Birthday Greetings

One of the nicer things about living in Israel, along with only having one seder and only one possible three-day holiday, is having two birthdays. One is the regular Gregorian birthday. We used to call it the English birthday, but that really doesn't make sense. What do French or German people call it? We changed it to the Christian birthday, but some of our relatives not living in Israel took offense. So now we call it the Facebook birthday. That's when you get all those birthday wishes from people who never knew when your birthday was, and anyway you haven't seen in 30 years. I actually enjoy my Facebook birthday. The other, 'real' (in our family) birthday is, of course, the Hebrew Birthday. (If you don't know when your Hebrew birthday is, by the way, there are sites on the internet that can convert any Gregorian [or Facebook] date in history, to the Hebrew date and year.) A couple of years ago, my friend Reena told us that the period between the two birthdays is the birthday Chol Hamoed (the term usually used for the intermediary days of Pesach and Sukkot). We have since lovingly and enthusiastically adopted this term.

My Facebook birthday, being in late September, always falls sometime during the chagim. The Hebrew birthday however, is always the same - the day before Erev Yom Kippur. It's easy to remember. As a kid, my birthday (there was only one then) seemed always to be pushed aside, as my mother was so busy preparing for, and cleaning up after, the chagim.
My family was never very big on birthdays anyways. I don't remember my siblings having many parties. If I remember correctly, and really I might not - it was, after all, a very long time ago - I seem to remember monthly cakes, a kind of all purpose cake for any celebrations or simchas that occurred that month.

Now that I'm all grown up (not everyone would agree with that statement - certainly not my own children, two of whom are actually older than I) and have my own family, birthdays are not a very big deal here either. I do bake everyone their own cake, usually two (if you have two birthdays you get two cakes - logical, n'est pas?). Sometimes, they even get three cakes if they have to take one to school or they make their own party. But we don't do elaborate parties, or go out to eat, or give lots of presents. Sometimes there's no present at all, just a vague 'we'll get you something soon'. I figure I'm feeding and clothing the kid all year, isn't that present enough?
But since I'm the baker in the family (though the kids - especially Adin - have started to bake cookies and elaborate pies), for my birthday I usually got left over cake from one of the chagim with a candle in it. One memorable year, I was handed 10 shekels and told to buy a cake while I was out. (I did too, and ate it)

Which is why, when Martin (husband) suggested, two days before Yom Kippur, we go out to dinner to celebrate my birthday that evening, I was quite taken aback. I had also just woken up from a rather impromptu nap after falling asleep on the sofa in the basement.
"Nah," I told him, "I'm too tired". After a second, still rather sleepy and befuddled I asked "What, the four of us?"
Martin and I have been blessed with 5 terrific children. Israeli (religious) society, however, dictates, that as soon as a child becomes useful, can help with chores, and babysit the younger ones, they leave home. Then, several years later, when they are too old and busy to babysit and do chores, they come back home. At this moment in time we have the youngest and oldest kids at home (girls) and the 3 boys are all away at yeshiva.
"Yes, the four of us", he answered.

When I came upstairs I found the two girls all ready to go out. It's not every day (to put it mildly) that we go to a restaurant, and I didn't want to ruin anyone's fun. Within a few minutes, it was decided where to go, and I was more or less simply led out the door.
By the time we got to the restaurant - a small dairy place with outdoor seating - my head was a bit clearer, and they actually left it up to me to decide to sit inside or out. Unfortunately, making important decisions is not my strong point.
"Outside", said my oldest, Rivka, taking the situation in hand.
We sat down, briefly discussed whether or not we needed to push two tables together (we did), were handed the menus by a very efficient waitress, and relaxed. Just as I started to peruse the menu, Martin exclaimed in a very loud voice "The problem with sitting outside these restaurants is that just anyone can come by, any old lout."
I squirmed around in my seat, expecting to see some friends who happened to be passing by. Or perhaps, indeed, there was some lout walking past us. No shortage of louts in Beer Sheva.
But, instead, what I saw were three terrifically good-looking boys, singing (very quietly - they are, after all, boys) Happy Birthday. As my three sons sat down at the table, I just sat there, unable to move. Shocked, stunned, amazed, flabbergasted, astonished, astounded, overwhelmed, surprised, blown away; take your pick - that's how I felt. The boys, at three different yeshivot in three different directions of the compass, had come home, just before Yom Kippur (the biggest day of the year in Yeshiva Life) for my birthday.

I glanced at husband and daughter, who were laughing, looked again at the boys, who were grinning, and just sat there. In the eleven days that have elapsed since then, I have been trying to think of a word (or even two) to describe how I felt. I can't. I was just filled with emotion.
Because, you see, this was no spur-of-the-moment decision to go out for dinner. This had been planned. Nothing is ever planned in our house. We are not a planning kind of family. Certainly not a birthday planning kind of family. But here it was, a planned birthday. For me. And they all participated.
Eventually, I was able to move (and breathe) and got up to to kiss the boys, much to their chagrin ("Um, mom, we're outside. People can see").
Between laughing, and figuring out what to order, details began to emerge. "I just did what I was ordered to do" said Avi - who just finished his army service this past summer. Adin came, so he claimed, to get out of an evening of learning before Yom Kippur. And Chaniel told me endearingly, "I wouldn't come home for supper in a restaurant?" They had made all the arrangements on the previous Saturday evening. "Where was I?" I asked. "On the computer, where else?" they all said together. And why this particular restaurant? It was near the bus station.
In hindsight, the restaurant decision at home - which would normally take about half an hour, on a good night, to make - was made a little too easily.
Rivka had arranged the whole thing. She told me she sent more SMS's that day than ever before, certainly to her brothers.
"Look!" I wanted to shout to the waitress and all the passers-by and louts. "Look at these amazing beautiful people! They are mine!!" But I figured I had done enough 'fadichot' (embarrassing acts in Hebrew slang) for one evening. Also, I was still finding it hard to move.

But there was more. When we got home, after a lovely dinner, but no dessert, there was cake and presents on the table. When we left the house to go to dinner, Rivka said she would lock up. I reminded her to set the alarm, and walked out. I didn't actually notice we had to wait for her a few minutes, while she set the table with the cake and presents.
Rivka had baked the cake that morning while I was at work, and had to have fried hotdogs for lunch to cover up the smell. She didn't even want fried hotdogs. "Oh! so that's why you made me lunch today!" piped up Galit, the youngest, who was almost as surprised as I was at all the fuss.
And Martin had given up his bridge game to go with Rivka by bus (!!!) to the mall to buy presents - an MP4 from the kids, and a necklace and bracelet from him. "Boy, that was fun. Picking out jewelery with dad. Uh huh...." said Rivka, shaking her head. And where was I? I had taken the car, and gone to Galit's school for a talk. I came home early, had forgotten my key, and almost ruined their surprise. They were still on the bus coming home when I called them. Martin had to go an extra stop so I wouldn't see them come home together. I never suspected a thing.

There's a page on facebook 'Inside every old person there's a young person wondering what the hell happened.' That about sums me up.
But when I think about it, I know the answer. What happened? Life happened; the good, the not so good, and every once in a while, the wonderful. And my 50th birthday was one of those wonderful times.
And I thank G-d, every day, for all of it.

And I still have two more days in my birthday chol hamoed to enjoy.

Post Rosh HaShana musings

Another Rosh Hashana has come and gone. I must admit, that for me, this one was a lot of work, and has left me quite exhausted. Six meals to prepare, extra laundry, shopping, and cleaning leaves me little time to spiritually prepare for the chag. It's difficult to soul search while fighting for a spot to choose apples in the shuk. Or while peeling potatoes, or hanging out yet another load of laundry. It is for me anyway, and I'd be interested in learning if I'm alone in feeling this way. I should send out a questionnaire; what is the most effective approach to spiritual soul searching? 1. matching 245 different socks 2. cleaning the toilet or 3. preparing a honey cake.
Seriously, Rosh HaShana, and the weeks preceeding, are supposed to be a time of introspection, a time to take stock of your actions during the past year. All I was able to take stock of was how much chicken I had to cook [7 people times 5 meals (we were invited out for one!!) plus 11 guests times 1.5 pieces each - and do they eat white or dark?]. When was I suppose to think about the past year? When I measuring cups of water into the soup pot to see if it would hold enough for 2 meals?
I'm sure there are people who do it. People who sit down at regular times and learn about tshuva (repentance), who honestly think of sins committed, who try to understand in what way they can better themselves. I can only hope that keeping your temper a whole day while the said soup is boiling over, the cake is burning, and a mouse has just wandered into your kitchen counts as a good deed.
I DO have good intentions. Every year I tell myself that I will start early with the preparations, so when erev chag comes I WILL have time to take a leisurely shower, put on makeup, or, at least, wear matching clothes. Not that that is spiritually important. It's just something I would like to accomplish some time.
In shul, on the first day of the holiday, I try very hard to concentrate on the words of the prayers. "I will elevate my knowledge in righteousness, will ascribe righteousness to my G-d, and request righteousness in judgment. When in prayer I lift up my voice as the sound of the Shofar..." My mind skips about, flitting between prayers (And all believe that He is the sole King of the Universe, who exercises His mercy in every generation) to speculating on whether there are more babies in shul this year than last year, to wondering if, in fact, I am going to have enough chicken. I pull my mind back to the prayers. "Because of our sins we were exiled from our country, and distanced from our Land. We were unable to fulfill our obligations in Your Temple."
I hope we have enough hummus to last the three days.

Don't get me wrong. I love being with my family and friends over the holidays. I'm especially grateful that all the kids were home. How many more chagim will that happen? And I'm glad and grateful and acknowledge the blessing of being healthy and able to do the work. But sometimes, I find myself resenting the the dishes to be washed, needing a map to find various containers in the fridge (which are piled like a game of tetrus) and wishing we didn't have quite so many holidays. I try to push these thoughts out of my mind. Be grateful, I tell myself. For my family, for my community, for my ability to live in the Land of Israel, for being able to put food on the table. Maybe that's my tshuvah.

I'll end with something I did manage to learn. I don't know why I never knew this before.

On Rosh HaShana we greet one another with the words "Shana Tovah U'metuka" - Wishing you a good and sweet new year. Why do we wish both a good AND sweet year? Isn't it enough to wish just a good year?
The reason is that everything G-d does is for the good. Even when we can't see the good. When we can't fathom that this too is for the good. Because we aren't G-d. We can't see the intricate mosaic of the world, and of history, and we can't understand that sometimes bad things turn out to be good. And sometimes no is the correct answer to our prayers. We have to remember that EVERYTHING G-d does is for the good. So we wish one another a sweet year, so that the things that happen to us are not only good but OBVIOUSLY and immediately good - that they feel sweet.

Shana Tovah U'Metuka to all of Am Yisrael.