My late 20s teenage pregnancy.

The story of my recent ‘teenage’ pregnancy has come full circle this New York trip.

Back in August 2008, when I was coming to New York solo for a few weeks, I knew there was a chance I’d be pregnant so I was prepared to test upon arrival. Dressed in jeans and a raggy hoody, I went with my mom to the local CVS (or at least, one of them – I love my hometown) and walked the aisles in search of pregnancy tests.

Tangent: I know it’s wise to test more than once with the stick testers, since there could be false results, but in America, they come in packs of five or six! Are we that dumb as a nation?

I grabbed a box and we walked up to the register to pay. The cashier was a stiff man in his 50s who eyed me as he rang up the product. My mom handed over some cash since I didn’t have the right bills and as he passed along the receipt, he inquired, ‘Do you know how to use this?’ He asked it as if he thought I was 15 years old.

Then I realized: He thinks I’m 15 years old.

It all made sense. The raggy clothes. I hadn’t put on my wedding ring that day. My mom came with me. She gave me money. I look like I’m 16 on a good day.

I got a kick out of it for the duration of my pregnancy; I visited the States one more time during the 9 months and continued to chuckle to myself when I found people eyeing my teenage pregnancy.

Yesterday I was at the mall getting a desperately-needed haircut at one of those $12 haircut factories and the Italian immigrant woman cutting my hair was 7 months pregnant. We chatted; I told her about my 5 month old son.

After ten minutes she finally worked up the courage to ask me if I’m married. I smiled. She told me I look really young. I told her my age. “You could be 17!”

I could be. I’m not. I’m in my late 20s, happily married, well employed, caring for my first baby. Thank the lord. Seriously.

And, no, the haircut doesn’t make me look any older.

Have a good flight from Discount.

I love the ‘טיסה נעימה’ campaign from Discount Bank in Ben Gurion airport. Here’s a sample:

In case Google Translate is off by a word or two (ha!) here’s the gist:

New Zealand? Take a right at HaSharon shore, a left in Australia and where all the sheep are – there.

If you happen to be traveling soon, check out the London ad, it’s pretty good too.

Have baby, will travel.

It is the eve of our first party-of-three family trip… involving a plane ride.

That’s right; tomorrow we will be inaugurated as that young couple with a baby that you love to hate on planes. Yet another life milestone.

Here’s hoping it will go well. The definition of going well is one of the following:

  1. Koala sleeps to the steady, wonderful hum of plane droning.
  2. In the event that #1 doesn’t happen, interfering savtas keep their mouths shut.
  3. In the event that #1 does happen, we don’t sit next to another young couple with a baby for who #1 doesn’t happen.

And if you’re on the flight, and you’re sitting next to me… just be kind.

Not your momma's birthday.

Recently, my birthday passed but for years now I’ve just not been a birthday person at all.

Occasionally, growing up (as my ponderous tye-dye free-thinking self), I would consider – along with saving the manatees – the idea that perhaps birthdays should be about mothers, not kids. After all, the mother is the one who brought about the birth – the kid didn’t do much but exist. Shouldn’t the mom get to stuff herself with cake?

Once I went to the lengths of giving my mom a nice card on my birthday to see if my point came across. Surely it was appreciated; anything I wrote down on paper was (and still is) appreciated by my mother. And I assume every other mom would agree (especially with cake involved) but it just doesn’t happen that way.

So as my birthday passed a little while ago, I again considered this with introspection, only this time, I really did appreciate what my dear mother went through on that day nearly three decades ago. Dear, dear mother.

Sure, our childbirth experiences have been fairly different so far. And postnatal, we’re not doing everything exactly the same. But I thought about it longer and harder than I have in other years, and by god, did I make a painful mess for her the day I was born.

And then there was that day almost 5 months ago when I gave someone else their original birthday; I sure remember that day – word for word, detail for detail – better than my own.

So I’m still not a birthday person in September. But in April, I’ll forever be celebrating someone else’s.