Pesach preparations are often fraught with frustration and angst. We rid our homes of chometz and turn over our kitchens while attempting to keep our families from starving. We pore over menus, shop for ingredients, and prepare Yom Tov meals for our loved ones. We also invite guests.

During the year, inviting guests is a simple process; on Pesach, however, it is different. Why is this invitation different from all other invitations? Pesach meals present a unique numerical challenge. Not only do we have first and second day meals; we also have first and second day meals of the first days as well as first and second day meals of the second days. Far be it from me to point out that virtually everyone I know can count to eight. After all, we spend the rest of springtime counting all the way to 49. This brings me to the heretical suggestion that we refer to the second days of Pesach as the seventh and eighth day. I know this is a radical departure from the minhag hamakom, but it might serve to ease some of the confusion that we face in these difficult times.

There are many areas in which the concept of rotation, exchange, or substitution has been shown to have positive benefits. For example, we learn about crop rotation in social studies, where the goal is to help maintain the balance of nutrients for healthy soil. One of the rules is “to rotate plant families from one season to the next so that related crops are not planted in the same spot more often than every three years or so.” Combine this with the concept that “it takes a village to raise a child,” and the text books could read, “One of the rules is to rotate members of families from one season to the next, so related children are not planted in the same spot more often than every three years or so.” You see what we have here? A survival technique for parents across the globe!

The advent of a wedding creates a whirlwind of excitement. After months of careful planning and preparation, not to mention stress and anxiety, the wedding flies by in the blink of an eye. A flurry of friends and relatives celebrate with the happy couple for hours on end. As the final dance winds down and tables are cleared, the chassan and kallah bid their guests adieu. The young couple, flying high on the stream of good wishes, feels ready to face the world. Having already discussed their hashkofos, chosen their future home, and settled on where they will spend their first Yom Tov, they feel like they are ahead of the game. They don’t realize that their first real-life dilemma is less than 24 hours away.

I recently attended a wonderful lecture, where as an aside, the Rabbi mentioned how difficult it is when we realize we are aging and can no longer do everything for ourselves. Before he went on to add some truly encouraging and inspiring words, someone behind me mumbled under her breath, “Tell me about it.” This got me thinking.

We’ve all heard the saying “age is relative.” Anyone who’s ever been a kid or been related to a kid knows just how true this is. You see, children have a very limited vision of age. In their eyes, you’re either a kid (this includes babies) or you’re not (this includes bubbies). If you’re not a kid, then you have two options: You can either be married or you can be a morah (teacher). If you’re a morah, you live at school, and if you’re married, you live with your family. It is an uncomplicated web they weave – that is, until they see their morah at Seven Mile Market. A child’s reaction to seeing their morah falls into two categories: “fright or flight.” If the child is young, then, with a little prompting from their mothers, they shyly peek out from behind her skirt and whisper a barely audible hello. If the child is a little older, the conversation goes something like this: “Look,” they say to their mother, “there’s Morah Sarah.” Just as you turn your cart and glance over your shoulder, your daughter yells, “Run!” Children’s shock of seeing their morah outside of school has shattered their carefully constructed understanding of the world.

A child’s misunderstanding of age comes to light in many ways. Once, when my daughter was learning about presidents, she turned to me and asked if I was alive when George Washington was president. After a negative and slightly huffy response on my part, she then piped up, “Well, what about when Abraham Lincoln was president?” Needless to say, that history lesson ended quickly. On another occasion, my nephew, who was all of six years old, wanted to play Connect Four. It turns out that he is a whiz at the game, and he not only beat me but also beat his grandfather. As we complimented him on his wins, he proudly added, “I beat a second-grader at school.” I said, “That’s great, but you also beat me and grandpa.” To this he scoffed and said, “Yeah, but you’re old.”

Rochel glanced at the posters on the wall while her daughter quietly played with the toys in the doctor’s office. One of the posters seemed to jump out at her. The poster, whose title was obscured, showed a path similar to the one found on the Candy Land game board. The path, which was separated into colorful rectangles, contained information that gave her the validation and peace of mind that she had been seeking.

The first box contained two statements: The first was “Turns his head when you call his name.” Now, although this didn’t always happen, it did happen sometimes.

Reminiscing about the “good old days” often leads to memories of the gone-but-not-forgotten-era when everyone used to leave their front door unlocked. Unfortunately, times have changed to the point where I would be grateful if my front door were the only thing that did require locking. It is sad to say that we’ve reached a level of international paranoia where we are forced to “lock” things that barely even existed back in the day. Cell phones, computers, bank accounts, alarm systems, copy machines, and, yes, even our front doors often require codes. This inundation of random strings of letters and