Who says that a person does what he wants?
Who determined that one only does what one is obligated to
do?
Sometimes, perhaps even often, you do things, or make
decisions, because you have to, because `everyone' is doing
it, and simply, quite simply, because you have no alternative
. . .
This perfectly describes Shulamis' decision.
Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Shulamis, or
against her decision. I just wanted to say that underlying
the resolution to join that particular group (we won't even
call it a `support group'), was no particular need, no
particular problem or domestic difficulty. No pressing
thoughts, no vacillations. It all stemmed from one single
source: at some time, you just `had to' join some kind of
group because, simply, everyone did. It was the thing to do,
whether you needed it or not. That was the only reason . .
.
*
Shulamis was in her early thirties, a young, very successful
woman, an accomplished accountant who did not neglect her
home, either. She spent her mornings in her luxurious and
well attended office, to return home later in the afternoon
where she recouped her strength and functioned as an
exemplary baalebusta, you know, the kind that is never
caught unprepared.
Everything was always perfectly in place: orderly,
fastidiously so, spic and span, gleaming and shining, as if
just freshly polished, buffed, scrubbed. Never did one find a
speck of dust, G-d forbid, on any of the dozens of china
nicknacks that beautified a perfectly tasteful house.
Embroidered bedspreads with matching curtains and lampshades
in the children's room created an ambience of princeliness,
to say nothing of the salon (not `living' room, oh, no), with
its heavy brocade upholstery and dark mahogany pieces. The
kitchen was a magazine showpiece, always exactly reflecting
the original glossy designed brochure. This was Shulamis'
private domain where she ruled supreme.
Her six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter were always
dressed at the height of junior fashion and Shulamis took
great pride in her Lord and Lady Fauntleroys. Little Royalty,
she called them in her mind, as she laid before them the
latest game or activity book to keep them occupied while she
ran off to do what had to be done, be it connected to her
work, for she was a most devoted employee, or even within the
home, as a nonpareil housewife.
Everything running smooth as clockwork, she would tell
herself again and again, giving herself an invisible pat on
the back, very smug and satisfied with her overall
performance and achievement. True, I work myself to the
bone, she admitted, but the results speak for
themselves, in every way, on all fronts: the house, my work,
the children, and even I, myself, don't look the worse for
wear, if I do say so myself . . .
*
So all in all, Shulamis' signing up for the new Self
Awareness and Child Education group was really most
surprising — to outsiders, as well as to Shulamis
herself. What was this perennially busy woman doing there?
What need, indeed, did Shulamis, so organized, self
structured, whose children were so well mannered, have for
such a self-improvement class which was wholly devoted to
finding solutions to problems? What problems did she have?
Everything was so perfect by her, so efficient, proficient,
rounded out and faultless?
Shulamis, herself, couldn't explain it, either, beyond the
fact that at some point, every woman attended such a self
awareness group. And if she didn't, she must be missing out
on something, and she certainly had to prove to herself that
she wasn't . . .
During the first few meetings, she enjoyed listening to the
moderator, who had interesting things to say, in general,
even though Shulamis thought that the other participants were
a rung below her in several ways. They were simpler,
uncomplex housewives and mothers, on a lower social level,
too. Women whose homes were the absolute center of their
lives. They raised all kinds of problems encountered in their
daily, rather colorless lives, expecting the speaker, or the
participating audience, to help them solve them.
Shulamis felt that these problems didn't even touch her. She
was on a different plane and even the chinuch problems
suited those simplistic homes, she thought. She entertained
the thought of quitting altogether from lack of
compatibility. Yes, she would leave right after Pesach, she
decided. Except that . . .
*
It was in the beginning of Adar. The moderator had wound up a
talk dealing with self awareness, rather than with education.
Feeling smug and self satisfied, but tired, as well, her
thoughts began wandering, until the lecturer made an
announcement about a certain experimental game which the
audience was asked to undertake at home with their
children.
"Would you like to really get to know yourselves, to see what
you are really like?" she challenged. "Well, then, here is a
very simple but unique experiment, in the pre-Purim spirit of
these days. I suggest that each of the participants here
choose one of her young daughters, a three- or four-year-old,
and have her impersonate you, the mother. Dress her up as a
Mommy, but not only for one day. For an entire week! Inform
her tomorrow that she is going to become an Ima every day,
from the time she comes home from gan until she goes
to sleep. She will have to dress up like you and act like
you. I am sure she won't mind. And you will have a great deal
to gain from this experiment. I guarantee that you will all
be in for many surprises, which we will discuss at our next
gathering."
*
Shulamis deliberated whether to accept the idea or reject it.
On the one hand, it sounded really cute and should appeal to
her four-year-old Michali. But on second thought, she,
herself, did not quite relish the idea. Michali would surely
want an old sheitel, high heels, a special dress, and
it would all involve many changes in the household, which she
hated in her so-structured life. Probably the other women who
were not as organized as she would not mind the changes. But
by such a perfectionist as herself, she admitted, it would
represent a sacrifice. But after giving the idea some more
thought, Shulamis decided to make that sacrifice for the sake
of the experiment and see what Michali would make of the
idea.
She told her daughter about the plan the next morning.
Michali was very enthusiastic. "I'll have beautiful outfits
like yours?" she said with shining eyes. "And I will go off
to work from the morning until the afternoon? Oh, but what
about the Queen Esther costume you bought for me? I won't get
to wear it?"
"Don't worry. You'll wear that on Purim, Michali, but until
Purim, you will act like me. As soon as you come home from
gan, you will get dressed up as Mommy and stay that
way until you go to sleep. At nighttime, you will be my sweet
little Michali again. O.K.?"
Michali had lots more questions to ask but Shulamis was in a
rush, as usual . . .
*
When Shulamis returned home later in the afternoon, exhausted
from a busy day at the office, she forgot all about the
experiment. Figures and columns still danced before her eyes.
She opened the door quietly, hoping to evade her children for
just a few moments. Nothing would happen if they waited a bit
more before getting their daily greeting. The babysitter had
surely given them their lunch long ago and they were probably
playing with the new game she had just bought them. She sat
down for a steaming cup of coffee, trying to shoo away her
tiredness.
She looked about her, trying to plan the afternoon: I'll
do the silver and crystalwear today, she thought, after
her eyes fell upon a pair of candlesticks that no longer
gleamed quite as brightly as they should. Then there was a
pile of ironing. Alright, so many of her friends laughed at
her for ironing all of her children's clothing, even pajamas,
and the bed linen, too. Most people didn't do that any more.
But she wasn't going to lower her standards for their sake .
. .
Suddenly Shulamis realized that it was too quiet. She went to
the children's room to find Chagai playing by himself.
Michali, dressed in an old housecoat, a tichel, and a
pair of old slippers, was standing on a chair, dusting a
shelf filled with her collection of exquisite china dolls.
"What are you doing?" she heard herself scream, when a doll
almost slipped from Michali's hand.
"Oh, Mommy, hello. Did you forget that today I am the Ima?
You said so. So I have to do what Ima's do, right? I told
Chagai not to disturb me and to play quietly because I had to
clean the house, right?"
Chagai winked knowingly at his mother while Michali continued
cleaning. "I have so much work to do," she said importantly.
"And I must finish quickly because tonight I have a very
important meeting."
"I always said you were a serious child," said Shulamis, and
left the room, suggesting that Michali give the children,
that is, her dolls, supper.
"Children, eat nicely, now. And don't forget bircas
hamozon. You're too tired? Never mind, then. Michali,
finish up your yoghurt and Chagai, don't rock in your chair,
you might break it. Michali, you're getting the walls dirty.
And now, children, hurry up. Abba will be so happy to find
you already in bed when he comes home and besides, I have to
leave soon . . . "
Michali's voice reverberated loudly throughout the house.
Michali was enjoying her new role and Shulamis was also
amused at hearing herself being imitated.
"Now, Michali, you must take a shower. I know that you're
tired, but you still have to. In our house, no one goes to
bed without bathing first." Michali lectured her dolls with
great pathos and Shulamis could not help laughing out loud.
Even her tone of voice reminded her of her own manner of
speaking.
"Ima," Michali burst into the salon where Shulamis was
polishing silver. "I need some fancy clothing now. I told my
children that I have to go out this evening. I have a very
important meeting and I've left them with a good babysitter.
They don't need a thing now and they have no reason to cry
even if Ima has to go away. So now I need some fancy clothing
to get dressed up, like when you go away at night, O.K.?"
Michali would not stop chattering until her mother had
provided her with one of her older dressy outfits. Michali
put it on and then Shulamis heard her say, "Abba, I'm going
now. Take something from the refrigerator. There's plenty to
eat, O.K.?" A door slam informed Shulamis that Michali had
`left for the evening.'
"Children," Shulamis called as soon as she had finished
buffing the last item in the breakfront, "come, it's time to
eat supper. Quick, now. I'm in a hurry." It suddenly seemed
to her that she had just heard those words before . . .
The week continued with Michali playing the double role of
mother and daughter, and doing an excellent job. More and
more, Shulamis was able to identify herself.
"I don't have time now," "I'm in a hurry," "Play nicely by
yourselves, now," "I have to leave," "I'm tired of wearing
these same clothes again," "Don't get yourselves dirty," and
"Don't touch," were phrases that repeated themselves
continually, in variations. Shulamis began to notice how
unpleasant they were, even though she justified herself that
in the fast-paced life she was leading, and taking her
personality into consideration, she had no alternative.
What really broke her were the cries of Michali's dolls every
time that Michali had to leave the house. Michali's
reassuring words were ineffective and she would often end up
saying, "When you are Mommies, you will see how it is. What
can I do? Mothers have to get dressed up and go out."
Michali's reprimands whenever the `children' touched
something were loud and particularly rasping. When Shulamis
tried to tell her to lower her tone, Michali became very
indignant. "But they touched it. I have to educate them that
in our house we don't touch such things. Isn't that the way
Mommies have to yell?" she asked innocently.
Every day that passed caused Shulamis to shrink a bit. The
routine phrases that issued from Michali's lips began to
grate on her nerves and lose their meaning. With mixed
feelings, Shulamis awaited the next meeting to hear what the
other women had to say . . .
*
The group of women waiting for the group to begin was noiser
than usual. Each one had an interesting fund of expressions
and habits to discuss. The moderator cut her usual address
short and threw the discussion open.
"It was a very rewarding experience to hear my daughter.
Every second word of hers was `Be'ezras Hashem, Bli
nedder'," is how Rachel, who had always seemed to
Shulamis a very uncomplicated, rather colorless, person,
began her account. "Every so often she would lie down and
when I became concerned, she said that mothers had to rest
because they needed their strength."
The women burst into laughter. "But sometimes she would take
a siddur, sit down very seriously, and begin
davenning with all her heart. `Children,' she would
say, `don't disturb me. I'm saying Tehillim'. She
`cooked' a lot and tried to get her dolls to help her around
the house when things got out of hand, in her opinion."
"My daughter was busy with her dolls. She did arts and crafts
with them and even helped one with homework. She fed them and
got angry when they forgot to make a brochoh," said
another.
"My daughter really embarrassed me when she said she had
nothing to wear and had to go shopping," said Tirza, who was
the most like Shulamis in the group. "But at least she gave
me some good credit, too, when she told her doll to go and
buy vegetables so she could cook for a Chessed organization.
I wouldn't have believed that children so young absorbed so
much."
The impressions continued to flow from the mouths of the
participants and it was gratifying to get to know the women
in the way they revealed themselves in their true colors, for
the very good, via the impersonations of their daughters.
Shulamis sat there, enjoying listening to their experiences
and revelations, yet feeling that she wouldn't dare expose
herself here, in this forum. She could not reveal herself in
her true face, as she had seen herself reflected in her
daughter's eyes, which was very uncomplimentary. She
certainly never dreamed that the most accurate, poignant
reproof she would ever receive would come via her own
daughter, and in such a Purim-y forum.
She began to feel that it was precisely her daughter's
impersonation, her costume-making, that had ripped off her
own mask, her own carefully groomed facade, exposing her
underneath it as very bare, stripped to the core, helplessly
looking for assistance in changing her direction in life.
Perhaps this group, this class of self awareness, would help
her find a better identity, she thought. And suddenly, she
understood why she was there altogether.
