Parenting for the High Holidays

I love the beginning of the school year; it means the end of 100-degree days, my children are back in a structured environment, and I actually have time to get some work done. Of course, before we can really find our rhythm, the High Holidays will interrupt the brand new school year. It is a welcome interruption, for sure, but also a challenging one. The question that arises every time any holiday nears is what to do with the kids. They hate sitting still in Synagogue and wish to be entertained, and I don’t think there’s necessarily anything wrong with that; children can’t be expected to experience special days the way adults do. They have their own rules and expectations, and if we want them to take ownership of Judaism, we need to strike a balance between tradition and individual needs. On top of that, my son Mendel is three, unbelievable naughty, and hoping he will sit still for any length of time without the assistance of illegal substances is just plain unrealistic.

 

            All I remember from last year’s High Holidays is that he wouldn’t stop chanting ‘Apples and Honey’, which he had learned at pre-school. Unfortunately, whenever Mendel learns a new song, he never bothers to remember all the lyrics; just the first line will do, thank you very much. This greatly aggravates my daughter Isabella, who remembers everything. From the socks she wore last Tuesday to the present you bought for her birthday four years ago: it’s all recorded in her brain that –I suspect- had a microchip implanted when I wasn’t looking. She mostly uses her vast knowledge to show up her little brother, who is blissfully unaware that there is a competition going on that doesn’t involve who can scream the loudest. “Have I taught him to be this annoying?” she asks, and I tell her, no, some of it is inborn. She rolls her eyes, as if to say, this is not as funny as you think it is. She doesn’t really buy that it’s quite normal for three-year-old brothers to constantly test everybody’s limits.

            My daughter’s day school introduced the concept of repentance during last year’s High Holidays. Isabella, already overly familiar with the need to apologize for naughty behaviors, has taken to it like a famished dog to a juicy steak. She is looking forward to a clean slate; there have been plenty of missteps that warrant a little forgiveness, so she argues. She also knows that even though she has a stellar memory, G-d’s is even better. If you have been mean to somebody recently, you can’t just gloss over it and hope for the best. Mendel, on the other hand, couldn’t care less, and I’m not convinced this particular part of the holidays will strike a chord with him. What is there to forgive when you are only three years old? So what if he refuses all potty training, draws on the dining room chairs with permanent marker, beats his sister over the head with anything that is remotely stick-shaped, and dumps his lunch on the floor on a daily basis: it’s all par for the course.

            Still, we have to somehow make these days real for him, and give them meaning. Wondering how to accomplish that, I ask Isabella what she remembers from last year, and what she likes the best. “I like the shofar”, she says. Hoping to get one of those surprisingly profound answers, I ask her why.

“Because it makes noise,” she says. Then she scurries to a different room to avoid any more probing; she knows exactly when her mother is in the mood to ask lots of questions, and she isn’t having it.  However, she does have a point: both my children have a soft spot for the shofar, and they get their hands on it on average once a week. Ever since Isabella was about three years old, she’s been practicing; nowadays she produces a sound that lives somewhere between a frozen pipe and an overly amorous elephant. Mendel happily eggs her on, even though he is a little envious that when he tries no sound at all comes out. For everybody involved, hearing someone who actually knows how to blow the shofar might be a nice change.

Over the years, I’ve heard many children cry at the sound of the shofar. Not mine; they love noise, and welcome any opportunity to help make some. Of course, allowing them to play with it at home eventually leads to a tug-of-war, someone -usually Isabella- gets hit in the head, everybody gets a time out, and nobody wins. This is not as bad as sounds, because it will provide them with an opportunity to say sorry and forgive each other. There, problem solved. Add some honey in the mix, a sweet challah and some apples, and we have ourselves a holiday. When you’re three, holidays are all about symbols; we have to trust that the meaning comes later. Now all we have to worry about is Mendel climbing on the bimah, escape into the parking lot, or using his kippah as a Frisbee, just because he can. And maybe, just maybe, the honey will make everything sweeter- even little Mendel’s behavior.