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Main Page Site Index Getting Pregnant Pregnancy Parenting Pregnancy and Parenting Journals Fertility Nutrition Pregnant Moms Morning Sickness Women's Health Child Health	by Jonathan Kronstadt The first question the rabbi my wife and I had chosen to marry us asked was, "How Jewish do you want the wedding to be?" I thought it an odd question, seeing as we were Presbyterians. No, that's not right. We looked at each other and, almost in unison, replied "Not very." If only placing our children on the continuum of Jewishness were so easy. I was raised conservative. We went to a conservative synagogue where men who seemed to me to be at least 160 years old bobbed up and down and back and forth while intoning a language I assumed was Hebrew but which could have been Klingon for all I knew. My mother was a member of the sisterhood, which confined its activities, quite naturally, to the sisterhood room, activities which seemed mainly to consist of taking the cellophane off trays of pastries. I think we called them danish, and I'm unsure exactly what role they played in the liturgy, but they were quite tasty. We didn't go to synagogue every Friday, but we had seats up front for the High Holidays, which I think meant that my dad had a good business. I was bar mitzvahed under threat of military school, so for six months before my 13th birthday I would spend two hours a day in my room with a tape recorder, memorizing my haftorah, which literally translated means "goose music." It was very important to my parents that I practice this ancient rite of passage into Jewish manhood, especially since six months earlier their attempts to get me admitted to two of the area's finest Episcopalian prep schools had failed miserably, thereby ending any chance of my practicing the less ancient but potentially more lucrative rite of passage of being accepted by an Ivy League college. My mother had been particularly traitorous to her faith--and her son--in her efforts to get me into Al Gore's prep school alma mater. She bribed me into trying out for the National Cathedral boys choir, from which access to her dream school was reportedly easy, even for smart-alecky Jewish kids with questionable hygiene. When she asked me if I wanted to try out for the choir, I, being 11, quite naturally replied that I'd rather wear a dress. She chuckled at the upcoming irony, then offered me a box of baseball cards to try out. Now I'd never had a whole box of baseball cards before. If I'd done the math and realized that 24 packs at a nickel a pack meant she was dropping a whopping $1.20 on the deal, I'd have held out for more, like maybe a baby brother. But my judgment--and my math skills--were clouded by greed, so I took the bribe and walked away feeling not even a bit guilty for taking advantage of the old lady. Somehow, even after offering what I felt was a less than stirring rendition of "America the Beautiful," I got in, and spent the next two years dressed in a flowing purple robe and paper fan collar singing Latin hymns as a member of what I considered to be the world's biggest geek chorus. I survived my bar mitzvah but punished my parents by going the next 22 years without dating even one Jewish woman. I still think they got off easy. After swearing off my tribeswomen for over a score, I decided to try one, figuring that perhaps, like razors and non-stick cookware, that they had improved over the years. As with so much in life, it was better I was lucky than good. So it should be easy, right? I mean, we're both Jewish. But it's just not that simple. I had Judaism lovingly shoved down my throat, and I just as lovingly projectile vomited it back up and so far away that even now, at age 41, I get the willies when I step inside a synagogue. My wife, on the other hand, was raised on Manhattan's Upper West Side, where the prevailing was a hybrid of Judaism that involved actually having Christmas trees in the home. I find this method wonderfully inclusive and with the potential to spawn other religious combinations, like Muslim-Mormons, who would pray seven times a day while facing Salt Lake City. It may not seem so after reading this, but I am actually quite happy that I'm Jewish, and I want my kids to be too. I believe that, on balance, Jews come down squarely in humanity's asset column, having provided the planet with more than their share of humor, charity, wisdom and beauty (as in music and art, for we are not a particularly attractive people, Debra Winger notwithstanding). I believe we have a wonderful tradition of tolerance. In fact, after rereading this, I'm counting on it. And the fact is that some of my best friends are Jewish, and darn near all of my relatives. But I wan't responsible for any of their religious educations. Now there are two little ones who actually listen to what I have to say and often take it quite seriously. So I suppose the trick is try and jettison as much of your childhood baggage as you can, then figure out what works best for them, not you. For my kids I'll go back to synagogue and try to help them learn for themselves what it means to be Jewish. Heck, maybe I'll even join the sisterhood. This work is copyrighted by the author, Jonathan Kronstadt. Reproduction of any kind is prohibited with out the express consent of the author. Please feel free to let Jonathan know what you think of his work by sending him an email.