promoting peace and understanding, as appeared in the binah, July 27,2016

I love having my children for Shabbos. I really do. The grandchildren are so adorable, and I have such nachas watching my babies raising their own. All week long it’s just Zaidy and me; it’s so quiet, and I miss the noise and balagan.

After Shabbos, when the boys’ peyos are perfectly curled, faces washed and the babies fed and diapered, I (finally) walk to the bus stop, and although I gaily wave goodbye as the bus pulls away, I feel a tug of sadness at their leaving. Then I return home, prepare a mug of hot tea, and savor the quiet.

When my husband walks into the living room half an hour later, I’m still sitting on the sofa, staring into nothingness. “Whew,” I say. “That was some Shabbos. I’m exhausted.” The truth is, there’s really no reason for me to be so tired. I had a long Shabbos nap, and the grandchildren helped me serve and clear the table.

But I’m no longer used to the noise. And the balagan.

It’s such a paradox. I love spending time with my family. It’s really my greatest joy in life. But at the same time, it leaves me drained and exhausted. And watching how beautifully my children manage with their growing families, I wonder how they do it.

I think one of the most difficult challenges facing both parents and their adult children is to accept that things aren’t the way they used to be. I can’t imagine how I ever spent my days wiping sticky chairs, putting away mountains of toys, preparing massive pots of food, and (sigh) throwing away half-eaten sandwiches and barely touched plates of that delicious soup that cost me so much time and energy (let alone money) to prepare. Today, those enormous pots, once used on a daily basis, are regulated to the far end of the closet to be pulled out for special occasions, and instead of buying fruits and vegetables by the carton, I purchase individual units, carefully perusing each tomato and cucumber for flaws.

Time marches on.

Having an empty nest means just that – the nest is empty. On a daily basis, it’s just me and my husband living in a small two-bedroom apartment. I make two pieces of chicken for lunch; after all, there’s no need for a third.

But my kids remember a mother cooking in bulk, who didn’t bat an eyelash at unexpected company. After all, there’s no real difference if you cook for twelve or fifteen, but now that it’s just the two of us, adding another three portions is a real game changer. I don’t keep a lot of extra food in the house (especially the goodies — I’m afraid that you-know-who will eat them in the middle of the night), so if company’s coming for Shabbos, or any other time of the week, for that matter, it means an additional foray to the grocery store.

According to my editors, this column is dedicated to the needs of the more “mature” woman, but I would imagine that there are some younger women reading this as well (and if there aren’t, may I suggest that any older women reading this causally leave her copy of the Binah on the coffee table, open to this page). So, for the sake of promoting peace and understanding between the generations, I hereby would like to make a few suggestions (in other words, lay down the law) to the younger crowd.

Remember, your shvigger did not tell you this, so continue to adore her, and hopefully she’ll reciprocate in kind, especially after you’ve learned the following rules:

1.       If you want to come for Shabbos, please let me know before Wednesday morning. That’s when I do my shopping; before the pre-Shabbos rush, when the stores are still fairly empty. Of course if there’s a real emergency, you’re always welcome, but please, for your sake and mine, try to avoid emergencies!

2.       If you’re bringing something, let me know beforehand. I love eggplant salad, but four different types is a bit much! Had I known, I would have made something else instead, or even better, not made a salad at all!

3.       Let me know if anyone in your family has special dietary requirements. Bli ayin hara, there are a lot of grandchildren, and I can’t keep track of everyone’s allergies or personal quirks. So please remind me that Shmuelik can’t eat (or refuses to eat) challah sprinkled with sesame seeds, and that Channie can only drink boiled water.

4.       Take care of your children! I love children, especially my grandchildren. I really do. But I also need my Shabbos nap, and (I know this might sound crazy, but it’s the truth) throwing balls in the living room (especially when my good china is out) tends to make me nervous.

5.       I love it when, right after Shabbos is over, I take the grandchildren to the park and you surprise me by cleaning up the house! No, this is not a rule, but if you do this, you’ll get brownie points for good behavior.

6.       Last but not least, please remember to go home! I love it when you come, and I love it when you go. 

a letter sent to Bina by an anonymous reader

Thank you, Debbie for your article about giving away items to children and acknowledging that we will not be in this world forever. Because the concept of death is painful an scary, we frequently bury our head in the sand and pretend that it does not exist. This is all the more so in our generation, when the influence of the outside world makes us perceive aging in a negative light, so different from the Torah perspective.

Paradoxically, openly facing our mortality can enhance the quality of our lives, because we then prioritze energy for the eternal over the transient, which brings us happiness in the Next World as well as in this world. (We have less stress about material/physical/external issues, and character growth, while painful in the short term, brings to inner tranquility, far more than being stuck in the default pleasure focused place.)

Nevertheless, it takes a greatness of spirit to face our mortality in a helathy, honest way. I admire you, Debbie, for achieving that, and wihs you many more happy, healthy years together with yo husband with loads of nachas.

a reader

Needlepoints and Embroidery as appeared in the Binah

 Twenty some years ago, after my mother was moved into a nursing home, my siblings were left with the overwhelming task of figuring out what to do with her belongings. There were a lot of them: seven rooms and a garage packed with over half a century of memories. I am certain that much of what they assumed to be worthless junk was, in reality, precious belongings with great sentimental value, but sadly enough, without being privy to the accompanying stories, almost all of her things ended up in the garbage. I have no doubt that at least some of it was, in reality, precious family heirlooms. 

That’s one of the reasons why, when I cleaned for Pesach this year, I spent a lot of time sorting through my belongings and gave many of them to my children. Among the treasures were several embroidered pictures that I had made years ago, during those long, sunny afternoons at the park, when my friends and I would sit together, watching our children (who are now beginning to marry off their own children!) as they climbed the jungle-gym and slid down the slides (those were the days, my friends…). 

Every year on Erev Pesach, when I carefully remove the pictures from their cloth bag, I am transported to a different period of my life, when, between taking care of the babies and running my home, I never dreamed of finding the quiet that I need to be able to write. Yet, each afternoon there was an oasis of time when I would join a group of young mothers to discuss everything from recipes to the meaning of life while watching my children, and embroider fanciful pictures (I have always been a multi-tasker!).

This year, however, instead of returning my works of art to their cloth bag and promising myself that as soon as Pesach is over, I’ll have them professionally framed, I decided to leave everything and do just that.  The results are stunning.

Some twenty-three years ago, when my first child got engaged, I decided that I would try to give each of my newlywed couples a very special wedding present: a large needlepoint embroidered by yours truly. Well, um, rabos machshavos b’lev ish; some got, and some didn’t. Now, I was delighted to (finally) be able to give the other children what I hoped would eventually become family heirlooms, a piece of myself, something to remember me by, as well as assure that, at least b’derech hateva, these labors of love will not erroneously end up in the dumpster. I can just imagine that half a century from now, one of my great-grandchildren will point to my handiwork and tell her offspring about how the elta, elta bubby, the great tzedekes Devorah (hmmm….) would spend her afternoons at the park, fervently reciting Tehillim (while gabbing away with her friends) as she davened for her children’s hatzlachah and, never being one to let her hands sit idle, embroidered family heirlooms.

This Erev Pesach, I also spent quite a bit of time looking through all our old photographs — boxes and boxes of them, over forty years worth — and gave away over half of them to my children. (Disclaimer: poring over old photos does not magically get rid of the chametz. Rather, it’s using Pesach as an excuse to have fun.) Grinning toddlers in diapers, their faces and hair (ugh!) smeared with toothpaste; freckled girls in freshly pressed uniforms, their hair pulled tightly back into ponytails, showing off their brand new school bags; large hats balanced on the heads of new bar mitzvah bachurim; slightly dazed newly-engaged couples drinking a l’chaim, family wedding pictures. Not only did I enjoy a delightful trip down memory lane, I now have an entire empty shelf in my closet (hmmm… I better place a few strategic knickknacks there, before the tides of clutter rise to cover that shelf).

Reb Nachman of Breslov, zt”l, teaches that a person should strive to leave his daas in this world through doing something that will inspire future generations to come closer to Hashem. I have no doubt that my desire to leave a footprint on the world, to make sure that the children understand the stories behind the treasures, is part of a deeper need that all of us have to leave a piece of ourselves to those who come after us, to ensure that they will learn from our challenges and struggles as well as from the choices that we’ve made, and that by doing so, we have accomplished something of real, eternal value.  

Oh, and speaking of leaving something for the next generation, while cleaning for Pesach this year, I stumbled across a needlepoint that I started over a decade ago and decided to finish it. Another yerushah for the grandchildren, and besides, it’s great therapy for stiff fingers.