… bribing my child.

WE live in the heart of Lakewood, surrounded by very yeshivish families, obviously, and I never had to worry about my children being exposed to anything we didn’t want them to be.

Until my now 16-year-old son was 11 and became friends with a boy who lived a few streets over, who came from a home with a lot of dysfunction. The community tried to help, but they weren’t very successful. The older sisters ended up going off the derech, and this boy became very brazen, loud, and angry. He clung to my son in a way that was toxic and talked about all kinds of inappropriate stuff with him, which he knew from the unfiltered access to technology he had via his older sisters.

Even though my heart broke for this boy and his family circumstances, I knew their relationship was detrimental to my son’s well-being. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

We consulted with a leading chinuch expert. The first thing he said we should do was go away for the entire summer to help break the connection between them. So even though it was  expensive, we rented a bungalow in the Catskills for two months, in a place that had spotty cell phone reception. Yes, that was deliberate.

When we came back, we told our son that if he went up to the kid and said, “Sorry, we can’t talk anymore, ever,” and made it really clear that the friendship was over, we’d buy him a really expensive fancy scooter. Not just a Hoverboard, but all-the-bells-and-whistles type thing (these were very popular, and it was a huge purchase).

And guess what? My son really did it. That was it. They never spoke again. He completely and utterly ended the relationship. People say getting a kid to cut off a toxic friendship isn’t possible, but for us, it totally worked — for the right price.

The postscript to this story is that my son is now 16 years old and a very, very cool kid. Not off the derech, chas v’shalom, but definitely cool. And the kid who we got him to cut off from? He found a mentor who helped him out of the hole he was digging himself into, and today he’s a top guy in a prestigious yeshivah.

I don’t regret what we did, but it’s funny how life works.

—Chana

… a Stanley cup.

W

hen Stanleys first became a Thing in my daughter’s class, I poked a great deal of good-natured fun. “So explain. You’re in class and someone calls, ‘Stanley!’ and all the water bottles turn their little wet heads? And spill?” I wanted to know. “How do you know whose is whose? Do they have last names or middle initials?”

Fortunately, my daughter was young enough that she found my ribbing side-splitting rather than cringe. In fact, I did such a good job making fun of the trend that a friend from a different neighborhood called to tell me that my daughter Suri was holding forth to a group of the local girls about the silliness of this latest must-have.

“She has such good values,” said my friend, admiringly, and I was still a dumb enough parent to feel a tinge of pride.

I was reminded of another friend who told me once, “My kids don’t value gashmiyus because we always talk about how unimportant it is.” And I was like, “Oh, is that all there is to it?” But for once, I was that parent whose wise lessons had found fertile ground. I’d done it! I’d successfully imparted a timeless value. My child was not a sheep.

Until two weeks later. When Chavi, Dassa, and Esther all got Stanleys. Turns out, principle and knowing better is no match for Everyone Has, and Suri really, really wanted one. This was going to be the ONLY fad I had to buy this year. Because THIS one was actually a useful item. Also, did she mention that Chavi, Dassa, and Esther had all gotten one?

We bought one the next day for $30.

—Hadassah

… breathwork. 

I love my life. I love my small house and my many children. But at the end of each day, I feel like I need out.

Except I can’t go out. Because… life.

So I eat ice cream. Insane amounts of ice cream. Salted caramel, pistachio, butterscotch — never just one flavor. I rotate. Back and forth, spoon to spoon, like a dessert DJ. That way I don’t get bored, and I can just… keep going.

My weight isn’t the issue. But my health? You don’t need a medical degree to know this is a terrible habit. An addiction, even.

I tried stopping. I really did. But at the end of the day, those creamy scoops brought me joy. They brought me calm. And maybe even a tiny bit of escape.

Then one day, my sister was rummaging through my freezer and gasped. “I knew it was bad, but not this bad. This is crazy. You need to change.”

She suggested hypnosis and breathwork. “You should ask them to hypnotize you into seeing your ice cream with vegetable soup glooping all over it.”

Now that was a gross image.

If her breathwork lady could make me see pistachio swirl as pea soup sludge, I was in.
So I went. I sat on a mushy pillow in a room filled with plants and low, dreamy music. Susan, the
therapist, whispered affirmations in my ear and led me through breathing exercises. It was
peaceful, grounding.

And then I came home…
… and absolutely demolished a pint of ice cream.

My sister was unfazed. “No, no. You have to keep going. Like five times. It builds.”
Another $200 a session. For five more sessions.
What can I say? It just wasn’t for me.

—Kayla

… cleaning help.

I

come from a line of strong, hardworking women who can truly do it all: raise a large family, work full-time, and keep a spotless home on their own. For the few short tekufos that my mother had cleaning help, it was never on Friday because she didn’t want to outsource her Shabbos preparations. We all chipped in. My two sisters who have reliable help don’t need it — you can literally lick their floors. My other two sisters don’t have reliable help, and they don’t need it either — their houses are spotless.

For years I had my token Friday help (I was never as good as my mother), and I took pride in not needing more. Sure, it got messy during the day — I have a large family, baruch Hashem — but I trained my children, and with only a little grumbling, my house was put back together every night.

Until this year. I can’t point to any particular moment that I realized it would be better for me and my family if I had someone come in every morning to make my house livable. She does no laundry and no heavy cleaning. I asked for no extra time on Erev Pesach. But when she leaves, I breathe a little easier knowing she tackled the beds, the bathrooms, and the kitchen floor.

“You have to know your limitations,” a good friend told me when I shared my new reality with her. I bristled. I can keep a clean house! But slowly, I’m learning my limitations. And I recommend help to everyone I meet.

The money adds up pretty quickly, but now, when my house is a wreck at 7 p.m., and I galvanize the troops, it’s with relief. She’ll be back tomorrow.

—Aliza

… a new kids’ wardrobe for one Shabbos.

D

uring the early years of our marriage, we lived in a very simple kollel community where the
gashmiyus standards were intentionally low. I had neighbors who wore the same Shabbos outfits for eight years straight, neighbors who offered and accepted hand-me-downs without a hint of embarrassment. Barely anyone subscribed to the concept of dressing kids in matching outfits or getting new Shabbos shoes every season, or socks to match. Black patent leather matches everything, right?

I didn’t grow up in this community, but I grew to love the lack of pressure. I loved the fact that my kids could wear the same Shabbos shoes the whole year, without that crazy and pointless wait for the summer shoes when you’re so busy cleaning for Pesach. I loved the idea of just opening up the box of hand-me-downs and moving them right into the closet, without the pinning and hemming and taking in or letting out that my sisters were doing before each season. No one in my neighborhood would notice or care if the dress was an inch too long, believe me. And considering our kollel budget — which we strained and stretched to get through the month — it was a huge relief not to have to care.

Then my sister got engaged, and I realized that my kids would be showing up at Shabbos sheva brachos with their not-matching, not-in-season, not-perfectly altered outfits. Which was okay with me, but probably not so okay with my mother, who really does care about these things. I imagined her introducing her nachas to her friends… and feeling so uncomfortable with their appearance.

I thought long and hard and made a big decision. Then I spent the next few weeks running from store to store, buying the “right” outfits and the “right” shoes and the “right” accessories. It took a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of money. And we totally didn’t need that degree of polish and attention to detail for our regular lives in our very simple community. But I had reached a certain point of clarity: It’s not a mitzvah to cause my mother shame and discomfort in front of her friends. So I held on to that clarity and went out and spent the money to get my family up to her standards.

—Raizy

… extending my mother-in-law’s visit.

MY daughter was born right after Succos, which, because we were thinking ahead, seemed like the perfect time, because one day she’d have a bas mitzvah and my parents and in-laws, who always visited us at Succos time, would be able to be there.

In my area of Beit Shemesh, bas mitzvahs are modest: a house party with cousins, aunts, and a few friends, and of course, the grandmothers. Our plan was simple: bagels, salads, cakes, a few custom cookies. My daughter would wear a new Shabbos dress; I’d take the photos. A cute activity, a nice speech. Beautiful and low-key. No halls, no dance instructor screaming into a mic over blasting music, no themed swag. I felt grateful not to face the pressure my sisters in the States did — people spent months planning every detail, sometimes calling me in tears over the stress of getting everything “just right.”

But life unraveled. A post-Succos flood forced us to make immediate repairs on our house. Then my mother flew back to America because my sister-in-law was about to give birth, promising to return by Chanukah.

By the time our apartment was fixed and the bris celebrated, she was ready to come back. That’s when we realized my mother-in-law, who’d been in Israel since Succos, was leaving right before Chanukah. We awkwardly asked her if she could possibly change her ticket. She looked into it, even though she’d been planning on spending Chanukah with my sister-in-law in New York, and found out it would cost nearly $4,000 to change her business-class ticket.

My mother couldn’t come a second earlier, my mother-in-law couldn’t leave any later. There would be no opportunity for overlap until next Succos, and my daughter wanted a bas mitzvah, not a bar mitzvah! We broke the news to my daughter gently: Only one Savta would be at the party.

My daughter’s face crumpled. She’s extremely close with both, and her devastation was heartbreaking.

My husband and I were torn. We’re a klei kodesh couple, not wealthy by any means. But as I went on a walk that night, I kept thinking: What is money? What is it for? By the time I got home from work one day, my mind was made up, and my husband agreed. We called my mother-in-law’s travel agent, a frum man, explained the situation, and quietly wired him the fee. He reached out to my mother-in-law and told her excitedly that he’d found a no-cost change for a week after Chanukah.

The bas mitzvah was beautiful, with smiles all around.

—Tamar

… a custom painting… of my husband.

O

ne Sunday, my husband dragged me (um, I mean I excitedly went on a date with my husband) to the art museum. I enthusiastically looked at every exhibit and did an amazing job faking my enjoyment (read, he saw right through me and when he noticed me sneakily texting on my phone, asked me what my sister had to say about my incredibly boring afternoon).

So for Mother’s Day, my husband presented me with a beautiful two-by-three canvas picture of myself as the Mona Lisa (modified of course to meet BY standards). It was pretty amazing, but also slightly embarrassing, especially for those who didn’t get the Mona Lisa reference and thought I’d had a portrait painted of myself in weird clothing in a weird pose.

For about a year and a half, we went through the routine of me hiding the portrait behind the couch when company came over, and my husband pulling it out at the last minute when I wasn’t paying attention.

And so, when his big 40th birthday was coming up, I tried to think of a unique gift that he’d love (and that would be sufficient payback).

And that’s the story of how I came to spend money on a portrait of my husband as a Revolutionary War general.

—Zissy

… a $6,000 sheitel.

When it comes to sheitels, I’m pretty classic in my tastes. I don’t wear anything too long, too highlighted, too curly, too anything. Irenes are perfect for me, and the price tag — somewhere in the $1,500 to $2,500 range — is perfect for our klei kodesh bank account, too.

Then my daughter, with her long beautiful hair, got engaged. The sheitelmacher showed us an Irene that could work — with alterations and additions and baby hair and, and, and. It would add up to around $3,200.

Okay, obviously, I was going to spend more on my daughter’s long and up-to-date sheitel than I spend on my own. But then the sheitelmacher pulled out a different option, a custom piece by a wigmaker she works with. She told us the net was constructed differently, the rows of hair were sewn in using a different method, and all the hair could be custom-chosen to match my daughter’s highlights. Plus, all repairs and adjustments would be covered for the first year.

The price: $6,000.

More than double what I’d pay for myself.

My gut is always to take the better deal, but I wasn’t sure which one really was the better deal here.

The sheitelmacher didn’t pressure us. She told us both options could look beautiful. But one was objectively a higher-quality piece. Then she asked an interesting question: What kind of
family does this chassan come from, what are his sisters like, and what kinds of sheitels do they wear? And how important is it to your daughter to feel like she fits into the family? (The answer, in case you were wondering, is that his sister wear sheitels many, many times more expensive than my Irenes.)

In the end, of course, my Hungarian husband — who grew up with the understanding that you spend money so the women in your life will feel beautiful — made the final decision to buy the more expensive one. “Is it objectively a better item?” he asked. “Will she feel and see the difference? Then we’ll buy it.”

—Yehudis

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 963)