Doljanchi, the First Birthday

A writing brush, its soft hairs gathered into a single fine point.

Beside it, a coil of thread, wound round and as thick as a small wheel, with a short length of its loose end trailing out.

Then a bowl of rice, filled to the brim, its surface smoothed perfectly flat.

And last of all, a coin, laid face up.

The four things lie in a straight line on a long strip of cloth, evenly spaced. They were set down with great care, and after that no one moved them.

They were laid out like this to wait for someone. That someone turns one year old today.

In Korea, the day a child turns one has a name of its own. The day is called dol, and the party held on it is called doljanchi. That morning the baby is changed into clothes of many colors, leaving behind the white it wears on ordinary days.

But before the guests arrive, the family has something else to do.

They set out a separate table, meant for the deity who watches over childbirth. Koreans call her by a warm, familiar name, samsin halmeoni, which means Grandmother Samsin. The whole family gathers around that table and prays for the little one to be healthy and to live long. When the prayers are done, everyone sits down together to rice and seaweed soup.

Only then is the party table laid.

There are noodles on the table. These noodles are not there to fill anyone up. The strands are thin and long, and they are placed on a one-year-old's table precisely because they are long. There is a pure white rice cake called baekseolgi, steamed from rice flour and white all the way through, like the innocence of a small child. There are little round cakes rolled in red bean powder. People of old believed that this red kept bad things from coming near.

The guests arrive, each one carrying a gift. Some bring rice. Some bring money. Some bring a tiny gold ring, so small that it fits only a child's little finger.

And then it is the turn of the four objects on the cloth to have their say.

This rite is called doljabi. The baby is set down on the floor, a short distance from the row of objects, and everyone steps back.

Each object on the cloth is a wish, and every wish is short.

The thread is a wish for long life, because thread is long, as long as the noodles on the table. The brush, which some families pair with a book, is a wish for learning that comes easily. The bowl of rice is a wish never to worry about the next meal. The money needs no explaining. In the old days it was a coin, and these days it is often a banknote. Some families also lay out a bow and arrow, and some add a pair of scissors and a ruler.

Four wishes, or six, set in a single row on the cloth. And no one is allowed to prompt, to point or to push.

This is the hardest part of the whole party, because it is the only part that no one can control.

The baby crawls. It crawls very slowly, one hand and then the other, its eyes wandering everywhere. It stops halfway, because the hem of someone's trousers looks more interesting. The whole room leans with it, dozens of heads tilting the same way at once. The grandparents sit in the front seats with their hands clasped together. Someone even forgets to breathe.

Then that tiny hand reaches out and touches one of the objects.

The whole room bursts into noise. Some cheer, some clap, and some turn to tease the grandparents. After that the baby gets to pick a second object as well, a backup choice, and the room erupts a second time.

One thing needs to be said very clearly here. No one makes the child follow the object it has just picked. No one writes it down to hold against the child later on. It is a wish, and a game that the whole family plays together. The grandparents really are on edge, but it is the suspense of unwrapping a present, not of waiting for a verdict.

The row of objects has changed with the times too. Now, beside the brush and the thread, families often add a doctor's stethoscope, a microphone, a phone, a golf ball or a baseball glove. Some even put out a computer mouse. In the past, the row was often split clearly into things for boys and things for girls. Now every baby gets the same celebration.

From the early 20th century, when cameras came along, the dol gained a new habit. People took photographs. A great many photographs. That is why so many homes keep a picture tucked in a cabinet somewhere: a baby sitting in the middle of a row of objects, one hand reaching out.

The Vietnamese have a day like this as well. When a child turns one, the family holds a ceremony called thôi nôi, which literally means the day the baby leaves its cradle. The family also lays out a tray for the baby to pick from, and on it there is often a mirror, a comb, a pen, a book and some money. Whichever object the baby touches, the whole family roars with laughter, then spends the rest of the party guessing what it means. Before that tray is set out, the family also gives thanks to the 12 bà mụ. They are believed to shape the child and watch over it from the time it is still in its mother's womb.

Two countries. Two languages. Two trays of objects, spread out on two different cloths. Yet two families at two ends of a wide region, each sitting before a one-year-old, have almost the same way of saying what they hope for.

There is a reason it is the first year, and not some other year.

In the old days, raising a child through its whole first year was truly something to celebrate. Passing that milestone meant the little one had grown sturdy, could crawl, and was beginning to stand. Earlier, when the baby reached 100 days, the family had already held a big celebration. At one full year, they held an even bigger one. Some families who had struggled to have children held back, though. They dared not throw a big party, fearing that too much fuss might bring bad luck to a baby they had tried so hard to have.

The party ends. The cloth is rolled up, and the objects go back to where they belong. The brush is just a brush again. The rice is poured back into its jar. The coin goes back into someone's purse.

Only the thread is hard to put back the way it was. It is still just a coil of thread. But all that morning, it was brought out to say something on everyone's behalf, something that no one in the room dared to say out loud.

At a party like this, the detail worth watching is a small one. It is not the baby, but the grown-ups sitting in a circle around it. When that tiny hand reaches out, everyone holds their breath, and not one of them is thinking about careers.

They are thinking about the thread.