{"id":12203,"date":"2008-11-20T08:01:00","date_gmt":"2008-11-20T08:01:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/production.ou.org\/life\/other\/zoldan_coloring_in_the_lines\/"},"modified":"2015-10-30T02:31:12","modified_gmt":"2015-10-30T07:31:12","slug":"zoldan_coloring_in_the_lines","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.ou.org\/life\/parenting\/zoldan_coloring_in_the_lines\/","title":{"rendered":"Coloring in the Lines"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"image\"<\/div>\n

My daughter, Atara, is five going on six, going on twenty. She sits at my kitchen table in her pink striped sweater, coloring endless pictures of hearts and rainbows and talks to me about life. Mostly, I am interested in listening because much of what she says comes as a big surprise to me. Her blonde head is bowed and I can see the narrow white stalk of her neck. The tip of her tongue sticks slightly out of the side of her mouth as she concentrates. She clutches the crayon tightly, pressing so hard that there will be marks on the papers underneath. Perfecting this rainbow is very important.<\/p>\n

In fact, to Atara, everything is important. She thinks very deeply about feelings and questions, what people say and what they mean, what color crayon to use, what color tights she should wear tomorrow.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wonder what it\u2019ll be like to be me when I grow up,\u201d she said yesterday.<\/p>\n

\u201cI do too,\u201d I answered. And I do. What a surprising pleasure it is to watch this small bundle of contradictions sort herself out, to learn along with her right from wrong, want from need, truth from kindness.<\/p>\n

But it isn\u2019t always rainbows and roses.<\/p>\n

She went on a fierce truth telling kick recently. In a way, you could say it\u2019s my fault. After all, I\u2019m the one who told her to always tell the truth. And that was a big mistake.<\/p>\n

On a recent Sunday evening, distant cousins came to visit. As they settled themselves in on the couch, I went back to the kitchen, preparing drinks and a plate of cookies when my little daughter sneaks in.<\/p>\n

\u201cMommy,\u201d she stage whispers, \u201cShould I tell Mr. Katz that he\u2019s bald?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, cookie.\u201d I say fervently, \u201cPlease don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201dCuz I think he already knows.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d she thinks for a minute, \u201cWell, then should I tell Mrs. Katz that she has crinkly lines on her face?\u201d<\/p>\n

My heart drops into my stomach. That\u2019s all I need. \u201cWe\u2019ll talk about this later,\u201d I say quickly and hurry into the room with the tray. Then I promptly forget all about it.<\/p>\n

The very next day she burst into the house after school, \u201cMommy! Guess what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I say, smiling.<\/p>\n

\u201cI told Suri that she\u2019s fat! Because it\u2019s true! She is!\u201d<\/p>\n

She beams. My face falls.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, don\u2019t worry, Mommy,\u201d she hurries to reassure me, \u201cI told her that it\u2019s okay to be fat because now she might get a baby!\u201d<\/p>\n

I head to the counter for the phone book. I need to call Suri\u2019s house and apologize.<\/p>\n

That night, I talk gently to Atara.<\/p>\n

\u201cTari, there are some things that we just don\u2019t say, even if they\u2019re the truth. Like, for example,\u201d I think for a minute, \u201cif someone isn\u2019t Jewish, we don\u2019t have to say that out loud, even though it\u2019s true, because it might make them feel bad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean like the girl with the brown face in the park?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, exactly like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d She nods sagely. We exchange kisses and hugs and my little darling is off to sleep.<\/p>\n

The next morning at eight, the doorbell rings. It\u2019s Clara, the cleaning lady. Moments later I hear Atara. \u201cMommy,\u201d she calls in a happy sing-song, \u201cI told Clara that she\u2019s really very nice, and she shouldn\u2019t feel bad that she\u2019s not Jewish and she has big teeth!\u201d<\/p>\n

But her honesty is not just for other people. Sometimes, she turns it on me.<\/p>\n

\u201cMommy, do you know what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, cookie?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen you wear a snood, your ears stick out and you look like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.\u201d She hesitates. \u201cBut not really like Snow White. Like one of the dwarves.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you, Atara,\u201d I squeeze out from behind clenched teeth.<\/p>\n

I told my husband that night and he laughed. He didn\u2019t laugh so hard the next day, though. \u201cMommy,\u201d Atara asks, staring seriously at our wedding picture, \u201cdid you really like Daddy when you got married, even though he had such funny looking glasses?\u201d<\/p>\n

It wouldn\u2019t be so bad if she just kept in the family. But mostly she doesn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

On Shabbos, she came home from shul squirming with excitement. She saw her friend, Chevi, an older girl, who always picks her up and hugs and kisses her. \u201cWhen I saw Chevi I gave her a BIG hug, and I told her that I\u2019m so happy that it\u2019s not Yom Kippur anymore. Because when she hugged me in shul, her breath was really stinky!\u201d<\/p>\n

Exhausted, I reach for the phone. I need to call Chevi.<\/p>\n

And just when I am running out of patience, out of answers, out of my mind, the truth-telling kick is over. Somehow it has penetrated and she understands that honesty is not always the best policy. In some tiny increment she has grown up. I breathe a deep sigh of relief and wonder what I will do with all the extra time I have now that I don\u2019t need to constantly call people and apologize.<\/p>\n

It turns out that what I\u2019ll be doing is answering questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow old are you Mommy?\u201d Atara asks on the way home from carpool. \u201cThirty two,\u201d I say and I look at her in the rearview mirror. Her forehead is squinched down over her twinkly brown eyes, she\u2019s thinking hard.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut, how old will you be when you turn into Babbi and I turn into you?\u201d I laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not how it works, silly goose. Mommies become Babbis when their children have babies and children turn into Mommies after they grow up and have babies. Understand?\u201d<\/p>\n

She nods emphatically. She says she understands but I\u2019m not so sure. Honestly, it raises an interesting question. Because secretly, deep down, I\u2019ve always wondered \u2018How old will I be when I finally turn into my mother?\u2019<\/p>\n

I know what you\u2019re thinking, Oh no! To turn into one\u2019s mother, how awful! How horrific! It\u2019s a clich\u00e9, it\u2019s a joke. The whole world is trying so hard to avoid getting older, becoming our mothers. But not me. For me, turning into my mother sounds pretty good. In fact, my mother is who I want to be when I grow up.<\/p>\n

Well, not really when I grow up. At thirty two, I have a house and a husband, four kids and six loads of laundry waiting. Sounds pretty grown up and I guess by most measures I am. I drive carpools, cook nutritious meals, speak seriously to teachers at PTA. But inside me I\u2019m not grown up at all. In fact on the inside, I\u2019m probably about twelve. Insecure, awkward, and a little sullen. Luckily, I get to cover it up with lipstick and high heels.<\/p>\n

So, when will I be grown up? I wonder, as I watch Atara stare out the window and count trees. I think I\u2019ll be grown up when I know the answers to my children\u2019s endless questions and when I have the patience to repeat them over and over and over again without blowing a fuse. Or maybe, I\u2019ll feel grown up when I learn to be selfless, to be giving, to be cheerful and gracious and wise, like my own mother is. It\u2019s a tall order. And I\u2019m not all that certain that I can achieve it.<\/p>\n

But then I look at Atara trying so hard to grow up and I realize that it\u2019s a lifelong effort. And there\u2019s no other way to do it than by asking silly questions and saying the wrong thing sometimes. It seems that along with my daughter, I am always re-learning the difference between right and wrong, want and need, truth and kindness. I\u2019m just doing the best I can and there\u2019s no shame in that.<\/p>\n

This morning, I woke up to Atara bouncing excitedly at the side of my bed. She has something important to tell me and it clearly cannot wait for a reasonable hour. \u201cWhat\u2019s up, Tari?\u201d I ask sleepily.<\/p>\n

\u201cMommy, you know what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLast night when I said Shma, I spoke to Hashem. And do you know what I said to Him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNope. Tell me.\u201d I answer, groggily.<\/p>\n

\u201cI said thank you Hashem for always giving my Mommy the strength to help me,\u201d she says and beams.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m wide awake now. And I\u2019m beaming too.<\/p>\n

So maybe, we\u2019re all just little girls in high heels and lipstick, still trying to grow up. And maybe, just maybe, there\u2019s hope for me yet.<\/p>\n

\n

Yael Zoldan is a Brooklyn girl, who lives in Passaic, New Jersey, with her husband and children. Somewhere between carpool and laundry she finds the time to write. This article is reprinted with permission. It was originally published in Mishpacha magazine<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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