Leave Me Alone, Ben Franklin
I don't want your hints about having another baby
Several years ago, I read an excellent biography of Benjamin Franklin, and something about him struck me immediately: he was the youngest son of his father’s thirteen children, and the eighth of his mother’s. I joked at the time that we’d have to get to eight children ourselves if we wanted our own Ben Franklin.
With each baby we’ve had, I’ve agonized almost immediately over the question: “Am I done? Is this it?” I declared myself done after our fourth—and again after our fifth. We called number five our “last,” but number six turned out to be G-d’s plan for us. Now that he’s here, we can’t imagine life without him.
When we had our sixth, we needed a new car—one that could seat eight. That logistical nightmare was one of the reasons we hadn’t planned on a sixth; it just seemed too complicated. And it was. We ended up with a used Ford Expedition Max, a true beast of a vehicle. It’s impossible to park and painful to fill the tank. But after running the specs on every eight-seater on the market, it was the only one that could safely fit six kids, all still in car or booster seats.
Having a seventh would mean stepping up to a literal van—a sprinter van. One that would make my current SUV look like a Smartcar. I do not want my vehicle situation to get worse. And, more than that, I’m tired. I had six kids in nine years. I’m tired, okay?
But then I think about Ben Franklin. His mother must have been even more tired—but she kept going. And she got Ben Franklin. After eight kids, she earned that.
So every time I tell myself, “I’m done. I’m not going for a seventh,” there he is. Ben Franklin, popping into my mind to taunt me: “Are you sure you don’t want to get to eight and meet your very own Ben Franklin?”
He shows up in the oddest of places, just when I’m convinced that yes, I am indeed finished having babies.
Today, I was at the State Department for an event with my oldest daughter: the International Women of Courage Awards, one of the most inspiring annual events, honoring extraordinary women from around the world. One of the honorees—and the keynote speaker—was Amit Soussana from Israel. She was remarkable. It was an honor to meet her and get to know her.
Right before the ceremony, Keith and Aviva Siegel walked in. All three—Amit, Keith, and Aviva—are from the kibbutz Kfar Aza. All were held hostage in Gaza. The Siegels came to support Amit.
After the ceremony, I was standing with Keith and Aviva, my daughter at my side. I mentioned she was the oldest of six, and Aviva—herself a mother of “only” four, as she put it—urged me to keep going. Children are a blessing, she said. And they certainly were for Keith and Aviva, whose children led the charge in advocating for their release over 500 days. Aviva was freed after 55 days. Keith was finally released this past January.
As we walked from the main event room into the reception area, I noticed the name of the space: The Ben Franklin Room. And there he was—Mr. Franklin himself—gazing down at me, silently nudging, Keep going. Get to eight.
Doesn’t he look unimpressed? As if to say, Lady, my mom had eight. And you’re tired after six?
I’m pretty sure we’re done. But if we’re not—you can blame Aviva Siegel and Benjamin Franklin.