Rosco loves acorns with a deep, abiding love. No matter how far I throw an acorn, he will run after it and bring it back to me, proudly dropping it at my feet. If it falls under a bush, he will crawl under that bush, oblivious to thorns, mud, and other inconveniences. Interestingly, he will ignore all other acorns on the ground — he only wants the one I’ve thrown. He’ll interrupt this serious business of retrieving for only one thing: to chew on the acorn, reducing it to tiny pieces, which he then expects me to throw so he can fetch them back.

In the quiet of the forest, throwing an acorn and waiting for Rosco to retrieve it, I thought about Moshe’s words.

Time-out. A parent sends a beloved child to sit alone in a room, so he or she has a chance to calm down. To think quietly. To learn a lesson. Locked down at home, with many of our distractions closed off to us, we’ve been given that time, to think and to learn.

What have I learned?

As I watched Rosco gnaw on that acorn, at the profound intensity with which he was going about what was essentially a silly and useless business, an unexpected thought flashed into my mind.

How many acorns do you chew on, Meem?

Someone slighted me, said something hurtful. Are you still gnawing on that encounter, unimportant as it was? A computer glitch brings me to tears. Is the health of your cyberworld that serious, or are you chewing an acorn? I really, really wanted X, Y, or Z —and I didn’t get it. Was it a necessity? Or just another acorn?

I don’t pretend to know the reason for this tragic time in our lives. But through the mourning and the tears, I’ve learned to ask myself: Is this truly important? Or is it just an acorn?

Emmy Leah considers that…

It’s Not about the Goldfish

It’s not about the goldfish. A byword in our family, inspired by my daughter Ahuva,* a school psychologist. It’s a psychological concept that might make Sigmund Freud tug at his beard…

It should have been a quiet, enjoyable Shabbos for Ahuva, on the army base with Captain Eli,* her young husband and unit doctor. Precious time together for a couple who’d spent many Shabbosim apart because of hospital and army training.

It didn’t work out that way, and for the worst of reasons. That Friday night, there was an especially shocking terror attack in a nearby yishuv. Soldiers on the small Nachal Chareidi base raced out. Ahuva was left with a handful of soldiers on guard, while her husband led first responders to the horrific site.

Today’s psychologists know that immediate counseling is critical in avoiding later episodes of PTSD. Ahuva had just completed a course in on-site, post-trauma treatment, so she advised her young husband how to help the soldiers who had witnessed the horror that shattered the peaceful Shabbos and destroyed a family.

Ahuva and Eli were born around the First Gulf War. Both had spent time as infants in gas-impermeable cribs. When they went to gan, buses were being bombed during the First Intifada; in high school, shootings and stabbings of the Second Intifada were regular occurrences. Both had internalized the Israeli value of going on despite fear, despite grief.

So that Motzaei Shabbos, Ahuva drove herself home. My husband and I offered to come to her apartment in Petach Tikvah, but she assured us she was fine.

And she was. The next morning, work as usual. She tested young pupils, advised parents, counseled teachers. All as it should be.

Until that evening, when she called us crying, nearly hysterical.

Her goldfish had died.

Another daughter and son-in-law were with me when I got the call. We said, almost in unison, “This is not about the goldfish.”

We drove quickly to Petach Tikvah. My son-in-law discreetly disposed of the goldfish.

Psychologists are supposed to listen, but now Ahuva talked out her loneliness, her fear, the horror. Washing the blood out of Eli’s uniform, driving home escorted by army jeeps as soldiers combed the area for additional terrorists.

A lot of emotion floating about in the now-empty goldfish bowl….

That was years ago. Now we’re all facing the new trauma of a coronavirus world.

Erev Pesach. I’d accepted the Seder-without-kids, coped with Pesach-shopping-by-proxy, was handling the fear and the sadness.

Until my own goldfish moment.

Eli and Ahuva were preparing to make their own Seder for the first time. Eli is now stationed near Beit Shemesh, and I packed up two bags of Pesach equipment. There was a general lockdown, but hey, Eli was a doctor, as well as an officer driving an army car. They’d certainly let him in to grab the goodies.

Only they didn’t.

Eli called to tell us the police wouldn’t allow him the two-minute drive from outside the city to our house. I looked at the bags I’d packed — and burst into tears.

It wasn’t about the ke’arah, the brownies, or Ahuva’s favorite ArtScroll Children’s Haggadah. It wasn’t about the gefilte fish (goldfish?).

It was about the emotions packed in those bags. Sadness at not hearing Ahuva’s two-year-old son saying his first Mah Nishtanah. Fears about being considered “at risk.” Frustration at having to accept help instead of giving it.

This story has a happy ending. I dried my tears. My husband and I donned masks, grabbed the bags, raced to the roadblock. We explained the situation, and the police allowed us to leave the bags outside Eli’s car.

My children would enjoy our world-famous charoses. I could feel like a giving mother again.

When your child throws a tantrum for no apparent reason; when your wife bursts into tears because the computer froze; when your husband slams the door shut after being interrupted in his learning yet again… be aware that there might be more going on than small annoyances and overreactions.

Talk things out. Listen. Give everyone a chance to express their fears and frustrations.

And remember: Whatever it is, it’s not about the goldfish.

Marcia undergoes…

An Evolving “Pettitude”

“So, would you recommend a Syrian, a Chinese, or a Dwarf? A male? Or a female?”

I’m referring, of course, to hamsters. Talking to a pet store clerk in Boca Raton, I chuckle inwardly: I can’t believe how my attitude toward pets — pettitude? — has evolved over the years.

Yaffa died on Shavuos. We uncovered her cage in the morning, and there she was, a tiny heap at the bottom.

Not a total surprise. For days she’d sat motionless on her perch, more of a feathery puff ball than a parakeet.

After Yom Tov we put her in a shoebox and held a funeral service in the backyard rose garden. I must have been around 11, the twins around 6. We made a big deal about it being Dovid Hamelech’s yahrtzeit. And we shared fond Yaffa memories, mostly about how dumb she was — never really got finger trained or learned whatever parakeets are supposed to learn. But we loved and mourned her anyway. (Actually, we’d never ascertained that she was, indeed, a she.)

Our next unfortunate pet was Mitzi. The cutest little chocolate-furred, floppy-eared mutt. One of our father’s customers had brought a litter into the butcher store, and our parents — though both steeped in that common frum pettitude of “hindt” aversion — caved to our pleading, whining, and cajoling.

Not a happy experience. Our father would mumble about being unable to say a brachah in the same room as Mitzi. Our mother would grumble about our futile attempts at housebreaking. We’d walk her for hours, struggling to keep her from jumping at every passing dog — even those ten times her size — but no results. Then, the minute we’d get home… bam, on the kitchen floor.

After a few frustrating weeks, we returned from school one day to find Mitzi… gone! Our father claimed she’d run away. He stuck to that story despite our direst suspicions.

Some people aren’t meant to have pets.

Years later, the pets my own kids wheedled into our house didn’t fare much better. I can’t count how many goldfish went belly-up, how many tadpoles drowned because they couldn’t figure out how to climb onto the rock we’d diligently supply for the moment they’d morph into froghood.

Then my younger son started begging for a hamster. That’s when I turned into Mean Mom: No more pets. Especially those of the furry variety.

My son took my pronouncement especially hard. “Someday,” he vowed, “I’ll get whatever pet I want.”

And he did.

Now he does kiruv in Vegas with his wife, three boys, and… Tebow, a golden retriever mix. How many Chofetz Chaim musmachim do you know who own dogs?

When any of the baalei teshuvah in his Community Kollel asks about Tebow’s name, he jokes: “Every rabbi should name his dog after an NFL quarterback.” A great conversation starter, a common denominator that helps continue the dialogue.

While still in New York, Tebow would come along for the ride to Silver Spring. But, with my negative pettitude toward furry friends, he’d be banished to my neighbors’ home. After a few visits, I agreed to let him stay in our uncarpeted basement, which opened to our backyard. There he’d spend most of the day, forbidden to come upstairs under any circumstances. Of course, with each subsequent visit, he’d venture higher up the stairs, until…

Tebow became my grand-dog.

These days, when visiting Vegas, I bring toys for my three grandsons… and a doggie bone for Tebow.

So why am I in a Boca pet store? I’m in town for another grandson’s bar mitzvah. For his gift, Yitzchak asked for my late husband’s Mishnayos set, complete with his Zeidy’s colored Post-it tabs.

On a less spiritual level, he asked for a hamster. His parents — who’d inherited the no-fur pettitude — reluctantly allowed it on condition that it never be seen outside Yitzchak’s bedroom.

This pet store expedition includes Yitzchak, his younger brother, and his Silver Spring cousin. I turn to my three grandsons: “Let’s go with the male Syrian.” Then, to the clerk: “Now let’s talk equipment. Only deluxe.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 696)