of the house, and I was sweating profusely by the time I arrived at the doctor's office.

Except for the bris fifteen months later, motherhood -- and Jewishness -- came fairly easily to me. All it took, really, was a heart load of love and a healthy bank account (or at least the illusion of one). You're a great mom, that first-born baby told me the other day when I confessed to her my panic about raising a new puppy. I suppose she's a reliable source for such high praise, on the brink of her twenty-sixth birthday. I have somehow managed to see three human children through to adulthood, and I have raised two puppies without the help of a baby nurse. (The Old Testament is silent on the issue of baby nurses for dogs.) I've stumbled along the way, but I've done my best, I think.

Still, despite endorsements and encouragements from my children, I am a wreck. Tonight, I will be heading to the airport to pick up my nine-week old boxer puppy. I have no baby nurse to pack my bag for me, but I do have a list from the breeder telling me exactly what to bring. I will check it twice, at least. And at least one friend, possible two, will be coming with me, because no amount of experience or fancy education can prepare me for the arrival of my latest bundle.

It might be too late for me to reconnect with my Judaism, but I'm certainly going to try. And, by the grace of God, and the grace of dog, this one will raise itself, just like all the others did.