Our commute

We're back to being the perfect little Portland family these days, all of us leaving the house each morning on our bikes.

TheBoy is very happy with his Trail-A-Bike, although Judy does have to remind him on a regular basis to a) pedal and b) balance. He likes to look around, and that tends to send his part of the bike off in odd directions.

TheGirl is discovering the joys of biking at a young age. She is not, alas, as enamored as the rest of us ...

Innocence lost

I knew this day would come, but that doesn't make it any easier.

The other day the boy informed me that his favorite colors are blue and yellow and silver and tie-dye. "What about pink?" I asked, as that had always topped the list. "I don't like pink anymore," he said. "Why not?" I asked, fearing the inevitable answer. "Because of B," he said.

Alas.

It seems his little buddy told my dear, sweet Boy that he, B, doesn't like pink, so that's the end of that. I should have known that this kid, though delightful, would be the downfall of my own child's innocence. He's a little bit older, and his favorite game - Transformers - involves him and The Boy running around shooting bad guys, who happen to be all the other kids playing in the vicinity who may or may not be aware that they are in the game.

It would be bad enough if pink were the only casualty, but also to fall by the wayside are princesses, whom The Boy loved at least as much as cars, though not nearly as much as Spiderman. Apparently, Brennan told The Boy that princesses "are for girls."

It might be a little while before that kid's allowed back in my house.

Where have we been?

I've been playing with this.

Judybat has been dealing with this.

TheBoy has been attending camp here.

TheGirl has been learning to do this.

We've also gone on this (click the pictures link and see if you can find us) and this, and I managed not to kill TheGirl when I wrecked. She was pretty angry at waking up for a lovely nap upside down, but there were no permanent injuries.

In other words, it's a lovely, techno-geeky summer here in the lovely Rose City. We're also in the midst of a run of family. None of which is, of course, an excuse for the radio silence. We'll be better. Promise. And, until we are, here's something to make you feel better.

What's a Jewish mother to do?

I am a bad Jew. I don't speak Hebrew; I never had a Bat Mitzvah; I have no desire to visit Israel; I eat shrimp, and on the rare occasions when I do attend synagogue, my mind wanders to half-forgotten song lyrics, shopping lists and embarrassing moments from my childhood.

Oh, and I don't believe in God.

But I am a Jew. (Just try expressing an opinion you know I'll disagree with in my presence and see what happens.) And I'm not just a Jew - I'm a Jewish mother. (Stop by the little green house sometime on a full stomach and see what sort of havock is wrought when you decline all invitations to have a little nosh.)

For some reason, this identification is important to me. Maybe it's the connection I feel to a people, a history, a culture -- something greater and deeper than my own self. Whatever it is, I want my children to feel this connection. I want them to know, as I do, that they are Jews.

But how do you do that when the whole God thing is in question? If you're Christian, you've got it made. Being Christian, like being white, seems to be the default in this country - it's something you only have to identify if you are other than. Also, you've got the whole holiday thing working in your favor - pretty lights and presents at Christmas, pretty eggs and chocolate at Easter, and any mention of God just complicates things. (How does that go again - Jesus died for my sins and now a bunny brings me candy?)

I love the Jewish holidays, but the most important ones aren't as kid-friendly as the goyishe celebrations. The big new year attraction on Rosh Hashonah is - woohoo! - honey and apples, then a week later you're supposed to sit starving all day in synagogue. And Passover? It's a celebration of freedom that starts off with a feast and a story - that part's pretty rockin' - but then you spend the rest of the week dreaming of pizza while eating peanut butter on matzoh.

Then there's the whole Bat and Bar Mitzvah thing, which is an awesome day for a 13-year-old, but requires attending school on Saturday while all your Christian friends are out having their non-denominational fun.

So I've been struggling with the question of how to raise my kids as Jews, knowing that the key will be joining a temple, but dragging my feet about it because it seems kind of hypocritical for me to do so, doubting the whole existence of the Big G as I do.

But, Halleluja! Friday night I found the answer. We attended Tot Shabbat services and I felt like we'd found a home. Maybe it was the fact that when they opened the Ark, a bunch of plush Torahs fell out for the kids to carry around, or maybe it was that the man leading the parade, marching the actual Torah around, looked like somebody's zadie from Miami, except for the fact that he was wearing Birkenstocks which showed of his painted toenails. It could have been that the rabbi - who struck me as someone who learned to play the guitar as a teenager while spending her obligatory summer in Israel on a kibbutz, was kind of a babe. But in the end, I think it was how it began; the rabbi told our little ones what it means to be a Jew, then we all sang the Shema, which I find so lovely, perhaps because I don't speak Hebrew, and so I barely notice that it's all about God.