There are two boys and a father
Who wait every morning
For the school bus
Perfect.
They are perfectly dressed
In matching clothes
Belts. Polished shoes.
Neatly folded socks.
White, white pants.
Hair perfectly combed.
Little boys, brothers
They wait
Every morning
With their father
And their perfect schoolbags
For their bus.
One morning, there is a perfect cake
Borne aloft by the father
Lovingly prepared by a perfect mother
To accompany one of the perfect boys
To school.
Perfect.
On mornings when I wait at the stop for my ride to work
I gaze at the perfection
Of the morning sky
And the luscious trees
And the birds serenading the traffic.
And I watch the perfect boys standing together
With their father
Who gazes at them.
And says, "Stop running around--you'll get dirty!"
And "Be quiet! Sit down!"
And "What's wrong with you? You're being wild!"
And never once smiles.
And I sigh.

Today, I am a woman. What I mean, of course, is that last night I single-handedly chaperoned twenty screaming eleven-year-olds to their teacher's wedding in Jerusalem. Yes, you may have my autograph.

We arrive at the mini-bus to find a group of anxious, cheeping girls who breathe loud sighs of relief upon glimpsing my adult presence, telling me that the driver "looks scary". As I alight, I am handed: two cameras, a cellphone, a card for the teacher's gift plus a pen, an envelope filled with the money for the scary-looking driver, a package of tissues and one of those rolls of gum that looks like tape.

"Can you hold this, Mrs. Pomerantz?"
"Can you hold this, Mrs. Pomerantz?"
"Mrs. Pomerantz, can you hold this, please?"
"Do you have a cold?" I ask Little Miss Entire Packet of Tissues.
"No," she says breezily.

It is a half-hour drive to Jerusalem. A very long and loud and lusty half-hour drive, and the scary-looking driver, initially quite cantankerous, turns out to be a raging speed demon as well. I say Tefillas Haderech (Prayer for the Traveler) with heartfelt concentration. The girls, unused to being out and about town at 9:30 PM, and excited at the thought of seeing their beloved teacher wed, are literally bouncing out of their seats.

Do you remember being eleven? I don't, but I imagine it's something very similar to what I am experiencing.

The "talk", which is another way of saying, "the excessive pitch and volume of twenty hyper voices" turns, of course, to weddings.

"I always joke with my mother about why she never invited me to her wedding!" giggles one girl. When eleven year olds congregate, I notice, they like to giggle.

"Ugh, you should see pictures of my mother's wedding! My aunt was wearing, like, a GREEN shirt! Everything was so old-fashioned!"

"I know. And those HAIRSTYLES! They're so funny!"

I gulp. These girls--y'know, the ones with the mothers with the old-fashioned hairstyles? Their old-fashioned mothers got married the same year I did. It's what? Twelve years ago? And we've already become the object of ridicule.

"Tell them not to leave me any garbage on the floor!" the driver exhorts, keeping a careful thirty kilometers above the speed limit.

I barely hear him. My mind is on another time and place, twelve years ago, when my husband and I swore that WE would always be cool, never old-fashioned. OUR kids would never look back at us and laugh. NEVER! No ridiculous bumps, leisure suits, or frilly-dillies. WE would be the coolest parents to ever hit Planet Earth.

Uh, I think we should start setting smaller goals.

Now they're eleven. They think they're on top of the world. One day I hope they'll have the privilege of overhearing twenty eleven-year-olds burst their bubble. It's a rite of passage.

As I wandered around the party goods store on Tuesday, trying to glean some inspiration to infuse our home with the Shavuos spirit, I overheard a most amazing exchange:

"This vanilla extract is quite expensive here, I think. We'll get it from the other store," came a gentle, warm voice. "Come, children, you're doing such a wonderful job. Let's go now, please."

Okay, so she's one of those nicey-nicey mothers, you're thinking. Right?

Except that she's about 3 feet, 4 inches, and she can't be more than eight. And she has two very little children in tow, whom she is speaking to with all the dignity, maturity, and respect of a person ten times her age. I was so struck by this exceptional child. I tapped her on the shoulder and told her how impressed I was by how she spoke to her siblings. It made me truly wonder: where did this child's mother go right? How was she able to effectively train her daughter in speaking gently and wisely, in the art of patience and thought? I imagine the mother must model it herself; the apple seldom falls far from the tree.

Do you sometimes wonder about how your children treat each other when you are not around? Do you wonder what they are picking up from your personality and parenting? I do.

I was just buckling down to work this morning when I saw it. Y'know--IT. The flamboyant pink and white bag that housed the work of art my ten-year-old daughter has been working on for the past three weeks; the piece-de-resistance of her book report. She put her heart and soul into her diarama and now the poor project, due today, languished on the kitchen floor where she'd apparently forgotten it in all the morning rush. Bummer.

Have I mentioned in earlier posts that we are officially carless? Having come from two cars in our former life in the United States, adjusting to live sans auto was quite a change, I admit. But taxis and buses really aren't bad and a girl could get used to being chauffered, you know. But it does make you think twice before you run an errand, and definitely in the case of El Bag. Should I just pretend I didn't see it? I thought. Is this a good lesson in taking responsibility? Or in accepting life's disappointments?

I pictured my daughter, devastated to discover that she had forgotten her project at home. All the girls would be displaying theirs, and only she would have to say, "I forgot mine at home..." Ouch. And she's a really responsible kid, too; it's not like this is de rigeur for her. (Apparently I am feeling very French tonight!)

So....cut to the meat already, Riva. Stop keeping us in suspense! What did you do already????!!! I know, I know. Okay, here's the deal: After some deliberation, I sent the project over to school in a taxi, paid 13 shekels (roughly $4) for the driver to deliver it to the security guard who would get it to the Office who would get it to my daughter. Whew!

And after the project had exited the house, I was engulfed by the clamor of two voices within. One said: "You good mommy, you! She'll be so thrilled!" and the other one yelled, "You're spoiling the kid! This is what she's going to expect next time too!"

Which voice do you think I should listen to?