I tip-toed through the darkened hallway and entered her room.
She lay sleeping on her bed. Her blonde wisps draped her soft
cheeks. This was the six-year- old that giggled, that cried,
that pondered, that smiled her infectious smile -- a
toothless grin. Now that six-year-old was placid as the day
she was born.
I leaned close and whispered, "It's midnight, darling."
Earlier that evening, we were looking forward to
milchig ice cream for shalosh seudos. When the
time came to serve dessert, we realized that one of the
children, the six-year-old, had just finished a bowl of
chicken soup.
Her face fell -- she looked to me for reassurance. It is
Mother who kisses our boo-boos, and Mother who puts notes in
our lunch bag. It is Mother who says, "Ahh, there, there."
Surely it is Mother who exempts us from a six-hour wait.
"Could I . . . could I just wash out my mouth, Mommy?"
Well, no. She was too big for that. Of course, this act of
restraint would help build her spiritual muscles. It would be
one of many challenges that deepen her connection to Torah --
remind her who she is and who she is becoming.
She bawled for twenty minutes.
Eventually, she calmed down and accepted her lot. She got a
cookie instead of ice cream.
Later that evening, she came to me in pajamas and hugged me.
She was extra affectionate this night and I knew it was
because she felt the power that comes from self discipline.
She knew she had done what was right.
In addition, she had a request.
She whispered in my ear, "Mommy, when can I eat ice
cream?"
I looked at my watch and smiled, "Midnight, dear."
"Mommy, will you wake me up at midnight? We'll sit together
and talk together and you'll eat ice cream, too."
Of course, I wasn't going to wake her in the middle of the
night for so indulgent a pleasure as ice cream. It was too
impulsive, too uneducational.
It was also the making of a great memory.
That settled it. I wanted my six-year-old to recall, thirty
years from now, how the two of us ate ice cream on the couch
at midnight. Well, maybe not on the couch.
She would remember being roused gently from her sleep,
confused at first, then overwhelmed by excitement at the
secret fun happening between the two of us. We'd quietly make
our way down the stairs. She'd squeeze my hand tight.
A cool cross breeze would greet us in the living room. We'd
sit on the couch with the gray knit blanket over us and
snuggle close. We'd whisper.
I'd ask her many questions. Like what's her favorite color?
And what's her favorite game? And how does she like being a
first grader? I'd tell her about my best friend in first
grade, Suki. And I'd tell her how I found my teacher's
contact lens on the floor before recess and how my teacher
hugged me. She'd share her childhood with me and I would
relive mine. And I would listen to her with my full
attention.
And we'd eat ice cream.
*
On Tisha B'Av I heard wrong.
"Our days were filled, for our end drew near" (Eicha
4). Like a death row convict marking time by scratching lines
on his cell wall, the Jewish people felt they had scratched
their last. Death and destruction surrounded them, and they
lamented, "Our days are numbered."
But that's not what I heard. I thought the verse meant, "Our
days were filled because our end drew near." We
realized that our end was near, so we quickly filled our days
with good deeds -- so I thought -- with appreciation and
introspection. With so few days remaining, each day became
full and meaningful.
Tisha B'Av is behind us. The taste of ashes will soon be
replaced by the remembrance of honey as we enter the final
days of the year and anticipate the beginning of the new one.
So, as we count down, we fill our days with action, we seek
opportunity to enrich the time we still have, for our end,
the end of the year, draws near.
So, it was with this thought that I tiptoed to the bedside of
an innocent child at midnight. To fill my days, and hers, by
building our relationship, creating a memory.
Well, that's what I wanted.
As they say, "Man plans and G-d laughs." Or in this case,
"Mom may nudge but the girl won't budge." She mumbled
something and turned over to her side. She was in the depths
of Slumberland and no matter how many times I whispered her
name, stroked her face and nudged her little body, she kept
on snoozing.
"But, darling," I urged, "don't you want to create a memory?"
No, not tonight. She wanted to wake up and eat ice cream as
much as she wanted to wake up and eat Brussel sprouts.
All right, then. So that's how it is. I returned to my room
to sleep. So, I hadn't made a memory. At least not the one
I'd envisioned.
I consoled myself. The year is not over. There's time left.
More time for deepening relationships to G-d and man. And
daughter too.
Shana Tova Umesuka. Sheina tova umesuka. Sleep sweet,
honey . . .
[Ed. Perhaps it is better this way, no? Maybe next year, the
seven-year-old will be old enough for a different kind of
midnight memory. Perhaps, knowing how to read fluently by
then, she will be old enough to get up for slichos, to
be followed by an intimate hot cup of cocoa in the living
room. Perhaps this is the memory she will cherish, and look
forward and backward to in Time, as she grows up spiritually
from ice cream -- to other things . . .
Good night, sweet six-year-old, and good year.]
