When I was younger, I used to love playing wth dolls,
pretending they were my babies. I would dress them, feed
them, rock them and sing them to sleep and then wake them up
ever so gently to start the whole process over again. Of
course, they were always girl babies. In my fantasies of
mommyhood I always had sweet, tidy little girls for
children.
Years later, Hashem blessed me with real mommyhood as our
first daughter made her appearance. We actually have two
daughters, Boruch Hashem, and, well, as the verse goes, "The
mother of boys is joyful." We have been blessed with quite a
number of sons who have made and continue to make parenting a
very interesting experience.
My boys always liked to play with things that weren't really
meant to be played with. Like the time one of my sons, at the
tender age of three, decided to play gas station with one of
the fire hoses on our block. Fortunately for him, a lovely
new car was parked right in front of one of those fire
hydrants, its exhaust pipe conveniently pointing in the
direction of this wonderful new toy.
Although I didn't witness his role as gas station attendant,
I can see it as if it happened in front of my eyes: Quickly
he looks around to make sure no one is observing his
phenomenal chessed of filling up a car at no cost to
the owner... places the nozzle firmly into the exhaust pipe
(definitely an innovative idea since he obviously has no clue
as to where gas really goes into a car)... and experiences
the almost tangible excitement of turning on the `gas pump'
full blast.
Unfortunately for him, the owner of that lovely car was just
coming out of her house when she saw what she couldn't
believe she was seeing. (I'm sure this sentence makes sense.)
And then, very unfortunately for me, the two of them stomped
up to my front door, one looking very angry, the other
looking as if he had been caught doing something outrageous
like filling up someone's exhaust pipe with water from a fire
hose! The rest I leave to your imagination...
Then there was the time my eight-year-old came home with a
shoe box. Lipi's eyes glowed with such happiness that I was
sure he'd found a beautiful butterfly, ladybug or
caterpiller.
"Mommy!" he exclaimed, his voice gushing with excitement,
"Look what I found!" Eager to be part of his infectious joy
and ready to say just the right words that would encourage
him to always be curious about Hashem's magnificent world, I
looked in, gasped, and shrieked (just to make sure he
understood beyond a shadow of a doubt): "GET THOSE THINGS OUT
OF HERE THIS INSTANT!" Inside were eight of the biggest,
blackest, most hideous-looking jookim (that's Hebrew
for cockroaches) I'd ever seen!
Poor Lipi! In seconds, I had quashed his look of total
elation to utter disappointment and downright sadness. But
not even for a millisecond did I reconsider my rash reaction.
And I refuse to answer the question of, "Isn't your love for
your son stronger than your revulsion towards helpless
jookim that can be crunched (yich -- don't say
that!) underfoot." That's the equivalent of mixing up the x's
and y's in a mathematical equation and expecting to come up
with a correct and logical answer. Dutiful son that he is,
Lipi removed the box with its contents from my hawklike gaze
and that was the end of it.
I woke up in the middle of the night feeling very thirsty. I
don't know about you, but my eyes at that time are usually
none-too-focused and desired very much to stay closed.
However, since my throat was crying out, "Water! Water!" my
eyes had no choice but to lead the rest of me to the kitchen
where I could wash negelvasser and get a drink.
As I stepped into the dark kitchen, I felt a distinct crunch
(Oy, the memory of it!) under my (boruch Hashem)
slippered foot. Jumping back instinctively, I landed on
something else that made a similar sound. I knew that no
fallen, dried up leaves had blown into my house and it wasn't
too difficult to figure out what I had just stepped on. Just
to make absolutely sure that there were no signs of life, I
turned on the light and spotted the evidence on the floor.
Ugh. Then I ran to my boy's bedroom and shook my innocently
sleeping son awake.
"Lipi!" I cried. "Where is the box with those
jookim?"
He smiled sweetly and pointed under his bed. Horrified that I
might actually touch one of the creatures climbing out of its
home, I pulled out the box with a hanger and started
counting. One, two, three, four. Only four! Oh,
Hashem! I know that You chose me to be the shaliach to
unwittingly kill two, but there used to be EIGHT! Which can
only mean there are still two (sob) on the loose!
I hustled Lipi out of bed and made him look with me for the
escapees. We didn't find them, but that means that we also
saw no sign of them near my room, which was good enough for
me at three in the morning. We never did find them and I am
sure that if ever any of my boys do such a thing again,
they'll find a much better hiding place!
Although my sons' antics are somewhat distracting to a normal
home schedule, we've been told that davka the
mischievous boys are the ones who later settle down as they
discover the tremendous joy of learning a blatt
gemora. Their creative minds are always coming up with
chiddushim and innovative ideas for performing
chessed for Klal Yisroel.
So what if ten different neighbors have phoned me,
hysterically shouting, "Do you know what your boys are doing?
They have your baby in a carriage, which is in a shopping
wagon, which they somehow connected to a wooden board with
wheels, which is tied by a rope to two bicycles being raced
down the street by YOUR sons!"
I rush out to save my baby from her well-meaning brothers and
calmly (I wish) explain to those future talmidei
chachomim that it's rather dangerous to do what they are
doing. Back home, I pray that Hashem will guide my husband
and me to raise our precious children with the love, patience
and understanding so vital for their growth, and not squelch
their creativity, vibrancy and versatility. After all, how
long do the childhood years last?
Three of our children are already married, Boruch
Hashem, and I can hardly wait to tell their
kinderlach about their parents' shenanigans.
Not to give them any ideas or anything...
