I recently attended the “coming out” party for a baby boy who did not attend the event. Neither did the mother. “The baby is too small,” the father told me, “only twelve days old.” The father is a tall, handsome fellow from a small town in Anhui province. He is still in the People’s Liberation Army, still barracked, separated from his wife and newborn. His wife lives and works in Suzhou.
I pushed my way through the throng of well-wishers, fanning away cigarette smoke and smiling politely at people I didn’t know. I asked my wife about the coming out party. “Why are they having a coming out party for a baby that’s only twelve days old? I thought the party in China happens when the baby is 30-days old – and then again when the baby is 100 days old.”
Coming out parties for babies in China are big deals; second only to wedding banquets. I think because in the past the mortality rate was so high in the countryside the townsfolk developed the tradition of celebrating the minor miracle of child and mother surviving childbirth – and mothers-in-law.
“That’s the custom in our town,” my wife answered matter-of-factly. “But I thought the custom was 60 days for boys in your town; not 30 days.” We celebrated our son’s coming-out on his 60th day, at the urging of my mother-in-law.
“Oh, this is another custom,” she said without irony. “Besides, the baby’s father has to return to the army camp at the end of 30 days.”
“So why not have the 30-day coming out party on the 29th day. Then, the mother and child can attend their own party. And anyway,” I said – ironically – “I thought you Chinese mothers are supposed to languish in bed – unwashed – for 30 days.”
“Well, his parents have come from the countryside to see their baby grandson. They brought chickens.”
“Chicken eggs?”
“No,” she said, her voice picking up in excitement, “chickens to eat.” We only got a lousy box of several hundred chicken eggs when my son was born. No chickens for us. “They’re fresher in the countryside than in the city.”
“Are the chickens dead?”
“No.”
“They brought live chickens from Anhui to Suzhou? On the train? How many chickens did they bring?”
“Six, or maybe eight.”
“They gave us one,” my wife said brightly. “Tomorrow I’ll make stir fried chicken in soy sauce.” I had visions of a live chicken running round our living room, pecking out my infant son’s eyes.
“Is it still alive?” I asked half-seriously, afraid of the answer.
“No, silly,”it’s already dead and feathered.”
Which was how I felt at the end of the conversation.
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