Those of you who know me or follow my blog know that I wasn’t

raised in a Jewish home. I grew up Methodist and converted shortly

before the birth of my second child in 2007.  So I’m still pretty

new at this being Jewish thing.

 

Growing up, everything about being Jewish was a bit of a

mystery to me.  Especially Hanukkah.  Robin was my first Jewish

friend.  I met her when I was six.   I knew she was special because

she had a swimming pool.  With a slide.   And she also told me that

she got presents for 8 days in a row during a holiday I couldn’t

pronounce because she was Jewish.   As far as I could tell she was

living the dream.

 

I remember the day I learned about the whole Hanukkah

<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class=

“blsp-spelling-error”>motherlode.  I marched home, hands on

hips and demanded to know why we couldn’t be Jewish so I could get

presents for 8 days.  My mother promptly told me that we couldn’t

be Jewish because we were Methodist and if I wanted presents for 8

days I could kiss Santa goodbye. (Not to mention a few other key

figures in history, but I’m pretty certain she didn’t get into all

of that.  She was never long on explanations.)

 

Our family moved out of the neighborhood and Robin and I lost

touch, but the association of Hanukkah and presents stuck with

me. 

 

It’s funny how life works out.  I wished I was Jewish at age 6

for the wrong reasons and ended up becoming Jewish at 37 for the

right ones.  Yet somehow those 6-year old dreams made their way

back into my first Hanukkah with Ben.  Remembering what I had

longed for as a child, I made that first holiday about the presents

shopping and then wrapping eight little packages for Ben.   More

things he didn’t need and I didn’t want to pick up and put

away.  As each night passed, my efforts seemed to be more and more

lost on the short attention span of a 3-year old who opened the

gifts nearly as quickly as he tossed them aside to focus on the

“fire” and our pleas that he not blow out the candles.  We

continued to light the candles each night, but by the end of the

week I began to wonder whether I’d wasted my time getting all those

gifts.  And I began to wonder even more why I had done it in the

first place.  Why couldn’t the storytelling, prayers and <span id=

“SPELLING_ERROR_1” class=

“blsp-spelling-error”>candlelighting have been enough?  How

had my selfish 6-year old priorities made their way into my 37-year

old parenting paradigm?

 

Ben was too young to remember his first (and last) Hanukkah

<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class=

“blsp-spelling-error”>motherlode.  These days he and Sarah

spend the first night of Hanukkah with all of their cousins, eating

<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class=

“blsp-spelling-error”>latkes, lighting the Menorah, spinning

<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class=

“blsp-spelling-error”>dreidels, getting <span id=

“SPELLING_ERROR_5″ class=”blsp-spelling-error”>gelt and

opening their special first night present.  The rest of

the nights we light the Menorah at home.  And that’s just enough

for all of us. 

 

I hope that doesn’t make me a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"

class=”blsp-spelling-error”>Hanukkah scrooge.  But mostly I

hope that if one of Ben’s inquisitive 6-year old classmates

<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class=

“blsp-spelling-corrected”>asks him about the whole <span id=

“SPELLING_ERROR_8″ class=”blsp-spelling-error”>Hanukkah

thing he remembers to say it’s about the festival of lights … and

not about the presents.