Manhood looms for Howie & son - The Jewish Chronicle

I’ve felt its presence a while now. In the moments of quiet, with the kids finally asleep, there’s been a whisper I could barely make out, yet filling me with dread. It sounded like the scratching of leaves blown about the dirt, but after receiving an email from shul this week and discovering it was my eldest son’s eleventh birthday, my ears popped. From gust to cyclone, the whisper raged into an all consuming roar, obliterating everything in its path, heading straight towards me:“BARMITZVAH PARTY!!!!”

With the countdown officially begun, each second trickling away heralding the same for my meagre bank balance, I’m full of regret. Oh, I thought I had so long to get my act together. At his bris, how I vowed that, by the time of his bar mitzvah I’d have a proper career, or at least an actual income, or at least have fully paid off the mohel.

Why couldn’t I have been like those sensible among you, who’ve been saving for their child’s bar- or batmitzvah since their own? What a fool I was, did I really need that game boy, the first iPhone, a wedding? Sitting here in sweaty panic, the walls of our home mock me, “If you weren’t so focused on keeping out the elements, you might’ve been able to afford decent catering. Or catering.”

I’m racking my brains as to how best avoid having to sit my son down and finally admit the uncomfortable truth, that we’re poor. Not poor poor, and yes privileged and lucky in so many ways, but our finances are about ten years behind those of other parents. Maybe 15. I’ve got away with it so far as, up to a certain age, all it takes to sate a child’s consumerist tendencies is cheap plastic tat. In trips to the pound-shop we spend like millionaires! I’d been concerned he was getting suspicious though, what with our lack of a garden, or ever going anywhere that requires an aeroplane but fortunately he bought my explanation of being a claustrophobic agoraphobe.

Yet there’s no denying that, with this ensuing event, choices made of a life in the arts, for an art form — live comedy — that currently doesn’t exist, and admittedly not helped by my wife being pregnant for a decade, are coming home to roost. And unless I can somehow mitigate comparisons to the barmitzvahs of his peers, the difference will be pronounced, with him starting JFS in September.

However, if I can ensure he doesn’t make any friends it’d work out perfectly; he won’t be invited to other barmitzvahs for comparison. And for his party we could get away with just inviting close family, his siblings, for a disco in the sitting room. The problem is he’s too good-looking and too warm, unfortunately taking after my wife — people actually seek to be their friends! No, he’s going to have loads of friends dammit, and with a summer birthday we can’t even rely upon going first to set the standards low.

We could “suggest” a mass joint barmitzvah to share the budgetary pain, a tactic developed after our daughter’s solo birthday outing to Peppa Pig World nearly bankrupted us. But I’m not sure he’ll go along with Laser Quest for a fourth time. And it could backfire and be with someone from his upcoming b’nei mitzvah classes, which are sure to consist of families who put the word “wealth” into “wealthy wealth super wealthy, financial services.” Their shindigs will be so outrageously out of our league that we’ll probably have to sell a kidney to afford for Mordy to even attend them.

Stupidly, we never considered this factor when joining Westminster Synagogue — we were distracted by the great rabbis, openness, and the slap-up kiddushes —and now those delicious fish balls are going to slap us in the tuchas.

As always in times of anxiety, I look to the scriptures for guidance. The Talmud teaches us that the barmitzvah’s father can give thanks to God for no longer being punished for our child’s sins. But alas there’s nothing about the innocent child not being punished for the parent’s sin of not going into dentistry.

And who started this whole celebration malarky anyway? The first mention of a party being thrown was the 13th century, really quite recent. I’m a very traditional Jew, I only like to do the stuff that’s been around for at least a millennium. Eight hundred years? Pffft, that’s nothing, next you’ll be asking me to wear a fur hat.

I considered a well-timed crisis of faith, taking time out from Judaism, coming back to the fold when Mordy is 14. Certainly if we’ve ever got any chance of saving enough to convert our loft, it’d be cheaper to convert ourselves. But I wouldn’t want to risk not being here when the EHRC finally submits its report.

Then I thought, what if the bar mitzvah party is in itself a test? I might’ve spiritually become an adult when I was 13, but is being able to put on an opulent affair the true test of adulthood?

I could get some quick dosh by contacting some of my old contacts in the male modelling industry. Hire a DJ, a photographer, a videographer? Someone with a good smartphone. Choose a theme? Fast food. Going home presents? Copies of the JC. I’ll get sponsorship, “This invite is bought to you by Contemporary Judaica and Aukin Chartered Surveyors.” Hire a comedian? I’m sure someone knows somebody. I can do this! In two years’ time, I shall finally become a man.