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 The birth of grandchildren is a much-celebrated event. The adoring grandparents indulge in many delightful moments contemplating the terms of endearment they will eventually be called by their adorable grandchildren. Some of the more mainstream choices are grandma and grandpa, bubby and zaide or saba and savta. Of course, there are multiple variations on these themes, depending on tradition or personal preference. Despite the planning and possible friendly debate that goes into making these decisions, the people whose opinions are not taken into account are the grandchildren themselves. This is unfortunate since they ultimately make the decision.

 When my children were born, my parents decided to go the straight and narrow with grandma and grandpa. Apparently all three of my children missed the memo. The variations that ensued were “Geema and Geepa”, “grammagranpa” – a single phrase that was used to refer to both of them without differentiating by gender, and finally “momop” and “bopop”.  No one really knows where that came from. Now this is not to say that they did not understand the terms “Grandma” and “Grandpa.” How do I know this? Well, one year during Chanukah, my sister, Claire, came to visit with her daughter Maddie, who was about three years old. My son, who was only a little older, went over to his aunt with a perplexed look on his face. Pointing at his grandparents, he asked my sister “Why does Maddie keep calling them grandma and grandpa?” So much for understanding the theory of relativity.

Now some children develop a more sophisticated, albeit incorrect, understanding of their relationship to their grandparents. One of my friends’ in-laws live in California so it is a rare and much celebrated event when they come to visit. Because she truly wants them to enjoy their time when they come, she puts in a lot of effort to make sure their stay is comfortable. Therefore, prior to their arrival, she calls friends and neighbors to ask them for recipes and ideas that her in-laws might enjoy.  After their most recent visit, I saw my friends’ 4-year-old daughter. Not knowing how they refer to their grandparents, I simply asked her, “Did you have special visitors for Pesach?” Looking up at me with a big smile on her face, she exclaimed, “Yes, my in-laws came to visit.”

Clearly, children can be easily swayed by what they hear and have no compunctions about calling family members by other names. This was again brought to my attention by my sister, who called me the day after her visit. Really, she called to complain because her daughter was now calling her “Aunt Claire”, instead of her preferred name, mommy. Although I did offer some advice, I found this highly amusing. That is until the fateful day when I picked up my own daughter from daycare and was greeted with a hearty, “Hello, Morah Rutie.” Although Morah Rutie is a wonderful person, I couldn’t help but feel a little insulted. But I decided to be the bigger person and take the sisterly advice I had given my sister when she was in this predicament.  I decided to be patient. I overlooked it when my daughter said, “thank you Morah Rutie” after I gave her dinner and I shuddered quietly when she said, “Morah Rutie, can you read me a story.” The number of “Morah Ruties” that were uttered only strengthened my resolve to become a better mother. Also, I knew things would be back to normal in the morning. This short-lived fantasy was shattered when I woke my little cutie pie and the first words that popped out of her mouth were, “Boker tov Morah Rutie.” That’s when I knew it would be a long day. 

Now, there are times when, much to your dismay, your children admire you for who you really are. Many years ago, after getting dressed up for to go to a wedding, I came downstairs and sat down on the couch. My daughter rushed over to me, dug her cute little elbows into my knees and rested her head upon her hands. Gazing up at me in awe, she said, “When I grow up, I want to have a necklace and earrings just like you.” Before I could say anything, she continued, “When I grow up, I want to have makeup and a pretty dress just like you.” Without a missing a beat, she gave a big sigh and said in a wistful voice, “And when I grow up, I want to have a big nose just like you.”  It was times like these that I wished I was still Morah Rutie.

I recently had the pleasure of engaging in a game that I have not even thought about since I was about eight years old. It is the game of hide and seek. Now what most of you don’t realize is that as you get older, you also get better at the game. This basically means that by now, I could be playing on an Olympic level, as could many of you.  However, this is not exactly what happened – let me explain. My daughter was babysitting for a three-year old, who like all three-year olds, is amazingly cute. While I was standing, in the kitchen minding my own business, he ran over to me, careened into my legs, and exclaimed with glee, “I found you.” Not that I knew I was missing, but being a good sport, I turned to him and exclaimed right back, “I found you, too.” Well, this set off a frenzy of hide and seek. As I recall, there is a bit of a strategy involved in the game, such as finding a good hiding place, being very quiet and even creating a diversion to make it look like you are hiding somewhere else. Well, none of this applies when you are playing with a toddler. First of all, it was his turn to hide almost every time (guess who made up that rule).  Second, one of his favorite “hiding” places was the couch. Not behind the couch or crouched down next to the couch, but on top of the couch, albeit with his eyes shut. On the odd occasion when he did hide in another room, his response to my yelling, “Ready or not, here I come,” was to holler back something to the effect of, “I’m in the kitchen.” Things didn’t go according to plan when it was my turn to hide either. This might have something to do with the fact that he told me where to hide, which of course, I complied with. Although my opponent and I were not well-matched on a competitive level, we both had a blast, which I think qualifies as a win-win situation.

As many of you know from experience, hide and seek is usually played according to the “every man for themselves” philosophy. However, there are times when hide and seek is played as a team sport.  Unfortunately, there is sometimes a weak link, which can lead to the downfall of the team. This leaves the seeker in the driver’s seat. Once when I was in Lakewood, my children and their cousins were playing Hide and Seek at a fairly competitive level. When my niece, Rivkie, who was the seeker, couldn’t find the clan, she opened up the basement door and yelled at the top of her lungs, “If you’re hiding in the basement, I’m telling mommy because you’re not allowed to be down there.” This threat, not to be taken lightly, was counteracted by her little sister, Rochel, who hollered back, “We’re not in the basement, we’re under the table.” Game over, seeker 1, hider 0.

You do sometimes come across a competitor who excels in the area of hiding. In this particular case I am thinking of, the child was not only successful at hiding from the other children, but also from their parents, neighbors and local police. One Shabbos afternoon there was a knock on our front door. We opened it up to find a very worried mother who could not find her 4-year-old son. She was canvassing the neighborhood, along with other volunteers and Shomrim, frantically trying to locate him. (Don’t worry, it has a good ending). It seems that he was playing a game of hide and seek on the shul playground and was so good at it that by the time davening was over, he still hadn’t been found. His mother waited for him. She called his name. And then she waited some more. Realizing something was amiss, she enlisted the help of the community. After a few hours she was told to wait at home in case he came home. When her son finally walked through the door completely unscathed, she ran over to him, hugged him ferociously and asked him where he had been. “I falled asleep while I was hiding,” he answered wearily as he snuggled into his mother’s arms. Game over, hider 1, seeker 0.   

As our children grow up we sometimes engage in a game of hide and seek that they didn’t even know they were playing. For example, it was my habit for many years to hide the Shabbos nosh so that it wouldn’t be consumed prior to the sacred event, Shabbos party. Although there are many strategies mothers employ in order to accomplish this, mine was simply to “put it high up.” This came to an abrupt ending when I walked into the kitchen one Friday afternoon only to find my teenage son munching away on the candy that I had placed on top of the refrigerator. Not only was he surprised to find out that he was doing something wrong, he was also surprised to find out that I hadn’t realize he was taller than the refrigerator. “After all,” he said to me, “this is eye-level for me. I thought you put the nosh here so I could find it.”  Game over: Seeker 1, Shabbos Party: 0

Now, sometimes the hider and the seeker turn out to be the same person. I recently came across an article while scrolling on our beloved Baltimore Jewish Life web site about a 50-year-old Turkish man, Beyhan Mutlu, whose friends formed a search party after he wandered off into a forest in Turkey in a state of inebriation. The unique part about this party was that Mr. Mutlu was part of it. After wandering around with them for a while, he finally realized they were calling his name. After confirming that he was in fact the person being sought, the search was terminated. He’s lucky he wasn’t also.  Game over, hider 1, seeker 1. 

I know the opportunity for hide and seek doesn’t seem to present itself very often, but let’s face it, most of us play it on a daily basis. The game as an adult usually comes in the form of “where did I put my keys” or “where are my glasses”.  Of course, the most common opponent in the game as we know it today is “where is my phone.” Now I’m not sure how many of us are willing to admit to this, but I’ve played this variation of the game even when I was actually holding my phone in my hand. Needless to say, hide and seek no longer holds the same thrill it did when I was eight. This is why I have been encouraging my daughter to babysit for that little cutie pie who was such an enthusiastic player. Take it from me, its fun to be found even if you didn’t know you were missing.

The other day while driving carpool I took a wrong turn.  Annoyed with myself for having made a mistake, I sighed, prompting one of the children behind me to ask what was wrong.  Exasperated, I replied to her , “I made a wrong turn.”  She quickly responded, “There’s no such thing as a wrong turn.”  My amazement at her ability to see the situation in such a positive light was quickly turned into bewilderment when she added, “Because the world is round.”  Now, even if there were no oceans or dead ends along the way, I don’t think she was suggesting that I travel across town via Australia.  Rather, it was more of an observation that you can always find another way to go, even if you choose the road less travelled.  I started pondering this thought and realized the only reason I got annoyed at myself to begin with was that I had created an expectation of which route I would take and then unwittingly took a different direction.  This is made me realize that maybe I am “Expectationally Challenged.” 

What are expectations anyway?  They are these nebulous concepts floating around in our heads that often lead to unhappiness.  We are not born with expectations.  Rather they are established while we’re too young or distracted to even notice.  Expectations vary based on where we are and who we are with.  Each individual modifies their expectations without always realizing it or communicating them to others.  It is often hard to even identify an expectation until it hasn’t been met, which leaves one with a limited ability to combat them.  Yet we find ourselves face to face with them in almost every aspect of life whether big or small.  We impose them on others, hold our children to them and often make judgments based on them.  Let’s talk about expectations, big and little.

We have an expectation that we should be able to make a phone call.  I don’t mean whenever you want, I mean the actual process is something anyone over the age of eight should be reasonably adept at.  Unfortunately, in this ever-changing technological world it feels like every time you get a phone upgrade it’s as if you’ve entered a new universe.  The first thing you have to learn is the language.  Try buying a phone.  You can’t.  You can, however, buy a device.  In fact, when you tell the salesperson you want a phone they ask you the mindboggling question, “What do you want to use it for?”  I really didn’t get the question.  I kind of thought the word “phone” gave it away.  So I answered slowly, “for talking” and she said, “Is that all you will be using your device for.”  Now I was stumped, but, I figured she had simply misheard me.  So I repeated, with a little extra emphasis, “I want a phone” and she said a little more slowly, “and what would you like to use it for.”  I gave up.  I told her, I know we are both speaking English, but I have no idea what you are talking about.  With a little patience on her part and an expectation adjustment on my part we finally decided I should get a device that I would use for talking.  I eventually walked out of store with a little skip in my step feeling like an enlightened consumer.  Of course, the minute I got to my carI realized I had no idea how to make a call.  I took a deep breath, turned around, walked back into the store and said to the salespeople behind the counter, “Can one of you show me how to make a phone call?”

It turns out that making a phone call on a touch-screen device is possible but it’s by no means easy.  First of all, what’s with the screen disappearing.  How are you supposed to press a button, (that’s not really a button), especially when it’s not even there.  When you finally realize you have to look for a button to press (that is really a button) in order to turn your screen back on, your screen turns sideways.  Now, as you turn sideways so you can see the screen, you inadvertently turn the phone, prompting it to return to its original and upright position.  All of this ultimately results in you having whiplash while someone confused person on other end of the line is saying, “Hello?  Hello…is anyone there?”

Of course, you eventually master the art of making a call but you realize that unless you can actually find the button that puts you on speaker (again, this isn’t a real button), you can’t multitask.  See, if you try to cradle the phone between your neck and shoulder(after you get the neck brace off) you might inadvertently touch your screen with your face and doing something creative, like take a picture of your chin.  Then in your efforts to get yourself out of camera-mode, you might end up taking a few “selfies” of yourself that by chance closely resemble a deer in headlights.  This, of course, is not to take away from the skill necessary to navigate a call that comes in when you are already on a call with someone else. A common outcome to this natural disaster is that you accidentally tell your whole life story to the wrong person.  At this point, you might as well send them that picture of your chin and call it a day.  Let’s move on.

Whether we like to admit it or not, parents have dress-code expectations, even for children as young as three years old.  This is an example where expectations meet reality full force.  Parents have a strong sense of what society dictates, but it’s often not as strong as what a child dictates, for example, when my friend bought her three year old son a beautiful new Shabbos vest.  Normally, this wouldn’t even bear mentioning, however, it caused quite a dilemma for her son.  You see, her son was very partial to the pocket on the left side of his Shabbos shirt.  But the vest, which he also liked, covered up the pocket.  The problem was “solved” by her son who put his vest on under his shirt (you probably already guessed that it wasn’t her idea) and insisted on wearing it that way.  Hmmm.  While walking to shul she got amused but understanding looks from the mommies who remembered when their little ones had also turned against the fabric of society. 

Expectations also spill right into our homes, literally.  You know, spilled milk, batter dripping onto the floor, cereal bowls knocked upside down, grape juice winding across table making little tributaries along the way.  You name, it’s been spilled.  Despite the preponderance of spills in our lives, we never seem to expect them.  We always react as if it’s the first we’ve heard of them.  We jump up from the table, batten down the hatches and call for back up.  Towels come flying out of the kitchen, napkins come sailing across the table and tempers start to flare. It’s a wonder no one is yelling, “milk overboard.” 

In many households, the degree of the reaction associated with a spill is directly correlated with the spiller’s position, or lack thereof, in the family tree.   After all, when was the last time you yelled at your grandmother or your Shabbos guest.  Now, I’m not advocating that you should start, I’m merely pointing out that sometimes our expectations are, shall we say, a wee bit unreasonable.  In order to address this, try reframing your dining room into a supermarket.  Now, when the cereal box gets flipped over someone could yell, “Dry clean-up, aisle 1,” as you hear the pitter-patter of cereal rolling across the floor.  This “expectation adjustment” goes along way for everyone, including the cereal. 

One last set of expectations that has no basis in reality is the length of time we think we can keep hand prints, smudges, crayon and the like off of our walls and furniture.  Hand prints, smudges and crayon are all familiar terms, but let me explain what I mean by the like.  In one case the like was a carving that was done on an antique dresser, not the original carving, mind you, but one that was added as a “labor of love.”

One day, many years ago, I walked into a second hand store and saw a beautiful dresser.  I asked the owner about it but she said it wasn’t for sale.  When I asked why not, she brought my attention to the section where her daughter had displayed her “handiwork.”  Gouged into the rich cherry wood was a child-like scrawl across the side of the dresser.  (Take a deep breath, it’s going to be okay).  Although my initial reaction was to ask her if she had given the child up for adoption, I saw, upon a closer inspection, that the carving said, “I love mommy” followed up by a shaky string of “xoxoxo.” 

The owner explained that when she asked her daughter why she did that, her daughter responded that she had really wanted to write it on a piece of paper and tape it on, but she was afraid the tape would make the dresser sticky and upset her mother.  Talk about a need for an expectation adjustment. Now her mother keeps the dresser in the store to remind herself that antiques are valuable, but children are precious. 

Now, I’m not saying expectations have no place in our lives.  It’s just that expectations come with a price that isn’t always worth swallowing, literally.  As one mother shared with me, when her first child swallowed a penny she was ready to call 911.  By the time her youngest swallowed a dime (notice the inflation), she just looked down and told him “It’s coming out of your allowance.”  You see, expectations shouldn’t be hard and fast rules.  They should be adjustable so we don’t place more value on the item than we do on the person.  We certainly don’t want to set ourselves and our loved ones up for failure, especially since success is just around the corner.  After all, the world is round. 

Parenting is a learning experience.  The people we most often learn from are our children.  One of the main areas of educational instruction we are privy to falls under the broad umbrella of economics, capitalism and a free market economy.   First let me state, this education is not free, it is not voluntary and it is certainly not painless. 

Let’s explore the history behind this premise.   It all begins with the widely accepted notion that sharing is good.  Now, I’m not saying that sharing isn’t good, I’m just saying you need to be careful.

Instructional sharing begins when children are approximately two years old.  If you think back to when you first began parenting toddlers you may recall that sharing is clearly not on their priority list.  They prefer the grab and run method.  It’s only with parental nurturing, or interference as is often the case, that sharing becomes part of a toddler’s frame of reference.  At this point a toddler has to make a decision.  They either must learn to run faster or bite the bullet and come to terms with the fact that sharing is here to stay.  This latter alternative does not bode well with these little guys so we as parents try to find some way to make sharing manageable.  Unfortunately we don’t stop there.  We go one step further.  Not only push this concept of sharing, but we also strive to inculcate our children with the notion that “sharing is good.”  Let’s face it.  It’s a hard sell which requires some serious ammunition. 

So, how do we do this?  It goes something like this.  “If you let John use your toy, then I’ll give you a lollypop.”  Be honest with yourself.  Does this sound like sharing anymore?  No, we have now moved into the bribery stage of childrearing.  We parents like to think of it as incentives.  It seems like it makes sense because you don’t really want your child to be unhappy, so if you replace the object of his desire with something more enticing.  In doing so, you’ve just killed three birds with one stone, John is happy, your child is happy and you are happy and you’re only down by one lollypop.  Not bad! (or so you think).  This goes on for the next few years, gets your child through the pre-school stage of life and gives you the false impression that your child actually likes sharing. 

Let’s continue to follow this line of thought and explore our childrens’ behavior  as they become more sophisticated and we become more exhausted.  This so called “incentive method” has a way of taking on a life of its own.  It becomes a well honed method of motivation that can and will become a standard both in the home and at school.  I am not talking about motivational charts that our hard working teachers put in place so that our children will stay in their seats (and we will stop getting phone calls home.)  I am speaking of the “Mommy, can I earn it?” syndrome the “Sibling System of Laziness”, the “Lunch Room Black Market Economy.”

The “Mommy, can I earn it?” method, which let’s face it, is TOTALLY our fault.  It is role reversal at its finest.  I cannot begin to tell you what is has cost me.  Okay, really I can begin to tell you and here I go. 

First of all, as a math teacher I would have to describe this in terms of exponential growth.  This means that things get out of hand really quickly.  Remember the lollypop that we offered our child only 2 paragraphs ago, well, now he’s asking for a hamster.  No.  I am not kidding.  Of course he has gotten 8 years older since playing then, but still.  In those eight years of giving incentives, we’ve gone through stickers (how I miss that stage), match box cars (not too bad), LEGO (now you’re killing me) and walkie talkies (these were pretty fun.)  I don’t know how we moved from the inanimate to the animate but now we are haggling over a hamster.  Trust me, it wasn’t my idea.  Well, maybe the idea of “incentives” was my idea, but this is ridiculous.  We have moved out of incentives for sharing and moved onto incentive for other behaviors, for example, chores.  Yet another brilliant idea of parenting flies in the face of reality.  It starts with, “sweetie, pick up your toys and put them away” and ends, 3 hours and two temper tantrums later – yours and his – and with you finally picking up the toys.  Obviously, this stage of child rearing requires incentives.  However, as each behavior gets established, you begin to notice that your incentive program is working… against you.  Every time you want your little sweetie to go where no child has ever gone before, like to the kitchen to do the dishes, you find an incentive program being thrown in your face.  The tables have now turned.  It goes something like this, “Mommy, if I do the dishes three times in a row without complaining, flooding the kitchen and not leaving food on the bottom of the plates, can I get a slurpee?”  Before you realize that your child has just used your method against you, your thinking, okay $1.69 for three nights of dishes, no icky food on the plates, no puddles of water and not kvetching, not bad.  I’m in.  Then he says, “Can it be a large?”  Now, you begin to have an inkling that something is off, but you can’t quite focus on it as you tell, him, “no, sweetie just a medium.”

You don’t realize that you are on a slope that is more slippery than your kitchen floor used to be, until you hear, “Mommy, if I stop hitting my sister can I get a hamster?”  Now, I’ve got to tell you, I not sure which is more disturbing, the fact that he is committing to being nicer to a hamster than his own sister or to the fact that I have lost control over my own, self imposed method of behavior modification, which, I hate to point out, my son has mastered and is now teaching to his other siblings.  It’s really a painful day of reckoning with ones parental skills.  But let’s move on before I cry.

We have all observed the motivational method called the “sibling system of laziness.”  Perhaps you even employed it while you were growing up.  It goes something like this, “Molly, if you go upstairs and get me my shoes I’ll let you wear my blue headband.”  Of course the sibling doesn’t mention that she  had no intention of wearing  the headband.  So once again, it’s a win – win situation…  Not so fast!  As we all know, this only works on a naive sibling (similar to the level of naivete that the “lollypop” mother had at the beginning of this essay).

Well, after a while, Molly catches on that she is only being offered items that her sister has no use for.  Let the games begin.  Molly has knowledge and knowledge is power.  If she uses it wisely, develops her mediation skills and feigns indifference to the headband, she might end up getting a necklace, a bracelet and the headband out of the deal.  We have now moved into the Capitalistic barter stage of behavior.  This method works on both younger and older siblings and often even works cross-generational (depending on how tired you are when you get home from work and want your slippers from upstairs.) 

The degree to which “Lunch-Room Black Market Economy” exists came to my attention when in the course of conversation, my son told me that someone brought ajar of pickles to school.  As a nurturing parent I asked what the occasion was. Perhaps there is a birthday party or a class celebration?  He looked confused for a moment and then answered, “What, no, it’s so he can trade them at lunch.” 

Now, I know and you know that despite all rules, regulations and ordinances there is trading that goes on in the lunch room.  What I didn’t know was the value of certain items.  Do you know what you can get for a pickle, forget about a whole can?  I mean, my you could put food on your table for a week.   Of course you would be eating multiple bags of chips, cheese sticks, granola bars and all the carefully cut up vegetables in little sandwich bags that often end up in the garbage since they have no market value whatsoever.  Much to the dismay of the above mentioned “pickle-bringer” his mother put a stop to it when as soon as she realized what was going on (luckily for her son this took a few weeks.)  I’m sure her decision was met with the high pitched shrieks of “that’s not fair” and more importantly, “everyone else’s mother let’s them,” which, by the way, is NEVER true.)

Suffice it to say, that I don’t think this was how she envisioned her son sharing.  At this point she should just be grateful he didn’t remember back to his youth as a toddler days and say, “Weren’t you the one who told me I had to share.”  I don’t know if she or anyone else would have a good response to that other than, “who me?” 

The amount of expenses a married couple faces to due mortgages, tuitions and household necessities is enough to make a person wish they had spent more money on themselves when they were single. Commitment to one’s family often requires having to cut corners, trim budgets and pinch pennies.  Clearly each family makes their own decisions regarding the areas in which they will cut back, ranging from reducing the amount of times they eat out, limiting non-essential purchases or eliminating a family vacation. Despite a well-intentioned plan, there are areas of financial obligation that don’t reveal themselves on any financial aid form, tax return or guide to managing your budget. Such areas can often lead to tough decisions.

New parents often brace themselves for the one-time cost of “outfitting” their newborn. These costs, which areoften generously underwritten by contributions from adoring grandparents, allow the parents to breathe a temporary sigh of relief as the last piece of baby furniture is assembled. Due to this false sense of relief, parents are often caught off guard around three o’clock in the morning when, despite having car seats that are removable, portable and adorable, strollers that can practically raise the child themselves and diaper bags in every shape and size,there is no pacifier to be found for their adorable, shrieking child. Now, this is not to imply that there are no pacifiers in the house. Rather, there are none to be found by the bleary-eyed, parents who are stumbling around the house in a panic. After experiencing this waking nightmare on more than one occasion, many parents adjust their budgets and their priorities to ensure that there are passies a’ plenty in every nook and cranny of the household. Some organizations have even go so far as setting up a “Go Fund Me” account to assist those on a stringent budget.  

Another financial decision parents find themselves faced with around the time their child turns four years of age, can summarized by the following question “Literacy or bankruptcy?” Now, being the Jewish nation is often referred as “The People of the Book” you might find this question not just shocking, but even possibly heretical. However, give me a chance to explain this unexpected conundrum. It seems that whoever coined the term “People of the Book” did not mean “People of the library book.” I am quite sure that anyone who is privy to the exorbitant amountsof money paid toward library fines every year can attest to this. Unfortunately as time passes and your children become more literate, you find there is almost a snowball effect occurring. What used to be an occasional fine for a library book has now turned into a competition with the national deficit. At some point you might have to turn to your children and say, “We can’t afford to go to the library anymore. But the next time we win the lottery that’ll be the first trip we take.”

Another entirely different arena in which a family often meets with financial loss is in the utensil area. To make a connection to the aforementioned cause of financial ruin, it is safe to say that there is a negative correlation between the amount of library fines and spoons. In other words, as fines go up, spoons go down (into the garbage can.) Now, as a statistics teacher, it is important to point out that correlation does not imply causation. However, I don’t think it would be overstepping my bounds to point out that the linking variable here are all the cute children with sticky faces who are being taught (or so we thought) to clear off their places.

Much to our chagrin it takes a well-rested mother to realize that these cutie pies take this directive quite literally. This is a nice way of saying we don’t realize our children are throwing away all the spoons in the house. Fortunately, by the time we’ve figured out what’s going on most children have learned to eat with a fork. Now, this is not to say that the forks don’t also disappear over time (I can attest to the dearth of forks in our house since I personally got to eat with the “bunny fork” last Shabbos). It’s just that by this time you might be able to combat the situation in a proactive manner. What comes to mind is a statement made by the famed Major League Baseball personality, Yogi Berra, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” By amending the words “in the road” to “on the table” you might temporarily alleviate this problem. Of course, if you overstep your bounds and apply this outside of your home, you might notice, that while the number of forks you own increases, the number of Shabbos invitations you receive decreases.

Upon hanging up the phone, my friend Rochel went into her living room and plopped herself down in a chair. 

“What am I going to do?” she wailed. 

“What’s the matter?” her unsuspecting, but concerned husband asked. 

“I just got off the phone with Sima, a friend from seminary.  I haven’t seen her in 20 years and she happens to be in town.  She said she wants to stop by to see me tomorrow.”

“I’m not really understanding,” her husband replied, shaking his head in confusion. 

“You don’t get it.”  (He knew that was coming)  “What I mean,”she said, taking a deep breath, “is that there’s no way I can lose 30 lbs. by tomorrow afternoon,” her voice rising to a new pitch. 

“But Rochel, what’s the worst that’ll happen?” he foolishly continued asking. 

Shocked by his inability to answer this question himself, she retorted, “She’ll see me of course.”   

“Oh,” he replied before quickly adding, “You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

The glare that was laser-beamed across the room made him realize that his only means of surviving the next twenty-four hour period was to make himself scarce.  He cautiously excused himself, told her that he was sure she would work it out and then made a beeline for the door.

Clearly needing the support and advice of more experienced trauma team, Rochel conference-called a few of her in-town friends for advice.  The first suggestion someone made was to have one of those life-size, cardboard stand-ups made using a picture of her from 20lbs ago.  After all, one had to be realistic.  Figuring she could place the cardboard image of herself in the living room, hide in the kitchen and “throw” her voice, like in the ventriloquist, they embraced the idea.  Only after coming to the bitter conclusion that “throwing” her voice was beyond her capabilities, was the idea nixed.  Other possibilities included putting room darkening shades in the living room while keeping all the lights off tothe brilliant idea of hiring a double who could stand in for her.  Unfortunately, it would be too pricey to buy new shades and equally difficult to prep someone with all the shared memories of the good old days, especially since she couldn’t remember half of them. 

The group then moved onto the “what did you do when” scenarios.  After all, Rochel had attended weddings, Bar Mitzvah’s and other simchas over the last few years. 

“All true,” she informed them, when this was brought to her attention, “but I have a three year or 90-day rule.” Their stunned silence was rewarded with the following explanation;“See, if you’ve seen me in the last three-years, then you have the updated version of the “outer-me.”  On the other hand, if you haven’t, then I need at least 90 days to get back to the dress size that I was when you last saw me.  The problem here is that I have no lead time for this and I haven’t seen Sima in twenty years.” Point well taken.  The situation looked grim.

Realizing that there was nowhere else to turn, they decided to face reality.It was decided that they would have to choose an outfit that would most-flatter the situation.  Hunting around in Rochel’s closet they stumbled upon her album from seminary.  One look at the hairstyles the outdated glasses had them rolling.  Underneath the album, her “sem” sweatshirt was discovered with an “Angel’s Bakery” bag and a banner carefully folded up inside.  The banner was the “Welcome Home” sign that had greeted her upon her arrival home.  Surrounded by such comforting memories, Rochel decided that if Sima was still the friend she used to be then nothing would change that, neither twenty years nor thirty pounds. 

The next day the much anticipated knock came.  Rochel, mustering all her courage and enthusiasm, flung the door open only to find herself face to face with a tree.  You know the kind that sits in one of those enormous plant holders that people put in the corner of their living room for no apparent reason.  The only sign of a human being were the two arms wrapped around the pot. 

“Sima?” Rochel asked cautiously. 

“Hi Rochel, it’s me.  I brought you a present.”

“Can I have it so you can come in and so that I can see you?” Rochel inquired.

“I’ll give it to you when I leave.  For now, I’ll just keep it in front of me,” Sima said matter of factly. 

“What?”

“Well, it’s just that, well, I’m just a little embarrassed,” Sima stammered.  “See, I’ve gained 30 lbs since you last saw me and well…”

“Say no more,” Rochel shrieked, “You’re the best friend ever.  I knew I could count on you.”  She threw her arms around Sima, tree and all, (which turned out to be a little more painful than she had anticipated.)

With that little issue (and the tree) out of the way, Rochel dragged Sima into the house where they spent a lovely afternoon reliving the past and creating a future. 

Waving is both an important and versatile form of communication.  The speed and enthusiasm behind a wave is often an indication of how glad, or not, someone is to see you.   It can put a smile on your face or leave you wondering, when your wave isn’t returned, if you just waved to a complete stranger.  Either way, wave-training begins at a young age and is an integral part of the developmental process.  As we all know, little children are frequently prompted to wave “bye-bye.”  This not only adds to their cuteness, but also gives grown-ups the opportunity to keep their “baby talk” and waving skills up to date.   Older children, on the other hand, are given the option of grunting “Good bye” or offering a dismissive wave of the hand.  Waving, en masse, is also an acceptable form of communication.  For example, at baseball games, it is not uncommon for thousands of people, who would otherwise completely ignore each other, be seen undulating together in the wind across rows and rows of seats.  This tidal wave of appreciation is meant to cheer on the players and create feelings of goodwill amongst mankind.  Of course the goodwill only lasts until it’s time to get out of the parking lot, but we’ll take what we can get.  Waving, though, is not simply meant for the plebian.  In some countries waving can even take on a regal air.  The “Queen’s wave” is so well known that even young children recognize it. Unfortunately as times have changed, a wave is no longer just a wave.  As times have changed, the wave has become a skill necessary for survival – at least when it comes to navigating a public restroom.

In the last ten years public restrooms have become a technological nightmare.  They no longer offer the golden opportunity to turn knobs, depress levers or push buttons.  Instead, waving one’s hands in all different directions is now required to rid oneself of any newly acquired germs.  Unlike the previously mentioned waves, we are now talking about waving on whole new level.  This new form of “wave-warfare,” is causing animosity between citizens and resulting in an increase in blood pressure levels across America.  Let me take you on a tour of your highway restroom.

We’ll start with the soap.  Automatic soap dispensers are found in one of two places.  The more common location is attached to the wall.   The advantage of this is the clarity where one must position their hand for the wave (under the dispenser).  The disadvantage is that if you wave your hand a little too far to the left or a little too far to the right, the soap plops down on the counter before you have a chance to get you hand back in place.  If there is a small pile of pink soap already coagulating on the counter, you know you’re in good company.  Now, the other type of soap dispenser looks more like a small faucet jutting out over the side of the sink.   Because of its curve, the positioning of one’s hand is a bit of a challenge.  Due to this “gray-area” it is not uncommon to end up with the soap landing anywhere from one’s fingertips all the up to one’s forearm.  The advantage of this is that you can pretty much give yourself a sponge bath when all you were hoping for was clean hands.  Now that you’re all lathered up, the next logical step is water.

At this next stage, depending on the luck of the draw, you might find yourself scalded.  This is due to the temperature at which the water is set.  I don’t really understand how, despite rest stops functioning as a public service, the water could be so hot, but it is (at least sometimes).  On top of this the water comes out in a trickle.  Now you have to make a decision.  Stay covered in soap or first degree burn?  I’ll let you decide.  You’d probably be better off walking away it all and admitting defeat.  However, we all know where your next stop will be, so let’s go.  The drying station.

This is where real decisions have to be made since the potential for public embarrassment is at an all-time high.  The first decision you have to make is whether you want to destroy a few trees or put your hands under one of those dryers that not only sounds like you’re about to orbit into space, but also makes your hands resemble those of an alien.  If you are from those who have just scalded your hands, I suggest destroying a few trees.  Now, this is not as easy as it seems.  In fact, this is the event that truly “separates the men from the boys.”   First of all, on some paper towel dispensers you wave your hands in the front while on others you wave underneath.  Second of all, regardless of how frantic your waving gets, the machine might decide it doesn’t like you.  Therefore, it will refuse to release the paper towel.  Now, if you had remained calm through all of this, you would probably realize that all the waving had resulted in your hands being air-dried.  Unfortunately, due to the fact that there are ten people waiting behind you who have all watched you wave you’re hands around like a madman you can no longer think logically.  This is why (admit it) you surreptitiously push the button on the machine where it tells you “don’t touch the machine.”  This being your last resort, other than giving the machine a good whack, results in one pathetic, lone sheet of paper. (It’s really the equivalent of the dispenser sticking its tongue at you.)  Just as you step aside to tell the person behind you that the machine isn’t working, the next person in line gives a quick, magical wave of her hand, thus releasing three beautiful medium-sized sheets of perfectly perforated paper.  She tears them off in a single sweeping motion, flips her pony tail and (before you can trip her) walks off in a cloud of glory.  As you slink out of the restroom wiping the remaining droplets of water onto your skirt, you pop a valium and think back to the days when a wave was just a wave.

Living in a clean and orderly environment is generally touted as a good thing.  This is why for years I have been making futile attempts to accomplish this. This is of course while working, raising children, cooking dinner, making Shabbos and Yom Tov, driving carpool, doing laundry… I’m getting tired just listing all these things, but I think you get the picture. I must say I don’t do all of this on my own. I must give credit where credit is due. My husband takes on a fair share of the responsibilities and my children help a lot too. The problem is that regardless of the manpower that is dedicated to creating a clean and orderly environment, the mess and the clutter always accumulate faster than our little brooms can sweep. Hence, we came up with the brilliant idea of hiring of “the cleaning lady.”

Now, I didn’t invent this idea of hiring cleaning help. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be. I figured it goes like this. You call a few friends, get a few numbers, and someone shows up at your house ready to clean. Boy was I wrong. First of all, people are protective of their cleaning help. It’s not always easy to convince someone that you’re not trying to “steal” their cleaning lady. “Stealing” is the farthest thing from your mind. You’re just trying to avoid breaking your ankle when you wade through all the toys in the living room, which you now have to admit in order to get the phone number. Once you’ve wrangled the number from your so called friend, the rest of the process should run smoothly. Once again, “boy was I wrong.”

Now, I naively thought that having toys strewn on the floor was a valid reason for hiring cleaning help. Although an aura of calm was achieved after the cleaning lady left, she really just created a massive game of hide-and-seek. The problem is that no one in your household knows where anything is. This is not to mention that occasionally your cleaning help will make executive decisions about what to keep and what to throw away. When you come home and your daughter’s half eaten chocolate chip cookie is no longer waiting patiently for her on the kitchen counter, you know you’re in for an afternoon of suffering.

This brings us to pre-cleaning. This is how it works. At about 8:00 the night before, my children and I race around the house picking up and putting away any items we would like to be able to locate the next day after her scheduled departure. Meanwhile my husband sits back with an amused look on his face and asks, “Explain to me again why you’re doing this?” By this time we have all perfected the eye-roll, which he seems to accept as a reasonable response to his question.

Now that you’re pre-cleaning, buying whatever cleaning supplies your cleaning lady prefers, and deferring to her on the matter of what rooms require the most work, you’re sure you can breathe a sigh of relief. What you don’t realize is that in addition to investing money and energy into supposedly making your life easier, you’ve also invested your ego. You don’t realize it but you’ve actually made yourself emotionally vulnerable to your cleaning lady.  This realization comes to your attention one fateful day when she informs you that your house is too messy for her to clean anymore. Even if this could possibly make sense in any language you most likely don’t even have a common language that can be used to discuss this. Luckily, there is no reasonable response to this other than to beg, which, thank goodness, is not language specific. Unfortunately, it rarely works. Now, I had actually heard of this happening to one of my friends so I should’ve been prepared. Quite honestly though, I had arrogantly filed this idea in the “spam” folder in my mind since I was convinced that this ultimate form of cleaning service rejection would never happen to me. Once again, and feel free to say it along with me, “Boy was I wrong.”

Now, I really had to come to terms with what could be perceived as a failure to thrive, at least in the cleaning sense. I mean so far, I had failed at employing both the “family cleaning” model and the “cleaning lady” model of maintaining an orderly environment. I could throw up my sponge in dismay, go through the trauma of trying to find new cleaning help or I could “reframe.” This is a psychological term for putting a positive spin on an otherwise depressing situation. I opted for reframing. Drawing on my background in physics (not really), I decided to apply the teachings of Albert Einstein. When criticized about the chaotic state of clutter on his desk Einstein responded, “If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?” By simply substituting the word “house” for the word “desk” I immediately elevated my ego and my mess to a relatively higher state of well-being. I do have to admit, that although this has allowed my bruised ego to heal, my ankle is taking a little longer.