The Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur) has come and gone. I prayed and repented and went to synagogue. And, as if wearing a Spanx contraption from thigh to under-boobage wasn’t enough of a punishment, I fasted.
The children’s service consisted of an hour of singing and puppetry and a few prayers. One might assume that such a service would be way more fun than sitting in the grown up service for hours of prayer and not a puppet to be seen. I guess I shouldn’t have hoped for fun or joy on such a solemn day, and I was punished accordingly. Levi attempted to entertain other children with magic tricks and slapstick comedy. Over and over again, he hit himself in the face and fell over on the floor. Asher lay down under our chairs like a dog for the entire service. Occasionally, Asher kicked his brother or Levi took his slapstick too far and hurt another child. So proud.
Gabriella and I sang all the songs enthusiastically on behalf of our family as if to compensate for our children who refused to participate in the service designed specifically for them. If they had been paying attention, they might have learned a thing or two. The service leader broke down this reflective holiday in ways that kids can comprehend. We all make mistakes. We can say we’re sorry for them and try to do better this year. The boys were too busy making mistakes to hear anything.
After the service, we congregated outside for Tashlikh where we throw breadcrumbs into a body of water to as if to throw away our mistakes. For the sake of the children, we did not walk a mile to the nearest river but cast our crumbs into the bushes alongside the synagogue instead.
I decided this was a teachable moment for Asher, so I kicked off the apologies.
Deborah: Asher, these are the mistakes I have made. This is for the times when I lost my temper with you when I should have spoken to you calmly. This is for the time I chose not to play Jr. Monopoly with you when you really wanted to play with me. Asher, what mistakes would you like to throw away?
Asher: Nothing.
D: You can’t think of anything you’d like to do better this year?
A: No.
Levi: I want to frow mistakes!
D: Here you go Levi.
He’s got quite an arm, that Levi, though it is unlikely that he was considering his mistakes.
Here’s the kicker about Yom Kippur. You refrain from eating so that you can reflect and focus. You fast for 25 hours, so you’re hungry - really hungry. And you’re cranky - really cranky. The likelihood that you will act in an unfitting manner on Yom Kippur is exponentially high because you are hungry and cranky. I’m much more kind and reflective on a full stomach. Priests remain celibate to devote themselves to God and their church. I understand that denying them sexual relations doesn’t always turn out so well either. Anyhoo...
Only a few hours of fasting to go.
Deborah: Well it’s 4 o’clock, and I’m still waiting for my apology?
Gabriella: What?
D: Aren’t you going to apologize for all the ways you’ve wronged me this year so that you can be inscribed in the Book of Life?
G: I am sorry, Deborah, for all the ways in which I have treated you that you have not deserved.
D: Thank you. I forgive you.
G: And you?
D: Yeah, I’ve been struggling with my apology.
G: Too many to name?
D: I’m actually having a difficult time coming up with anything that I sincerely regret.
G: Uh huh.
D: Ok, I’ve got one.
G: Can’t wait.
D: Gabriella, I’m deeply sorry if you have misinterpreted my words or actions to be anything other than constructive or benevolent.
G: I forgive you?
D: Super.
Levi's magic trick.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
I got some honey for your apple right here!
I loathe the High Holidays.
Pause for possible lightening bolt to strike me dead.
Still here. Ok, well, I do. I have no happy memories of this time, and I’ve been thrown well into a self-pitying funk now we are in High Holiday Hell.
Growing up outside of Chicago, the holidays usually fell upon us as the first frost of the season grabbed hold of summer’s neck and crammed my favorite season in a canvas bag and threw it over a bridge attached to cement blocks. I equate the Jewish new year with uninvited winter and the long countdown until the next thaw. I also equate them to spending concentrated amounts of time with my wackadoodle mother.
Our congregation was as enormous in number as it was righteous in attitude. The earlier you arrived for services, the better Jew you were. Well, that was how it seemed anyway. My family strolled in at around 10am after the parking lot was completely full of pious Jews who should have walked there in the first place. Conservative Jews allow for driving if you're driving to synagogue. We Jews love loopholes. No wonder so many of us are lawyers. Cars populated all the side streets surrounding the synagogue for what felt like miles in every direction. The long, cold walk from our eventual parking spot to the synagogue was a torture like everything else about the High Holidays.
The three hours of Hebrew prayers were broken up only by the seemingly random commands to stand and sit and stand and sit and stand and stand and stand. With little else to do but braid the fringe of our father’s tallit (prayer shawl) over and over again, my sister and I inevitably irritated each other until we behaved in the most unladylike of manners. My mother was disgusted with us by the time we left.
After hours at services, my parents took a nap and Rachel and I were left to entertain ourselves. On these holiest of days, we were not to watch television or write or draw or talk on the phone or go to anyone else’s house to play. Each holiday was a prison sentence as far as we were concerned.
When Sukkot rolled around, it was fucking cold. Sukkot is the holiday where we celebrate the harvest and eat outside in a 3-walled shanty much as our ancestors did in the desert.
DESERT, PEOPLE! Our ancestors did not dress themselves in snowsuits and shiver uncontrollably by the side of a space heater watching their soup freeze. But every year, we froze our tzitzit off in that damn sukkah. Needless to say, I did not come away from that holiday with an appreciation for freshly farmed produce.
This Rosh Hashanah, I struggled to entertain the boys. We do not live close enough to family to hang out at anyone else’s house, and I was too funked up to coordinate anything with other family-less Jews in the neighborhood. There is no moratorium on technology in our house though I make weak efforts to avoid the computer and the phone. The television was on for the boys, but they tired of it.
Pandora radio helped me drown out the sounds of Asher yelling, “WHAT CAN I DOOOOOO?” We could have read books. We could have created artwork or built pillow houses or played Jr. Monopoly. I chose to suffer the whining, instead. And the problem with Jr. Monopoly is that aside from the name of the game, it bears little resemblance to the cut-throat game of real estate investments, bank lending and beauty contests.
One game in our house with our father lasted for days and ended only once my sister and I went bankrupt and we locked ourselves in the bathroom crying as if someone had run over our puppy. He never let us win. As a result, however, I am a very good Monopoly player.
“That’s enough, Arnie!” My mother would yell. “I don’t think you should all play that game for a while if they’re going to be that upset about it.” Well, the threat of not playing Monopoly with Dad was worse than running over puppies. “NOOOO! We’ll be fuh - hu - hu - hiiine.” We did our best to stifle the sobs and prove to our mother that we could take it. We wanted to play the game even if it meant that our own father would leave us penniless. Jr. Monopoly, on the other hand, is for pussies.
How many more days until Spring?
Shana tova, mamba jambas.
Pause for possible lightening bolt to strike me dead.
Still here. Ok, well, I do. I have no happy memories of this time, and I’ve been thrown well into a self-pitying funk now we are in High Holiday Hell.
Growing up outside of Chicago, the holidays usually fell upon us as the first frost of the season grabbed hold of summer’s neck and crammed my favorite season in a canvas bag and threw it over a bridge attached to cement blocks. I equate the Jewish new year with uninvited winter and the long countdown until the next thaw. I also equate them to spending concentrated amounts of time with my wackadoodle mother.
Our congregation was as enormous in number as it was righteous in attitude. The earlier you arrived for services, the better Jew you were. Well, that was how it seemed anyway. My family strolled in at around 10am after the parking lot was completely full of pious Jews who should have walked there in the first place. Conservative Jews allow for driving if you're driving to synagogue. We Jews love loopholes. No wonder so many of us are lawyers. Cars populated all the side streets surrounding the synagogue for what felt like miles in every direction. The long, cold walk from our eventual parking spot to the synagogue was a torture like everything else about the High Holidays.
The three hours of Hebrew prayers were broken up only by the seemingly random commands to stand and sit and stand and sit and stand and stand and stand. With little else to do but braid the fringe of our father’s tallit (prayer shawl) over and over again, my sister and I inevitably irritated each other until we behaved in the most unladylike of manners. My mother was disgusted with us by the time we left.
After hours at services, my parents took a nap and Rachel and I were left to entertain ourselves. On these holiest of days, we were not to watch television or write or draw or talk on the phone or go to anyone else’s house to play. Each holiday was a prison sentence as far as we were concerned.
When Sukkot rolled around, it was fucking cold. Sukkot is the holiday where we celebrate the harvest and eat outside in a 3-walled shanty much as our ancestors did in the desert.
DESERT, PEOPLE! Our ancestors did not dress themselves in snowsuits and shiver uncontrollably by the side of a space heater watching their soup freeze. But every year, we froze our tzitzit off in that damn sukkah. Needless to say, I did not come away from that holiday with an appreciation for freshly farmed produce.This Rosh Hashanah, I struggled to entertain the boys. We do not live close enough to family to hang out at anyone else’s house, and I was too funked up to coordinate anything with other family-less Jews in the neighborhood. There is no moratorium on technology in our house though I make weak efforts to avoid the computer and the phone. The television was on for the boys, but they tired of it.
Pandora radio helped me drown out the sounds of Asher yelling, “WHAT CAN I DOOOOOO?” We could have read books. We could have created artwork or built pillow houses or played Jr. Monopoly. I chose to suffer the whining, instead. And the problem with Jr. Monopoly is that aside from the name of the game, it bears little resemblance to the cut-throat game of real estate investments, bank lending and beauty contests.
One game in our house with our father lasted for days and ended only once my sister and I went bankrupt and we locked ourselves in the bathroom crying as if someone had run over our puppy. He never let us win. As a result, however, I am a very good Monopoly player.“That’s enough, Arnie!” My mother would yell. “I don’t think you should all play that game for a while if they’re going to be that upset about it.” Well, the threat of not playing Monopoly with Dad was worse than running over puppies. “NOOOO! We’ll be fuh - hu - hu - hiiine.” We did our best to stifle the sobs and prove to our mother that we could take it. We wanted to play the game even if it meant that our own father would leave us penniless. Jr. Monopoly, on the other hand, is for pussies.
How many more days until Spring?
Shana tova, mamba jambas.
Friday, September 3, 2010
A pox on socks
A couple of weeks ago, we suffered three cold, rainy days in a row-rainy like downpour as in “someone who shall not be myself needs to get the wet-vac out and get to sucking out the basement!” I curse home ownership and the useless knowledge of wet-vacs cramming my small and limited brain like an inflated airbag.
During those three days of wet, Mother Nature shouted, “THE AUTUMN DOTH APPROACH! DO NOT BE CAUGHT OUT LIKE YOU WERE LAST YEAR WITHOUT PROPER ATTIRE FOR YOUR CHILDREN, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE COW!” Mother Nature can be such a whore. So, I did some damage online and prepared for the temperature snap that will hit us all unawares.
Socks. How I loathe socks. I think I despise them so much because I’m the laundress of the household, and socks are such a waste of time and space. If we lived in a hot climate, I would have no socks and an entire drawer available to me for tank tops or fancy lingerie or secret things. But what’s more, I wouldn’t have to sort, match or fold ever again. I wonder how many hours I would get back if I tallied all the time it has taken me to sort socks over the years. I wonder how many hours I would get back if I stopped thinking about the amount of time wasted over socks. Writing this entry alone could have given me the time needed to, well, write another blog entry.
Every season, I lose countless single socks breaking up perfectly happy pairs. How long do I keep these abandoned singles before I come to terms with the fact that their mates will never return? And now, I have kids with similarly sized feet, so I have to pay close attention to which socks belong to whom lest I inadvertently end up binding Asher’s feet with Levi’s socks.
Don’t worry. I DO hear myself. I’m out of my mind over socks. That’s how much I loathe those cotton tubes of torture.
And, in a fit of madness I broke down and did the unthinkable. For years, I’ve thought of buying them. For years, I imagined what a difference they would make in my laundering life if only I had them. I resisted. But then, I caved. I’m officially my father and owner of a collection of sock holders. What’s next, pocket protectors? No, it’s not as bad as all that primarily because I don’t wear shirts with pockets. But I do have my eye on some Earpops.
I know that sock holders will not eradicate all that I dread about winter. Pale skin, eating my body weight - at every one of the 5 meals I manage to consume, short days and cold, long nights. We have one more last hurrah weekend to go this Labor Day. The weather forecast indicates cooler temperatures but still warm enough to call it summer. I will not be packing socks.
During those three days of wet, Mother Nature shouted, “THE AUTUMN DOTH APPROACH! DO NOT BE CAUGHT OUT LIKE YOU WERE LAST YEAR WITHOUT PROPER ATTIRE FOR YOUR CHILDREN, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE COW!” Mother Nature can be such a whore. So, I did some damage online and prepared for the temperature snap that will hit us all unawares.
Socks. How I loathe socks. I think I despise them so much because I’m the laundress of the household, and socks are such a waste of time and space. If we lived in a hot climate, I would have no socks and an entire drawer available to me for tank tops or fancy lingerie or secret things. But what’s more, I wouldn’t have to sort, match or fold ever again. I wonder how many hours I would get back if I tallied all the time it has taken me to sort socks over the years. I wonder how many hours I would get back if I stopped thinking about the amount of time wasted over socks. Writing this entry alone could have given me the time needed to, well, write another blog entry.
Every season, I lose countless single socks breaking up perfectly happy pairs. How long do I keep these abandoned singles before I come to terms with the fact that their mates will never return? And now, I have kids with similarly sized feet, so I have to pay close attention to which socks belong to whom lest I inadvertently end up binding Asher’s feet with Levi’s socks.
Don’t worry. I DO hear myself. I’m out of my mind over socks. That’s how much I loathe those cotton tubes of torture.
And, in a fit of madness I broke down and did the unthinkable. For years, I’ve thought of buying them. For years, I imagined what a difference they would make in my laundering life if only I had them. I resisted. But then, I caved. I’m officially my father and owner of a collection of sock holders. What’s next, pocket protectors? No, it’s not as bad as all that primarily because I don’t wear shirts with pockets. But I do have my eye on some Earpops.
I know that sock holders will not eradicate all that I dread about winter. Pale skin, eating my body weight - at every one of the 5 meals I manage to consume, short days and cold, long nights. We have one more last hurrah weekend to go this Labor Day. The weather forecast indicates cooler temperatures but still warm enough to call it summer. I will not be packing socks.
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