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A Matter of Chutzpah

Tirza Blum

My oldest son Mutty has always been an expressive child. He was an early talker, and we all marveled at his sophisticated sentences and the depth of his understanding. Yet as he got a bit older, his cute utterances were no longer so cute — they had crossed the line into chutzpah. By the time he was seven, I would pray fervently that he wouldn’t say something in public that would embarrass me. Sometimes he did. When he was angry, he would lose control and say things I’m ashamed to print.

My husband adn I attempted to figure out where the problem stemmed from. We tried to be good parents and set a positive example whenever humanly possible. We weren’t perfect, but we were consciously trying. Maybe we were too strict? Maybe we weren’t strict enough? Maybe we had given him too much attention as a small child for all the cute things he said? We blamed ourselves, and we were frustrated and worried.

With the birth of our fourth child, there was a turn for the worse. When Mutty returned home after staying with a relative for a week, it seemed that he was more chutzpadik than ever. We were at our wits’ end, and I was battling the exhaustion that caring for a newborn entails. It was time to reach out for help.

Over the next few weeks I called help lines and hot lines, rebbetzins, professionals, friends, and neighbors. I got an avalanche of suggestions:

“Be firm — take away privileges.”

“Be extra loving — give him special privileges.”

“Make special time for just the two of you, or you’ll regret it later.”

“I’d give the kid a good smack."

“Just hold him close and tell him you love him most in the whole world.”

“Send him to therapy.”

“Take him off sugar completely.”

Everyone had a solution. Which was the right one for Mutty?

After a few days, my head was spinning, and it wasn’t just from exhaustion. If I’d been at a loss as to what to do with my child before, I was now even more confused. I realized then that there was no one to turn to but Hashem and was surprised that it hadn’t dawned on me earlier to cry to my all-merciful Father above.

* * *

One day, while my other children were in school, I held my newborn close,and the dam broke. My postpartum moodiness made this easier, and before I knew it, I was sobbing openly, my teardrops dripping one by one onto my little one’s stretchy. I sobbed on and on for what seemed like forever, beseeching my Father above to help me with my eldest son. Finally, when my eyes could cry no more, I lovingly placed my sleeping infant in the bassinet and fell into a deep, peaceful slumber.

The next morning was a gorgeous, sunny day. I was beginning to suffer from cabin fever, so I dialed my sister and asked if I could pop over. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Should I come to you?” “No, Shiffy, if I don’t get dressed and get out of this house soon, I think I’ll go bananas!”

“Fine. I’m home today, doing things around the house. Can’t wait to see you and your little cutie.”

Within a half hour, I was at her house, enjoying a slice of her famous banana cake and for the first time in a while feeling completely relaxed and at ease. As she excused herself to take a phone call, I got up to help myself to another drink from her fridge. Though I’d been to her house countless times, a magnet on the side wall of the fridge caught my eye for the first time. It was a beautiful magnet titled “Divrei HaSteipler HaKadosh, zt”l, L’Imahos” (Advice to Mothers from the Holy Steipler). As I read each point, my heartbeat quickened. Then I came to one piece of advice from the Steipler and I felt ecstatic. It read: “Children who are raised in a home in which the mother says each berachah out loud and in a pleasant voice, have better middos and less chutzpah.”

Here was the answer to my tefillos! I could hardly wait for the day’s end, so that Mutty could hear my berachos. I asked my sister if I could borrow her magnet and then went and photocopied it. Once at home, I kept reading the advice over and over. I was so thrilled that there was finally something I could do to help my child improve.

At first, my children found it humorous that Mommy ws suddenly saying berachos out loud, slowly, and in a singsong voice. My Mutty even had a comment about it, which I’m better off not repeating. But soon they got used to it and even began to imitate me. I was so happy. If only this, then dayeinu.

Yet my greatest joy came two months later, when I began to notice small changes in the way Mutty spoke. Yes, my husband and I had tried many firm and loving methods with Mutty, yet I’m convinced that saying those berachos out loud, as the Steipler so wisely suggested, is what’s nurturing Mutty’s neshamah. He isn’t a different child yet, but there’s surely something different about him. With Hashem’s help, I’ll do my best to keep saying those berachos out loud, and I believe that soon Mutty’s chutzpah will be but a distant memory.

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