By Saturday night, I’m spent.
Like every parent of young kids, I’ve been through the ringer: 6 a.m. wakeups, 42 snacks, 20 color-by-number pages, and five rounds of cleaning up crushed pretzels off the floor – only for my toddler to eat them anyway, lint and all.
Shabbat is beautiful. But let’s be honest: it’s a lot. Sometimes we go to shul. Sometimes we host playdates. Sometimes we do both, back-to-back. And now that it’s summer, we’ve added pool time, popsicles, a million softball games, and more sunscreen than I ever thought one family could own.
By the time Saturday night rolls around, I am ready to bolt. I love my children more than life itself – but also, I would like them to stop climbing on me for exactly two hours so I can eat sushi and talk to my husband like we’re people.
And yet – on the other side of town, the grandparents are kvetching. You never come around. You don’t call. We miss the kids. We want more time.
Listen: you’re not wrong.
But what if I told you we could solve both of our problems in one magical, grape-juice-scented, flame-lit moment?
Here’s the deal: take the kids on Saturday night, just for a few hours.
Have a movie night. Read to them. Build the most chaotic Magna-Tiles city known to man. Invite your friends over and let them bask in the chaos. Bribe the kids with popsicles. Tell them stories from “when you were little.” Let them stay up a little too late – that’s half the fun.
It doesn’t need to be perfect. Kids can be all over the place. You can feed them pizza until they puke it out. They can come back with a chocolate mustache that somehow won’t wipe off, no matter how hard I scrub. That’s fine. That’s childhood.
Then – and only then – do Havdalah with them.
Let them dump the whole jar of cloves into the spice box and wave the candle like it’s a Jedi weapon. Let them sing “Eliyahu HaNavi” with sticky fingers and wild abandon.
The goal isn’t to put on a performance. It’s to make Havdalah yours – and theirs. To carve out a ritual that’s just for grandparents and grandkids. A moment when the week begins not with chores or errands, but with light and song and the sweet, burning smell of cloves.
And let me be clear: we need this.
Parents of little kids spend most of Shabbat trying to prevent injuries, spills, and fights over who got the bigger piece of challah. We try to make it feel magical, but sometimes it just feels sticky. We want to raise Jewish kids who love this tradition, but we also want to keep our sanity.
And you, the grandparents, you’re in a beautiful position to help. You don’t have to do the whole 25-hour marathon. Just the last lap. We’re not asking you to babysit every weekend (unless you want to – in which case, please do). Just once in a while. Just long enough for us to remember that we’re people too.
Call it the Havdalah Club. Call it the Saturday Night Shift. Call it a chance to tell your grandkids stories about how you grew up with actual cassette tapes and went to a place called Blockbuster to rent movies instead of just clicking on Netflix. Whatever works.
I know some of you might be thinking, “That sounds great, but we’re not religious.” Perfect. This isn’t about being religious. It’s about finding what works for you. Think of your favorite Jewish memory. I’m willing to bet it doesn’t involve sitting quietly in shul or wearing a kippa that keeps sliding off your head. It’s probably something else: A late night at camp, a Passover seder where someone couldn’t stop laughing, making latkes in your grandma’s kitchen. That’s what we’re after here. Not perfection. Just presence.
I also know some of you are juggling a lot, like multiple grandkids, different family schedules, or your own Saturday night plans (respect). That’s where the group babysitting model comes in. Tag team. Cousins. Co-grandparents. A friend who’s always wanted to learn Havdalah. Make it communal. Make it doable.
You want more time with your grandkids? Great. Take it. Make Saturday night yours. Give us a break, and give them something to hold onto. It’s a gift to all of us.
Because in the end, this isn’t just babysitting. It’s a legacy.
I promise you: the kids won’t forget it. In five years, they might not remember what they ate for dinner, but they will remember the smell of cloves in your kitchen. They’ll remember singing that funny song with all the hand motions. They’ll remember that, every once in a while, Saturday night meant being wrapped in your arms, not rushed into the car.
And yes – maybe they’ll also remember that Mommy and Daddy came back looking happier, calmer, and just a little bit fancier after a real, grown-up dinner. Possibly holding a pint of Aglamesis’ and absolutely refusing to share.
So this is my modest proposal to the grandparents of Cincinnati – and beyond.
