The Lilith Blog

It is finally upon us – the Jewish annual summertime killjoy – Tisha B’Av – the ninth of Av. My daughter came home from her Chabad day camp last week with her bathing suit. “Why did they send this home,” I wondered aloud as I scraped the remnants of her peanut-butter sandwich off of the straps. “We’re not going swimming anymore,” she told me somberly. “Because of Moshiach (the Messiah).” I made my best muppet face and tried to nod understandingly.

Tisha B’Av, an annual fast-day, marks a number of calamities that occurred throughout Jewish history, most notably the destructions of the first and second temples. Traditionally, the period of mourning which culminates on Tisha B’Av begins three weeks earlier, on the seventeenth of Tamuz. During this period of time, referred to as the Three Weeks, some Jews refrain from listening to live music, shaving, or cutting their hair. Weddings are traditionally not held during this time. The mourning intensifies after Rosh Hodesh Av – the first day of the month of Av, and continues through the nine days preceding the fast day. During this time, some refrain from eating meat, doing laundry, and – swimming. Precisely when most people in the Northern Hemisphere are splashing in the water, we remember that we have been singled out throughout history, and, in commemoration, put our bathing suits on the shelf and sit on the side, trying to shade ourselves from the hot sun.

Growing up in the modern Orthodox Jewish world, I went to summer-camps where, during this period of time, Instructional Swim was allowed, and Free Swim was taboo. You couldn’t have too much fun in the water, but they had to somehow fill those long summer days. I remembered those doggy-paddling days when, after the girls were tucked into bed, on the Eve of the Eve of Tisha B’Av, I snuck out for a swim. As I flew through the water, I tried unsuccessfully to suppress the overwhelming dolphin-like joy I feel half-way into the swim, and then wondered why I was trying to suppress it. On my way home, the week-old moon peeked at me from the twilight sky. We looked at each other, and I realized that I still hadn’t quite figured out my belief and practice system. I then had a moon epiphany: everything I’d thought was true about grown-ups, including the notion that they knew what was right, let alone what they thought was right, was illusory. Instead, our cycles are like the moon’s – moments of shining clarity, moments of hidden uncertainty.

This week, to fill the time that she’s not swimming, my daughter is, together with the other three-year-olds at camp, building the Beis Hamikdash – the Temple – brick by brick, by doing mitzvot, good deeds. I love her camp. I love the idea that we, with our little dimpled fists, and our passion, and our vision, build the world we want to live in. I wonder, though, if somehow, we could build in our bathing suist, splashing and soaring through the moonlit-water.

–Maya Bernstein

My husband, Noam, and I just returned from vacation. Swimming in a lake, hiking in the mountains amidst a sea of wild flowers, late afternoon ice-cream cones, and French toast for breakfast. Each activity, though, was asterisked – “swimming” meant spending hours gathering rocks, putting them in pails, and making sand mud-pies. “Hiking” involved the number of footsteps we could take before running out of pretzels, raisins, and juice boxes. The ice cream included enough napkins for us to feel personally responsible for the destruction of the natural forest around us, and the delectable breakfast was consumed at 7am. We took the kids.

The trip involved many hours of driving in each direction with two children under the age of four. We did the hokey-pokey (yes, you can do it sitting down) several hundred times. We sang “Hello, Everybody” several thousand times. I told stories about Maki the Magic Monkey and did my monkey-face for so long that my cheeks hurt for hours afterwards.

On the way back, the kids immediately both fell asleep. Noam and I looked at each other and let out a deep breath. We grinned. We’ve tired them out, we told each other. They’ll sleep at least three hours, maybe four, and then we’ll be nearly home. We put on Nick Drake. We busted out the chocolate. After about half an hour, I fell asleep, only to be awakened, five minutes later, by the baby, who was yelling her sister’s name at the top of her lungs. I stuck the pacifier back in her mouth, but to no avail. We became possessed with trying to prevent her from waking up her sister, who had spent the majority of the way there screaming, “When are we going to be there?” I gave her a box of raisins, which was, within moments, dumped in the car seat. I gave her toys, which were, immediately, flung to the floor. We got desperate. I gave her some old batteries, which she clanked together for a few minutes. Finally, Noam passed me his phone – the Holy Grail. That would buy us at least six minutes of silence. I sighed, and looked out the window. Only three hours and seven minutes left, I thought. Suddenly, my phone started ringing. “Shut it off,” Noam whispered. “Put it on vibrate!” I scrambled to retrieve it, pushing aside peeled crayons and doll clothes. When I finally found it, I held it in my hand, staring. The screen said “Noam.” It took a minute to register, and then I started laughing. “It’s our daughter calling from the back seat -she’s trying to reach me.” I turned and looked back at her. She gave me a newly toothy smile, and yelled her sister’s name, finally waking her.

Vacation with children is asterisked. Its elemental components – sleep, the free choice to do what you want when you want, and feeling cared for – are severely compromised. And yet, those moments – the toothy baby smiles, the wonder in their eyes as they see snow-capped mountains for the first time, and, forgetting to whine, run through patches of yellow wildflowers – glow within, lingering, like sun-kisses, as true vacations do.

–Maya Bernstein

I was roller-blading with my kids in the double stroller this past Sunday, heading from morning mud-pies in the park to summer peaches at the farmer’s market. As I weaved my way through the crowd of shoppers, a woman who attends the same yoga class that I do caught my eye. She smiled, and asked: “Are you babysitting?” My eyes widened with surprise. I had to stop and think for a minute. Then, as I skated by her, I found my voice, and shouted – “No, they’re my kids!”

I guess I could take it as a compliment. Though, I had thought that after birthing two children I would no longer be confused with a graduating 8th grader. (And I’m sure that she wasn’t using the term in the way that supermarket women use it with my husband when they smile at him ask if he is “babysitting,” implying that, somehow, a father’s spending time with his children is a perk – especially impressive if he’s also doing the shopping). But I was surprised by my reaction – that momentary pause, during which I actually had to think – am I babysitting?

There have been multiple times – last week, in fact – during which I look at my girls and think – who are these creatures, and what are they doing in my bedroom? I wonder – how long does it take to sink in?

I remember buying prenatal vitamins for the first time. I’d been married for almost three years. When I looked up from my wallet to give the guy at the check-out counter my credit card, I was surprised by how cute he was, and how he was looking at me, and I blushed. I was pregnant! I was buying prenatal vitamins! Happily married! It’s like buying tampons. It took me years to feel comfortable. I’d have a running dialogue in my head – they’re not really for me – I don’t need these. I’m buying them for my mom. For a friend. Please don’t look in the bag. When I was working at my first job, I had a meeting with a woman at her house, and her four-year-old daughter answered the door. She looked me up and down and asked: are you a grown-up or a kid? I could not answer.

How long does it take for your life to catch up with you? To realize that those kids in the stroller are your kids? And, is it okay, when, on that rare occasion, you’re skating solo, no stroller to set your course, to, for a moment, forget?

–Maya Bernstein