The Bar Mitzvah Blemish

I’m more comfortable when you’re pretty and it’s SO not okay

I went out for a morning jog last week, the same day my kids were leaving for an overnight school retreat. While I ran, I made a mental list of what still needed to be packed and reminders I wanted to give before they left. 

I thought of my son’s bar mitzvah coming up in nine days (now just one day away!). 

I hope he remembered to pack his face wash. And I should tell him to make sure to wash his face, especially if it gets sweaty because if he doesn’t, he could have a big pimple next Saturday.

I felt a tiny pinch in my chest. The one that tells me something’s off.

Maybe I shouldn’t tell him that? Getting a pimple isn’t entirely in his control. What if I say this to him, and then he does have a blemish, and now my little speech has just made him think having a pimple on his big day is the worst thing in the world?

I reached up and touched the pimple patch I’d applied the night before on my own chin. The dress I’ve selected for the service is a spectrum of blues. A big red blotch wouldn’t exactly match the outfit.

That’s when I felt a bigger pinch in my chest. Not a heart-attack level pinch. More like a conscience-attack level pinch.

Here I am, always talking a big game about breaking cycles of toxic perfectionism, yet I’ve spent the morning planning the words I’ll use to nag my kid into skincare perfection? 

I don’t know how to describe the sound I made then. It was the sound you make when you bite into what you hope will be a tasty, ripe pear and what you get instead is a tart, bitter mess.

In nine days, I would stand before my son at his bar mitzvah service and offer him a blessing. Words that can guide him in the future as he transitions from “kid” to “man.”

I had some pretty words all typed out. Explicit advice I hoped might help him through the tumult of adolescence.

But what about the implicit legacy I leave when making a careless comment like, “Make sure you don’t get a pimple on your chin.”?  

My son is transforming at lightning speed before my eyes. I know he is absorbing every glance, every eyebrow raise, every vocal inflection and innuendo. I know he’s hearing many more messages than the ones said aloud.

Look good. Talk nice. Make sure you stand out enough for everyone to see how beautiful, smart, and worthy you are. But don’t call too much attention to yourself. 

I know what he hears, because I heard it at his age, too.

I put a hand on my chest and summoned some self-compassion. I know that preferring clear skin over pimples isn’t a problem. But I also know that thinking you’re more worthy of love if you have clear skin, a perfect body, or the “right” clothes is a set-up for a lifetime of misery.

Tomorrow, my son will stand on the bimah, chanting torah and leading the congregation. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt there’s no blemish that could make me the slightest bit less proud, joyful, or moved at the sight.

And I promise to make sure he knows it, too.