Shimmy's face drooped as he walked slowly away.
"I did it again," I thought miserably as I put the last
freshly washed cup onto the dish drainer. I knew it wasn't
right but... why couldn't I stop myself? Honestly! He'd only
come to show me the picture he'd made with sequins. A simple
picture of a Chanuka dreidel, but in my impatience
and... drivenness, I blurted out, "That's WAY too many
sequins!"
He walked away, head hanging low, picture hanging even lower
from his limp hand. What did I expect from a seven-year-old?
Perfection? How hard he must have worked on it! How he must
have anticipated my excited reply. But he didn't get it. Not
this time, anyway.
"Perfect, indeed!" I scolded myself. "And how, exactly, is
perfect?"
Yet I always demand perfection from myself in each and every
action of the day with strong self rebuke for every slight. I
shake my head at this incredible self realization. "Just
because I'm damaging myself doesn't mean I have to hurt my
children."
The next day Shimmy bounced into the house, his face shining.
He handed me a graded test. 100% I hugged him and kissed his
forehead. "That's fantastic!" I hugged him again! "Really
perfect!" He beamed. Sitting down over cookies and milk, he
told me how he had studied so hard so he could do REALLY well
on the test. My eyes filled with tears and my lip trembled.
"I'm so very proud of you, Shimmy," I whispered, squeezing
his hand and getting up to make myself a cup of coffee.
Somehow, I had a feeling that I hadn't quite handled this
properly.
On Shabbos, I realized just how true this feeling was. Eli,
our 14-year-old, came home from yeshiva for Shabbos. I could
tell that something was bothering him but I figured he'd tell
me sooner or later.
`Sooner or later' came on Sunday morning when I attempted to
awaken him to catch the 7:00 a.m. bus back to yeshiva. It was
already 6:40. "I'm not going," he said sleepily.
"Are you sick?" I touched his forehead worriedly. It felt a
normal cool. His thick black eyelashes fluttered as he forced
himself to keep his eyes closed.
"What happened?" I asked.
He just rolled over to go back to sleep.
"Oh, no, you don't!" I shook his shoulder until he finally
sat up. He washed his hands by the bedside. I emptied the
basin in the bathroom and came and sat down near him. I
looked at the clock: 7:05. He'd already missed the bus.
"I'm staying home all week," he said, eyes lowered.
"Eli, tell me, what's going on?"
He inspected his fingernails carefully, "There's white specks
on my nails, Ima. Maybe I should take some calcium?"
"Fine, Eli. I'll get you some calcium. Did something happen
at yeshiva?"
"It's just too hard," he said, standing up with a start.
"But you're so smart!" I blurted.
"No, I'm not." He walked over to his closet. With his back to
me, he said, "I only got an 82% on my gemora test." He
flung a paper onto the bed next to me.
I picked up his test, my mouth agape. "But Eli! 82% is great
for yeshiva!"
"It's not perfect."
I felt a coldness grip my heart. A coldness of knowing that I
had demanded too much, too often, without even realizing it.
Now I was seeing the repercussions. If any one thing had to
change, it was my attitude. I thought to myself, Not perfect?
Not perfect, indeed!
Later, when Eli went to shul, I called his
mashgiach and we discussed the problem.
"It's making my son ill!" I cried to this talmid
chochom who had seen so much over the years with these
fine but emotionally tumultuous young men.
"He's been learning very well, Mrs. Levy. It's just this
thing with grades."
"I think he feels like a failure if he doesn't get 100%, if
he's not perfect," I winced saying it, feeling the coldness
grip my heart once more.
"I can allow him not to take tests," the mashgiach
suggested.
That was an idea! My heart warmed somewhat. "I'll talk to Eli
tonight and call you tomorrow." After thanking him profusely,
I finally said `good-bye' and put the receiver down.
"Perfect, indeed!" I shook my head and went to clean my
husband's menora.
That evening, when the younger children were all in bed, I
washed the dinner dishes. Eli sat at the kitchen table poring
over a gemora.
I looked over towards him and said as casually as I could,
"Eli, what if you don't take any of the tests?"
Eli looked up, his large green eyes framed with sincerity.
"If I don't take the tests, I won't have the pressure, but I
might not push myself to learn, either."
I smiled. Intelligent answer!
"What if you put your name on the top of the test and put
your head down on the table and then handed the test in
blank?"
Eli looked startled. "I'd get a zero!" he said
breathlessly.
"So?"
I turned towards the sink, rinsing off the sudsy plate in my
hand, drying my hands and then going over to sit across from
him.
"Eli, even if you get a zero, you're still one hundred
percent!"
His lip trembled slightly. "Thanks, Ima," he said, picking up
the gemora and walking out of the kitchen. His head
was lowered. I couldn't see his eyes.
The next morning while I was getting the litle ones'
sandwiches made, I heard a thump and then some other rustling
noises.
I went to the back room. There was Eli, fully dressed in his
suit and hat, his small suitcase filled. He shut and zippered
it, then flung it over his shoulder.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I've got five minutes to catch that 7 o'clock bus. Do you
have any cookies?"
I was pretty surprised. I ran and got him a bag of
cookies.
He waved goodbye and dashed to the elevator.
I wanted to yell after him, "Perfect!" but Boruch Hashem,
this time I held my tongue and somehow, I had the feeling
that it was the right thing to do.
