Challah Back, Y'all!

I bought my girls a toy last week from the Judaica shop at my temple. Already this is sounding very out of character, as I am not one to frequent Judaica shops, but I had fifteen minutes to kill, so I moseyed into the coat closet sized room and looked around. And there it was, amidst all the mezuzahs and seder plates, a doll that my daughters have been coveting for months: Challah Baby. Challah Baby is a bread shaped doll, in the same way that a bowling pin with a face drawn on it is a doll. She is more of a loaf with a head, a couple of braids, and a bread cloth, or blanket, swaddling her loafiness. And she is not just loaf shaped; she is also the color of a golden egg washed crust. She looked delicious, and I can see why my daughters craved her so. So I bought her. I explained to my girls that they had to share her, as there was only one left at the shop. They agreed they could handle that, and so we drove home from temple, in love with each other and our new addition.

I expected her to have a fresh yeasty smell when we took her out of her cellophane bread bag, but she just smelled like cotton doll. S thought she was the perfect Jewish toy and held her carefully, then checked her label to see if she was from Israel. "Made in Indonesia!?!" The fact that Challah Baby was from some South Pacific archipelago, most likely made by hands younger than hers, did not lessen S's love. Next was E's turn to cradle her. She carefully rewrapped her in her crusty bunting and immediately worked out a schedule of who gets to sleep with her on which night. I reminded them that they had to share her, and left them to hash out the joint custody arrangements.

All went well the first couple of days. I said goodnight to S the first night and told her to not get crumbs in the bed. The second night was E's turn, and as I went into her room for good night kisses, she was rocking Challah Baby in her arms, softly singing the Hamotzi to her. Apparently, she had a pretend bath in honey and was now tuckered out.

Tonight, however, custody talks fell through. E decided to alter the arrangement, requiring hand washing before handling Challah Baby, then proclaiming that the party in possession had sole guardianship for a period of no less than 24 consecutive hours, and finally that supervised visitation was no longer an option. S, who is in first grade and not her first year of law school, retaliated by crumpling into a mass of tears in her octopus bath towel, naked and red faced. I stepped in, going straight for drama, which egged them on further. "If you two can't work this out, I can always cut her in half and you each get a piece. Jesus, it's a doll! It doesn't even have legs!" I am pretty sure some of that happened once in the Bible, or at the very least, an episode of Veggie Tales. E actually stopped and thought about this option, but S, more like the true mother, was willing to relinquish her claims. My husband decided I caused the situation to escalate and made his own fair and just decree, at which point I went to my bathroom and began inspecting my adult acne and wrinkles.

I know, I know, that's what I get for only buying one doll. But it was the only one they had. Because it was half off. Yes, I am aware of what it looks like when you buy things on sale at the Judaica shop. But I am pretty sure that is the real lesson in King Solomon's story.