There were no extras at this simchah, so why was Uncle Heshy giving me the cold shoulder?

In our community, there are things you just have to do. I found that out the hard way when my daughter became a kallah and the first credit card statement came through. Believe me, there were no extras at this simchah, so why was Uncle Heshy giving me the cold shoulder?

Ezra: We made the most basic wedding we could, considering our community’s standards. Sure, I stretched beyond my limit, but did I have a choice?

Heshy: I happily gave you funds to cover basic costs, but I’m in shock. How could you spend a fortune on frivolities with other people’s money? 

Ezra

Perhaps if we lived somewhere else, things would be different.

But moving is not really an option. We have a home, jobs, and kids of all ages and stages settled in their various schools and yeshivos. We have a shul and a rav, wonderful neighbors, and we’re part of a beautiful community.

So yes, there’s a downside: the high costs of living, the standards that have become the norm, the housing crisis, the tuition costs, and the expectations that have only grown over the years.

It’s a small price to pay — haha, pun intended — for all of the brachah in our lives.

That’s the little speech I give myself on a fairly regular basis. We love where we live, the kids are amazing, and they’re growing up in a wonderful environment. It’s just all a little… costly. And as they get older and we have a houseful of teens, plus several younger ones, the expenses mount faster than fresh potato kugel disappears on a Friday afternoon.

My wife and I are both in chinuch, which is basically all you need to know about our income. In the past, we managed nicely. These days, it’s not such smooth sailing anymore. The needs are just too much and too many, and even as we think twice or three times about each purchase, even while we still say no to more things than I’d really like, there’s still so much that our children do legitimately need.

And then there are the luxuries that feel incomprehensible to me, but somehow mean the world to my kids.

Like leasing a car. We had our own car for years, a jalopy if there ever was one. Broken door handles, windows that didn’t open, a tendency to break down at the most inconvenient times (it had a particular preference for Erev Yom Tov crises), and eventually, a repair bill that amounted to more than the whole car was worth.

When we had to get rid of the car, I thought I’d be able to buy a new one — well, a new old one, a second-hand model a few years old. But when I started researching prices, I was in for a shock. They were…                                                                                                                                                                        . Higher than high. Unaffordable. And this was for a second-hand car, which would probably need repairs, and there was no guarantee how long it would last, or whether there was some issue lurking inside the engine to haunt me after I paid for it.

I did some more homework, and a fellow from shul recommended a car leasing agency to me. The prices were… well, decent, I guess, comparatively. And the cars were something else — sleek and shiny and elegant, with door handles that opened the doors and windows that purred gently opening and closing, just like they were supposed to.

Oh. So this is why leasing was such a thing.

“You’ll save all the money on repairs, make sure you account for that,” my yeshivah bochur reminded me.

As if I could forget.

I ended up signing the lease. The first time I got into the Honda Odyssey I was almost nervous to touch the steering wheel. It was all so fancy and spotless and new. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t us, our family.

But I reminded myself as I gunned the engine and leaned back into the upholstery — this is what I had to do. We didn’t exactly have a choice.