Kaddish

The memories are hazy, but it was probably in second or third grade.  One day, FOS was extremely upset--verge of tears kind of thing.  It was towards the end of the day, and FOS was filled with dread: "You're not going to see me tomorrow," he said.  "My Mom's going to KILL me.  And so this is it!  Ohhhh. . . ."  His sin?  Losing the box of crayons his mother had just bought him.

In his defense, this was one of those really nice boxes of crayons--the kind with the built-in sharpener.  Still, it did seem a bit of an extreme reaction.  As you might imagine, FOS's mother did not kill him for his transgression.  As I say, the memories are hazy, but I would even go out on a limb and say that FOS soon had a new box of crayons to lose.

At this point, I had not yet met FOS's mom.  When I did meet her, she hardly struck me as the sort who would commit filicide over lost crayons. For one thing, she was quite friendly.  For another, she gave me iced tea!  Now, my own mother made iced tea all the time: lemon-flavored, unsweetened.  But at FOS's home, the iced tea was sweet!  I had never tasted such nectar!  Furthermore, FOS's mother took pride in preparing and serving what I can only describe as food!  Don't get me wrong: My mother cooked, too, but it was never something she took much interest in.  FOS's mother, on the other hand, took great pride in the care and feeding of her family--and any schoolmates whom said family happened to bring over.

One thing I can honestly say is that, growing up, FOS was never in danger of going hungry.  It was a challenge to leave the house without being fed:

"Mom, we're going out to the comic book store."

"OK, you want an apple to take with you?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure you don't want an apple?  How about a banana?"

"No, I don't want a banana."

"Maybe you should take a banana."

"I don't want a banana!"

"Take a banana!  Or a cookie?  I have macaroons."

"I don't want a macaroon!"

Eventually, we'd get out of the apartment, FOS more likely than not stuffing an apple, banana, and or macaroon into his coat pockets.

One day, our class went on a field trip to Washington, DC.  It was very exciting, taking a plane to go on a school trip.  The trip was more or less a disaster: We left late and had very little time in the Capitol.  Worse still, though, was the trip back.  Our shuttle was extremely late, and then we ended up having to circle LaGuardia for about an hour before we could land.  Finally, we made it to the terminal, where all the parents were waiting to pick us up.  FOS's mother was glad to see him.  How glad?  You would think he had just come back from Beirut.  I have to admit: I felt a bit disappointed that my own mother didn't make such a fuss over me.

Children can't help but compare their friends' parents to their own.  Sometimes one's own parents suffer in comparison, sometimes they shine.  Most children would never trade their own mothers and fathers for those of their friends, but these surrogate parents can't help but be formative elements in any child's development.  They teach us about other ways of living, other ways of being.  They teach us that iced tea can be sweet.  And for that we are eternally grateful.