I'm an aunt (and a hunted species)

I'm an aunt, I'm an aunt, I'm an aunt (come on, sing with me, to the tune of "Yellow Submarine", right, if you didn't try, then you don't know that it doesn't go with that tune--I was actually humming "Stars and Stripes").

Yes, little seven-pound nineteen-inch cute as a button Stephen Michael was born yesterday morning. My brother's sister (Those of you who are paying attention will notice that this person is me. In fact, it is my brother's wife who gave birth on Tuesday. For some reason, I kept saying it wrong to everyone I told.) gave birth at 8:09 am in Pensacola, Florida. According to all sources present, he has 20 toes and fingers (inclusively) and is:
1) very cute*
2) very small
and 3) reminiscent of his father (except he has more hair!)
*See pictures above for proof of his cuteness.

Now is the time I feel it--that is, exactly how far away I am. I sit here in the university library behind a pile of books in a language not exactly my own and wonder if Little Stephen would find the book "Reexamining Democracy: Essays in Honor of Seymour Martin Lipset" interesting at all. I wonder if I'll get to spend time with him and if he'll know who I am. Will he study political science like me? Or will he choose a more "profitable" educational field like zoo-keeping or astronaut-ing? I wonder if his first word will be "Mama." Perhaps it will be "Democrat."

So many questions and so much time for him to explore the world. It's inspiring, I think--Little Stephen's new venture into the oxygen-breathing sector of the universe.






(And now a bit of irony)
On another note, in our weekly telephone conversation, my mother reminded me that every time one of her co-workers finds out where I live, he/she gasps and says, "Are you scared? Isn't she scared?" The answer is usually "No." But as I walked through one of Jerusalem's nicer neighborhoods last night on my way to meet friends for a drink, I encountered a chilling reminder of how much hate exists in the world. The graffiti I saw scrawled on the stone wall surrounding a beautiful house reminded me of the graffiti so common on random walls in Jerusalem--"wise" pronouncements of "Death to Arabs", "Death to Gays (or insert "Animals", which is a fond nickname of some sectors of society for non-heterosexuals), "Death to Rabbits" (a play on words and the slogan "Death to Arabs" in Hebrew)--graffiti that more often than not stays up longer than the current parliament coalition. Except this time, I was the target. No, it didn't say, "Death to Kind, American-ish, Liberal-ish, Idealist, Humorous, Likes Spaghetti Girls in their 20s". What was written was far more explicit (and you ask yourself, "Gee, how can it be more explicit than that?")--"Death to Vegetarians."

So, as I walked home last night, I looked over my shoulder . . .
Not for rabbit/gay person/Arab hunters, but for the guy who could see my low-iron content and knew . . .