Anyone else out there superstitious? Me, I like certain numbers — 7 and 18, for example, considered by some cultures to be lucky — and dislike other numbers that are not believed to be as fortuitous. I don’t make it a habit to walk under ladders, not because I consider that unlucky, but because I am practical and don’t want paint to be plopped on my head, or a tool to skydive into my toe. I don’t put much stock in such things as fortune-tellers, Tarot cards, palm readers — I’d like to think that it’s because the rational, scientific part of my mind holds larger sway over me than the other that will occasionally check out the horoscope to see what the twins are up to. And yet, as much as I scoff at fortune-telling in general, there is one ritual in which I have become a true believer.
It is a Korean rite of passage called “doljabi” that takes place on a baby’s first birthday, called the “dol.”##M:[more]##Reaching that first year alive and well is considered the most important thing a baby can do at so tender an age. It means that he’s survived the first 12 cycles of the moon.
In the olden days, when good medical care was rare and infant mortality high, many babies did not live to see their first birthday, so it is an occasion celebrated by all Koreans with a full and joyful heart. “Doljabi” is a first birthday tradition in Korea that is supposed to tell a baby’s future, especially in terms of his interests and even as an early indicator of his career path.
After a feast of Korean favorites, including seaweed soup for long life and dumplings for good luck, everyone gathers around a low table that has been laden with all sorts of items that are highly symbolic. The birthday child is carefully set down several feet from this colorful and delightful array, and as the family paparazzi prepare their cameras to capture the perfect shot of this moment of truth, the baby is unleashed onto his unsteady legs which will propel him to his rendezvous with destiny.
Will he lay his chubby fingers on the bowl of rice grains, which means he will never go hungry? Will he choose the paintbrush, which means he will become an artist, or the book, which means he will have a talent for words? Will he select the spool of thread which means he will live to a good old age and take care of his parents in the style to which they deserve to become accustomed? In his never-ending, optimistic quest to produce a doctor in the family, my father always included a stethoscope among the selections — “it’s so shiny and attractive,” he would say hopefully, “surely the baby will choose it before anything else?”
While none of my children fed that eternal hope in his heart by choosing the symbol of a medical path, this Korean ritual of prophecy has been uncannily accurate for each of them, at least to this point in their young lives.
Katie made a beeline for the five dollar bill, toddling rapidly toward the table with hands outstretched, snatching up the paper money with unbridled glee, and screaming out, “mom!” in total triumph. What I didn’t remember but what my mom reminded me of recently was that Katie immediately turned toward me with her trophy and placed it in my hands as a gift. “You are going to be treated very nicely by your daughter,” my mother told me. “She’s going to be rich and have expensive tastes, but she’s also going to be a dutiful child and remember to treat her parents kindly, so you are going to do well by her.”
It’s true that Katie does have very fine taste and expensive habits. Multiply that five-dollar bill many times over and you’ve got the tab for all that education she’s had and about to receive. I am crossing my fingers that the second part of the prophecy — the part where I am treated well by my rich daughter — comes to pass.
Molly’s walk was quieter and not quite as exuberant, but her selection pleased my parents in the same measure that Katie’s selection amused and somewhat alarmed them. Molly picked the pen, which is truly mightier than the sword or even the powerful dollar to Korean grandparents who revere scholarship above almost everything else.
Molly’s medium is the written word. She has a love for reading and writing. She is quietly wise, often beyond her years, and it is uncanny that she would have chosen the pen above all the things on that table, including a brush at a time when she loved dabbling with watercolors, and beads, when she loved playing dress-up.
William chose — surprise — the baseball, which made an appearance for the first time on the doljabi table with him. Since then, his life has been, shall we say, “ball-driven,” as in baseball, football, basketball, soccer ball, foosball. We have a picture of him snapped on that day. He is sitting in his Korean royalty clothes, strapped down in satin, but grinning nonetheless, because he has a ball in his hand and despite the confines of his clothing, all is well with the world.
Now that the kids are older and the idea of an empty nest, while still a long way away, is looming closer to reality, I wish I did have a way to see into the future and be assured that our baby birds will be healthy and happy and fly out to face new horizons with confidence and courage.
Maybe this is why such traditions as “doljabi” have endured for so many generations. It gives us a degree of comfort with the familiar as we navigate the brave new worlds that open up with each stage of parenthood.
