I’ll be marking my father’s fourth yahrzeit in a couple of weeks, and wish I could tell him I’m sorry.
No, not sorry in a Hallmark movie, gushy kind of way. Not sorry for not being a good son – I was OK. Not sorry for not respecting him enough – I did plenty of that. Not sorry for not making him proud – we were all square on that count.
No, I apologize for being annoyed when he showed signs of impatience while spending an entire Shabbat in our apartment with The Wife and me and our children – his grandchildren – when they were all under 10.
I apologize for writing the following in a column nearly 30 years ago:
“‘What time is Shabbat over?’” the houseguest asked, looking impatiently at his watch.
“The question is legitimate, even expected by a guest in the waning hours of Shabbat, after having spent a full day in the house with our rather noisy brood.
“What annoyed me was that the questioner was not just any guest, but my father. And the time was about 10:30 in the morning, not the waning hours of Shabbat.
“‘Relax, Dad,’ I said, barely hiding my annoyance. ‘You have till 5:30.’
“‘Oy,’ was his reply.
“It’s not that my dad doesn’t love me, The Wife or the kids. It’s just that as a man well ensconced in the peace and quiet of retirement, he is not used to the noise and commotion that a family of six generates.”
I then went on to complain that my dad seemed not to fully enjoy all those precious moments with his grandkids, did not understand why they cried, and couldn’t wait to get out of the house when Shabbat ended.
The minute Shabbat ends, I wrote, he is out the door. “He’d rather wait for an hour outside for the first post-Shabbat bus than spend the time hearing the post-Shabbat carping of our kids.”
Lack of understanding
How could that be? I remember thinking back then. Here’s a guy who saw his grandkids relatively infrequently, living a continent and an ocean away. How could every moment – even the noisy ones – not be meaningful, cherished, and treasured?
How? Easy, because they aren’t. Because that’s real life. Because there is a vast chasm between the ideal and the real.
In the ideal, grandparents just love being with their grandchildren as much as possible, for as long as possible, no matter what. The little tykes, if they are of the appropriate age, sit on their knees, listening attentively as their grandparents read books to them. Or, if they are younger, they just coo happily.
That’s the ideal, and – indeed – it does take place. At least for a few minutes. Then there’s the rest of the time, the other 25 hours of Shabbat when the kids are fighting, or crying, or screaming, or getting hurt, or all of the above. Then the nerves of even the most adoring grandparents can get shot. I understand that now. I didn’t understand it then.
It's not easy
I love my eight grandchildren; I love them dearly. Every last one of them – all the same.
I love it when they come over and spend Shabbat with us, either with just their parents or when all my kids come over at once, bringing all their children.
I love it, but it’s not easy. Not everything you love you want all at once. I love Coke. I’m not going to drink it 24/7.
This appreciation of what my dad went through, and my lack of understanding of his desire to get out of our apartment as soon as Shabbat was over, hit me the hardest a couple of weeks ago.
It was a sweltering day at the beginning of July – the longest Shabbat of the year. Shabbat started at 7:15 p.m. and ended at about 8:30 the following night. My son Skippy, whose wife was away for Shabbat, joined us with his four sons.
It was magical for that first hour. And that was because Shabbat hadn’t yet begun; his four boys were all watching something on television. But then Shabbat came in and – well – the rambunctiousness began.
Skippy’s kids – aged six months to seven – are all boys. Meaning, rather rowdy from time to time. Check that, rather rowdy most of the time.
And here I need to say something not politically correct. I have four grandsons and four granddaughters. I don’t care what they tell you; there is a huge difference in behavior between boys and girls.
It’s not that my granddaughters are all just pixies and ponytails, but when my daughter’s daughters come over, things are just quieter. Less physical fighting, less intentional annoying, and – as a result of the above – less screaming and fewer tears.
Now I’m not saying one is better than the other, God forbid. I’m just saying a Shabbat with the granddaughters is calmer than a Shabbat with the grandsons. It just is.
Nevertheless, that Shabbat with Skippy and his lads was wonderful. They fought, they yelled, they cried, they hurt each other. But we were all together, and in between the wrestling matches, there were some very lovely moments. That doesn’t mean that I wasn’t ready for Shabbat to end and for them to go on their merry way.
Just as was the case when my dad came to visit, and which – I’m sure – will be the case when my kids have grandkids of their own. It’s wonderful when they come, and – 25 hours later – it ain’t bad when they leave.
There used to be an old joke that the shortest unit of time is that nanosecond between when the traffic light turns from orange to green in this country and the driver behind you lays on his horn. I’ve discovered an even shorter measure of time: the space between when Shabbat ends and the kids and grandkids are out the door on their way home.
Because not only are you eager for your kids to leave so that peace, quiet, and order can return to your home, but – let’s be honest – they are equally eager to go so that they don’t have to worry about whether you’re going to be uptight about their kids misbehaving.
Yup, today I understand my dad; I’m just sorry I can’t tell him. Someday, my kids will understand me as well.