Who Is God?

Our youngest, Jacob, is newly three years old. At every turn he finds another "big boy" challenge to conquer, and he's eager to claim each expertise as his own. After all, he's dodging the shadow of his older brother, Ben, who is six (a man of the world who rides a school bus and a two-wheeler), and he's impatient to put their inequities behind him.

Jacob's move from diapers to underwear happened overnight, painlessly. No year-long struggle with pull-ups and accidents for this pre-schooler. The knowledge that he was wearing Batman underwear just like Ben's was all the "training" he needed! And if the transition from home to pre-school did not go quite as smoothly, by the second week he was happily trading teacher stories and bragging about his play dates during dinner.

I'm proud of him, of course. I'm proud of both of them. When Ben revealed his prodigious talents at an early age, I modestly accepted the praise offered by his admiring public. Inside, I was accepting the award for "Best Mom." When he learned to walk, I wanted him to run. He was operating a computer on his own at two. In Kindergarten, his reading tested on a Second Grade level. "Let's go for Third!" I thought. My first-born can't achieve fast enough; I'm always hungry for more.

Jacob is every bit as remarkable as his brother. He started walking at only nine months old, and I accepted the accolades of the Grandmas and Grandpa. But inside, I was secretly dismayed at his rush to maturity. When he spoke in full sentences before his second birthday, I longed for babble and baby talk. He is always running full-tilt into the future, and I'm ashamed to admit that I want him to slow down. What kind of mother am I?

I've read the articles which credit birth order for personality traits and patterns of lifetime achievement. I recognize the disparity in my feelings. I am an educated, responsible parent, and I want the absolute best for both my children. I am guilty, nonetheless. And only human. While I can, I still cuddle and snuggle. "He's only three," I protest to my husband, who insists I stop calling Jacob "my baby." In my heart, Jacob will always be my baby.

We went to synagogue as a family on Rosh Hashanah. This year, Jacob was old enough to understand some of what was going on, and he proudly marched up front with Ben to hear the shofar blow. The traditional blast of the ram's horn thrilled him. Later, he participated in a ritual ceremony where we toss bits of bread into a moving stream to symbolize the casting off of our sins, in preparation for Yom Kippur. On the way home, he had a lot of questions. Why do we go to synagogue? What does 'pray' mean? What are sins? Who is God?

Today, Jacob and I were riding in the car, coming home from the grocery store. "Do you remember when we met God on Rosh Hashanah?" he asked. Despite my protests that we met the Rabbi, not God, during the holiday, Jacob remained firm in his conviction. And who's to say? Ben is growing and prospering, happy and healthy despite my subtle pushes forward. Jacob is flourishing, moving successfully ahead despite my subtle tugs backward. There is a force at work here greater than my own shortcomings and strengths. I am grateful for the help.