Yidle diddle didle diddle dum

Traditions, traditions. Without our traditions, our lives would be as shaky as... as... as a fiddler on the roof! I’m biddie biddie bumming and yidle diddle dumming right now after a glorious weekend visiting my sister and her family in honour of Rachel’s husband Ron and son Joshua’s debut in Fiddler on the Roof. It was Joshua who auditioned first for their synagogue’s production. He played a village boy who sang and danced in a number of scenes. He looked forlorn singing Anatevka and hopeful during The Sons portion of Tradition. He hoped the matchmaker would find him a pretty wife, and I hoped that the freakishly ginormous monstrosity of a child standing next to him - the same age as Joshua but literally twice as tall and three times as wide - would not eat him before the number ended. He was spared.

Ron was on schlepping detail taking our young star to and from rehearsals, but the congregation’s rabbi and cast members pursued him hard to jump on board. “I figured I’d be there anyway for all of Joshua’s rehearsals,” Ron explained when he accepted the role of Motel Kamzoil. Uch! We were so proud. My sister! Married to a Jewish tailor! A Catholic man whose parents are single-issue, pro-life voters became a star in a liberal-minded synagogue’s production of a quintessential Jewish musical. That was a miracle!
Pride shot out of our every pore while we watched the boys shine on the bimah/stage. Motel ‘s hands locked tight around the arms of his chair as the groomsmen thrust him into the air during the wedding scene, and I couldn’t help but laugh because this wedding was far more Jewish in a traditional sense than Ron and Rachel’s wedding. As Motel, he wore a talit under his shtetl clothing and close to his heart and a full beard that he sprouted just for the occasion. A more convincing Motel I’ve never seen. If my mother saw Ron’s transformation into the Jewish man she always wanted for Rachel, she would have said, “WHAT KIND OF SYNAGOGUE CASTS A GENTILE IN FIDDLER ON THE ROOF? THEY COULDN’T FIND ANY REAL JEWS?? IT’S A DISGRACE!” And that’s the nicest thing I could have imagined she’d say. Yup, she’s that delightful. She never approved of her children’s partners.

And what of mixed marriages? Where has the tradition of marrying within the faith gotten us, anyway? We’re an inbred, neurotic people plagued by Tay Sachs, hay fever and lactose intolerance. Oh, what?!? Look. I’m Jewish and proud, and I’m raising Jewish kids and my partner is a Jew by choice, and it’s all good. That doesn’t mean that I can’t look at my people objectively and admit that inbreeding is not the healthiest of things-no matter what the breed.

My beautiful, dark haired son with deep set eyes and the beginnings of back hair is more than a little quirky while our Aryan model seems much more easy going in general. Those blue eyes and that light hair may well be proof that something not-so-Jewish infused itself into our family’s blood stream once upon a pogrom. And for as much as it saddens me to imagine that our little Levi might be the result of foul play years ago, it may also be a blessing that his DNA may not be as tortured as his purer brother’s.

“Feh. What do you know about genetics, anyway, Deborah?” I know squat about genetics, it’s true. But a girl can’t help but take a long, hard look at everything that makes her kids who they are. It’s been a tough year at school for Asher, and we anticipate that we’ll be facing some hard truths about who he is and how he operates in the next few months. Until we have some sort of label or diagnosis or test results, however, I choose to torture myself. I rewind his life and evaluate it starting with the genes he inherited to his birth to present day. I examine his diet, environmental pollutants, my parenting strengths and weaknesses and, of course, the tradition of inbreeding amongst my people.

I know the exercise is futile. What’s done is done. And what is done resulted in my perfectly imperfect wonder of wonders. And that was a miracle, too.

Midlife crisis

Gabriella is having a midlife crisis. She’s overdue, really, given her advanced age, so it should not have come as a surprise. A midlife crisis can manifest itself in a multitude of ways, of course. Did she buy a sporty, sexy convertible to compensate for her small....nose? You may think a small nose is preferable to a large, bulbous nose. Well, not from where I sit!

No. She didn’t buy a car. Did she book a trip to India to follow a Yogi and find nirvana through meditation? Not that either. Instead, she came home after another torturously long day at the office and confessed that though she is grateful to be employed after an entire year without work, that little voice inside of her head continues to remind her that she was put on Earth to do other things that are more fulfilling though not necessarily financially rewarding. Personally, I think the little voice should stuff it.

More than anything in life, she confessed, she wants to go to culinary school. She wants to turn her back on the corporate world, 401k plans, health benefits and free yogurt covered strawberries at the Shmoomberg cafeteria in favour of life in the kitchen--trade her suit for an apron, her pashmina for a chef hat and her pumps for kitchen clogs. Gabriella doesn’t actually wear pumps and perhaps never has. If she ever did own a pair of pumps, she must have donated them to the Salvation Army in the 80s along with her pleated slacks. I figured pumps were a more obvious image than business casual flats, so I took some artistic license; though I reckon this is the first time anyone has ever referred to pumps as artistic.

So Gabriella plans to spend the rest of her days toiling in a kitchen to create culinary masterpieces with the finest ingredients and a cup full of love in every dish. Sounds neat, doesn’t it? I couldn’t be more enthusiastic about spending what little cash we have on culinary school and turning our lives upside down so that Gabriella can cook dishes we will never be able to afford to eat in our mobile home parked along the Garden State Parkway.
But forget about our needs and the life to which we’ve grown accustomed. Luxuries such as bread and shoes are but a wealthy woman’s trifles compared to the sustenance that true happiness provides, no? Far be it from me to prevent my life partner from pursuing her calling. Who am I to expect that Gabriella remain shackled by those golden handcuffs that have kept her from living up to her potential and realizing her true dream? What could possibly be more liberating than the thought of cutting all ties to the debt-ridden, materialistic world in which we live?

She was afraid to admit her thoughts. She knew the implications would be huge, and she looked to me for encouragement and my blessing. You all must know by now that I am nothing if not a supportive wife. And so during her moment of truth when she at her most raw and vulnerable, I held her hand and looked her in the eyes and chose my words carefully.

“Couldn’t you just take a lover instead?”

She laughed.

“No? Fine. Why don’t you go to culinary school, and I’LL take a lover?”

Apparently, neither she nor I will be taking a lover.

I hear you all egging her on explore her foodie dream. I don’t begrudge you. Don’t we all live vicariously through those who prioritize their hearts over their wallets? We are surrounded by stories of contemporaries who leave the rat race and set up surfing schools on some island somewhere, and we know they’re living a simpler, happier life. We imagine ourselves jumping off of the treadmill and skipping along a beach with a frothy cocktail in hand served in a coconut shell. But we stay put to be close to family or because it’s just too scary to contemplate stepping that far out of our comfort zone. But we cheer on the brave souls who manage to break free.

Well your cheers are not enough, people! I've got kids to feed!! Put your money where your mouth is and send cash. I know. Times are tough. Ok, you can send nudie shots, instead. I’m thinking I still might be able to sell in the idea of taking a lover.

Fifteen minutes

Fifteen minutes. I think. Felt like hours of super slow motion. I lost Levi. Of course, to Asher I said, “Levi wasn’t lost. We just didn’t know where he was.” They were just words. We are both traumatized.

We were coming out of our swim class after another successful session with Big Buoyied Maggie the swim instructor. Asher and I walked slowly and carefully around the perimeter of the swimming pool as Levi darted to the exit. “Tsk tsk, Levi. I’m going to have to tell you that there is no running at the swimming pool as soon as I catch up to you,” I thought. The door was open when he got to the exit, and we trailed by about 10 seconds. I didn’t even flinch. There was no doubt in my mind that Levi would get to the other side of the door, see that we weren’t there and stop. He didn’t stop.

“No worries,” I thought. “I’ll turn this corner and he’ll be right there.” He wasn’t. I turned another corner. Still no Levi. Here’s the thing about the venue. Swimming Boot Camp is part of a humongous, colossal monstrosity of an indoor amusement park called Funplex, and it is the size of Montana. And for all of you wise asses who are thinking, “How can you fit something the size of Montana into a building in a suburb of New Jersey?”, I’m thinking of a foul, dirty, yet all too appropriate string of expletives that will encapsulate the histrionic rage I’m misdirecting at you.

We had never taken a proper tour of Funplex, so Levi had no blueprint in his wee brain. He knew only the way out. Allow me provide you with a description of Funplex from the website:

The Funplex is like three amusement parks in one, with three times the thrills and fun! We’ve got exciting amusement park rides like electric Go-Karts and Free Fall. Amusement theme park adventures at Magiquest. And our 100,000 square-foot indoor facility is packed with unique attractions, exciting rides and great atmosphere you can enjoy whatever the weather. Enjoy our arcade — it’s like the best of a Jersey Shore Boardwalk arcade with lots of new games added in. See the spectacular XD Theater and experience the thrills of Foam Frenzy and Lazer Runner’s laser tag.

Get the picture?

I found an official looking guy with a walkie-talkie, and we started our search. He alerted all the other walkie-talkie people, and everyone was looking for a 3 year old boy with a blue t-shirt and jean shorts with dark blonde hair and blue eyes named Levi.

After a couple of minutes, a walkie-talkie lady approached me. “Do you want us to call the police?”

“YES!” That’s when it hit me. Levi was missing. I will spare you all the horrible thoughts that ran through my head for the next 10 minutes. I’m sure you can imagine, and I’m sorry for even opening that door in your mind. Close it! Everyone’s ok. We’re all ok. But those 10 minutes were nothing less than horrifying. Where are you Levi? Where are you?

It didn’t take long for Asher to figure out what was going on. He was upset and started to cry. “Where is Levi?!? I want Levi! I WANT LEVI! I WANT LEVI!!” “Don’t worry, Asher. I’m sure he’s here somewhere (please please let him be here somewhere!). He probably thinks we’re playing Hide & Seek. Silly Levi.” He didn’t buy it.

A police officer arrived immediately. “I’m going to find your son. You’re in good hands.” It was corny – right out of the Lifetime movie of the week I was now living, but at that moment, it was exactly what I needed to hear.

I’m sure we walked every inch of those 100,000 square feet in the course of minutes. We were in a real-life Snow White Scary Adventure at Disney World, and around every turn there was another attraction or would-be child offender popping out at us with a suspicious smile. An older man made his way to me outside the aptly named Foam Frenzy attraction. “Are you here for the Miller Party?” “Get the fuck out of my way, Grandpa! My baby boy is missing!!!”

No, I didn’t really say that. I thought it, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t swallow. My tongue was now the size of a tennis ball and just as furry. Why on earth does nature deprive the human body of all saliva when we’re terrified? What could possibly be the point of that in the wild? What if I needed to spit at an attacker or mold my son’s hair into place for a spontaneous photo shoot?

Finally, a mother walked into the lobby with her kids. “Are you looking for a little boy? He’s outside playing in the sand.” I knew it was Levi. Levi is never far from dirt. I hugged her. I didn’t care if she thought it was a bit queer. I couldn’t help myself. She saw the hysteria in my eyes “You must have been frantic.” She said. She was already far behind me as I ran to the door. “You have no idea.”

We all gathered around Levi who had left the building and sat himself down under a small tree planted at the side of the parking lot playing all too happily in dirt. Two police officers, maybe 4 or 5 walkie-talkie people, Asher and I watched Levi throw dirt around as if this was an intended stop on our itinerary. The police officer took my details, and I wondered momentarily if there is a database of unfit parents.

I took a much needed breath and started to cry. “Are you going to be ok? Should I get you a ride?” asked the officer. I waved my hands in front of my face as if I could air dry my tears and answered, “I’m fine. I’m just so relieved. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

On the ride home, I decided to have the password conversation. The librarian at our school told me the other day that when her kids were small they had a secret word to distinguish friends from foes. If a grown up approached her children but didn’t know the secret word, they were to run and scream and get as far away as possible.

“Asher, we need a word or a phrase that we will always remember because it is special to our family.”

“How about ‘love’?” asked Asher.

Yup, I cried the whole way home.

Thank you to Dennis at FunPlex who escorted Asher and me around the entirety of the indoor amusement park from hell. Thanks to the police officer whose name I neglected to get but whose face I’ll remember forever. Many thanks to that mom whose words rescued me from a terrifying nightmare. And thanks to Gabriella who poured me a bucket of wine last night and held my hand as I cried intermittently throughout the evening and hoped that lightening would not ever strike twice.

A week away from just another day

Mother’s Day is next week, and that sucks for a couple of lezzy moms. Who gets breakfast in bed? Do we both buy gifts, or do we cancel each other out? Do we make the kids do overtime and force them to craft 2 cards or drawings or paint mugs at our local paint-your-own-ceramics shop? I’m conveniently certain that Gabriella slept in last year, so it would be my turn for breakfast in bed this year. Regardless of who’s slated to be Mother of the Year, I am still Morah Devorah for the next 3 weeks. I have to impart Jewish learnings onto 2nd graders at 9:15AM that Sunday morning which is most definitely ungodly and on Mother’s Day down right cruel. I’m afraid Mother’s Day is a wash for us this year.

Oh my, are you weeping? There, there. Please don’t fret just because we will not be able to participate in the one day out of 365 when someone might be forced to deliver a morning breakfast tray of an egg on toast, a cup of tea, the paper and a kind word. And how could we possibly in good conscience support the institutionalized flower carnage that strips our land’s gardens of its roses and calla lillies and hydrangeas? No, I’m sure we’ll be quite contented to carry on as per usual and not give Mother’s Day another thought.

And what about our own mothers? Could we not celebrate the women who gifted us life? Well, Gabriella’s mother Rosa is no longer with us, sadly. My mother exists which is about as much as I can say and still sound like a lady. She has not spoken to me in years, but she is most likely ripping the heads off bunnies and snarling at small children unlucky enough to cross her path. Best we leave her be.

She wasn’t an entirely bad mother, I suppose. She armed me with very thick skin and a few pieces of advice along the way. Why, I recall the day of my first menseeeees. I know-icky word. She handed me the sanitary napkin that was literally the size of a brick and whispered slowly enunciating each word as if I could only read lips, "and when you're finished with it...wrap it up in toilet paper...and throw it away." She accompanied her instructions with hand gestures in case I wasn’t following her. Who knew that the international sign for wrapping your soiled napkin with toilet tissue is the same as rolling your patty cake?

I stared at her in disbelief. A couple of beats passed before I could blink and ask, “What about tamp-"

"NOT UNTIL AFTER YOU'RE MARRIED!" She answered at full volume. And that was that. End of discussion. My mother, the doctor’s wife, wanted to keep the hymen intact for my would-be husband. My hymen and I had other plans. I was not about to be strutting around town looking like I was riding a loaf of bread. Do you know how difficult it is to smuggle tampons into your house and practice inserting them off-cycle? If you're a woman who has ever used tampons, then the thought of shoving a cardboard tube up there without any lubrication is enough to make you suck the air in through your teeth and pucker your lady-lips tightly together in a kegel formation. Ouch! But I was determined to liberate myself from the pad, and I didn’t have the benefit of YouTube. That’s right! You can learn how to insert a tampon on YouTube, but I’ll leave it to you to select one of many helpful videos.

So the challenge for me is to identify the appreciation in every day moments instead of counting down the days until Mother’s Day. This is an easier task for some who are not me. But my Asher helped me find the joy in motherhood this evening as he crawled into bed and asked if we could cuddle for a few minutes before he went to sleep. I chose to ignore his ulterior motive to avoid sleep at all cost and snuggled beside him. We talked about the day and made plans for the week and gave each other full body hugs that remain with me still. These are the moments that we try to capture on Mother’s Day, and these are the moments I will recall as I shlep my tuchus to Hebrew School next week. And that will suffice...until the boys are old enough to get me some frickin’ flowers!