Hey Dum Diddly Dum
| February 18, 2025On the way, we make lots of stops, eat lots of snacks, and listen to lots and lots of Uncle Moishy
MY daughter will be 27 months next week, which means I’ve had Uncle Moishy songs stuck in my head for about two years. My sister says it’s an occupational hazard of being a frum mother.
In our house, we know all the songs: the famous ones like “One Is Hashem,” the obscure ones like “Silly Zoo,” the old ones like “I Have a Mezuzah,” and the new ones like “Make a Bracha.” Sometimes, my daughter insists on hearing one song over and over and over again.
We sing Shabbos songs all week and plenty of songs about Yamim Tovim, sometimes even in the right season. When someone plays the original tune of an Uncle Moishy song, all I hear is The Famous Uncle Moishy, who teaches Jewish boys and girls all about Torah and mitzvos. I grumble about it, mostly good-naturedly, and then go back to humming along.
My in-laws live in Toronto, and it’s a long, long drive. On the way, we make lots of stops, eat lots of snacks, and listen to lots and lots of Uncle Moishy. It is my husband’s and my entertainment in the car, too. With apologies to Uncle Moishy, we nitpick the rhymes and analyze the lyrics with fervor.
Shloimy Shpader, for example, was “the world’s worst procrastinator.” We debate whether “worst” is the right word. If he was so adept at putting things off, wouldn’t it be more accurate to say “best?” Gedalia Goomber sparks critique, too: We admire his refrain of “ain’t gonna work on Saturday,” but we can’t ignore his poor time management skills, landing him in Erev Shabbos predicaments week after week. We wonder about Cousin Nachum. Is he Uncle Moishy’s cousin, making him our first cousin once removed? Or, if Uncle Moishy is the universal uncle, is the universal cousin his son?
Our discussions go deeper than that, too. Sometimes, we discuss the messages and debate whether we agree with how they’re given over. Songs lead to conversations about values and priorities and help us articulate our feelings in a way that Perfect Matches never did.
One Tuesday morning, my cleaning lady canceled. My husband called on his way home from Shacharis.
“Rosalia can’t come today. Gam zu l’tovah, I guess,” I grumbled, not sounding entirely convinced.
My two-year-old looked up from where she was playing on the carpet and chimed in, “Gam zu l’tovah, this, too, is for the best.”
“That’s right!” I told her, and I couldn’t help but smile. I knew that she didn’t understand what she was saying, but I was happy that these were the messages that she was learning to sing and dance to. Maybe it was time to stop grumbling.
The next day, I noticed that new neighbors had moved in. I drove past their house twice during the morning playgroup run. I slowed down to drive around the moving truck and felt a flash of sympathy for them — moving was so hard. I found the neighbor’s number and sent a text: Hi, welcome! Can we have you over for a Shabbos meal?
As I cooked for Shabbos that Thursday, I sang, “Turn now to your left, give a smile, and say, ‘Hi, there, let’s be friends, that’s the Torah way!’”
My husband looked up from the marinade he was making. “You heard that song today?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so. We’ve mostly been listening to “Willoughby Wallaby.”
“So why are you singing it? Because we invited our new neighbors?”
I laughed as I measured the garlic. “No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe that is why,” I conceded. I dropped in a tablespoon of paprika. “But they live on our right side, not the left.” And I started complaining about good old Uncle Moishy even less.
Last week, as I kneaded my challah dough, the playlist that I was listening to ended, and I heard the exaggerated door-creaking sound that opens the song “Give a Little Tzedakah.” My first thought was I really need to update my credit card for Vzakeini. Then I considered stopping my kneading, washing my hands, and turning my own music back on.
For an instant, I paused. Then I shrugged, continued kneading, and hummed along, because if Hashem is truly everywhere is playing on repeat in my head, well… hey dum diddly dum.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 932)
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