Bo: Reflections From A Dad

My daughter, Caroline, turns one year old this week. Just typing that sentence kind of freaks me out. Hey, I'm just being honest with you. One year into this whole parenting thing, I still can't believe it sometimes. My wife and I just look at each other, and then we look at this babbling, squirming, crawling, smiling, beautiful little kid, and we simply can't 

believe that she exists. Ok, ok, I'm not going to bore you all with gushy stories and anecdotes, or waste your time talking about how she's the most incredible child ever, and no little girl is as amazing as her (though if you WANT to hear about why she is, indeed, the most incredible child ever, and there truly is NO other girl as amazing as her, please do let me know... :-)). But with her first birthday almost upon me, and looking at this week's Torah portion as a parent - for the very first time - I cannot help but reflect on some aspects of our text that I never saw before, or probably could have seen, if it weren't for my new (and incredibly important) title of 'daddy.'

One thing that has really struck me about parenthood, and which Rebecca and I talk about from time to time, is how you can't hear stories about OTHER kids the same way ever again. Hearing news stories about children being abused, or sick, or dying hurts now in a way that it never did before. A new instinct - and with it, a vulnerability - has started growing in me that I never could have 

anticipated before. When our Torah portion tells us of the final three plagues that struck the Egyptians, I don't think I ever before appreciated the utter devastation caused by the last, and most painful plague; the death of the first-born. Oh sure, I knew it was bad. But now, when I read in chapter 11, verse 6 of the Book of Exodus, right after God tells Moses of the impending tenth plague, that 'there shall be a loud cry in all the land of Egypt, such as has never been or will ever be again,' I feel it in a new way. That cry sounds louder than ever before. The idea of all parents, throughout Egypt, human and animal, suddenly losing something as precious as a child, and the first-born no less - the one that first opened your eyes to the absolute miracle of Creation, and enabled you to truly see that we are all God's partners in this world - is now unfathomable to me. Something has changed in me, and I simply can't read these stories the same way ever again.

And in a very different (yet somehow also similar) way, I also hear God's threefold instruction to pass the remembrance of this day on to our children with changed ears. First of all, it stings when the Torah says, 'you shall explain to your son on that day, 'It is because of what Adonai 

did for me when I went free from Egypt'' (Ex. 13:8). I've always thought of myself as a pretty egalitarian guy, but it somehow hurts more now to hear the Torah speak to MEN only, and speak of teaching Judaism to just their SONS. My passion for equality feels fierier now, for some inexplicable reason (see photo to the left). And second of all, despite the gender-bias, I feel that God is speaking directly to me now, in a way I didn't before. The concept of 'from generation to generation' means something totally new, now that the next generation is crawling around my feet, and holding out her arms for me to pick her up. A couple of years ago, I wrote a blog post (which you can find here) about what our children are REALLY asking us at the Passover Seder, and I now find myself re-reading that message with greater intention and sense of obligation.

In short, parenthood changes you. Sure, there's sleep-deprivation, stains on your clothes, toys littering your floor, and a lot less money in your bank account, but the change is deeper still. 

The world looks different, newspaper headlines hit harder, and the same text you've read a hundred times before now offers a new message. It's an interesting reminder - and not just to me, or to other parents out there, but to EVERYONE - that we are all constantly changing. When it looks like it is the world that has evolved, or our childhood neighborhoods that have transformed, or the people around us who are different; we sometimes forget that, in fact, WE have changed as well. That is why our ancient rabbis remind us to re-read the texts of our tradition over and over. They will seem different to us as we evolve, and they will have new lessons to teach us with the passage of time. And lemme tell you; if I didn't realize how true this was before, I sure see it now!

Photos in this blog post all depict one Ms. Caroline Dena Gerber. She gave me permission to post the pictures here. I promise.