perek gimmel which is when my niggling conscience erupts and I decide firmly that having arrived late, I am probably not yotzei a word. (I make a mental note to once and for all be mevarer this halacha, as well as if it’s two minim for one person, or one for two, and so on.)
10:00 a.m.
I settle the children in the shul’s basement and with five minutes to spare I call my husband who assures me that no, I did not have to leave in the middle of the leining and could have totally continued hearing the megillah. At the first announcement of Haman’s name the children let loose. My son’s genius plan of playing his little Casio’s demo fails slightly as the off button jams. We faintly hear of Vashti’s execution as Beethoven’s Minuet sings on. I finally give the thing a good whack on the table and the batteries roll away, defeated. My kids almost never get box drinks, so the fruit punch is an exciting part of the pekela. My son remembers (from Rosh Hashana) that stamping on the box creates a wow of a boom and as Haman rears his ugly head once again, he jumps. Two slight problems, the box isn’t empty and it’s the sailor with the white pants. The pirate’s pants are originally red. (He also didn’t remove the straw so that hits an unlucky target over the mechitza.) I try to copy the other women who are all looking around for the mother. Then I remember that I’m holding
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his cap and telescope. Here I have the incredible fortune to be seated next to my sister-in-law, whose three children are clutching their still closed snacks, thumbs in mouth, all sharing one small megillah with the same picture border on each page of Haman leading Mordechai on a white kingly horse and Achashverosh, wearing those curly pointed pompom slippers, leaning back on a lavish recliner, being served wine. The ba’al korah’s voice cracks slightly and my sisterin-law moves to the front of the shul to hear clearly. Her kids are so enthralled with their megillah that they don’t follow her.
11:00 a.m.
We arrive home and the children gleefully bend down to retrieve the few bags and baskets by the door. My neighbor with the toddler twins sent peanut chews and ice coffee. Thank you WIC. Katz sent everything milky wrapped in yarn and the Bernsteins gave beer. Cute. There’s also a bag with leaking charlamade and a bunch of fruit shaped cool-aids that almost always spill sticky. There’s no label and I don’t really blame the sender for opting anonymity. Maybe Baumgarten? Definitely not a Derbarimdiger. With a name like Levine I make no attempt. Everyone’s getting babke except my downstairs neighbor. Her kids have been eating chometz by me for the past week so she’s getting lady fingers.
