The Rite of the Birthing Present or the Push present or how not to get hit in the head by a Frypan
When any men ask me about giving their wife or partner
a ‘push or birthing’ present, I always advise ‘To stay out of the silent
doghouse I would strongly recommend you show her some gold”.
Joe, another business owner in our complex, and I
often share a ‘cuppa in the car park’ each morning. He was telling me the other
day when his wife was pregnant for the first time, he sacrificed 2 beers a week
to put away some money to buy his wife a ‘baby bauble’ gift.
“It was difficult but I managed the sacrifice but
buying the gift was a painful labour of love” he quipped, cheekily adding that
after a mammoth, complicated, scarring 27 hour experience (showing me where his
wife gripped his arm so hard and left nail marks that after 10 years are still
visible), he needed to buy her a bigger better gift. Something the size of a
baby’s head in relative proportion he gathered.
In Europe the wonderful act of a father giving an
heirloom gift, usually some form of jewellery, to the woman who just gave birth
to his child is eons old.
Here in Australia though it is still somewhat
contentious.
When my grandmother was born in 1903, in a tiny bedroom
just above where the cows were housed in a little farmhouse in rural Holland, my
great grandfather presented my great grandmother a sapphire ring surrounded by
10 little diamonds. The 10 diamonds were to represent the amount of children
he’d hoped to have. I wondered if he had to rethink that ring when the 17th
child was born many years later, well after my own mother was born.
In Holland, there is an unspoken rule that if a man
fails to present his wife the obligatory ‘birthing present’ all the women in
the community would line up armed with their frypans and clout the man into
submission. Let’s say a few men over the course of history didn’t live to rectify
their error.
The other rule is that when the mother passes over, the
child inherits that heirloom so that they too can pass it down. That’s how I
got to have my great gandmothers ring that I still wear today. Someday it will
go to my oldest daughter, Missy Zip.
My mother was born on a very cold November day in 1930
in the heart of Amsterdam, as her mother lay in her bedroom, puffing &
panting surrounded by her mother, sister and several female neighbours, the
young male neighbour who lived directly above them was pounding his floor with
a broom “hold up with the moaning already!” sending debris on top of the
labouring group.
In Holland women give birth at home and except for
small pockets of rural areas, everyone lives in apartments, packed in like
sardines with paper-thin walls. Women of the block usually mind older kids and
stand at the ready whilst the men are sent outside to play chess or mostly go
to the cafes to drink Beer and smoke Drum tobacco, waiting for one of the
messenger kids to tell of the good news. 
Once my mother was finally born, her grandmother armed
with the frypan from the kitchen marched upstairs and pounded on the door. When
he opened, she greeted him with the frypan; she had walloped him that hard, it
knocked him out cold. She left him on the floor where he fell.
He hid in his apartment for 4 days too scared to face
the furore of women waiting outside, all armed with their frypans and
unforgiving tempers.
Having watched the movie ‘Tangled’ last year, I have
to wonder if the writer is in anyway Dutch?
I only remember the first 6 or so; Frederika Maria
Teodora Fransica Margueritte Eugenie (pronounced OO-shon-ee, she was quite
adamant about that) and when it came to filling in official forms that required
her full name, she would look at the 10cm of line space and say “Well that
sucks”.
On my first wedding day, mum presented me with her
grandmother’s ring, her mother’s brooch. As I slid down the isle, I wore jewellery
from 3 generations of women, women that I owed my very existence to.
As the last child in my family, unnaturally, I was the
first to procreate, as my much older brothers were very good at shooting
blanks. My son’s birth was a long awaited occasion, so my parents hit up his
father as to what the ‘gift’ should be.
Being very young & just plain dumb, he naively
replied “Huh? Nah, we don’t do that here”.
Unfortunately for him, that conversation took place in
my parent’s kitchen. Mum pulled out the frying pan, tossing it around in her
hand when my future ex-husband said,
“That’s a good idea, I’m pretty hungry after such a
long night. What ya gonna cook Rika”
Dad suggested he run instead.
A few hours later with a noticeably large bump on his
already receding forehead and a major headache to match, he emerged from the
local jewellery store (in close escort of my tight lipped, narrow eyed, unhappy
parents) with a lovely black onyx & cubic zirconia necklace & earring
set.
At the hospital, I asked him what happened to his
head.
“I had an argument with a frypan and lost”
When my parents suddenly left the room and echoes of
their hysterical laughter filled the hallway, I assumed he had tried to cook
something for himself, which he had never, ever done before. In that moment, I
was so proud of his attempt I gushed with chick flick gooy-ness.
With the following 3 kids I managed to acquire a
bracelet, diamond earrings and a watch. All very special, all very meaningful
to me still to this day.
When I met Maurie and Little Miss Mischief was on her
way, Maurie & my kids searched everywhere to find the elusive ‘gift’.
Nothing seemed to be quite right, till Missy Zip spotted a ring in a bric- a-
brac store. That was it.
They paid a pittance for it but it was perfect in
everyway. Some years later a wedding band was crafted to fit in with it, as I
never wanted to get engaged, because I never wanted another ring to replace it.
18 months ago, on a cold June Sunday, I was gardening
when I noticed that my hands were bare. Panic erupted along with a tsunami of
tears and unstoppable wailing on my part; everyone took to digging up the
garden. Nothing.
The heartbreak took hold at times, as I had nothing to
pass down to Little Miss Mischief other than my love and a portfolio of unsold
artworks, which I’m pretty sure no one else wants either.
This Christmas just gone Maurie & little Miss
Mischief, giving up the idea of finding my beautiful rings purchased a gold
necklace with a pendant that says “I Love You’ instead.
That afternoon after the truckload of guests left, he
asked if I had fed the guinea pigs yet. If looks could kill, I’d be organising
a funeral right now.
The guinea pigs are such great lawn mowers, we haven’t
physically mowed in months; we just move their bottomless cage around the yard
every morning & night. With the Christmas frenzy they were left in the same
spot for a few days and the result was a bare ground patch, completely devoid
of grass and weeds, just their poop.
Maurie took out some carrots and celery sticks and
came running back inside, in his hand was my wedding band!
I can just imagine the guinea pigs frustration - “Hey
humans! We wanted 9 carrots not a 9 carat for Christmas!”
Two full days later and that area of the garden became
to look like an excavation site, still nothing.
Maurie, the gem that he is and rather determined that
we find my precious ring, ordered a metal detector.
It arrived this morning…......fingers crossed, here’s
hoping hey?
Keep you posted.
Photo's are from personal files, my uncle Dolf Krugar and the rest greatfully sourced from Google images
Enjoy!
