I attended my twins' "Open Class" night at their Hebrew School recently. The class is small and filled with delicious, quirky children. For years I have watched them grow and learn; and despite my boredom with most parent evenings, I look forward to the event, especially since I no longer have to scrunch myself into those little kid chairs where you're eating your knees while trying to pay attention to children stumbling through Hebrew text. They are all in the bar/bat mitzvah class, and have moved on to more sophisticated discussions.
On this particular day, they were scouring through biblical hints as to why there is such a thing as a bar/bat mitzvah, as the ceremony itself is never actually mentioned in the Talmud. I arrived an hour into the class (Okay, I enjoy it, but not for two hours), and settled into an adult-sized chair as they were talking about Genesis 22, the "binding of Isaac" story in which God tells Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, in the region of Moriah. Try as they might, my girls couldn't totally ignore me, especially as their teacher asked me to join in one of their study groups. I remained quiet as I watched each group knock heads, discuss, giggle, and go back to the text.
When the teacher called upon everyone to gather together again and the story of Abraham was brought up, a strange image popped into my mind...that of Julie Schenecker, the Tampa mother who killed her two teenage children, ostensibly for being "too mouthy." Horrific story. Horrific. And yet, it occured. How do you shoot your child in the face? How do you bind your child to be sacrificed? I raised my hand in class, and began to ramble on about how parents of teenage children are always shocked to see their delicious, sweet smelling and obedient children transform into lanky beings who could kill you with a glance and hurtful response.
Who doesn't want to theoretically beat down teenagers whose ability to ignore you is matched only by their sense of how to make you feel like a harpy? So, maybe it was Abraham who thought, "Aha! Way to prove my love and commitment to this new God, and get rid of the mouthy kid who is driving my wife and me nuts." And then, whilst raising his knife to carry out the task, he stopped. Was it God who stayed his hand, or was it that which keeps most of us from beating the crap out of our kids when they get snarky? Or is it the same thing? Was it God being a new god, getting the hang of it before he realized who He was and then absented Himself? Do I have to capitalize His name? I don't know, which is what makes me one of them thar fence-sitting agnostics.
In any case, this opportunity to think aloud in a classroom setting was delicious on so many levels: despite the detours I took, I actually spoke in paragraphs; I knew that, save the teacher and my glaring daughters, my audience was otherwise engaged and I could have been reading the American Constitution in Urdu for all they cared, and I mortified my kids in a safe environment. Does it get any better than that?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Outlaws
I was never one of those gals who flipped through bridal magazines in my teens and twenties Instead, I dreamed longingly of boyfriends, soul mates. I didn't think about having children at all, frankly. Do some women actually have biological clocks set in some other time zone or parallel universe? Are mating and propogating actually all in the timing? How does desire fit in? Who knows. The fact of the matter is I became a wife at 41 and mother of twins at 44, and, shudder as you might, it's all turned out just fine.
Although I had a black belt in blind-dating, was less discretionary than I might have been in being bedded or boyfriended (See Dead Father's Club), the truth remains that Henry was the love of my life before I met my husband, who still becomes flummoxed when I mention Henry's name. This is to laugh, as I was19 the last time I saw Henry and 36 when I met my husband, James. If and when Henry thinks of me, I'd just as soon have him remember a hot 19-year-old at a time when he and I equalled spontaneous combustion. (Not that his current child bride creates lacunae in his life.) My love for James, while certaily not less combustible at its onset, grows deeper and more befuddling every day. When I did think about marriage, all I wanted was to marry an orphan. The last thing I needed was another familial minefield through which I had to tiptoe. Having a stepfamily and living grandparents gave me all the emotional entertainment and exercise I needed.
My boyfriend, husband, and love of my life,James, had run away from home at 17 to join the Navy and had barely spoken to his mother since then; I hadn't at all. James' father had died (Surprise!) when James was eight. His modern family--a curious mash of half-brothers, a disappearing sister, and a schizophrenic, ex-Vietnam vet brother--was way out of my comfort zone; but if he wasn't engaging with them, who was I to complain. So much for injecting myself into a new tangled web of emotions, disappointments and expectation.
What I had never figured on was stepchildren. Right. Them; how would I have known? But here we have it, and it's to die. Although my stepson and I don't talk so much, really, who has major conversations with a 25-year-old man? The good thing is he is happy, getting healthier, and is engaged to a top-drawer woman who knows who he is. They are both very much of the Queens borough.
My stepdaughter and I talk almost every day. She and her husband live in Florida, in a town that is half cattle/ horse farms and half new developments which offer space, nature trails, swimming pools, club houses and community in a very affordable manner. (Is it for everyone? Perhaps not. But it is fungible and affordable.) She is neurotic and loving and the mother of boys 11 months apart. It is an unusual relationship. I love her very much and feel the need to bitchslap, er, guide her every once in awhile. But we laugh. And we dish. We've even gotten to the point where we can dish her father, Mister Love of My Life. And it gets me to thinking. I wonder if having a mother-in-law would have been so terrible after all?
Although I had a black belt in blind-dating, was less discretionary than I might have been in being bedded or boyfriended (See Dead Father's Club), the truth remains that Henry was the love of my life before I met my husband, who still becomes flummoxed when I mention Henry's name. This is to laugh, as I was19 the last time I saw Henry and 36 when I met my husband, James. If and when Henry thinks of me, I'd just as soon have him remember a hot 19-year-old at a time when he and I equalled spontaneous combustion. (Not that his current child bride creates lacunae in his life.) My love for James, while certaily not less combustible at its onset, grows deeper and more befuddling every day. When I did think about marriage, all I wanted was to marry an orphan. The last thing I needed was another familial minefield through which I had to tiptoe. Having a stepfamily and living grandparents gave me all the emotional entertainment and exercise I needed.
My boyfriend, husband, and love of my life,James, had run away from home at 17 to join the Navy and had barely spoken to his mother since then; I hadn't at all. James' father had died (Surprise!) when James was eight. His modern family--a curious mash of half-brothers, a disappearing sister, and a schizophrenic, ex-Vietnam vet brother--was way out of my comfort zone; but if he wasn't engaging with them, who was I to complain. So much for injecting myself into a new tangled web of emotions, disappointments and expectation.
What I had never figured on was stepchildren. Right. Them; how would I have known? But here we have it, and it's to die. Although my stepson and I don't talk so much, really, who has major conversations with a 25-year-old man? The good thing is he is happy, getting healthier, and is engaged to a top-drawer woman who knows who he is. They are both very much of the Queens borough.
My stepdaughter and I talk almost every day. She and her husband live in Florida, in a town that is half cattle/ horse farms and half new developments which offer space, nature trails, swimming pools, club houses and community in a very affordable manner. (Is it for everyone? Perhaps not. But it is fungible and affordable.) She is neurotic and loving and the mother of boys 11 months apart. It is an unusual relationship. I love her very much and feel the need to bitchslap, er, guide her every once in awhile. But we laugh. And we dish. We've even gotten to the point where we can dish her father, Mister Love of My Life. And it gets me to thinking. I wonder if having a mother-in-law would have been so terrible after all?
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