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Home
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No Small Change
by Shoshana Schwartz
Change. We all fear it, worry about it, agonize over it,
daydream about it and, paradoxically, yearn for it and
anticipate it. Any change, no matter how small, forces us to
deviate from the familiar and predictable. And frankly, that
can be frightening. Think about it: what happened the last
time someone gave you skim milk in your coffee instead of
whole milk? Or your regular parking space was occupied?
Hopefully, it didn't ruin your day, but you did need to
adapt.
Obviously, the bigger the change involved, the scarier it is -
even when it's a change for the better - and the more you
need to find coping mechanisms to handle the change, adapt to
it, and learn to benefit from it. It takes, at times, all the
resources we have and all the strategies we've collected over
the years.
Yet if change is scary for an adult, imagine how traumatic it
is for children! Children don't have a lifetime of positive
experiences to remember and fall back on when the going gets
tough. Imagine what it's like for a girl of twelve to be told
that she is an adult now, and that she is expected to behave
like one. Imagine what it's like for a child of five or six
to lose his very first tooth.
Or, imagine that you are three years old, and your hair -
your beloved hair that you always snuggled up with, played
with, chewed, and hid behind when the need was great - was
shorn from your head? And not only was it suddenly chopped
of, but covered with this inadequate thing they call a
yarkmulke, or kipa or kappel, depending on
their mood, which was placed there instead? And everyone whom
you've always loved and trusted not only stood by and let
this happen, but actually took a pair of scissors - those
sharp, pointed, menacing scissors which you were repeatedly
warned not to handle - and snipped a piece off, too? And they
all smiled and wished you mazel tov and told you that
you're a big boy now and expected you to know what that
meant? Then what would you do?
I asked myself this question today - today, the occasion of
my son's upsheren, and I put myself in my son's shoes,
and I answered it in three words: panic and run.
That's what I would do. I'd take one look at the faces of
those around me - those people who are supposed to love me
and protect me yet were failing miserably - and I'd be out of
there before the first mazel tov was uttered. Because
I know how these things work. First it was the pacifiers,
then it was the diapers. So I know that if they're cutting
off my hair, then that's the end of that. No, there have been
too many changes around here already, and enough is enough.
None of this "big boy" stuff for me. They can keep their
tzitzis and they can keep their kipas and I'll
just keep my hair, thank you very much. No deal.
As I said, that's what I would do. As for my son,
despite weeks and weeks of preparations, I was pretty sure
he'd panic and having nowhere to run to, would throw the
mother-of-all- trantrums. As it turned out, I was wrong.
We kept the gathering small, only people my son knew and
loved and was comfortable with. When the big moment came, my
son started to cry. And then I showed him the chocolate. He
stopped crying mid-wail, as if someone had turned the siren
switch from "on" to "off," and opened his eyes wide. (Okay,
so it was a really big bar of Torino chocolate that Zeide had
sent all the way from America.) Then he marched right over to
the chair we'd prepared for him, sat down in it, and stuck
his hand out for the chocolate. Obediently, I gave him some
as we began snipping away. Snip, snip, swallow. Hand out for
more. Snip, snip, swallow. Hand out for more. And so it went.
The only trick was finishing the haircut before the chocolate
ran out.
Now it was time for the yarmulka. Slowly, tentatively,
I placed it on his head. He smiled. He smiled? Too
dazed to comment, I watched silently as someone thrust a
present into my son's hands. Gleefully, he tore off the
paper, hopped down off the chair, and began to play.
I blinked. Who was that cute little boy with the big eyes and
the round cheeks? That one, over there. The one with
chocolate smudges all over his face? Was this my little boy?
My baby? Was this the boy who has, since birth, resisted
change in all forms? Was this the same kid who, only a few
months ago, crawled for two days because he didn't like his
new shoes and wanted the torn ones back? Was this the same
kid who wants the same meal every day, breakfast, lunch and
dinner, because he likes to know what he's having? Was this
the same kid who will only wear white socks during the day
and blue pajamas at night?
As I watched him romp, happy and carefree, I acknowledged
that he had handled this momentous change unbelievably well.
Yes, my preparations had paid off. He knew exactly what to
expect, and he was more or less sure that it would turn out
okay (after all, his big brother was living proof). Also, he
felt safe with the people who were there, and pleased that
they were all proud of him. (And the chocolate hadn't hurt
either.) And I suddenly realized that although this haircut
did represent a new stage for my son, I had projected my
fears and worries onto him. Sure, he's a slow-to-warm-up
child. He likes to know what to expect, even if it's
something he doesn't like. But he's not a helpless little
kid. He's not a baby any more. He's a person. And he has
tools to use, to help him grow, to help him succeed. With
Hashem's help, I have given him some of those tools, and as
the years pass I hope to help him gain many more.
As I watch my now three-year-old son, secure and confident in
his new role, I am proud of him for his willingness to accept
change, and moreover, to face it head-on. And I pray that I
can learn from him, and face the changes that life will,
inevitably, provide.
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