Mayim Rabim

When we were dating, and when we were engaged, I heard my soon-to-be-husband talk a lot about his rebbeim. As I planned the wedding, his biggest concern seemed to be which one should get which kibud*. Who should be mesader*? he agonized. Who should get which bracha*? To me, wrapped up in the burning question of how to get a kosher meal catered for less than $25 a plate (you can stop laughing now) and how to explain to my in-laws that they could not invite all the people they wanted to invite without giving us more money because I, myself, was paying for this wedding with the seven thousand dollars in my savings account—to me, that question seemed trivial if not insignificant.

In the end, the rebbe that my husband refers to as “my rebbe” the way Chabadniks refer to “the rebbe” had the bracha acharona*. I met him, briefly, at the chassuna*. He seemed nice. Enormous, physically, with many many children. Big black hat. Big black beard. You know. A rabbi.

When, a month or two after our wedding, I had to deal with some impossible personal problems, my husband had one piece of advice. “Call my rebbe,” he said. I didn’t do it. What did his rebbe know about the craziness in my life, the binding relationships that should not exist at all? I had my husband call. His rebbe gave me an unexpected heter*.

All right, I said.

A year later, when I was pregnant with our first child, toward the end of my pregnancy I found myself covered with the unspeakably awful rash that some women get while pregnant—they call it PUPP, which probably stands for something specific, but I came up with a different name every time. Perniciously Unpleasant Pregnancy Pustules. Plague of Utterly Putrid Putrescence. And so on. To say it itched would be failing to even hint at the utter collapse of mental balance, the unrelenting misery, the 5 AM hysteria. It was awful. Lotions and showers and oatmeal baths helped some—and it was almost Pesach, with four days of yom tov plus Shabbos.

I called his rebbe. When I got off the phone, an hour later, and showed my husband the list of notes—I could take a hot bath on yom tov, I could knit chol ha’moed—my husband’s mouth fell open in wonder. “The only thing you can’t do when you’re pregnant,” he said, “is play video games on Shabbos.”

I had that baby, after a long and difficult labor. I didn’t get my period back for a year, and then got pregnant and miscarried twice in quick succession. Already well into my thirties, with only one child to show for three pregnancies, I worried. Would I ever have another?

Another month went by with no pink line. And another. The next month, when it was the day to make a hefsek tahara, I knew I had to get it right—the next week we were going to visit my husband’s parents, in a town with no mikva. I wouldn’t come home until well after I’d ovulated. I had to go to the mikva the night before we left, or I would miss the month.

What happened? My daughter, sixteen months old, had a bad day—a cold, a tummyache, I don’t remember. One thing got on top of another and the next thing I knew, it was five minutes past shkia*. I cried.

“You could call my rebbe,” my husband suggested.

I wanted to hit him. Your rebbe can’t turn back the clock or make the sun go back up in the sky! But I called anyway. I explained. There was a long silence. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I feel terrible.” We talked about fertility, the miscarriages, my worries. Gam tzu l’tova, I kept saying. “A month is gam tzu l’tova*,” he said. “Two years is not.” But I had gotten pregnant three times, carried to term once. It would happen. I got off the phone feeling better, angry at myself but resigned.

A little while later the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, surprised. “Hello?”

“I thought of something,” he said. “Can you tell me...” and he asked me some questions. I answered them. Pause. “I want to look something up,” he said. “Are you going to be home tonight?”

Throughout the evening, a few times, the phone rang. More questions. More long pauses. Did you look at the toilet paper? How deeply did you wipe? When? What were you thinking? Did you look to see if there was blood? Did you even glance? I answered, he paused, he asked another question. I hung up. An hour later, the phone would ring again.

At almost midnight, the phone rang. I picked it up. “It’s fine,” he said. “You can count day one tomorrow.”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d missed my hefsek tahara. I’d totally forgotten. How could it just...be okay?

”Are you sure?” I asked, immediately feeling like a complete jerk. “I’m so sorry. Of course you’re sure. I just...okay.”

I counted one the next day, and a week later I went to the mikva. And do I even need to tell you what happened next?

He’s seven months old. He has blue eyes and brown hair and smells so good. And he is named for someone who had faith in Hashem and walked into the water, because that’s what Hashem told him to do.

~ Anonymous

Anonymous is a thirty-something mother of a daughter and a son, who is unafraid to walk into the water.

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* kibud: honor
mesader: short for “mesader kiddushin” – the person who officiates at the wedding ceremony
bracha: blessing
bracha acharona: final blessing (at the wedding ceremony)
chassuna: wedding celebration
heter: halachic dispensation
shkia: sunset
gam tzu l’tova: “There is a reason for everything” (lit. “This is also for good”)