A Mother’s Rite of Passage

For the past nine months, every Sunday morning, my son Gabe has been working with Cantor Jay Frailich of University Synagogue in Brentwood. He has been learning darga tevir, mercha tevir, tipcha sof pasuk and dozens of other tropes in order to chant parts of the Acharei Mot Torah and Haftorah portions.

For the past 18 months, every Thursday morning, I have been working with Lani Silver of Lani’s Needlepoint in Studio City. I have been learning tramés and tie-down crosses, cashmeres and continentals, in order to stitch a tallit bag and atara, the neckband that adorns a tallit.

Both Gabriel and I have been preparing for his Bar Mitzvah, which takes place on April 29.

Yes, the Bar Mitzvah is an important rite of passage in which Gabe, as a 13-year-old boy, assumes the responsibilities of an adult according to Jewish law and tradition.

The Bar Mitzvah is also an important rite of passage in which I, the mother of a 13-year-old, take a break from shopping and shlepping, advising and admonishing, to take stock of my son.

Attentively and — as I discover time running out — anxiously, I am creating what I hope are meaningful Jewish gifts, from my heart and from my hands, to enhance the specialness of Gabe’s first tallit.

But even more important, as I sit and stitch –in class and in carpool line, at home and at Starbucks — I focus on the past 13 years.

I remember an infant with enormous brown eyes, who had his days and nights mixed up. Who said his first word at ten months and took his first step at 14 months. A toddler who adored the Care Bears and Dr. Seuss’ “Hop on Pop.” Who appropriated his older brother’s Dewy Duck and dragged it, dangling by one arm, wherever he went. Who ate only white foods — and not very many of them.

I remember a young boy who loved the anklyosaurus dinosaur, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and C.S. Lewis’ “The Chronicles of Narnia.”

And I reflect on an older boy who loves flag football, fighter planes and stumping his dad at Hangman. Who loyally cheers for the San Francisco 49ers. Who can sit quietly and contemplatively, engrossed in his own world, in the midst of chaos.

I reflect on a boy who has always loved the color red, the number seven and drawing. Who is a trusted and admirable friend; a generous, idiosyncratic, sensitive, philosophic, funny and fiercely compassionate human being. Who often surprises me with a warm and welcome hug.

As human beings, we experience few truly transcendent moments in our lives. As parents, these sacred events include the birth of a child and the Bar or Bat Mitzvah.

While pregnant with Gabe, I remember knitting a baby blanket. Through the clicking and even rhythm of the knitting needles and the kicking and uneven rhythm of the baby’s movements, I prepared for his arrival.

I watched the double strands of blue and white yarn, in their knit 12, purl 12 pattern, transform into a blanket large enough to cover the baby. And large enough to cover my apprehensions and protect my aspirations as I formed a magical, miraculous and ineffable bond with my unborn child.

Now, 13 years later, I listen in awe as Gabe chants his aliyot from Acharei Mot for Cantor Frailich. And I listen in amazement as he discusses this difficult Torah portion — which deals with laws concerning Yom Kippur, kashrut and forbidden sexual liaisons — with Rabbi Zach Shapiro.

“Even a child is known by his acts,” Proverbs 20:11 tells us.

I am grateful that Gabe’s acts include the study of Torah and deeds of loving-kindness, goals we prayed for at his brit milah and goals that have been realized through eight years at Abraham Joshua Heschel Day School in Northridge.

If Gabe were not preparing for his Bar Mitzvah, if he were not firmly entrenched in Judaism and the Jewish community, he could be piercing various body parts. Or sporting a spiked, bright red Mohawk. Or engaging in any number of undesirable adolescent rites of passage.

Similarly, I am grateful to be busy stitching, firmly focused on the spiritual significance of this event. If not, I could be needlessly and endlessly obsessing over the quantity, shape, size and color of the light sticks I have already ordered or over whom to seat next to whom at the evening party. Or whether or not to buy the black peau de soie spike heels with the beaded toes.

It is easy to fuss over the myriad unimportant details because the few important ones — the realization that Gabriel is about to assume his role as a Jewish adult and the realization that his next transcendent life-cycle event will take place under a chuppah — squeeze my heart and block my breathing. And plant me solidly in middle age.

On the morning of April 29, my husband, Larry, and I will begin the Shabbat service by presenting Gabe with his tallit, watching him wrap himself in his Jewish heritage.

And we will end the morning service, tearfully and proudly, by reciting Shehecheyanu: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, who has kept us in life, sustained us and allowed us to reach this moment.”

Jane Ulman writes a bimonthly column for The Jewish Journal. She lives in Encino with her husband and four sons.