Fun With Play-Dough

When my mother was a small child, she nearly drowned twice.  I myself had the same thing happen when I was about seven years old.  We saw the warning signs and taught our daughter to swim at an early age.  Growing up in Holland, a country that is filled to the brim with streams, lakes, ponds, and borders a sea that eternally threatens to take whole sections of coastline, I have a deeply ingrained respect for water.  I have never understood people who are tempted by brand new subdivisions bordering a man-made lake; I immediately imagine my children drowning.  I sleep better knowing my backyard is nice and dry.

We run into trouble when we make our annual visit to my family.  As if there isn’t enough water in Holland, both my parents and my brother have decided to put a good sized pond in their backyards.  They worry about this more than we do; they yell warnings over the phone for months before we actually board a plane.  Contraptions have been made to keep the kids out of the water. After all, bad things are much less likely to happen if you worry about them for a really, really long time. Of course, until now, the only one who has fallen in is my brother himself, who should know better because he built the darn thing.

The Talmud tells us that teaching our children how to swim is our obligation.  I like this particular duty, because there are so many different ways in which ‘swimming’ can be interpreted.  Our children will need to learn how to keep their heads above water not just in the pool, but also in life in general.  That means we need to give them the tools to survive, and make progress. They can’t simply tread water and stay still; they need to swim.  The question is, how do we give them these tools?  And which tools do we pick?  When we first let our kids in the pool, we have life vests handy, we give them toys to keep them afloat, and we stay in the pool with them.  We keep them safe any way we can, but at some point we have to leave the pool and let them swim alone.

“Teaching our kids to swim” means taking them to school and leaving them there, even if they cry.  It means letting them solve their own problems, even when they fight with their friends over which toy to play with.  It means allowing them the freedom to struggle, to be disappointed, or confused.  It also means introducing them to better teachers than us, and stepping aside.  It means teaching them how to read, and subsequently letting them misinterpret things for themselves.  For parents, it is often not the teaching itself that is the hardest part, but the ‘letting go’ afterwards.

This is why the swimming analogy is particularly useful for teaching our children how to live.  A child can’t ‘learn’ swimming forever; at some point you either swim, or you don’t.  Once children learn the technique, an adult who grabs their hand is going to hold them back. Swimming is not hard to learn for most, but the benefits last a lifetime.  Being proficient can actually safe your life. Much of what the Talmud teaches makes a lot of sense; if only we’d listen, we’d be the best parents ever.  Maybe ‘common sense’ is really G-d’s voice in our heads telling us to get a grip. 

We are so busy shaping our children’s Jewish identity, that sometimes we forget not everybody in Omaha is Jewish. We take them to a Jewish school, synagogue services, religious school, and Chabad summer camp.  We celebrate the holidays with other Jews, and eat the appropriate foods at the appropriate times.  Every now and then we get to be reminded that, in spite of what our daily life revolves around, we are still part of a minority.  For instance, when I took my then three-year-old daughter shopping, and she sat in the cart singing the “I am Proud to be a Jew” song at the top of her lungs.  Yes, people stared. 

With the Christmas season almost here, majority culture is about to explode all around us.  Every year, this leads to discussions about how to navigate between who we are, and where we live.  Come the month of December, we can’t leave our house without stumbling over an elf, a Santa, or being told to have a happy Christmas.  In addition to that, many of us have mixed families, and are more or less expected to attend a tinsel-party in some way, shape or form.  We can choose to be annoyed (tempting, I admit) or we can go with the flow, all the while keeping a firm grip on what we believe in.

For us that means a never-ending discourse with our children about the ‘why’s’ and ‘why nots’ of Christmas. Because every outward sign of this holiday either shines or blinks, it can look oh-so attractive to the little ones.  A tree with pretty things in it? Never.  Bright, flickering lights outside? Sure, as long as they are blue.  After Christmas sales? Always.  Attractively wrapped chocolates, shaped like Santa? No, absolutely not.  Although, believe it or not, many of them are kosher; don’t ask me why.  The truth of the matter is, if Christmas were a holiday mostly experienced inside a church, in a spiritual way, we wouldn’t have this dilemma.  It is the fact that it comes with ‘extras’, displayed in shopping malls, television shows, and even on people’s cars that makes it so hard to circumvent.  It simply is everywhere.  If you want to avoid it entirely, you must lock your doors or leave the country, and for most of us, that’s not exactly an option.

The key to a happy December is to not treat it as a competition.  We don’t need to buy bigger and better presents for Hanukkah, just because the stores are full of attractive displays; we don’t need to put wreaths on the front door just because the neighbors have such pretty ones on theirs.  However, we also shouldn’t avoid things that reek of ‘the season’ just to make a statement; we don’t have to prove that we are different, we already are.  Accepting ourselves as we are leads to accepting others.  So yes, I put out a Hanukkah flag, but I would anyway. I also put up lights all over the front yard, because I would feel a little sad if we were the only dark house on the block; to me that would send the message that we are too different to enjoy ourselves.  But it’s a slippery slope, and I can fully understand it if others decide they don’t need to be plugged in to that particular habit.  I guess, as with so many things, it’s about personal choices.  Whatever those choices are, we should forever stop feeling uncomfortable, we should never apologize, and we should all sing loudly in the supermarket.

My husband and I started a dangerous trend when, at the age of four, our daughter lost her first tooth.  Yes, that’s a bit young to show up at breakfast with a big bloody gap in your mouth.  She was freaked out, we were freaked out, and we decided to give her a nice little present and tell her it came from the tooth fairy.  Nice way to think ahead, I know.  She’s lost eight more since then, and the end is not is sight.  Who knew human beings had this many teeth?

Recently, while cleaning my daughter’s room, I come upon the following note:

“Please G-d, give me eight pretend kitties for my next lost tooth.

Love, Isabella”.

Apparently, the tooth fairy has been fired. She’s had it coming for a while; after all, she’s a stranger who comes into my daughter’s bedroom in the dead of night to steal a tooth.  What six-year-old finds that attractive?  And what, pray tell, does she do with all those teeth anyway?  From the questions she has been asking, I know my daughter has been imagining millions of baby teeth, piled high in a faraway land somewhere, and for what purpose, nobody knows.  It does leave my daughter with the small problem of where to trade her teeth for cool stuff, but the note proves she’s found her solution. 

As adults, my husband and I don’t have a clear blueprint for who or what G-d is.  We refer to a ‘Him’ because it’s convenient, but the truth is, Hashem is simply too big and incomprehensible.  So we try to do what we think He wants, and leave it at that. However, to our daughter, G-d is still the kind grandfather who lives in the clouds, and monitors her every move.  He can make sure she stays healthy, has enough to eat, and apparently He can bring her ‘pretend kitties’. 

What should we, as her parents, do next? When the tooth fairy was still deemed an acceptable entity, we used to include a fake note with Isa’s present. We can’t do that anymore; we have our limits.  Is she, at six, old enough to begin a discussion about why G-d doesn’t do our bidding? Why he doesn’t give us what we want, whenever we want it?  It’s a lesson she has learned about her parents and teachers, why wouldn’t we tell her the same message when it pertains to the Higher Power?  Maybe I’m hesitant because I don’t want to interfere with her basic, simplistic understanding of who and what G-d is.  After all, when she doesn’t get the expected response the next time a tooth falls out, she might not automatically conclude that G-d doesn’t exist, or that He doesn’t care.  It’s also not a bad idea to allow young children to figure certain things out on their own.  Plus, there is always the possibility that she’s long since forgotten about writing the note in the first place; it’s been a few months since losing her last tooth.

Besides, what on earth are “pretend kitties”? Stuffed animals? Cats that only exist in her imagination, like the friends she talks to but nobody else can see?  I think, when the time comes, we’ll just put a nice little book under her pillow. If she ever brings up the question why her note went unanswered, I’ll simply tell her the truth. I’ll tell her that there are many different types of answers.  It’s up to us to figure out their meaning.

My daughter, like many six-year-olds, has a bit of a lazy streak.  While visiting our family in Holland, she notices how much walking is involved in daily life. My family members don’t jump in the car for every little errand, and when they do, they park far away and still walk for a long time.  This is not because they are so health conscious; rather, it’s a behavior born out of necessity.  There is no parking close to anything, and the traffic is a mess.  “You know, I once had an uncle who walked all the way from the Russian-Polish border back to Rotterdam”, I remark when she complains.  “We are only going to the supermarket”. My daughter looks at me as if to say: “and this has something to do with me how?” I guess she’s still too young for the ‘you-don’t-know-how-good-you-have-it’ speech.

            She comes by her complaining honestly.  My husband, who never fails to mention how much he does at the gym (he works out, big deal) refuses to carry her because now that she weighs over 50 pounds, she is too heavy.  He will hurt his back, he pulled a muscle, or he is just too tired from sitting in his office all day.  Besides, his knees hurt. And here I was thinking that going to the gym made you healthier.  Of course, going to the gym does nothing. I’ve been to the gym many times.  It’s actually doing something while you’re there that makes a difference.  And, apparently, when you do the right things while you’re there, it gives you the right to complain about sore muscles and such.  I admit, I’m a little jealous; I, too, want to be able to say: “My legs hurt! Because I worked out! Aren’t I a good girl?”

            It’s not as if I never do anything; I’ve owned and used a treadmill for years.  I don’t use it for running though; I walk. Running would be much more impressive, but, as far as I’m concerned, extremely undesirable.  When I walk, I can focus my thoughts on nothing in particular. I can think about the book I just read, or about the shopping list I still need to write.  I like to make up stories, sing along with my Ipod, daydream; whatever strikes my fancy that day.  It is also a time to kind of clear my head and get rid of any cobwebs I might have been cultivating.  Nonetheless, as healthy as this all is for my psyche, it doesn’t do all that much for my physique.  I am one cheesecake away from being a fat slob.

            Recently, my friend and I decided we would start working out together. Our mothers have taught us that our bodies are temples and need to be treated as such.  Besides, with kids in school we have run out of excuses.  Full of good intentions, I call the Gym and I make an appointment with one of the trainers.  She gives me a fitness assessment.  She pinches, pokes, and measures; the scale at the gym is unforgiving and tells me that I weigh six and a half pounds more than I do at home.  I manage six push-ups.  I agree to come back in two days and she will set up a workout regimen for me. 

To celebrate taking this important first step, I decide to try out one of the machines right away. I must say, I’m a little afraid of these machines.  They seem to have a mind of their own, and, what’s worse, they seem to have opinions.  “Look at her”, I imagine them saying to each other, “what is she doing here? I hope she’s not planning to touch me.” Okay, I probably have a little too much imagination for these types of situations, but the truth is,  there are few things that could make me feel more out of place.  Except for the Dallas-cheerleaders Christmas party, maybe. I finally settle on an exercise bike; it seems the least threatening, and besides, I know how to ride a bike.  Thirty minutes later I walk, very slowly, to the car.  Who knew riding a bike would hurt this much? The next day, I can barely move.  My body feels nothing like a temple; instead, I resemble one of those sandbags they use when the floods threaten. Or maybe a cardboard shack on the beach after a Tsunami.  You get the point.  Still, I am a little proud of myself: I made important progress.  Now I’ll have to go back.  That is, after all, the down side of exercise: you have to keep doing it, again and again.  I sincerely regret every bad thing I’ve ever eaten, and wonder for the millionth time: did they have to make the M&M’s kosher?  If I want to truly improve myself, old habits need to make way for new neuroses. Will my thighs finally get smaller? Will I fit into that black dress?  Will my unbearably high fat percentage shrink?  And, most importantly, will I stick with it?  We’ll have to see.  Rome wasn’t built in one day, my mother always said, and neither are temples.  Especially when that temple is mine.

My daughter brings home her report card from religious school, and her Hebrew evaluation reads as follows: “Isabella is extremely smart and knowledgeable in Hebrew; however (why does there always have to be a ‘however’?), she doesn’t give the other children a chance to answer questions.”

I guess my daughter is a know-it-all. I believe this is a good thing: nobody ever got anywhere acting dumb.  Besides, she’s not always the sharpest one around; I regularly see her spacing off in ballet class, raising her arms when she should keep them down, jumping when she should be still, and lying flat on the floor when she should be sitting upright.

I also think there is something enviable about a six-year-old who has such abundant self-confidence; as adults, we often lose the sense that we can do anything, anywhere, any way we choose.  So, when our children are very small, we need to enjoy the fact that their sense of self-confidence rubs off on us.  Their mommy is the most beautiful, best dressed, smartest woman in the universe, and there is no problem so big that daddy can’t solve it in less than five seconds.  Your house may be a royal mess and you may suck at your job, but when you have kids, you’ll always have that little advocate in your corner.

It is unfortunate that this safety net -for those days that you truly feel horrible about yourself- doesn’t stick around. At some point, the chickens simply have to come home to roost. When they do, they’ll subsequently get their heads chopped off and land in the soup, and your little one will see that mommy/daddy isn’t all that perfect after all.

“No, mom,” they say, barely containing their contempt, “you’re wrong.” Patiently, they explain why it is you’re wrong; I believe it’s that patience that kills me. An angry child announcing how wrong the parent is can be ignored. A child calmly telling you why you’re such an idiot leaves scars. It says they’ve realized you’re not all that smart, and they’ve accepted it.

The other day, my daughter received her first Siddur; the Hebrew prayer book that is handed out to first graders in Jewish day schools everywhere. It’s a rite of passage, and she looks forward to the big day for weeks. As part of the celebration, parents are asked to decorate the Siddur cover; a piece of pretty blue velvet is sent home. With it come the letters that spell my daughter’s Hebrew name. Since my husband is not good with glitter, the task of decorating falls to me. I think I do a decent job, until I find out from my daughter’s teacher that I’ve glued the letters in the wrong order. I don’t speak or read Hebrew, but even I should have been able to accomplish this simple task: her name holds three letters. My daughter calmly explains how I have switched two of them, and now it reads something like “Yacha”.  Which sounds a little like the sound one makes when throwing up. Or when you taste something disgusting. Or when the ugliest boy in school asks you on a date. You get the point. The bottom line is, from now on I am no longer the smartest woman my daughter know; it’s the beginning of the end.

Luckily, there is no need to panic and go to extremes (have another child and start over) because at the same time that children figure out their parents are idiots, they also lose their perfect memory. To know whether you’re in the clear, try this simple experiment: choose a morning to cease all interference in your child’s life; she will be late for school, be dressed in the wrong clothes, have no lunch, and forget her swim bag/ homework/ gym shoes. I think nature designed it that way. You can relax in the knowledge that, from now on, you can do as many stupid things as you want because she’ll never remember them all.  Until she’s a teenager, that is.