Devorah Katz

Dear Marvel,

I love you. And it’s not because of the Avengers although you did good there – that was a great movie. It is because you truly embody what being a superhero is about.

With less than 30 days to my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah, I’ve been watching an interesting phenomenon unfold – that of the RSVP. While we have had 4 brits for our 4 boys and a Simchat Bat when our daughter was born, this is our first “grown up” simcha. As a self-professed “Type A” personality, I have had a Bat Mitzvah notebook for months. It is full of list upon list of things to do. And, for the most part, I’ve been doing them. Caterer, invitations, music, photographer – all things that I can check off my list. And with the invitations out in the mail, I’ve been excited to start tracking those RSVPs. Only, there’s nothing to track because no one has RSVPed (well, that’s not entirely accurate, 5 people have. C’mon people!?!?).

This is a blog I never wanted to write about a little girl I never even knew. Ayelet Galena passed away yesterday at age two. She had been ill for quite some time with a rare bone marrow illness. I know that because, like thousands and thousands of people, I followed her ups and downs on facebook and on her blog.

The minute my 5-year-old put his hearing aids in, my outlook changed. Any sadness or apprehension I felt for him or for me was tossed out the window (I’d like to use a football reference here because I feel like they throw things really really far, but I’m Canadian). I did cry, but it was pure joy. I cried because my kid walked around the audiologist’s office tapping on the walls, the floor and the chairs because suddenly he could hear tapping. And it didn’t end there. He’s tried out snapping his fingers, rubbing his feet on the carpet and whistling. All because he can hear stuff now. Lots of stuff.

This isn’t a push to get you to join Facebook (though if you haven’t yet really what are you waiting for). This is a story about everything that is lovely about ChallahCrumbs. In fact, this might be my love letter to our readers.

I recently (and by recently I mean right at this very minute) traveled all by myself. I said goodbye to my 5 children (2 cried, 1 was stoic, 2 are just waiting for the guilt presents on my return) and to my wonderful, inexplicably patient husband and got on an airplane. In fact, I am still on the airplane as I write.

I have a lot of very ugly pictures of my son. He was born much too early. And even though you love him, he wasn’t looking his best.

I grabbed my daughter’s iPod as I left to exercise the other day (for those of you who know me and my mostly lax exercise regiment, feel free to smirk now). I figured her nano would clip on to my shirt easily and I’d be able to find some music to keep me distracted. What I found was an homage to all things Disney — starting from The Little Mermaid and straight through to Camp Rock. As I flipped through looking for something that crossed the 26 year age divide and veered more into my music taste, I noticed someone else lurking in my daughter’s musical choices: my father.

There is a scene at the start of It’s a Wonderful Life (shocking that I couldn’t find it on YouTube – what else is YouTube there for?), where the girl leans over and whispers into Jimmy Stewart’s deaf ear, “George Bailey, I’ll love you till the day I die.” In the past week, that scene has replayed itself in my mind a hundred times.

As I have mentioned before, I have four sons and one daughter. Our daughter is our first child followed by a small rugby team of boys. And today she is 11. As I sneak off to write this, there are 22 girls sitting in my living room, watching a Disney movie (so adorable that they will still watch Disney!), eating truckloads of popcorn and forests worth of cotton candy (so fabulous that they still eat!). With a promise that all children will eat vegetables when they get home, I plan to serve cupcakes as they leave. I am fully aware that most parents will hate me as I send their kids home full of nothing of any nutritional value (fiber in popcorn?).