The Gift of Life

When is "the gift of life" just not quite nearly enough? Last night at a dinner party, I was illuminated to the emerging if not established popularity of the "push gift," -- a reward, I learned, often sparkly, that new dads routinely bestow upon new moms for their sweaty and successful labor in childbirth.

"A push-gift?" I wondered aloud. "Holy shit, is this common?"

"Is the gift like a carrot to inspire pushing or is it only to be C.O.D., cash-on-delivery?"

My reflex was cynical. As my brain motored through the tsunami of marital finance (engagement/wedding rings, a new mortgage, extra plum sauce), I would eventually dock at the exhausted, head-in-my-hands, conclusion -- "Where and when does it stop?"

"Would twins warrant earrings?"

"Will stationary be in order for the inaugural diaper change?"

"Victoria's Secret for breast-feeding?"

In the consumer culture of America, "boundaries" is a bad word. Is the norm that the stork now arrives with a "shipping and handling charge" surprising? Of course not. But at what point do we contaminate the sanctity of our most fundamental joys? And at what harm do we attach material rewards to the natural prize of love and family?

Certainly, there is something sweet and legitimate about memorializing the nine-month journey that a woman endures in giving birth. However, there is also something to cause pause, when, as we visualize the traditional image of mother, supine in hospital bed, handed her newly born child with doting father at side, and the special aura of that scene ... does it really need to shine any brighter? I don't know. But if I had to pass a camel through the eye of a needle while my father-in-law drooled on the zoom lens, I'd probably feel entitled to something too.