Love language

Love language

I currently find myself in a familiar situation. I am sitting in husband #1’s car, by myself, in a parking lot of a place referred to as a “minyan factory.”  It is called this because any time, day or night, there is a minyan every 15 minutes. (Don’t hold me to that). Husband #1 and Son #3 are enjoying the afternoon prayer together. If we had missed this afternoon prayer service, there is another one every 15 minutes. With all the antisemitism and horrific rhetoric aimed at Israel and the Jewish people, it is comforting to know that the minyan factories are still overflowing with Jews. I cannot even adequately describe this parking lot. It is packed. And every spot that empties is subsequently filled with a car waiting for it to open up. And everyone getting out of these cars are going to pray. (And anyone waiting in these cars are complaining about their spouses — just kidding! This was totally not where this column was meant to go, but I would be remiss if I didn’t share those thoughts with you.)

Husband #1 was nervous that he would miss minyan. I said, “Why?” He said, “Because then you would have to wait in the car for an extra 15 minutes.” I looked at him and then reminded him of the hours I have spent in the car, alone, in synagogue parking lots around the country and Israel whilst he and his sons hung out schmoozing with out-of-towners, playing Jewish geography, while I waited for them in the car. Ahh, good times.

And those times were before smart phones, when sitting in the car meant sitting in the car, staring out the window, coming up with ways to express my thoughts about sitting in the car alone…it’s all good. An added bonus to my current situation of sitting in the car is that the car smells like what happens when a very adorable 2-year-old throws up in her car seat because her Babka gave her a yogurt pouch and then the very adorable 2-year-old got carsick…. Baruch Hashem.

Now that I know how to remove the gasoline smell from Husband #1’s pants, I should be an expert at removing all smells. But only time will tell. (For those of you who have never read my column, the gasoline reference is to a column I wrote a few weeks ago poking fun at my lovable Husband #1 for getting gasoline all over his pants in order to save 75 cents.) Let’s move on…

Last week, I had the honor and privilege of attending the bris of a very special young man, who was born to very special parents, and who has made some very special people grandparents for the first time. The new mother and father got up to speak about the baby’s name. They spoke beautifully, respectfully, and lovingly. One of the things they spoke about was having to do with their “love language.” Now, I am the first to admit that I am not the sharpest tool in the shed and I am not really sure what this was in context of their speech, but Husband #1 looked at me at said, “What is a love language?” For the record, this could very well be why I call him Husband #1.

Well, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, every couple has a love language. There are five of them. Words of affirmation — which, I guess is when you say positive things to each other. Acts of service — when you do nice things for each other. Receiving gifts — which, I assume, means jewelry. Quality time — which I guess is spending time together. And physical touch — the meaning of which I am not going near. But, because I am me, when Husband #1 asked the question, I answered, “Yelling, screaming, sarcasm, ignoring, and eye-rolling.” No? Those aren’t love languages? Twenty-eight years in, they have been working pretty well for us.

Don’t you just love the glow and optimism of new parents? I remember being in their shoes not so long ago — okay, it was long ago, but I can still remember changing that first diaper after the bris and thinking, “Oh my God, this cute little squirmy thing is mine.”

Here is wishing this new, precious little guy a lifetime of good health, mazal, and a love language that works for him!

Banji Ganchrow of Teaneck is very proud of Strudel because she now knows that “B” is for Babka! And Babka is very, very grateful…

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