Little Yellow Notepad

This year was an ideal Pesach for Chol-Homoed-trip-lovers around the world.

I had the greatest idea for a trip; let’s go to Facebook land.

It’s a one stop shop for all trips; we could see museums, amusement parks, roller coasters; go hiking, fishing, boating. .. you name it, all free of charge, with smiling adults and kids and never any fighting.

I would have stayed on my Facebook field trip all day, but my idea was vetoed by the higher powers, namely my children. Off we went to the Aerospace Museum, bags packed with appealing snacks of macaroons, lady fingers, apples, pears and water.

First things first upon arrival, we snapped the signature Chol Hamoed Trip Facebook Picture.

Then it was back to business.

“We’re hungry.”

“It’s so boring.”

“Let’s stay longer.”

“When are we leaving?”

“I’m hungry.”

“We didn’t come here to eat! We paid admission, go check out the cool stuff!” 

“Where are we going tomorrow?”

“Let’s come back here tomorrow!”

“This place is so dumb, no way!”

“That’s my apple, I called it first!”

“When’s snack time?”

“I need the bathroom!”

“Is it time to leave yet?”

I sneak out my phone to peek at my Chol Hamoed Trip Facebook Picture, just to make sure we were still having a good time. Yup, we were all still smiling. No need to update the status, not everything has to be public knowledge.

Exhausted after a long day, we head back to the car.

“It’s my turn to sit near the baby!”

“No, you sat there on the way here!”

“No, I didn’t. That was yesterday!”

“He’s in my seat!”

Someone flips over the back row of the van…the way boys do, making sure their feet kick someone in the head.

“Ow! He kicked me!”

“It was by accident!”

“No it wasn’t! You did it on purpose!”

I sneak another peek at my phone. Yup, still all smiling. We are still having fun. Can’t wait for tomorrow’s trip.

I’m slowly coming out of the three week blur called Pesach. The calendar is deceiving; it makes Pesach look like a one week holiday. But as any mom can attest, it’s way longer than that.

And I loved every minute of it.

Every minute of the cleaning, hosting, cooking, delegating, organizing, shopping and peeling, just to name a few.

I always loved Pesach. As a kid, it was magical. The kitchen transformed; nothing was regular.

I was never the biggest fan of Pesach food, and I’m still not, but I loved the atmosphere. I loved getting together with all the cousins, aunts and uncles at my grandparents house, filling every nook and cranny with blankets and pillows for everyone to sleep; more people in the house than I’m sure were legally allowed. Lots of kids, noise and more noise.

I loved it all.

Now, finishing my 8th year of “making” my own Pesach, my Pesach cabinet has grown exponentially from the original knife, cutting board and tea kettle.. And somewhere along the way, as the lists and responsibilities grew, that love for Pesach got a little less natural and bit watered down…

And so I made some changes.

Each year, before the mile long lists begin to take shape, I focus all my energy on one thing and one thing only:

To love Pesach.

I spend a whole week mentally going through the Pesach motions and do everything I can to cement it all with a strong love for the beautiful week of celebration.

And so when somewhere between preparing chicken #19, potato kugel #7 and setting the table the exhaustion, overwhelming-ness, noise level and sleep deprivation hit all at the same time, I can still smile and love Pesach.

When every last of the 18 pillows I own, plus the 9 new ones my husband had to run to Walmart to buy before the guests arrived (all my kids insist on sleeping with two each…) I loved it all.

When the kitchen was strewn with half eaten yogurts, eggshells and lady finger crumbs, I loved it all.

When I was preparing food for three different simultaneous seders, my head spinning as I labeled  each container of potatoes, onions and eggs to make sure they ended up in the right place, I loved it all.

When I made a dash around the house, handing out clean, new white shirts to all the boys to wear to the community seder, and then I got 7 minutes to quickly prepare myself and went off to host 70 people,I loved it all.

When all the new white shirts were covered in grape juice, the floor a sticky mess and the kids up past midnight, I loved it all.

And each time I sat down to nurse, I thanked my baby for making sure I got  a sitting break, helping me love Pesach.

And each time my cleaning lady showed up as planned, I thanked her profusely for helping me love Pesach.

It’s one big blur, but I know I loved every moment.

 The coast is clear.

I look both ways, making sure I won’t get caught.

One kid reading on the couch. One in the bathroom. Two playing UNO. Two playing lego. Baby asleep. It’s my big moment, I”m going to make my move.

I’m going to make a phone call.

I creep back to the kitchen, as inconspicuous as possible.

I dial the number. I start my call.

Kid-reading-on-the-couch slowly gravitates to the kitchen..it’s the perfect time to tell me all about the book he is reading. I make the one-minute motion, which he apparently chooses not to get. I mouth “Please wait till I’m off the phone,” but it’s not working.

The two lego-players come barreling in, needing a referee. “It’s my diamonds!” “No, it’s from my special pieces!” I give the one-minute motion. Nothing doing. I head to the garage, hoping to get a moment of quiet, and they all follow. UNO cards come raining down in my path; the game is over with no winner, only mischievous-looking faces. And the UNO-card rain dance is in full swing.

I motion, I whisper, I cover the mouth piece and beg for a moment to finish up…

“Come wipe me!” calls a little voice from the bathroom. And I hear that noise. The non-mistaken noise of the roll of toilet paper being unrolled as he waits…a roll that I know I put in only an hour ago.

“I’ll wipe you!” calls one of the Uno-dancers, making a beeline for the bathroom, something he knows will certainly get my immediate attention.

And then I hear it…the baby is crying. His 12 minute nap is done.

Can’t anyone see I’m trying to make a phonecall?!

I need to call her, but I have nothing to say.

It’s hard to believe it’s the same cousin that just four weeks ago, while visiting in NY, I bumped into while walking down the street and stood in the frigid NY weather catching up on two years of happenings. Babies, jobs, kids, stuff. There was so much to talk about, we could have stood there all day.

I saw her again the next week, together with lots of other cousins, and we all had plenty to share; cousins always have what to talk about.

And now, I have nothing to say.

I need to call her. My dear cousin, a few years younger than me, a beautiful mother of four and a dedicated wife, lost her equally young and beautiful husband.

He passed away suddenly, without any warning.

It’s tragic, it’s awful, it’s horrible.

It’s heartbreaking.

Small children without a father and a wife without her husband.

How oh how can such a thing happen?

What can I tell her?

I wish I can be there in person, but I am not able to get to New York this week.

I need to call her, but what can I tell her?

I can tell her nothing. But I need to call her anyway.

There are so many things I want to say.

I want to tell her this is all wrong.

I want to tell her this world is a crazy mess and we are all crying with her.

I want to tell her that I have not stopped thinking about her since the moment this happened.

I want to tell her my heart is shattered in pieces for her.

I want to tell her 30 year old tattys don’t pass away. This has to be a mistake.

But I won’t say any of that.

Because truthfully, there is nothing to say.

How can such a young husband, father, son and brother be taken away so suddenly?

How can his dear wife carry the pain?

I remember soon after they were married her and her husband joined us for Shabbos lunch.  I was the older cousin, married already for 3 years, and I was still living in New York.

Her husband Nadiv walked in and immediately picked up my 6 month old baby and wouldn’t put her down, something not so characteristic for a guy his age! And when she fell asleep, he insisted on continuing to hold her. And he didn’t put her down until he left.

He loved babies. He loved kids. He loved people and he loved life.

I have to call her.

To tell her everything by saying nothing.

I don’t understand Hashem’s ways.

We don’t understand Hashem’s ways.

We’re not supposed to. But sometimes I really wish I did.