A week ago Saturday, I packed all of the Teenies into the van and headed to Congregation Beth Sholom - the synagogue I went to for Sunday School growing up - for a program of "Shabbat Songs". After the less than welcoming reception we'd gotten at the PJ Havdallah service at Sherith Israel a few weeks earlier, and considering I was by myself with them this time, I was a little nervous.
The entire synagogue has been re-built since I last attended. The front doors used to lead to a run-downish lobby outside the sanctuary, with double doors to the plain-open-room meeting area known as the Friedman Center. I remember vividly the guard who stood outside those doors the evening of my class's Sunday School confirmation, on high alert because there had been a rash of anti-Semetic vandalism in the area, including swastikas painted on the walls just next to the doors.
The front doors are now glass and lead to a little courtyard area. There are offices to the left and a glass staircase straight ahead. Behind the staircase, there is a path that leads in both directions. I followed the signs to the PJ Library event and wound my way down a hall and to the library. The library is a long, rectangular room with a sunken donut-hole in the middle of it. There are about ten steps that lead down into the "Children's area" (I am assuming this because there appeared to be kids' books down there), and that's where the wonderful entertainer had set up with his guitar. The donut hole area was packed with pre-school and elementary-school aged kids and their parents. There were a few adults scattered among the benches and tables "upstairs" and so I migrated over to a corner, parked the stroller, and released the babies.
Everyone seemed to enjoy taking in the whole scene and folks were smiling at us. Then the Teenies noticed the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and set themselves to extracting every volume on Talmudic interpretation (including "101 Things You Should Know about Judaism") to peruse. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to the congregation's librarian for the disorder left as I jammed books back into the shelves to protect the pages from Teenie tears. From time to time they'd get bored with the books, being drawn into a song, or, in Caroline's case, becoming intrigued with the things in somebody else's purse that she could try to "borrow". At one point they found the basket of loaner yarmulkes and that was good for at least a couple of minutes of distraction as they tried on the various styles and colors.
About half way into the event, a young woman walked over to us and as I tried to shuffle everyone out of her way she said, "Oh no, I was just going to stand here - they're fine". The boys heard her voice, and were in love. They spun around and waddled over to her, so she sat down, explaining that she provided child care during the Sabbath services, as a way of explaining the thrall in which she held my sons, I suppose. They each stood at one of her knees and smiled goofily at her, letting her play with them and put hats on them.
And Caroline didn't like it.
So she started crying.
A man came over to me and told me, nicely, that there were a couple of rooms just down the hall that were "filled with toys" if I thought the babies needed a change of scenery. I thanked him, but imagined it would be easier to calm Caroline down than to corral all three of them, schlep them across the room and down the hall, just to play with toys we could play with at home.
I was wrong.
A moment later, a woman came over and informed me, not so nicely, that she really thought that Caroline's crying was "distracting him" (the guitarist, I think, but I'm not sure) and asked if I needed help. It sounds in the re-telling as if she was being kind and offering help, but her tone was not pleasant, caring or nurturing.
And I had an embarrassingly emotional Mommy reaction. Much like my mother, who upon tripping and falling responded to the folks who crowded around asking if she was OK by saying, "Hell no, I'm not ok - didn't you see me just fall down?", I snapped at the woman, "Not unless you can make her stop crying." And then I felt my face get hot and my eyes fill with my own tears. All I could think was, I should be able to take my children out of the house for an hour by myself without someone implying that I can't handle them. Would she have offered to "help" if I'd only had one baby? I didn't want to make a scene crying, so I scooped Caroline up and went through a glass door out into a tiny patio adjacent to the library, leaving Daniel and Max to flirt with their new friend Laura.
Another mom with a baby was outside and noticed I was crying and asked if I was ok. I admit I am not proud that I answered, "Well, I was until somebody made me feel I'm not welcome here if my children cry." I'm even less proud that when she asked who had done that, I pointed through the window and outed the woman.
Oh well, I was upset. So sue me.
Laura brought the boys outside and everyone seemed in a much better mood in the cool air. The first man who had offered me the rooms full of toys as an option came outside with his six year old and chatted with me very pleasantly about the religious school and the kids programs they offer, while his son ran in circles through the plants, screaming at the top of his lungs each time he approached us and making my children laugh uncontrollably.
And I felt better.
The babies started to run around and play outside, and slowly other kids came out to join them, and they all had a great time.
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| Caroline explores the steps in her ruffle butt pants |
At the end of the show, everyone came outside for grape juice and grapes (real creative...) and crackers and cream cheese. The little courtyard was now packed with people and I decided it would be a good idea to get everyone in the stroller and start to plan our escape. I had retrieved the boys and was staggering back to the stroller with one in each arm (they weigh roughly a combined 50 pounds at this point) when that woman approached me again.
As she started to talk, I stopped her, saying, "I just can't talk to you right now, thank you." But, she persisted, and as I struggled to get the boys strapped in, she said, "Well, I was GOING to apologize".
"Good. Thank you."
But she went on.
"It's just that, some children handle situations like that better than others, for some all the people and the sound is just too much, and it's really kind of inappropriate to bring them, then."
I stared at her. I couldn't believe it. I felt like asking, "And this apology? When am I getting that?" Because this sounded more like a lecture on why my children shouldn't leave the house. Instead, I just stared. This seemed to make her uncomfortable, so she mumbled, "Well, Shabbat Sholom" and wandered off.
This little interaction made me mad all over again, but I stood, took a breath, and looked around at all the other folks who were smiling at me, complimenting Caroline's outfit, asking how old everyone was, and I was determined that that woman would not ruin the experience. I strapped Caroline into the Baby Bjorn on my chest and stood for a moment trying to decide who to ask to help me get the stroller up the steps to the door that would put me back on the sidewalk. A girl who appeared to be about 8 years old walked by, stopped, looked at the boys, then Caroline, then me, and asked, "You have THREE babies?" When I nodded, she added, "Wow - that's a lot!" and then "And do you have another one in your tummy?" and I could not stop from busting out laughing.
A nice, burly man agreed to help carry the stroller up the steps, and we left then, oddly in a good mood because a little girl mistook my fat belly for pregnancy.
Then on Monday, my aunt Laya came to visit the babies, hanging out with them for the better part of three days. They showed off a lot for her, especially their wrestling skills.
but only Caroline would model the ski caps she brought for them:
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