Being Jewish in December

I took GI to the doctor today, dragging SB along for the ride. The doctor was trying to engage SB by asking him if he's made his list for Santa yet. SB didn't seem to know what the doctor was asking, but he also didn't know what to say in response. I quickly jumped in and told the doctor that SB's birthday is coming up, which prompted the doctor, who apparently also has a December birthday, to commiserate about getting only half the gifts, because you get combined birthday and Christmas gifts. Poor SB was still confused, especially when the doctor asked SB when his birthday is, and SB proudly exclaimed that it's today. GI was unhappy (to put it mildly) about his doctor's visit, and I really just wanted to nurse the poor guy and get him home, so I wasn't in the mood to launch into an explanation about how we're Jewish, don't celebrate Christmas, and that today is SB's birthday on the Hebrew calendar, which we also celebrate, even though his English birthday isn't for another two weeks. I let poor SB be bewildered and the doctor think he was just absorbed in playing a game on the phone (which he was).

If NJ had been there, he would have proudly explained everything to the doctor. He's open that way. I guess as an adult, I've learned to be a little cautious about advertising our differences, sometimes because I'm just not in the mood for explanations of explanations, and other times because I just don't feel like being different. It's not fear, exactly, just burn-out. I've spent my life explaining to others about my religion and practice, and now I just want to do what I do and not open up the discussion constantly. I also didn't want the doctor to be embarrassed about having asked.

It's not that I don't want to educate, and it's certainly not that I don't want my kids to be proud of their heritage. I have no problem sitting down at an appropriate and convenient time and place and explaining anything anyone wants to know. It's mainly fatigue that prevents such discussion from happening more often.

I thought about what NJ would have done. "We don't celebrate Christmas," he would have said, just informing, not offensively at all. "We celebrate Hannukah." And as for the birthday question, "Today's his Hebrew birthday. His English birthday is on the 17th." NJ doesn't realize that not everybody understands when he pipes up with information like that. And he doesn't care. He's proud of who he is, of having the knowledge that he has, and of being different.

The other day, in the mall, we went past the area set up for pictures with Santa. A kindly-looking Santa, sitting in his chair with no children to pose with, waved merrily to SB and GI. I could see the wheels turning in SB's head. "Huh?" he was probably thinking. He knows of Santa Claus. He'll point out a display and say, "That's Santa Claus!" But I don't think he really knows who Santa is, or what the significance is for children who do celebrate Christmas. Indeed, last year, NJ proudly came home from kindergarten and informed us that he had told his friends that Santa isn't real. Fortunately, none of his friends' parents called to complain! And there was the memorable year in which a three-year-old NJ pointed excitedly to a big Santa decoration in Costco and exclaimed, "There's Samantha!" SB, since he's not even in a daycare or preschool setting, has not been exposed to Christmas very much at all, except for the decorations all over the place, so I don't know what he thinks "Christmas" is all about.

I don't feel that my kids are "missing out" on anything by not celebrating Christmas. For one thing, it's hard to "miss" something you've never experienced. We don't do a "Hannukah bush," or put up lights or decorations that mimic those we see throughout our neighborhood. Those don't have anything to do with Hannukah and are just a way to make the Jewish kids feel less left out. Instead, I hope that by instilling Jewish values in them year-round, and celebrating Jewish holidays with them year-round, they'll be proud and happy to be Jewish. They had a great time building and decorating a Sukkah in October, celebrating the Passover seder, and dancing with the Torah on Simchat Torah, and they will love the simple beauty of lighting the Hannukah menorah. If one is Jewish all year round, and not just in December, then there is plenty of celebrating to be done. And, hey, who wouldn't want to celebrate two birthdays every year?

I still worry about what will happen as my children mature and move away from my sphere of influence. I do hope that instilling a love of Judaism and Jewish practice in them when they are young will carry them forward. I hope NJ's enthusiasm will never wane. I hope that SB won't lose that innocence. I hope I can take a lesson from NJ in unashamedly and unabashedly speaking up when someone asks if Santa is coming to our house, or if we have our tree yet.

For more thoughts on the winter holidays, I wrote this piece on the Christmas/Hannukah issue a couple of years ago in a now-defunct blog. I also wrote this one about celebrating Shabbat dinner on Christmas Eve that same year.

Happy Birthday, NJ!

It is my oldest son's sixth birthday today. The past week or so, I've been reflecting on the last six years and how dramatically my life has changed. On this blog, I talk a lot about the impact of a child's birth, about choosing whether to breastfeed, about sleep training and car seats and other aspects of infant care, and sometimes I think it's not obvious that NJ is a big boy now. He's six. He doesn't need breastmilk or formula. I haven't just given birth to him. He's been out of diapers for years. He is still in a booster seat. And, now that my child is turning six, why do I still dwell on these six-year-old details?

After all, he doesn't remember how he was fed as an infant. He doesn't know how he was born. He doesn't know how I cried over not breastfeeding him, how I wrestled with the decision to attempt a VBAC with his brother, how my experiences with him have shaped my life. Six years have put me in a completely different place, a different mindset, and a different role than I ever imagined for myself.

At six, NJ eats regular solid foods, sleeps through the night in his own bed, showers and dresses himself, brushes his own teeth, is reasonably healthy, goes to school every morning, and talks a mile a minute. You can't tell, looking at my six-year-old, that he was formula fed. You can't tell that he was born by c-section. You won't see that I spent months of his infancy struggling with PPD because of the mode of his birth and my perceived "failure" at breastfeeding.

I remember baby NJ, and I remember giving him bottles, the pain of the c-section. But, as for him, you don't see a formula-fed baby when you look at him today. You don't see the perfectly round head of a baby delivered by c-section. You don't see the bottles or the cans of formula. That's not what makes a person. That's a year or two lived in the blink of an eye. That's not what you see when you look at my six-year-old.

What I hope you will see is a boy who knows he is loved, a boy who loves his parents and his brothers, a boy who is concerned for his family's well-being. What I hope you will see is a tall, handsome, red-headed boy full of curiosity and ideas about the world, optimistic and enthusiastic. What I hope you will see is an affectionate and talkative boy, a bright boy, an outgoing and uninhibited boy.

And he is a boy now.

He is no longer a floppy, perfect newborn.

He is no longer the charming infant.

Or the inquisitive toddler.

Or the bright preschooler.

Now he is a big boy. A first-grader. A grade-schooler, through and through. 

A few weeks ago, I watched him walking out of class with a friend, chatting about who-knows-what, backpack on his back, with no teacher ushering him from one place to another, unconcerned with looking for me at the gate, and I realized, he really is growing up. He's a boy, with his own ideas and interests, his own view of the world. He can come up with his own conversation topics and share his interests with friends. He is in charge of his own head, and while he still needs me to teach him right from wrong and how to behave, his opinions are his own (the occasional "right, Mommy?" tacked on to the end of a sentence notwithstanding). 

One day, I will watch this incredible child don the cap and gown and march proudly down the aisle to receive his high school diploma. One day, I will (G-d willing) see him wed under the chuppah. One day (G-d willing), I will weep tears of joy at holding his own little red-headed baby, who will look just like that tiny baby he once was. 

And, judging from how fast these first six years have gone, I have the feeling that it really won't be long at all.

Will I, 20 years from now, still ruminate about his birth? Probably. Though long ago in the great scheme of things, the facts will never change. I will always wonder what impact the circumstances of his birth and infancy had on his health, his personality, and my bond with him. I will always wonder what might have been different. I will always feel a twinge of guilt that his brothers have gotten something that I couldn't give him. Does it mean I love him less? No. Does it mean he's not as smart as he could be? I don't see how. Does it mean he's not as healthy as he could have been? Maybe. But we can't forget to keep looking forward. Thinking about the past is only helpful if it influences how we handle future decisions. I hope that I make good choices for NJ as he grows, and I know that I will be able to provide him with the support he needs when, one day, G-d willing, he is ready to enter this scary and unimaginably rewarding adventure of parenthood.

Happy birthday, my first born. Happy birthday, my dear, dear boy. May you always look forward and take the lessons you've learned and put them to good use. May I merit to see you called to the Torah as a bar mitzvah, wed under the chuppah, and grow into a mensch.