A Hannukah Gift for Peanut

Dear Peanut,

It’s the last night of Hanukkah. One more evening of latkes, gelt, and cheesy Hanukkah music and then we have to put all the Hanukkiot away—your doggy one, the one with Noah’s ark, the one you made in Pre-K, Daddy’s crystal one, the one made out of blue Jerusalem glass which, when all the candles are lit, looks like fire upon the water. 

At four years old, I'm in awe that Hanukkah has actual meaning for you and that you have, in your own way, absorbed the holiday messages of the few against the many and the power of living freely. It's hard to believe that a brief time ago Yolanda, the baby nurse who guided us through your first days, swaddled you so tightly that you looked like the longest, skinniest little peanut in a shell. From that moment on you were my peanut.

Back then, when you were eight days old, we welcomed you to our family, to the Jewish people, and to the world. As I was overcome by wonder and emotions and the surge of hormones, I shared these words with our closest circle of family and friends:

"We don’t know who you are yet, but this your father and I pray for you: that along with all of the elements that make for a secure life—love, shelter, health—you will also have the fortitude to live uniquely. We hope that as each day unfolds, you discover resources within yourself to forge a life of fulfillment and meaning. Your father and I want to guide you, but we do not wish for you to conform to our own self-interested needs, or society’s sometimes misguided norms, or any other pressure that will thwart your ability to live exceptionally."

I believe I saw those words as the beginning of what our tradition calls an ethical will—a document passed down from parent to child that describes the values we pray will endure. And here’s where this, your Hanukkah present, comes into play.

For a long while now, I've thought that I'd like to document reflections, values, and memories as a gift for you. Maybe some of these jottings would provide guidance as you grow older when I may not be here to assist or comfort you. Maybe others will answer questions still inchoate in that fertile consciousness of yours. And maybe still others are (selfishly) for me, to give me some sense of security and permanence as I throttle full steam ahead, the end of my life always coming closer into focus.

My thought is that, like an ethical will, I'll try to capture only those thoughts that have a kernel of value or meaning for you, Peanut, and maybe for others, too. Yet, the beauty of this 21^st century technology—the blog—is the open-endedness of it, the fact that we don't know where it will lead, given this expansive cyber-world we live in.

And Hanukkah seems like the right holiday to begin this endeavor. On Hanukkah we go from one lone light on the first night, to a blazing Hanukkiah, all candles lit, on this, the final night. I hope this blog will also increase the light that shines upon your world, making the path a little brighter and a little easier for you to journey down.

Hag orim sameach, Peanut—like this holiday, may your life grow in radiance and joy.

I love you,

Mommy