THE GAME BOOK

My five-year-old grandson has been spending August days with me while his parents work or care for his two-year-old sister, who recently had her adenoids removed.

We split up the day. Breakfast together (he'd already eaten at home, but eating with a friend is so much more fun). Then prayers - well, I pray out loud, usually singing to kid-friendly tunes like Barney might use, while he climbs onto the overhead bar of my porch swing and dangles by my side. B"H, he has not collided with me yet.

We're done just in time for the wonderful and adorable mother's helper to arrive - old enough to watch him, young enough to still enjoy the park herself. I can see them from the porch: climbing, hiding, swinging, the tips of their shoes coming into view as they fly back and forth on the big blue web swing. When she reads to him, he stares at her in adoration with big Bambi eyes.

(Every day in my head, I have her married off to one of my 12- or 13-year-old grandsons. I can already hear the conversation with their kids 20 years from now: “Abba, how did you meet Ema?”

“Well, when Ema was 11, she was a mother's helper in Savta's house. Savta made sure that, IY"H, Ema and I would meet ten years later.” And everyone will crumble in laughter.)

But that is not the subject of this blog. :-)

The subject is my game book.

My Game Book

It is not easy to entertain a five-year-old. His interest in any activity seems to last about 15 minutes tops. So one day early this month, we ran out of games.

Candy Land, done.

Chutes and Ladders, done.

Memory Match, done - and only missing at least three cards.

Out of desperation, I grabbed the sketch pad we'd used for our Family Art Exhibition and drew a very rudimentary game. Sort of like Candy Land, but without the colors, the Chocolate Forest, or the Ice Cream Mountain. Just a path, a page, and dice.

(Kids love anything with dice. And I have COLORED DICE. Bazingo.)

Wellllll, he loooooved it.

So I drew something else: a big rectangle full of dozens of little boxes. Players roll the dice and fill in that number of boxes. A giant hit. Then a path of circles - roll the dice and make your way to the end. Another success.

Then a path with instructions: land here, go forward two; land here, go back one. He thought I was brilliant.

But the pièce de résistance was his game. He asked for a pen and made his own. It didn't really have a shape - maybe a blobby shape. It didn't really have rules either (well, the rules were made up as we went along).

We colored part of it with blue squiggles. We gave it a name: THE WATER GAME.

We've played it a dozen times. It's the game he loves best. 

Not the fancy games we bought. Not the games Savta invented. The game he made himself. 

Because sometimes the best game isn't the one we give a child. It's the one we give them the chance to create.

The Secret Society

Last week my husband held a celebration for six of my grandsons - the ones who were just Bar Mitzvah and the ones who are about to become Bar Mitzvah. It was a lovely evening.

It was also a very unusual evening for me. I was the only woman there, and that was only because someone had to take pictures. Once I had finished my photographic duties and dinner arrived, I was graciously excused. Apparently, this was a boys-only occasion.

My husband - let's call him “Sabba” - wanted the boys to have the spotlight. Just them. No womenfolk. And I think I understand why.

For the past year, Sabba and his boys have had a little secret society going. Who knows? They may even have had a secret handshake. They called themselves The Tefillin Team.

Once a month, six of my grandsons met with Sabba in the lower level of a synagogue. It was the sort of place that is usually empty except for Shabbat Kiddush, which made it the perfect headquarters for a secret society.

The boys would arrive carrying their blue-and-white striped paper bags. Inside were two books. Books about tefillin.

You see, when each of our grandsons was born, Sabba bought him a pair of tefillin. Even little Chaim David, who is three, already has his pair waiting for him, IY"H.

Sabba didn't want the boys simply to put on the tefillin one day because they had reached Bar Mitzvah age. He wanted the boys to understand them. To love them. To appreciate the mitzvah and the incredible tradition they were becoming part of. So he decided to learn with the six boys every month.

This sounds simple. It wasn't. Six boys. Three different communities. Six busy schedules. Yeshiva. Basketball. Swimming. Babysitting. Youth group. Tests. Life. Coordinating a meeting between these six boys was sometimes more complicated than a military campaign.

But Sabba was determined. He called. And called again. And called again. Eventually, they found a date that worked.

My Part in this Enterprise

And where did I fit into this very male enterprise? Well, someone had to get them there.

Sabba picked up two of the boys. I picked up the two who lived farthest away, and we all met in the middle. I became, for lack of a better term, the Tefillin Team's Uber driver.

I also became the official food-delivery service. Every month I picked up hamburgers with all the works on the side, along with two giant trays of French fries - which are called “chips” here - and delivered everything to the boys. Then I left them to learn.

While the boys studied with Sabba, I played with my granddaughters. It was a win-win arrangement.

Except for the part where I eventually had to get back into the car and drive the boys home in the dark. Have I ever mentioned that I am not a fan of driving in the dark? Night driving is not my favorite sport. (Then again, I got to see my far-away kids and share some kisses, so another win!)

Friends, for months, this was my view of the Tefillin Team.
Transportation.
Hamburgers.
French fries.
Granddaughters.
Dark roads.

And then, when I started writing this blog, I realized something rather embarrassing. I didn't actually know what happened at those meetings. I wasn't there for any of it - not the boys' questions, not the moments of real learning, not whose stomach growled loudest waiting for those hamburgers.

So I asked Sabba to tell me some stories. Had anything funny happened? Had one of the boys surprised him? Did they ever ask questions he didn't expect? Did he notice friendships developing between the six cousins? Anything. Something. Please! I wanted to bring the story to life.

He looked at me. “I can't tell you any of the stories that happened between me and the boys.”

Excuse me? I wasn't asking him to name a boy who threw a spitball! I just wanted a cute story for my blog. But apparently, I had stumbled upon the first rule of the Secret Society: What happens in The Tefillin Team stays in The Tefillin Team.

So I am left to imagine.

Six boys, ages ten to thirteen, each with his own personality, his own level of knowledge, his own sense of humor, sitting with their grandfather in a synagogue basement.
Learning ancient laws.
Asking questions.
Figuring things out.
Probably laughing.
Probably teasing each other.
Probably not always sitting perfectly still.

And, I hope, slowly realizing that they were doing something pretty special. They were learning with their grandfather. And Sabba was doing something even more special. He was passing something on.

At the celebration, he told the boys how proud he was of them and that he had learned from them, too. Then he told them about the future he hoped they would have.

He hoped that one day, when they were grandfathers themselves and bought tefillin for their grandsons, they would tell them, “When I was a boy, I learned the laws of tefillin with my grandfather, and now I am learning those same laws with you.”

Well. I was taking pictures and videoing his speech. And I started crying. Of course I did. I am a grandmother. One of the boys noticed his grandmother crying and started laughing. What can I say? Grandmothers are emotional folks.

The "Graduation" Ceremony

Each of the boys received a certificate. Then they ate falafel. And just like that, the first year of The Tefillin Team came to an end.

Except I don't really think it ended.

Because the whole point was never just the twelve meetings. It was the connection. A grandfather who loves a mitzvah. Six grandsons learning from him.

Six cousins who became, in the truest sense, a team.

And a tradition that, if Sabba gets his wish, will keep traveling down the family line.

Someday, perhaps, one of those boys will be sitting with a grandson of his own. Maybe he will take out his tefillin. Maybe he will remember a blue-and-white striped bag, a synagogue basement, a hamburger dinner, six cousins and a grandfather who cared enough to keep calling until everyone could make it.

And maybe he'll say, “When I was a boy, I learned this with my grandfather.”

Because in the end, isn't that what we want for our children and grandchildren? Not just that they know the mitzvah. But that they know they belong to something - that they're on a team.

And that, I think, is the real secret of The Tefillin Team.

 

Mix and Match Cousins

PING.

I think I may finally understand what Family Camp is really about.

It's not just the activities. It's not the chocolate factory or Color War or the Jordan River or the late nights or the prizes or the hikes or the endless games.

It's Mix and Match Cousins. Every activity we did was an opportunity to mix up the cousins.

At Color War, cousins from different families ended up on the same teams. At the De Karina Chocolate Factory, other cousin combinations slurped chocolate malteds together. One night, we stayed up until who-knows-what-o'clock with parents and kids from four different families - city folks and farm folks, each on their own path - all hanging out together.

And now, looking through the pictures, I see it everywhere. Natah's Ammi holding Moshie's baby. Google-y google-y gooing her to smile. Natah's Itai with his arm around Moshie's Binyamin. I gotcha, pal. Moshie's little Elisheva deciding that she only wants to stay with Bati's Lavi and Natah's Tali. And the older kids, well, B"H, they are really besties.

This is what I was hoping for. Because I don't think I'm only trying to give my grandchildren a magical week. I'm trying to give them one another.

The activities are the vehicle.

The silly announcements, the art, the foam, the bikes, the late nights, the Jordan River - all of them are opportunities to create something that will last much longer than the activity itself.

SHARED HISTORY

Because kids grow up. They go to different schools and different kinds of shuls. They make their own friends in yeshiva or college or work. And I know that. But I also know that right now, they love each other. Right now, they love being together.

And I wish I could freeze time.

So I shop for weeks. I plan and plan and plan, trying to think of the most fun, engaging, ridiculous and memorable things we can do. But more than anything else, I want them to have adventures together. I want them to have stories that belong to all of them.

“Remember when Savta made those announcements every morning at breakfast? The whole dining room was listening in - and laughing right along with us.”

“Remember how scared Savta was to get into the Jordan River? She eeeeeked through every gush of mud between her toes. I will never forget her face.”

“Remember the chocolate factory? You drank your malted and the leftovers of everyone else's.”

“Remember when we stayed up until...”

And after 120, if I'm not around to organize Family Camp, I hope they'll still have each other.

They'll have stories nobody else quite understands. They'll have memories that belong to them. Maybe one cousin will recall something another cousin has forgotten.

Someone will say, “Remember when...?” Someone else will say, “Oh my gosh! Yessss, I remember!”

And they'll laugh. And they'll tell the story again. And that's the gift.

So I slosh through the mud of the Jordan River. I slide along the algae-covered springs of Beit She'an. I walk farther than my legs think they should have to walk. I smile along the fly-filled cow path. I stay up later than my eyes allow.

I do it because I want to be with them. I want to see them as something bigger than individual families. I want to see them as a blended family of the very best sort - a grandchild from this family with a grandchild from another family, trading their ices, their prizes, their jokes and their smiles.

They don't only share the same nose or blue eyes. They share the same heart.

I want them to look out for one another. I want them to look for one another. And I want those connections to continue for their whole lives.

Because maybe the greatest gift cousins can give one another is each other.

And maybe that's the greatest gift I can give them, too. ❤️

 

Show Me How You See the World: The Best Hour of Family Camp

I thought I knew what the highlight of Family Camp would be. Swimming in the Jordan River. Color War. Bingo for Prizes. Dinner under the stars.

I never imagined it would be thirty sheets of paper and a box of markers. The biggest surprise of the entire week turned out to be...our Family Art Exhibition.

About a month before Family Camp, I sent my children and grandchildren thirty simple drawing prompts. Draw your favorite animal… your family... your happiest memory... your favorite holiday. Draw yourself as a superhero. Draw your favorite sport.

Nothing fancy.

Truthfully, I wasn't looking for the next Picasso. (Although after seeing some of the artwork, I may have found one or two.) I simply wanted everyone - from my youngest grandchild to the oldest - to arrive at Family Camp already feeling like they belonged to one big family project.

As the month went by, pictures started arriving on my phone. "Look what I drew, Savta!"

Then something happened that I never expected. One evening, after Bingo for Prizes, instead of running off with their loot to play something else or heading to bed, the grandchildren came looking for paper and markers. Not because anyone told them to. Because they wanted to draw more pictures for the Exhibition.

They stayed up into the wee hours creating masterpieces. Or dragons. Or invisible superheroes. Or sports involving ironing boards.

Our Own Gallery

When Exhibition night arrived, we transformed a corner of the hotel lobby into our own little art gallery. Instead of organizing the pictures by artist, we displayed them by subject. Everyone's favorite animals together. Then everyone's happiest memories, everyone's families.

One by one, we wandered through our gallery. And that's when I understood something. I hadn't really asked them to draw pictures. Without realizing it, I had asked them, "Show me how you see the world."

And every single one answered differently.

One assignment was: Draw yourself as a superhero. Most drew themselves flying or showing amazing strength. One granddaughter handed me...a completely blank page. "What happened?" I asked. She grinned. "My superpower is invisibility."

Well...I laughed so hard I almost gave a Blue Ribbon to a blank piece of paper.

Another assignment: Draw your favorite holiday.

We admired beautiful pictures of Passover, Sukkot and Chanukah. Then my son picked up a drawing of a magnificent four-layer birthday cake. "What holiday is this?" he asked.

My granddaughter looked at him like the answer should have been perfectly clear. "My birthday. Obviously." You know what? She was right. Our birthday should be our favorite day.

Next: Draw your favorite sport. Soccer. Swimming. Basketball.

And then my daughter proudly showed us her pastel drawing. Blue sky. Three tiny stick figures, plus an ironing board. "What sport is THAT?" someone asked. "Skydive ironing."

We all laughed, but I looked it up. Apparently there really are people who jump out of airplanes carrying ironing boards and press clothes while falling through the sky.

Darlings, I don't know about you, but if I'm jumping out of an airplane, the wrinkles in my shirt are going to be the least of my worries.

One grandson decided that drawing thirty separate pictures was entirely too much work. So he cleverly squeezed almost every assignment onto one page. "That little dot is my dream house." "I couldn't draw my dog, Bingo, so I just wrote his name. And since my name starts with B, it also counts for the picture beginning with the first letter of my name. :-)"

I have to admit...his logic was flawless. One son did the same. He drew a landscape of mountains, river and trees. "My favorite animal is hiding in that dark spot." “Swimming is my favorite sport, but you can’t see me under the water.” “My favorite place is peaking out behind the trees.”

Then came one of my own pictures.

The assignment: Draw your happiest memory. I drew our family seated at the giant horseshoe-shaped table of Family Camp. The grandchildren crowded around.

Not one of them commented on the quality of the drawing. They each asked exactly the same question: "Which one is me?" "Where am I?"

I pointed. I pointed again. I kept pointing until every last grandchild had found his own face in the crowd around that table. Because children don't care whether a picture is beautiful. They want to know if they belong in it. And they do, every single one of them.

Finally...one picture stopped me in my tracks.

Envisioning Our Family

The assignment was simply: Draw your family. Most kids drew the people who live in their homes. 

One granddaughter titled hers, "My Family in 100 Years." She drew a picture frame filled with hundreds and hundreds of tiny circles. Not today's family. Tomorrow's. Children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren she hopes IY”H will one day fill her family tree.

Every picture in our gallery showed me how a child sees the world. But this one reminded me how far into the future a child can see. I looked at that drawing for a very long time. May Hashem bless her beautiful vision. May every one of those tiny circles become a real child, grandchild, great-grandchild, and beyond.

As the evening came to an end, we celebrated our exhibition with an ice cream reception.

I gathered every picture in a special binder. I’ll have to wait for the ones that were forgotten at home. Others have already announced they have more masterpieces to create. Apparently, our gallery is still accepting submissions.

I'm making them into a family book - not because every picture belongs in a museum, although a few probably do, but because one day these children will have grandchildren of their own. And I want them to remember not only what they drew...
...but how they once saw the world.

 

Worth Twenty-Five Points

Every summer, like many families, we have Family Camp.

There are people who spend months looking forward to Family Camp. They dream about the hikes. They get excited about the sports. They pack binoculars for spotting exotic animals.

I pack ibuprofen. 😂

Sabba is in charge of the important things. He organizes the rooms, packs the coolers, loads the car, figures out who is sleeping where, and somehow remembers to bring everything we forgot.

I have my own department.

I bring Band-Aids, sunscreen, snacks, little bags of cut-up carrots for every family's car ride... and ideas.

You see, I love Family Camp.

Not because I love hiking. I am not a hiker.

Not because I love sports. I am not a sportswoman.

And after the third monkey at the zoo, I have to admit that some of the exotic animals begin to look a little similar.

But I love Family Camp because everyone is together.

Family Magic

When your children grow up and have families of their own, having everyone in one place feels like a gift. There is something magical about waking up under the same roof, sitting around the same table, and hearing five different conversations happening at the same time.

I want the kids to have fun. Of course I do. I want them to run, laugh, play, explore, and make memories. But more than that, I want them to enjoy each other. I want the cousins to discover things about one another that they might not know.

Not just: "Who can throw a ball the farthest?" or "Who can finish the hike first?"

But:

"What makes you laugh every single time?"

"What is something you've always wanted to learn?"

"What is your happiest family memory?"

So I decided to create a game.

I made cards with fun and thoughtful questions on them. When dinner comes around, I am going to give 20 Color War points to any child who answers a question.

Because let's be honest... Conversation is wonderful. But Color War points? That's serious business.

I printed each question onto a card. And then I had another idea. I'm going to keep a little notebook and write down some of the answers. Because I have a feeling there will be answers I won't want to forget.

Years from now, nobody will remember who won the relay race. Nobody will remember who climbed the hill first. Nobody will remember if the cooler stayed cold enough.

But maybe we will remember that one grandchild wanted a pet dragon named Pickles. Or that someone's dream house needed a trampoline in every room. Or that the best smell in the world was fresh challah.

Those are the treasures.

The best memories are not always made on mountain trails

Sometimes they happen around a dinner table... one question at a time.

The Real Treasures

I was watching a news interview with a political expert.

Behind him were shelves lined with the books he had written. Row after row of them. Impressive.

Then I noticed something. Tucked into the corner of one of those impressive bookshelves were two plastic cups holding colorful paper flowers. 

You know the kind. The flowers children make in preschool out of construction paper, glue, and enormous amounts of love. The kind that proudly arrive home with stems that bend in impossible directions and petals that don't quite match.

I laughed. Of all the things he could have displayed behind him - awards, trophies, expensive artwork - there sat two plastic cups with paper flowers. And suddenly, those flowers became the most important things on the shelf.

Then I smiled, because I realized... I do the exact same thing.

Every Friday, I set my Shabbat table with my finest china and our sterling silver Kiddush cups. I put beautiful fresh flowers in the center - the kind you'd photograph for a magazine.

And right beside them, holding their own place of honor, are little paper flowers made by my grandchildren.

They do not match the china.
They do not match the silver.
They are not perfectly straight.

One might lean a little to the side. Another might have a petal that looks like it got into an argument with the scissors. I love them.

Nobody told my grandchildren that their flowers had to compete with the "important" things on the table. They just showed up. And I made room.

MY DIAMONDS

Maybe that is one of the gifts of getting older. We begin to understand that beauty does not always come in the form we expect.

Sometimes it comes in a little white jewelry box sitting next to the Shabbat candles.

My diamonds.

Well...not the kind you buy in a jewelry store.

Inside are dozens of rubber band bracelets, colorful plastic necklaces, and beaded creations lovingly made by my grandchildren.

Every one arrived with great ceremony. "Savta! I made this for you!" 

As far as they were concerned, they had just handed me the Crown Jewels. And I received them exactly that way.

I wear them. Not all at once. (I'm a grandmother, not a Christmas tree.)

I rotate them, because each one reminds me of the little hands that strung the beads, chose the colors, and waited for my reaction.

The funny thing is that I often wear them alongside real gold bracelets. If someone asked which bracelet is worth more, the jeweler and I might give different answers. 

Gold has value because it is rare. A rubber bracelet has value because one little person made it while thinking: "Savta will love this."

That's rarer.

Maybe that is what happens as we grow older. We stop measuring our wealth by what shines. We start measuring it by what holds love.

A chipped mug from a parent.
A faded photograph.
A paper flower.
A rubber bracelet.

To anyone else, they may just be things taking up space.

But to us... They hold voices.
They hold tiny hands.
They hold moments we never want to forget.
They are the real treasures.

Jump, Savta, Jump

I’ve got jump ropes on my mind. I woke up this morning with an old elementary school primer running through my head.

"Jump, Savta, jump."
"Look, Jerry. See Savta jump."
The next line should have been:
"See Savta jump high."

In my imagination, however, the word "high" was crossed out with a thick black marker.

Let's just say that if you blinked, you probably would have missed the exact moment both of my feet were technically off the ground. 

The funny thing is, this isn't my first attempt at becoming a jump-roper.

JUMPING ROPE WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG

About ten years ago, when I was still young (I was only sixty), my granddaughters Arielli and Galya decided that I should learn to jump rope. I honestly can't remember why. Did they want me to have as much fun as they were having? Or did they already understand the importance of building bone density? (Um…no…What four- and eight-year-olds think about that?)

Really, I don't remember. I'll have to ask them.

I do remember that I occasionally succeeded in getting my feet over the rope. But apparently, I wasn't determined enough, because eventually we became interested in other things and my jump-rope career came to an end.

Fast-forward ten years.

JUMPING ROPE WHEN YOU’RE OLD

Now, at seventy, with my jumps and hops becoming more difficult (read: almost non-existent) in tap class, I decided it was time to try again.

So, I poured out my non-jumping heart to my amazing physical therapist, Dara Saker, and she looked at me and said one simple word:

"Jump."

I stared at her face with a very puzzled expression, as if she had suddenly started speaking Chinese. What? "Jump."

Who tells a seventy-year-old to jump?

"I can't jump," I told her. She looked at me confidently. "You can, and you will."
"I really don't think I can."
"Jump. Jump right now. DO YOU WANT TO JUMP IN TAP OR NOT? Jump!"

So I jumped. Thirty times. Not high. In fact, you probably couldn't slide a penny underneath my feet while I was theoretically off the floor. But I jumped.

According to Dara, that counts.

Then she hung two thick exercise bands from the chin-up bars, instructed me to hold on tightly, and told me to jump again. It was almost like jumping on a trampoline. 

Apparently, I was smiling. "You're having fun, aren't you?" she asked.

Now, everyone knows that you should never admit that anything in physical therapy is fun, because that is the last time you will be allowed to do it.

But between us...
...it was kind of fun.

On Friday, while preparing for Shabbat, I was alone in my kitchen. So I jumped. Thirty times. Still not even close to penny height. But I jumped.

And then came my next lesson in jumping.

MORE JUMPING

Today, during warm-ups at Senior Women's Dance, our teacher Judy Kizer called out slowly: 
"Jump out, hands down."
"Jump in, hands up."

A studio full of women in their sixties and seventies froze. The expressions on our faces looked exactly like those crazy-eyed WhatsApp emojis. Was she telling us to do jumping jacks? Apparently, she was.

We were awkward. We looked at one another. We laughed. But we tried. Because if Judy said we should do it, she probably believed we could.

Two times. Not twenty. Two. But we did. And that was enough.

Somewhere between Dara's "Jump!" and Judy's "Jump!" I realized something. Maybe the hardest part of jumping isn't getting your feet off the floor. Maybe it's believing that you can, or not yet believing and trying to do it anyway.

So I've made a decision. I'm buying a jump rope.

When I mentioned this to my nine-year-old granddaughter, Yumi, she immediately informed me, "Savta, you need to get a jump rope with weights."

How does a nine-year-old know about weighted jump ropes? I have no idea. But I have learned that children often know things we adults haven't figured out yet.

By family vacation, IY"H, maybe my granddaughters and I will all be jumping together. They'll soar over their ropes. I'll celebrate every glorious penny-height jump. And while they laugh and jump, I'll sing the old jump-rope song from my childhood, “On the mountain, there’s a lady. Who she is I do not know...”

They will have no idea what I'm singing about. They will probably think Savta is silly. And they will laugh.

And maybe that's what growing older gracefully is really about. Not jumping as high as you once could. Just never deciding that you are finished jumping.

See Savta jump.