No Do-Overs: The Healing Power of Letting Go
"My parents were wonderful and I grew up in a loving and supportive home, never wanting for anything. I am forever grateful for that. But my resentment toward one decision lasted for decades."
By Jim Cohn
Guest Commentary
I was born and raised Jewish on Chicago’s North Shore. We were a typical Reformed Jewish family, attended services on the high holidays, observed Passover, Hanukkah, etc., and all four of us kids were bar/bat mitzvahed.
My parents felt strongly about us receiving a religious education — even though my Dad never really did growing up, and for my Mom, while she did go through confirmation, at that time in the early 50s, many Reform synagogues in addition to all Orthodox synagogues did not allow girls to become bat mitzvahed. But at age 70, she finally fulfilled a life-long dream — quite an accomplishment!
Despite my Jewish upbringing, in truth, I haven’t been the most devout Jew in my adulthood. Part of the reason is that I married a Catholic (and a hush falls over the room). We did have a Jewish wedding, but rather than choosing one religion over the other once we had kids, my now ex-wife and I chose to raise them with what I’d call “loose” exposure to both religions, albeit more exposure to Judaism.
The other and perhaps larger contributing factor was something that happened during my sophomore year of high school. I mentioned that my siblings and I were all bar/bat mitzvahed. What I didn’t mention is that after that, we all continued on to Sunday school to go through Confirmation at age 16.
I played sports in high school and my greatest passion in life since I was a kid was baseball. From little league to summer leagues, baseball camps and eventually the freshman team at my high school. But sophomore year was the true test, because they kept about 16 kids total — significantly pared down from the A and B squads and larger group who made it as freshmen.
The day I found out I had made the sophomore team was one of the happiest of my life. But it didn’t last long, as my parents informed me that while they were certainly very proud and this was a great accomplishment, practices and games would interfere with Confirmation class, which, for the final semester that spring, had moved from Sunday mornings to Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at 4:30 pm.
My reaction was something along the lines of, “expletive Confirmation class!” I made the baseball team and that was far more important. Not to mention, I’d already had a bar mitzvah — what more did I really have to do? Unfortunately, it was an argument I lost. In their minds, I’d come too far and would be confirmed in May.
So, every Tuesday and Thursday, when the clock struck a little after 4 pm, I was pulled off the field and taken to my confirmation class. It didn’t matter if it was a practice or big rivalry game tied in the 4th inning, I had to leave.
One doesn’t have to be Jewish or an athlete to understand how I felt at that time. What I can say is that I resented my parents more than I can tell you. And not just that spring. My parents were wonderful and I grew up in a loving and supportive home, never wanting for anything. I am forever grateful for that. But the resentment toward that one decision is one that stuck with me for decades.
This was 1983. I remember thinking, when I have kids someday I will NEVER, ever, do anything like this to them.
In 2012, my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. I was a grown man and father of kids nine and seven years old. My son had just gotten started playing travel hockey.
One night during the anniversary celebration, my Dad and I went to a restaurant ahead of everyone else to put our names in for a table with a large group – all of the kids and grandkids. While waiting, we went to the bar to have a drink. Somehow, the sophomore year baseball/confirmation class experience came up in our conversation, as it sometimes does. When this does happen, it’s pretty entertaining for my close friends and family members; they marvel at how I am still talking about it 40+ years after the fact. It’s become one of those memories where you kind of have to laugh or else you’d cry.
My dad looked at me and said, “you are STILL upset about that, aren’t you?” I couldn’t lie. While I’d certainly gotten over it many, many years ago, when it came up on this night and I thought about it — yes. It still did bother me.
My dad looked at me and said, “you know, as a parent, you do what you think is best for your kids at any point in time. Some decisions you get right, some you get wrong. At the time, we thought it was best. If we had it to do over again, I think that is one we’d like to have back and do over.”
A revelation! It was at that moment that I was finally able to let it go. To really let it go. Neither of my parents ever played competitive sports. I had already made my share of mistakes as a parent and was sure to make many more. Parenting is really, really hard. Two summers ago, my son went on a Birthright trip to Israel. We’ve traveled a lot over the years but he will be the first to say it was the single greatest experience of his lifetime.
It’s never too late, but perhaps one of the things I wish I had done as a parent was to raise my own children with more exposure to Judaism and to learn about their heritage. Minus confirmation class, of course.
Jim Cohn was an award-winning broadcast journalist and now leads corporate communications and media relations for Walgreens.
