The Keinon family, like so many others in the land, is in the throes of its own little post-Oct. 7 baby boom.The Youngest’s wife gave birth to a baby girl a month ago, Skippy’s wife is due any day now, and my gut tells me we’re in for more such news in the very near future. Baruch Hashem.
There is something immensely powerful about becoming a grandparent again now – precisely now – after more than a year of war. One could forgive one’s children, especially those who fought in the war, for coming out of it depressed, pessimistic, sour, and not at this moment wanting to bring more kids into the world.But that is not our way; it is not the Jewish way; it is not the Israeli way. Nothing bespeaks optimism and faith in the future like having kids – more and more and more kids. That optimism is encoded in our national DNA.
The Youngest named his daughter Yuval Malka. He and his wife chose the name Yuval (which means brook, stream, or tributary) for some deeply personal reasons. Yuval is also one of those groovy, gender-neutral, newfangled Hebrew names to go with some of the other groovy, gender-neutral, newfangled Hebrew names we already have in our brood: Be’eri, Kerem, Adi, and Ziv. (Sarah, Rachel, and Leah are soooo yesterday.)
I can imagine the post-naming conversation I would have had this time with my late dad, were he still around, trying to explain the name.
“What’s the name, son?” he’d ask in an excited phone call.
“Yuval, Pa,” I’d reply, pronouncing it loud and slow. “Yuval Malka.”
“U-Haul,” he’d say, not hearing me well and mixing up the name of his newest great-granddaughter with the US company that rents out trucks and trailers to move stuff.
“Did he name her U-Haul because his father-in-law is in the moving business?”
“No, Dad, it’s Yuval, not U-Haul,” I’d say, somewhat agitated. “Yuval. It means brook or stream or tributary. Brook Keinon, like Brooke Shields.”
“Brook?” he’d reply. “What kind of name is Brook? That’s not a Jewish name. Do you know anyone Jewish named Brook?”
I would then explain that the Youngest, who was serving yet another reserve stint in Gaza when his wife went into labor, was able to get out in plenty of time and be with her during the birth.
My dad’s tone would change dramatically when I’d tell him they picked the middle name Malka in memory of my mother. That’s a name he was familiar with and could very much relate to: He already has several grandchildren and great-grandchildren named Malka or a derivative thereof.
Yuval was born on November 29, the same day 77 years ago when the UN voted in favor of the partition of Mandatory Palestine, paving the way for the birth of Israel.
Explaining the names they chose
The Youngest – who never met my mother, a Holocaust survivor – said he could only imagine the joy she must have felt when that historic vote passed, just two years after World War II, at a time when so many Jews, including her, must have believed all was lost.
But all was not lost. Not then, and most definitely not now. Yuval Malka is a testament to that.
That same optimism carries forward as we eagerly await the arrival of Skippy’s newborn. Though I know the gender, I’m old-fashioned and wouldn’t dare tell a soul until the little one takes its first breath of this world’s fresh air.
I don’t like spoilers – and knowing the sex of a child before birth is the ultimate spoiler. I strove through the pregnancies of all four of my kids not to know the gender beforehand, arguing that this was the world’s last great mystery. I succeeded in all but one of them.
With my grandkids, however, it’s a different story. I don’t want to know the gender, but my kids do, and inevitably it slips out in conversation. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to refer to a fetus as “it” constantly in conversation when you know its proper pronoun.
The wife, on the other hand, wanted to know the sex of her own children before birth and also likes to know the gender of the grandkids beforehand as well. But that figures – she doesn’t mind spoilers.
But not me. I don’t like to know the end of any story – or any hint of how a story will end – before its time. If I’m reading a movie review that says “spoiler alert,” I quickly turn the page.
I don’t read the back of books before I start reading them – worried it will give something away – nor even a two-sentence synopsis of the next episode of a series I’m watching on Netflix. The Wife does both, which is a source of some marital friction.
I’m especially neurotic about this when it comes to sports. A long-time Denver Broncos fan, I usually watch the games hours after they are played, but I obsess about making sure no one tells me the score beforehand so as not to ruin the suspense.
Once, years ago, I was waiting to get a video of a Bronco playoff game when someone with an American accent called on the phone and uttered the word “Hello.”
“Don’t tell me the score,” I shouted into the receiver before he could say another word, panicked he would say something to give the game away.
“This is Dr. Rabinovitch,” the man replied. “Is your wife home?”
Still there is one thing I wouldn’t mind knowing beforehand: the names my kids plan to give their children.Oddly enough, this is the one thing they insist on keeping a tightly guarded secret. The gender? They’ll casually let that slip before birth. But the name? No way.
Why the secrecy? Because if they tell me what they plan to name their child – my grandchild – I might have input. And that is precisely what they want to avoid at all costs.
Life’s last great mystery, as it turns out, isn’t the baby’s gender – it’s the name.