Puzzled, I reread the note a second time.
"Dear Mother," it said. "Since your daughter is starting to
learn Alef-Beis in kindergarten this year, we will be having
an Alef-Beis party tomorrow. Please send her dressed in
Shabbos clothing and write a brocha for her on the
attached piece of paper." There was a detachable slip at the
bottom which read: "To my dear daughter" -- then a few blank
lines, concluding with, "Your loving mother."
I was stumped. How could I cram all the tefillos, the
hopes, the fervent wishes I had for her future into several
short, jagged black lines, with only one night to think about
it? I was soon to learn that this was common practice in
Israel -- and the blessing festivals had just begun. There
were many more blessings to be conceived -- at her
siddur party, her Chumash party, her bas-mitzva
party and her graduation party. I was to become a pro at
formulating wordy messages with panache -- in Hebrew no less -
- but for now, I was at a loss.
I called up some neighbors. "Just write a short blessing,"
said one, "that she should have hatzlocha in her
learning and be a good girl." Was that it? I thought. It
sounded bland. Another neighbor waxed poetic. "It's such a
wonderful opportunity to express all you've wanted to tell
her," she said. "I always write a long poem in which I
articulate all my far-reaching aspirations for my daughter. I
actually look forward to getting these brocha
requests."
That made me nervous. I was never good at writing poems. In
English, that is, let alone Hebrew. And anyway, who would
understand it? Not my little five- year-old, and I wasn't
about to stay up all night penning creative poems for her
gannenet, devoted though she may be. When would these
blessings be read, anyway? I wondered. A horrible thought hit
me. Would they be published in a journal for all parents and
children to treasure and criticize at will for years to
come?
"Esther," I said ponderously, as I reread the note, "what
should I write? What bracha should I give you?"
She was licking the last spoonful of chocolate pudding as she
chirpily replied, "Write that I should grow up to be a big
tzaddekes and I should be a good mommy to my
children." I smiled as I heard her reply, but my smile turned
to bemusement. The wisdom that had just emerged from those
chocolate-coated lips was undeniable. I thought about all the
qualities a good mommy -- a really good one -- has to have,
and I knew that if she turned out to be the perfect mommy,
she was blessed with everything a girl could possibly be
blessed with.
First of all, she had those children. Not everyone has them
delivered from Heaven when they choose, in timely
intervals.
And once she had that beloved brood, she was blessed with so
much.
The patience to tolerate the whining of three kids at once,
to reread a story again and again after knowing it verbatim,
to hear out a four-year-old's never ending tale of a visit to
the grocery store, punctuated all the time with um... ums and
siblings' constant contradictory interruptions.
She was blessed with the physical stamina to sleep for four
hours out of forty-eight and still find the strength to smile
when the kids came home from school. The strength to carry
three loads of shopping up three flights of stairs and then
go down again to fetch the toddler -- uncomplaining, of
course. To work non-stop, round-the-clock, for eight weeks
before Pesach and then still be wide awake until the end of
the Seder, listening avidly to every single one of her
offsprings' divrei Torah.
She would be blessed with self discipline not to hit or yell
when Five-year-old says "Baby" eighty consecutive times to
Two-year-old and Two-year-old responds by kicking up a
screaming tantrum which rises every fifth time he is dubbed
that title. The self mastery to remain in control when the
cereal spills eighty seconds before the schoolbus is due to
arrive and Eight-year- old insists he will not go to
cheder until he has changed his pants and eaten
another plateful of the very same stuff. The self-control not
to lash out at a toddler who has taken a tube of black shoe-
polish and painted everything in sight with that strikingly
bold color -- including the refrigerator and recently framed
tapestry.
She would be blessed with the self assurance not to get
affected by helpful comments from storekeepers, neighbors,
mothers-in-law and other in-laws on her defective mothering
skills. The confidence not to let the litany of suggestions
shatter her ego, but at the same time, the humbleness to
accept sound advice when it came.
She would, of course, have golden hands -- able to whip up a
cake in no time at all for the next day's siyum in
school; bake and decorate sixty perfect cupcakes for every
birthday; have creative ideas for Purim costumes each year;
prepare nutritious, three- course meals every day and twenty,
four-course meals for family and guests in advance before
yom tov.
She would be blessed with keen wisdom and an innate
understanding of children to be in tune with their feelings:
to know when the professed stomach ache is real or pretended;
to perceive why the teenager is upset when she sulks for days
on end; to know when to punish and when to endorse, when to
let things slip and what must not be tolerated. She will, of
course, understand how to do all the homework the teacher may
give and know exactly how s/he likes it done. She will be
fluent in all subjects and know how they learn it today, and
in this country.
She will have a steadfast, unswerving faith in Hashem,
accepting everything that life has in store for her with
serenity and grace, conveying to her children that everything
that happens is for the best.
She will be this and much, much more if she is to be the
perfect mother, a mother deserving to be a link in the
eternal chain of mothers of Klal Yisroel.
And so, that night, I wrote:
To my dear daughter,
May you grow up to be a tzaddekes and a good mother to
your children, like Sorah, Rivka, Rochel and Leah.
From your loving mother
If my daughter's ganenet thought it trite, then so be
it. To me, it constituted the ultimately perfect blessing.
