We never did Jewish holidays the right way in my house. My mom didn't like the ethnocentrism inherent in the holidays, so she rewrote the services so they'd be about global things instead of Jewish ones.

I think this was great. She predated the popularity of Kwanzaa by 20 years. But it means I don't know what the actual services are like. And 364 days of the year, I don't really care. But then suddenly it's Erev Pesach, and the Jews go home early, and I make a mad dash for google and try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to be doing.

And now I have sons.

This evening I lucked into some unusual work time, so from 2:00 until 5:00, I was at Starbucks, working on the music for I LOVE YOU, I'M SORRY, AND I'LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN. Then I packed up and walked to the liquor store for Irish Whiskey and waited in line--well, not really; more like waiting in mob--behind a clutch of old ladies in track suits buying the fortified Jewish Kool-Aid we call Manischewitz.

I just wanted Irish Coffee.

And I have sons.

What is it to be Jewish? A question asked and answered, and all the answers contradict each other, which is itself Jewish. I am Jewish by matrilineal descent, right of return, and blintz lust. I am not Jewish by any other standard.

My sons are of a gentile mother. Almost no one considers them Jewish. I have no strong feelings on the matter, except that my sons are mine. If Israel doesn't want them, fuck Israel.

But that's macho posturing, under the influence of Columbian coffee and Irish whiskey. Neither of which is a component of the traditional seder. Which I'm not entirely clear on in the first place.

So here's how we're spending our Pesach:

Mommy is working in the city, probably until 8:00.

Daddy has a sore throat, so he's not kissing little boys all over their little faces and rolling around with them on the floor and tickling them. He's blogging just outside the Punkin Pen, drinking Irish Coffee, and setting next year's Erev Pesach on his calendar, with a 7-day advance alarm.

Little boys are watching Jack's Big Music Show while Daddy blogs. One is testing Daddy by repeatedly starting to climb over the arm of the futon. The other just likes TV. Soon they'll have their baths. Then Daddy will keep them up until Mommy gets home, so she gets to see them today.

This is our Pesach. It's the same as the rest of the year, only Daddy's vaguely uncomfortable. He thinks maybe the traditions have value.

But the primary value is certainty, and when it comes to spirituality, or religion, or whatever you want to call it, Daddy believes certain is the worst thing anybody can be.

Maybe he's wrong. But this is the best I can do, boys. And I'm who you drew. I'll teach you right and wrong, and how to stand up when you need to, how to take a joke, and how to throw a punch. I'll teach you to respect women, think for yourself, be true to yourself, and lead a true life. I'll stand by you. I'll teach you what I know.

But I can't teach you anything I believe in my heart to be false. If you grow up and want religion, others will have to give it to you. I can't. Even the one I sometimes claim, which doesn't want you.

I guess there's my answer. If you're not good enough for it, neither am I.

I stand with you.

Gut Pesach.

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