I distinctly remember the day I realized my son was ready for shidduchim.
I was in the hospital with my newborn baby. My oldest son, whose yeshiva is situated a few bus stops away from the hospital had hopped over bein hasedarim to visit me and meet his little brother.
The security guard at the entrance didn’t let him in.
“Visiting hours are over,” he proclaimed.
Then, noticing his disappointment, he softened and advised him, “You can call up your wife to come out. The nurses will let you into the ward together”.
“My goodness, he mistook him for my husband”, I thought when he told me the story. I took a good look at him and noticed, really noticed, the sparse few hairs on his chin, the man-size raincoat, and the way he gently and protectively handled his infant brother, eight years his junior.
“He could almost be a father,” I suddenly realized.
Not long afterwards, the first Telephone Call came.
“This is Mrs Kohn speaking,” a solemn voice told me.
“Oh thanks for calling back!” I exclaimed.
“I know it’s a little late but I wanted to know if I could still register my son for nursery school this…” “I’m sorry, you must mean another Mrs Kohn,” Mrs Kohn politely interrupted me.
“I’m a shadchanit and I heard you have an eighteen year old son. Can you please tell me what you’re looking for?”
What was I looking for? Right now, I was looking for my baby’s pacifier, a black skirt for my eight year old’s siddur party tomorrow, and a nursery school for my toddler. I wasn’t looking for anything else to occupy my already frazzled, sleep-deprived brain. But the shadchanit was determined and I soon found myself thrown headlong into the World of Shidduchim. I felt so green, I wished they’d print a book “Shidduchim for Dummies” Or “Shidduchim for Those Who Have Babies With Dummies” (British edition)
“Get yourself a shidduch notebook,” advised my veteran aunt, whose tenth and youngest son had just gotten engaged. “Write everything down – phone numbers, everything”. A quick search found a notebook lying under the desk in the den.
“Shidduch Notebook” I wrote at the top, and opened it up to Page 1. It was filled with doodles of Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse. I crossed out the title and found another notebook.
“So what can you tell me about this girl Esti,” I asked Esti’s friend, pen in one hand, cordless in the other.
“Waaaaa!!” My baby was hungry.
I perched the phone between shoulder and chin, took him on my lap, and gave him his bottle with my left hand, right hand still loyally wielding the pen.
“How does she deal with disappointment?” I asked, scribbling furiously.
The bottle fell out of my hand.
“Waaaaaaaaaaa!!” came the angry protest.
“Sorry, I’m going to have to call you back soon,” I apologized. Just as well, because my eight-year-old was coming up to me, a thick volume of Bedtime Stories for Kids in hand. She wanted a story. I gave the bottle back to my baby, and settled back on the couch to tell her her favorite story, starring Mr and Mrs Mouse.
“Master Mouse and Mistress Mouse decided to get married. They sent out invitations to everyone and…”
I wonder who set them up, I thought. And I wonder if Mistress Mouse was two years older than Master Mouse and if it mattered. I wonder how many times they met and if Mistress Mouse was happy with the fact that Master Mouse wanted to take an evening class in Bookkeeping and…
“Mommmmeeeeeee, your eyes are closing!”
“I’m so sorry, darling, I must have have fallen asleep. Okay, so where were we?”
Riiiing.
The cordless was on the couch, right next to me.
“Hello?” “Hi, this is Mrs Neiman speaking”
“Oh hi, Mrs Neiman. It’s so nice of you to call me back. I understand you taught Esti K. in eleventh grade, and I’m wondering if you could tell me anything about her. I’d…”
“I’m sorry, you must mean a different Mrs Neiman. You left a message on my answering machine that you’d like to enroll your two year old in nursery school next year and I’m…”
Oh my goodness.
Oh my goodness.
I hoped the K. family wouldn’t choose to ask her for information. I quickly ended the conversation and even more quickly ended the bedtime story of Master and Mistress Mouse who became Mr and Mrs Mouse and quite naturally, lived happily ever after. Wedding bells, sorry, make that the chuppah tune, began playing in my mind. I could almost see my tall and handsome son and his kallah – who was she? I just wish I could see the face behind that veil – standing under the chuppah as I hazily I wondered if I had brought everything I needed to the hall – ring, kesubah, makeup… diapers, bottles, pacifiers…
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