November 12th, 2023
I was at the synagogue yesterday. When the Shacharit service ended, everyone went to the dining room for kiddush, a time to snack and socialize. I asked Neil what he was doing. I hadn’t seen him for several weeks. He gave me a vague reply, and then he asked me,
“So, what are you doing?’
I had just spent four hours watching over my little grandson, Asher, so I said,
“I am caring for a toddler.”
Neil told me, “But you’re not doing that now.”
That was true. I was at a gathering with a few friends. However, my mind was still at home with a three-year-old who needs constant surveillance. Even when I am taking a break from the boy, I am not taking a break.
At this point in my life, I would like a certain degree of peace and quiet. Well, that’s not going to happen. Granted, at this particular moment in time, I have some serenity, but that can end any minute now. As soon as Asher rouses himself from slumber, I will be on duty, and it is likely that this essay will be completed hours from now, if at all.
I suppose it sounds like I am bitching. I am. On the other hand, my wife and I freely took on the responsibility of raising our grandson. We didn’t exactly volunteer for the job, but shortly after Asher was born, we made an open-ended commitment to care for him. If we had not agreed to do that, Asher would have fallen into the foster care system, and that would have been an unmitigated disaster with lifelong consequences for the boy, and for us. We did the right thing, and now every day we are dealing with it.
What bothers sometimes is the chaos. I never know what will happen at any given moment. Of course, nobody knows what will happen, but most people can kind of guess at the future and make plans. Karin and I don’t make plans, or if we do, they are always tentative. Every statement of intent is followed by “if God wills”, or “inshallah”, or a heartfelt “min ezrat Hashem”. With a small child in the house, nothing is for sure.
Was it like this when we were raising our own children? No doubt it was, but one forgets the craziness after a while. Now, the memories of caring for little people come flooding back. It is a bit strange to be taking Asher to story time at the library or spending hours with him at the playground. Karin and I discuss where to send him to kindergarten (we are leaning heavily toward putting him in the Waldorf school). When he is sick or upset, I hold the boy in my arms until he calms down. That can take an hour or more. Some of things we do with Asher are familiar to us, and we just slip back into who we were as parents thirty years ago. It’s like riding a bicycle. A person doesn’t really forget these things.
Chaos has its upside. It is impossible for me to be bored. I have to be alert and aware at all times. Raising a little boy has to be good for my mental acuity. Chasing after the lad keeps me physically active. As much as I would like to be sedentary, I can’t. If he is moving, I am moving.
This level of chaos is manageable. My wife and I can stumble through the day, and in the end, the two of us and Asher are alright. I can’t imagine what real chaos must be like. I can’t fathom how parents in Gaza or Ukraine can deal with their circumstances. Karin and I have resources available to us. We have food, water, shelter, and medical care. Other people in other places don’t. We don’t have to worry about bombs and bullets. Other caregivers have those concerns every day.
How do these people care for their children?
I think I know the answer.
They just do it.
Frank is Emptiness 