Sock wars

We moved to Jerusalem on July 1 (2014). The very next day, a mini-war with the Arabs broke out, and (apparently) there was rioting just up the road from us, quickly followed by rockets from Gaza, and within a few days, even Jerusalem residents had a few occasions to seek shelter in their security rooms.

While World War 3 was hotting up between Israel and its neighbors. World War 3 between me and my children was also gearing up for some major hostilities. With all the propaganda and politics and hidden agendas and mysterious figures pulling the strings from the sidelines, who even knows what all these ‘wars’ with the Arabs are really about these days.

But I can tell you straight out that what caused the worst bout of infighting in my house for 13 years was one thing, and one thing only: socks.

You see, it’s like this: when my husband and I moved to Jerusalem to be nearer to his yeshiva and new business, I naively thought it would be a great opportunity to try and ‘frum up’ my family. In our old place, we’d gone as far as we really could go, or at least in my arrogance, so it seemed then.

Now we were ready for Jerusalem! We were ready for Beis Yaacov! We were ready for socks!

Except…we really weren’t.

The first week, I tried to find some friends for my girls – sweet girls who also didn’t have internet (or at least, not without a filter…) and whose parents also didn’t read newspapers (except Hamodia…) or listen to the news (except when there’s a war going on…)

The girls were really lovely girls, really. My girls liked them, I could tell. Just one problem: socks. My girls weren’t wearing any, and they stuck out like sore thumbs in that particular neighbourhood.

I tried suggesting that wearing a pair of white pop socks, at least on Shabbat, wasn’t such a big deal – and thus began World War 3, the Sock War.

To make matters worse, I was simultaneously trying to find my girls a school to go to, and yet again I was tripping over the socks. As soon as my children heard they had to wear socks, the artillery came out and another round of heavy shelling began.

My girls go by the Sephardi rule of wearing long skirts (most of the time) and no socks, or ankle socks. And they don’t want to change that for anything. I have argued with them until I’m blue in the face, but to no avail. The socks was becoming such a big deal that I started to worry that if I kept pushing it, I was seriously risking a whole bunch of other things, religiously, that they were actually quite happy to do.

All my plans to send them to Beis Yaacov schools (with socks AND shirts…) went out the window. All my plans to send them to any school that required socks went out the window.

My husband and I were left with very few options, educationally, and a lot of humble pie to eat. Man, we were convinced we were SO frum, but yet again, our children have shown us in no uncertain terms our spiritual limitations.

Rav Arush always teaches that our kids are our mirrors. I wear socks. In fact, I just upped the ante and started wearing sock-tight things a little while back. But I’d be lying if I said I like wearing socks, because I don’t. I’m doing it to make G-d happy. Genuinely loving wearing socks, which is what it would apparently take to get my kids to follow suit, is completely beyond me at this point.

So then, I was left with a choice: try to bully them into pretending to be who they aren’t, and doing what they really don’t want to do, in the name of being ‘really frum’, or – to admit defeat, look for a school where socks are welcomed but not obligatory, and accept that yet again, my attempts to be more ‘frum’ have been thwarted by a Higher Power.

I picked the last one. I decided to be honest, that me and my family really aren’t where I thought we were, and to go to ground in that sincere place, and start to work my way up from there.

Most days, I pray for my kids to dress modestly. I know G-d will answer those prayers eventually, albeit it appears to be taking a couple of decades. And in the meantime, I have much happier children and a peaceful home again – and clearly, still a lot to work on.