By Malkie Gordon Hirsch
With the upcoming three-day yontif quickly approaching, it brings back memories of my most memorable three-day Shavuos yom tov to date—the birth of my younger brother, Nison (not to be confused with my son of the same name).
There are some events in life that, no matter your age, you’ll recall in crystal clarity, and that yontif back in 1992 was one for the books.
It all started around December time of that year, when my mother discovered in a most unusual way that she was expecting a baby. We were in Israel for our paternal grandfather’s yahrzeit and while there, my mother didn’t feel great. So much so that she went to a doctor there, only to find out that she was with child.
For a woman who had just completed the baby years, with four children born within six years, to discover that she was about to start all over, I’m sure it was a surprise.
I remember noticing her absence on some of our tiyulim and chalking it up to her feeling under the weather, but once we got home and were informed by my parents that we were having the first official Gordon family meeting, I knew something was up.
I, in true Malkie fashion, assumed the worst possible scenario.
What can I say? It’s a gift being me.
To start, we were fed pizza and ice cream and assembled in a circle in my parents’ bedroom.
We all took guesses as to what we were meeting about, and, as usual, Dini guessed correctly. “She’s pregnant,” squeaked Dini in her high-pitched voice, while pointing to my mother, who shook her head in disbelief.
I, thankfully, was way off and kept my mouth shut as we all discussed what it would be like to stuff a fifth child into our impossibly small house in Brooklyn.
The months went by uneventfully, at least in my eyes as a 12-year-old.
That is, until the night of that year’s three-day yontif of Shavuos, when my mother went into labor a few weeks ahead of her due date.
I was the oldest and was given responsibilities I wanted no part of, but I also wanted to be a mature young adult and have my mother confide in me. However, as she started talking to me on that front stoop on 27th Street, rocking back and forth to alleviate labor pains, I sort of changed my mind.
Recent bat mitzvah notwithstanding, I was so not ready for actual adulting.
But she had much on her mind, and I was there, so she spoke about how these contractions were light and her doctor had told her to take a drink of wine to prevent them from getting worse.
I sat there at a loss, just listening, and as we sat, we spotted our neighbor wheeling her baby outside in his stroller.
My mother waddled across the street to have a short conversation and then told me that it was bedtime.
I remember the humidity that night and my feelings of anxiety as to whether my mother would get through three days of yontif without making a visit to the hospital.
It was short-lived. At around 2 a.m., I noticed my mother stuffing sleeping bags into an overnight bag, and she told me to get the kids together for the trip across the street to my neighbor. I must’ve thought she was kidding, because I stood there frozen for a bit, but I quickly realized that she meant business.
As we were herded into the neighbor’s house across the street, my father trying to settle my younger crying siblings who were seemingly panicked at the idea of being left there for three days, my mother told me that someone would alert my grandmother (who was staying at my aunt’s house) to come relieve the neighbor, so we could stay home and spend the heat wave of a yontif crowded around the air conditioning unit in the first-floor living room.
My mother listed the items in the freezer that she had prepared for yontif in advance and told me to consult the menu written in her neat cursive posted on the refrigerator door.
As I write this, I think of how she meticulously prepared all the foods we loved, hoping that this baby would hold off any funny business until after the holiday, but like any mother who thinks of every possible scenario, she had everything in place just in case.
That is, except for someone to watch us.
Which I believe was her denial acting out.
She couldn’t believe that she could have this baby (born seven years after her youngest) almost a month early.
Bubby came by the next morning and told us how thrilling it was to be pulled from her daughter’s home to have to come babysit us for the holiday. She also brought her books that I secretly loved reading and now could, because my mother wasn’t there to tell me not to. So, silver lining there.
Most of my memories from yontif were of me in the kitchen, frying up really good homemade cheese blintzes and getting a knock at our door from our non-Jewish neighbors, telling us that our mother had a baby boy.
My father had the nurse call them to tell them that, baruch Hashem, everyone was well and that they’d be home after the holiday.
The baby would be named Nison, after my father’s father, and he’d earn the fanciest bris we’d ever been to.
I’d stand by his bassinet in my parents’ room during his newborn stage and tickle his feet as he slept, simply because I’d want to wake him so I could hold him.
Of course, as a mother, I’d flip if my kids did that, but I was sneaky enough to do it when no one else was looking.
Fast-forward 30 years, and we all got together last night to celebrate Nison’s birthday before yontif.
His wife threw him a party with family and friends, and in addition to this one, he’s had other memorable ones throughout the years, because of his Shavuos arrival into this world 30 years ago.
His bar mitzvah was spent in the Homowack hotel, shortly after Moshe and I got engaged, and as a young adult, I was the place he’d come to on random Shabbosim when his parents were being … well, parents.
We’re 12 years apart but we’ve always had an extra-special connection. He’s got that combination of sensitivity, self-deprecation, great storytelling skills, and he’s almost as funny as me.
He was always the first call when I needed assistance of any sort as I’d make my way to the hospital to have a baby, and he remains a positive influence in my kids’ lives. He’s had plenty of practice with my kids and now shares great stories about his kids as I exit the stage of parenthood that he’s recently entered. He’ll share war stories from the frontlines of parenthood and ask me if I’ve ever dealt with something similar. More times than not, the answer is: “Of course.”
I have to say, I always did have inklings of who I’d be close to, but I never thought it would be a brother I met as I was entering my teenage years.
But sometimes even words can’t describe the magic that certain siblings have and why some get along better than others. So, on this erev Shavuos, on the eve of entering a new decade in his life, I want to wish my brother Nison Gordon a very happy birthday.
I want to thank him for all he’s done for me and my family now and in the past, I want to thank him for telling me stories that literally make my head hurt from laughing so hard, and also to thank him for being thoughtful enough to marry a girl I really love.
As his friends crowded around their backyard last night and I saw how many friends came out to celebrate his birthday, I realized that I wasn’t the only one who felt so much affection toward him. Apparently, certain people have really good taste in friends. It provided me with a feeling of pride that he was one of ours.
Yomim tovim bring meaning and nostalgia for people in different ways. For many, Shavuos is about rebirthing our connection with Torah, associated with dairy delicacies, end of school, and inviting the early joy of summer sunshine. For me, it also reminds me of and celebrates the birth of one of my all-time favorite people.
Nison, continue doing what you do, being who you are, and being true to yourself. May we be zoche to celebrate many more Pesach and Shavuos birthdays together in the future.
Malkie Gordon Hirsch is a native of the Five Towns community, a mom of 5, a writer, and a social media influencer.