Humor:
To bubbi's house for the holidays
By Toby Rosenstrauch
August 15, 2008
On a day that seemed like any other day, you get a phone call that changes your life forever.
"Ma," he says, "you're going to be a grandmother."
"How?" you ask.
"What do you mean HOW," he says.
"The usual way."
You are stunned. You're too young to be a bubbi. Your hair isn't all grey yet and you don't have bifocals. Knitting is out of the question and so is babysitting. You're not ready, but before you can arrange to liquidate your holdings and escape to a tropical island where there are no phones, you have a grandchild. And then there are five more. There's no escaping the antics that accrue.
For example, take Rosh Hashanah. The first call comes a week before.
"What time do you want us?" your daughter asks.
There are calls from the rest of the family with the same question. Somehow you get 23 people coming to dinner, six of them under the age of 8, and three teenagers whose relationship to the family you've forgotten.
Nobody helps with preparation. Until the night before, your husband is on a business trip to
Shortly after dinner, everyone rushes off. You're left with the mess and little David who hid under your bed. Nobody misses him yet.
David crawls sweetly into your lap and says, "I'll help you, bubbi." He understands, bless his little heart. He feels contrite. It's been some day!
First, he knocked over your hand-painted ceramic umbrella stand, smashing the handle. Then he punched holes in the grillwork of your stereo speakers.
His sister used a plastic baseball bat to slam the fruit from the fruit bowl all over the living room. Two apples and an orange are still missing.
The other sister locked herself in the bathroom. To get her out, her father took a screwdriver and removed the entire knob and lock mechanism because you couldn't find the key. Now nobody can put it back because some of the parts are missing.
The baby threw up on a needlepoint pillow that took you a year to make. The toddler who likes to eat while walking around left food and fingerprints all over the house.
As you cleared the table, you heard a crash upstairs.
"Don't worry, Bubbi," somebody yelled. "It's just a table with a lot of cards on it. I'm picking them up."
You ran upstairs but it was too late. Index cards covered with the research you carefully organized for the book you are writing were piled in disarray on a chair. The kids were busy going through the souvenirs you artfully arranged on shelves in your studio. You shooed them out.
An hour later, the toddler got his finger caught under an open door. You poured detergent on it from both sides and the finger slid out. You returned to the kitchen where all the young mothers were exchanging birthing horror stories.
Your mother was putting away leftovers.
"Everything was delicious," she said, even though she knew the tzimmis burned and the turkey was too dry.
Your husband patted you on the head.
"You'll live," he whispered in your ear.
"Will I really?" you replied.
He began to do the pots. You started loading the dishwasher.
"It was fun," everybody said as they left. You were speechless. You sought privacy in the bathroom only to discover the toilet overflowed. From previous experience, you knew that it is futile to look for a plumber on a holiday. You pasted an "out of order" sign on the door and removed the smelly diapers from the waste basket.
Now you look down at David's golden curls and gooey face as he cuddles in your lap like an angel.
"I'm hungry, bubbi," he says. "I don't like turkey."
You laugh and pop a slice of potato kugel in the microwave for him.
When his mother discovers that he's missing and calls on the phone, the most surprising words come out of your mouth.
"Let him stay a few days," you say.
"Sure," she says. "Let me know when you've had enough."
She hangs up before you can change your mind.
But before you put David to bed, you look at the calendar and see when the next holiday comes up. You call an airline and book a trip to
Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in