Repeating History

When Raphaela was less than two weeks old, and my parents had come in from Boston ostensibly to meet her, and to spend Succot with both of us, the following event took place:  my upstairs neighbor and friend recognized that I could not cook and entertain, and invited the four of us (myself, the baby, my parents) for Shabbat dinner.  I was actively nursing at the time, almost every two hours, as well as trying to understand the needs and schedule of this being that was my newborn daughter. 

We were all sitting at the table when Raphaela started crying, and I asked my friend if I could take the baby to one of the bedrooms;  she herself was breast feeding her son at the time and has a bit of the 'granola' in her, so I knew she would not mind.  But before my friend could respond, my mother said (to her 41 year old daughter), "Just give the baby a bottle and sit at the table. It's more important for you to eat something than to nurse Raphaela."  And before I could respond and say, "I am not giving my baby a bottle when I am perfectly capable of nursing," my mother grabbed my child from me and stuck a formula bottle in her mouth.

At my first possible chance, I mumbled apologies, took Raphaela downstairs with tears streaming from my eyes; embarassed that I had been treated like a stupid child, and angry at myself for allowing my mother to dictate how I would take care of my new baby.

Here we are, 14 months later, and this weekend did not fare much better.  I have a policy that I do not go out for Friday night dinner, because Raphaela regularly has a melt-down and I try to disrupt her sleep patterns as little as possible.  I know that if I go to someone else's house on a Friday night, I will spend the whole time feeding Raphaela and/or trying to keep her quiet as she starts squirming and crying and throwing food on the floor, because she needs to be in bed.  I put that policy aside, because my parents had arranged a meal for all four of us at people they know, and lo and behold, I had to leave the meal right after the challah because Raphaela was rubbing her eyes and crying and fidgeting.  As I left the house of these relative strangers, I heard myself apologizng to the hosts, and to my parents, because Raphaela had not 'performed' well.  On the way home, somehow Raphaela managed to drop her hat and her blanket, and in my fury and in between my tears, I did not notice until it was too late, until I got home.

Then today, after spending the morning in the house with just Raphaela, we arrived at another house of my parents' friends for Shabbat lunch.  Raphaela got loud fairly quickly, perhaps sensing my left-over hostility, or perhaps because she is a baby who has every right not to behave perfectly in a strange house.  My mother started with, "Last night Raphaela was too tired to do anything, I can't believe she is doing it again today."  My father was busy entertaining the teenage son of his brother, an Ultra-Orthodox cousin whom they invited along for the day, as I am apparently less crucial at this stage.  Raphaela managed to nap for an hour in a pack-and-play, but we left hastily soon after she woke up, as she was tired of being restricted to a small corner of a small apartment, being expected to be cute.

I kept hoping my parents would drop by in the afternoon, to spend more time with Raphaela, but last I spoke to my mother after Shabbat ended, their nephew was still hanging out with them, watching a soccer game with my father.  That sounds important, considering my parents leave tomorrow night on the midnight flight.

It's not about me really, I know that I am secondary to the Princess.  I had wanted my parents to connect to Raphaela on this two-week trip, and I had wanted Raphaela to feel like part of a larger family unit.  I couldn't control the timing of my illness of the first week.

 I am more grateful than ever for the loving adopted family I have in Israel, chosen family rather than blood.