Dreaming
But you see, I could handle boys. I would raise boys. Real boys
When I was young and stupid — okay, younger and stupider — I dreamed of a gang of boys. Rough and tough, tumble, bumble, pell-mell, all-over-the-place boys, as leibedig as my brothers were (even though this characterization insulted my mother to no end, because she understood the word to be a euphemism for vilde chaya).
Way back in camp, we were sitting around the bunkhouse and the conversation turned from segulos (Take nine sips of water and kiss the mezuzah between each sip to fast well. Cups, not sips! Sips! Cups! Sips! Cups!) to analyzing personalities. You gotta love girls in camp.
This was me: leibedig, but practical. I loved the outdoors, sports and movement, hiking and canoeing. I knew how to have fun and to get others to join my late-night basketball games, but I also knew when and how to stop and get things done. Also, I scorned segulos. So, of course, I was soooo the type to be a good boy-mom.
And boys are so much more exciting than girls. Girls play their inane little dolly games, and they play school and sheitelmacher. Girls dream elaborate dreams about the day they’ll get married and what their hair and gown will look like. (I did these things too, but don’t tell, it would totally ruin my image.)
For fun, girls bake, and the last thing I need is more fresh cookies. Girls are moody and temperamental, and when they fight, they pinch. Then they give the silent treatment.
Boys, on the other hand…. Boys do stuff! They run! They jump! They build things! They’re not afraid of getting dirty! Or hurt!
They entertain themselves, and when they’re mad at each other, they say it like it is. They kick and make up. They also jump on furniture, and hate to take baths, and sometimes ride in the opposite direction when they’re called in for supper.
But you see, I could handle boys. I would raise boys. Real boys. Boys who climbed to the top of the tree just to scare me. (I wouldn’t get scared.) Boys who took things apart and put them back together. (I’d give them old clocks and phones.) Boys who slept in their handmade tree houses. (I’d build a bonfire so they could roast marshmallows.) Boys who danced Simchas Torah every day of the year. (What pure Yiddishe neshamos! How beautiful that these are their she’ifos!) My boys… Oh, my boys!
And I’d keep them in line à la Captain von Trapp, only with love, not a whistle. My friends would be wide-eyed in amazement: from the top of the jungle gym to eating lunch with a napkin in ten seconds flat? How do you do what you do, Tehila?
Oh, the dreams of the young and stupid.
In real life, I have girls. Lots of girls. Baruch Hashem. I love my girls; they’re funny and amazing. They’re great to be around and have a lot to offer. They’re smart and creative and love to watch the baby. My girls love to bake, and can clean the kitchen really well, which convinces me to say yes.
Also, they hate to play quiet games like house and sheitelmacher, which allow me to get my work done.
Instead, they do things.
They run. They climb to the top of the tree just to scare me. (It works.) They take apart my electronics. (It makes me angry.) They do dangerous stuff and get dirty. (I don’t mind mud outside; just hose yourself off, and dry in the sun, not on my clean towels.)
My girls are loud and leibedig and they jump on furniture and hate to take baths and ride in the opposite direction down the block if I so much as glance in their direction.
But in real life, I hate noise. And chaos. And mess.
I love my girls. And they should run and jump, just not on my couch. Climbing is so healthy when done in the park; hiking in the mountains remains our Chol Hamoed activity of choice; and mock weddings are great — in the basement.
Dreams, though… Dreams are good.
I wonder what my girls’ dreams are made of.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 716)
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