Babies, Blankets, and Baffling Traditions

There are things one doesn’t talk about in polite company: politics, bowel movements, and other people’s children. The first two are avoidable with a little dexterity and a lot of wine, but the third is as inevitable as death and taxes. Babies arrive, and suddenly otherwise reasonable adults develop a peculiar mania for describing the texture of tiny fingernails and the transcendent beauty of someone who looks, if we’re honest, like Winston Churchill after a night out.

We are expected to marvel at the miracle of it all. As though the mere continuation of the species weren’t more of an accident than an achievement, more often than not the result of too much champagne, bad lighting, and a certain failure of judgment. One is obliged to nod gravely at pink knitted booties and to suppress the creeping suspicion that the new parents look less radiant and more of what might be generously described as shell-shocked.

It’s not that children are without charm. They are. They gurgle, they squeak, they produce smells that defy taxonomy. But there is something faintly alarming about the pageantry that surrounds them - the myths, the rituals, the little superstitions that people cling to with the same fervor usually reserved for lottery tickets and pyramid schemes. These customs persist across continents and centuries, uniting otherwise disparate societies under the banner of “What on earth are we doing?”

Which brings us to the subject at hand: the peculiar, the baffling, and the downright bizarre traditions that various cultures have invented for the arrival of a new baby. Some are charming, some are terrifying, and some make you wonder if humanity should be trusted with sharp objects. But they all prove the same point: no matter where you are, when a baby shows up, logic is the first casualty.

Nigeria

In parts of Nigeria, the arrival of a child is marked not by balloons or awkwardly frosted sheet cakes, but with a ceremony that feels half kitchen cupboard, half metaphysics. On the seventh day for a girl, or the ninth for a boy, the baby is introduced to life’s basic flavors: water to guarantee a world without enemies, palm oil to ensure a future that would be smooth and stress-free, kola nut for longevity, and salt and pepper to keep things exciting and spicy. It’s less christening, more recipe.

And then there’s the grandmother, who delivers the child’s first bath - not just out of practicality but symbolism. The gesture reminds everyone that raising a child is never a solo act, however much the exhausted parents may like to believe otherwise. It’s a quiet but deliberate declaration: this child, like every child, is not simply yours. They belong to the collective, the clan, the long line of relatives waiting with towels, advice, and the occasional unsolicited opinion.

Japan

In Japan, the umbilical cord doesn’t get tossed out with the medical waste; it gets promoted to family heirloom. Known as heso-no-o, the cord is carefully tucked into a small wooden chest called a kotobuki bako - a box designed less for storage and more for symbolism. It’s a keepsake meant to tether mother and child together across time, a reminder that even independence begins with attachment.

The kotobuki bako is designed as a cradle inside which there is a small doll, representing the sleeping baby, wearing a kimono. The kimono can be unfolded, and the umbilical cord placed inside. It’s partly tender and partly kinda creepy. Where other cultures prefer baby teeth or the first lock of hair, Japan chooses to keep the original cord to life itself - a relic both intimate and oddly monumental.

Spain

In the Spanish village of Castrillo de Murcia, redemption comes not by prayer alone but by jumping over infants. Since 1620, the festival of El Colacho has marked the religious feast day of Corpus Christi with men dressed as the Devil - red and yellow suits, whips, and castanets in hand - vaulting over babies born in the previous year. The children are laid neatly on mattresses in the street, as though awaiting both salvation and a track-and-field event.

The ritual is said to absorb the infants’ sins, the devils carting off original guilt with each leap. Before the spectacle begins, the costumed tricksters heckle the crowd until drummers - the festival’s pious chaperones - arrive to set things in order. What follows is equal parts pageant, exorcism, and slapstick: a small village’s centuries-old attempt to keep evil at bay by letting it jump, quite literally, over the next generation.

Mongolia

In Mongolia, names are less about aspiration and more about camouflage. To outwit the meddling spirits thought to hover over newborns, some parents abandon lofty titles and instead christen their children after the humblest of household objects. So, you might meet a boy called “Cup” or a girl called “Fork,” the sort of names that sound less like heirs to destiny and more like entries on a packing list. The logic is simple: why would an evil spirit waste time haunting a utensil?

It is, in its own way, a charming sleight of hand. By lowering expectations - by making the baby sound as unremarkable as possible - parents hope to shield them until they’re strong enough to thrive on their own. The practice suggests an awareness that life’s real dangers aren’t always banished by grandeur or glory. Sometimes the best protection is anonymity, the art of hiding in plain sight, disguised as tableware. And if nothing else, the child grows up with a story guaranteed to outshine every “Emma” and “Ethan” at roll call.

Germany

In Germany, choosing a baby name isn’t simply a matter of parental whimsy; it’s a bureaucratic negotiation. The Standesamt - the local registry office - keeps a list of approved names, and anything outside the canon requires justification. If a couple decides their child should be called “Blueberry” or “Excalibur,” they’ll need to convince an official that such a name won’t saddle the child with undue hardship or lifelong ridicule. The principle is straightforward: a name should clearly identify gender and not endanger the child’s dignity.

The practice may sound draconian to those from countries where anything goes, but in Germany it’s framed as protection rather than restriction. Courts have ruled against names like “Matti” (too ambiguous), “Stompie” (too ridiculous), and “Grammaphon” (self-explanatory). Still, some unusual names do slip through - “Fanta” and “Galaxina” for example - provided parents can make a case rooted in culture, language, or tradition. The result is a delicate balance: a society that wants to preserve individuality but within limits, ensuring every “Max” and “Anna” is spared the fate of sharing a roll call with “Banana.”

Navajo

In Navajo tradition, a baby’s first laugh is more than a milestone - it’s a passport stamp, the moment the child is said to have fully crossed from the spirit world into this one. And because such a passage deserves ceremony, the event is marked with a party. It’s not just a casual gathering either; it’s an official welcome, a communal acknowledgment that this small, wriggling creature now belongs to the human fold.

There is, however, one perilous detail: whoever coaxes out that inaugural laugh becomes the host. Yes, the tickler-in-chief is suddenly on the hook for food, festivities, and a bill that can swell faster than a baby’s diaper. It’s a lovely ritual, but one that makes even the funniest uncles suddenly very sober. Among the Navajo, humor is not only sacred; it’s expensive.

Bulgaria

In Bulgaria, flattery is treated as a dangerous substance, especially where babies are concerned. Compliment a newborn’s rosy cheeks or angelic smile and you risk drawing the Devil’s gaze, a sort of cosmic pickpocket who steals praise and turns it into misfortune. The solution? Reverse psychology, Balkan-style. Parents and visitors alike are expected to call the child ugly, to mutter little curses, even to suggest that chickens might relieve themselves on the infant. It’s less lullaby, and more insult comedy.

This practice, however strange it may seem, has a kind of brutal wisdom behind it. By pretending the baby is undesirable, parents hope to ward off envy, evil spirits, and whatever other unseen forces might lurk nearby. The result is a culture where “May chickens poop on you” is not an insult but a blessing in disguise, the linguistic equivalent of garlic hung over the doorway. For the Bulgarian newborn, love arrives not in sweet words or soft songs but in a barrage of deliberate mockery - a strange initiation into the world, but maybe one that leaves them better prepared for it than most.

Greece

In Greece, nothing says “what a lovely baby” quite like spitting in its direction - or at least pretending to by making the “ftou ftou ftou” sound. The ritual is a form of apotropaic magic meant to guard against the mati, or evil eye. The idea is that compliments and admiration can attract envy, and envy attracts misfortune. To counteract this, the well-wisher punctuates their praise with a theatrical little spit (or, more commonly today, the sound of one), as if to say: “Yes, adorable child - but hardly worth cursing.”

Historically, the gesture involved real flecks of saliva, a sort of bodily insurance policy against meddling spirits. These days, most Greeks are content with the sound effect, sparing both child and parent the indignity of damp cheeks. Yet the intention remains the same: to make the baby appear slightly less tempting to whatever unseen forces might be listening in. It’s a custom that neatly captures the tension between pride and fear, joy and caution - celebrating new life while keeping one wary eye fixed on the supernatural.

Ireland

In Ireland, the circle of life comes frosted and soaked in whiskey. A couple’s wedding cake - traditionally a dense fruitcake with enough liquor to survive a minor apocalypse - doesn’t end its career on the big day. Instead, the top tier is carefully tucked away, waiting for the arrival of the couple’s first child. When the christening finally arrives, the cake is resurrected, and the ritual of “wetting the baby’s head” begins.

A few crumbs are sprinkled onto the infant’s head, a symbolic blessing for longevity and prosperity. The rest of the cake, now aged to perfection - or possibly weaponized - is shared with the guests. It’s a tradition that neatly ties together marriage, fertility, and baptism, all under the banner of cake. And really, if life must be full of rituals, one involving a whiskey-soaked fruitcake seems far more civilized than most.

United States

In the United States, the first fashion statement most babies make isn’t a onesie or a bonnet but a blanket - specifically, the ubiquitous pink-and-blue-striped KuddleUp. For more than sixty years, this flannel swaddle has been standard issue in hospitals from Maine to California, wrapping millions of newborns in identical stripes. It’s so universal that parents flipping through their first photo album often find their baby looks eerily interchangeable with every other American newborn, a soft little burrito in pastel prison bars.

The blanket’s endurance is no accident. Originally designed for durability and mass laundering, the KuddleUp proved nearly indestructible and cheap to produce - qualities that endeared it to hospital procurement departments everywhere. Over time, the stripes themselves took on a kind of unconscious symbolism: patriotic without being garish, cheerful without being gendered, timeless in the way only institutional design can be. For all the talk of individuality, America’s babies start life swaddled in the same uniform, inducted into a quiet fraternity of stripes before they’ve even opened their eyes.

India

In the southern state of Tamil Nadu, blessings come with a drop. For centuries, a ritual known as baby tossing has been practiced at certain temples, where infants are carried to the rooftop and - without so much as a safety harness - released into the air. Below, devotees stretched a cloth taut, catching the child like an errant stage diver at a rock concert. The fall could be twenty or thirty feet, and yet the ritual was believed to guarantee health, strength, and prosperity. Nothing says “may you thrive” quite like defying gravity.

To outside eyes it may seem reckless, but within the community the act carries deep meaning. The toss is an offering of trust: faith that the gods, the cloth, and the collective arms below would protect what was most precious. It was also a gesture of courage, an initiation into a life understood to be precarious from the very beginning. The art of baby tossing is certainly one of the more astonishing ways humanity has tried to safeguard its children - by first teaching them how to fall. 

Sweden & Iceland

In the Nordic imagination, fresh air is less a luxury than a birthright - and that includes the kind of air that makes most people retreat under three blankets. In both Iceland and Sweden, it’s perfectly ordinary to see prams lined up outside cafés, apartments, or even workplaces, babies tucked in tightly and left to nap in the open air while parents sip coffee indoors.

The practice persists even through winter, when temperatures dip well below freezing, because the prevailing wisdom insists that the chill is not a threat but a tonic.

In Iceland, the belief is that crisp outdoor naps can lengthen a child’s lifespan, while in Sweden the emphasis falls on strengthening the immune system. Either way, the thinking is clear: better to raise hardy Vikings than delicate hot-house flowers. Outsiders may balk at the sight of a row of bundled infants dozing like tiny explorers abandoned at base camp, but for many Nordic parents, it’s the surest way to ensure their children grow up resilient, weatherproof, and unfazed by the kind of cold that sends the rest of us scrambling for central heating.

China

In China, toilet training doesn’t wait for toddlerhood - it begins almost as soon as a baby can hold its head steady. Many parents introduce the practice within the first year, long before Western parents would dream of retiring the diaper. The method is simple but ingenious: the child is held over a toilet, basin, or even the curb, and a whistle-like sound is made. Over time, the baby learns to associate the noise with the act itself, transforming bodily functions into something closer to Pavlovian reflex.

The approach is practical in a country where disposable diapers were historically a luxury. It’s also a quiet reminder that babies can adapt to more than they’re given credit for, provided the cues are consistent and the parents patient. Where Western parents resign themselves to years of plastic pants, wipes, and the related costs many Chinese families aim to leapfrog straight to independence, armed only with persistence - and a well-timed whistle. Though this does make us wonder what happens when the referee blows his whistle at a sporting event. Very long lines at the bathroom’s we’d guess.

Bali

In Bali, babies spend their first 105 days suspended - literally - between worlds. Cradled in arms, carried in slings, or rocked in hammocks, their tiny feet never touch the ground. The belief is simple and profound: newborns are still close to the divine, their spirits not yet fully anchored in human form. To let them touch the earth too soon would be to drag them down before they’re ready, to expose them to impurity and the weight of mortal existence.

After this sacred quarantine of sorts, the child is formally introduced to the earth in a ceremony called Nyambutin. Surrounded by family, priests, and offerings, the baby’s feet finally press against the ground, a ritual first step into humanity itself. It’s a reminder that in Bali, childhood begins not with a wail in a delivery room but with a deliberate act of grounding - an introduction to the soil, the ancestors, and the island that will sustain them. Where elsewhere a baby’s first steps are accidental, in Bali the very first touch of the earth is choreographed, celebrated, and sanctified.

Babies, Blankets, and Baffling Traditions

Parenthood is a universal invitation to madness. Cultures everywhere invent their own rituals - some tender, some terrifying, and some downright baffling - to welcome new life into the world. From spitting at babies in Greece to launching them off temple rooftops in Tamil Nadu, the impulse is the same: shield the fragile, celebrate the miraculous, and maybe, just maybe, outwit chaos itself with a little pageantry and a lot of superstition. Babies, after all, are born into uncertainty, and ritual is our way of pretending we’ve got it under control.

This whole survey of traditions was prompted by watching a good friend bring home their second child. Both mother and baby are healthy, thriving, and - so far as we can tell - free of chickens, jumping devils, or well-meaning relatives armed with weaponized fruitcake. Watching their family expand, it struck me how every parent, no matter where they live, reaches for some ritual to make sense of what just happened. Some light incense, others call grandma, still others sign paperwork at the Standesamt. The details differ, but the impulse is universal: to tether the child, and ourselves, to something larger than a bassinet and a bottle of formula.

What’s striking, though, is how much these practices reveal, not about the children, but about us. The common thread in all these customs isn’t protection or superstition but acknowledgment that babies are chaos incarnate. Parents are conscripts in a war without maps. And maybe the best we can do is dress up the madness with pageantry.  The baby couldn’t care less if it’s wrapped in stripes, nicknamed “Cup,” or baptized with salt and pepper. These are the myths we spin for ourselves - the stories we tell to feel less helpless in the face of something as disarmingly simple as a squalling, red-faced new arrival. Tradition is less shield than coping mechanism. It’s the cultural equivalent of pacing the hallway at 3 a.m., whispering: You’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.

And maybe that’s the real point here. Babies don’t need the rituals - we do. They’ll grow up, laugh, cry, and ignore our superstitions just as we ignored the ones before us. But for a brief, delirious moment, the world stops, and a new human arrives. The traditions - strange, funny, and sometimes frightening - are how we mark the occasion, how we reassure ourselves that life goes on. We invent the ceremonies, we cling to them, and we pass them down - not because they work, but because doing nothing is intolerable. Because without them, we’d have no idea what to do with all this overwhelming joy, terror, and the gnawing suspicion that we’re just making it up as we go.

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