In March, Rafy, our three-year-old son, started talking about Mitzrayim (Egypt). I was awfully proud. A poster child for Jewish preschool, I thought.
Like many parents, we keep track of the holidays by the art projects or new vocabulary words our kids bring home. Clearly, Passover was coming.
The season rolled in on a wave of paper frogs and references to Moses, Miriam and Pharoah (though at Rafy’s school, they use the Hebrew pronunciation, “Paroh,” which in my estimation is much better). The questions and allusions were constant and adorable:
“Is that where Paroh lives?” (Castle in Robin Hood book.)
“Is that Miriam?” (Disney heroine, Moana.)
An Exodus of dinosaurs, Playmobil and army guys the Red Sea made of sidewalk chalk, leaving behind the ruins of Magnetile pyramids.
And one of my favorites: “Ah – darkness. Just like in Mitzrayim.” (Lights out at bedtime.)
What a gift to the family is Jewish preschool, I thought. Not only do we get top-notch early childhood education, we get a whole season’s worth of topical discussions!
But the season, it seems, just keeps on rolling.
We thought it peaked with the third day of Passover, when Rafy burst out the front door and called to the whole neighborhood, “I am Paroh! Welcome to Mitzrayim! Jews, please come in!”
We thought it was petering out when a month later, Rafy came running across the library, Egyptian picture book in hand, demanding, “But where are the Jews?!”
“Surely this is the last gasp,” we thought in June, when Rafy pointed at every shirtless angler spotted during the annual family fishing trip in southern Missouri: “Look! Jews!” (Because according to the movies, slaves are shirtless.)
Rafy’s enthusiasm has thrown our family into a state of perpetual Passover.
This is unlike the annual Passover celebration, which is defined by the crumble of our matzah and the grumble of our bellies for bread; the fine dishes and choreographed meal; and the long story, all to remind us that once we were slaves and — by God — now we are free. Free to pray and sing, to eat our meals sitting straight or lounging, to dip our vegetables just as many times as we please.
But for the Stanglers, the discussion of Exodus is ongoing. Our family life is punctuated by thoughtful, hilarious, often ill-timed Passover references, and, in the moment, they are a source of bewilderment. What did that preschool do that our three-year-old is so into Passover so many months later?
If I’m unusually reflective, though, I manage something else: gratitude. Every single day, Rafy’s fascination forces me to consider questions trivial and profound. Last week, a hot pool deck sparked a debate on how well Israelite sandals would hold up in the desert. Yesterday, he asked why we’re still here while the pharaohs are gone.
It’s not a meditation on freedom every time Rafy asks if a shirtless jogger is running from Paroh, but never in my life have I so frequently thought about the Exodus.
And if that’s not freedom, then what is? Children can ask questions and loudly proclaim their Judaism, and parents are free to hush them only a little bit and only sometimes. We’re free to find answers.
We sing the Shema at night without fear and send our children to Jewish preschool.
What a miracle it is to be free.
Deuteronomy 16:3 says “zachor et yom ha’yetzi’ah.” We should “remember the day of [our] departure from the Land of Egypt as long as [we] live.”
Thanks to Jewish preschool, Rafy will make sure that we do.