It was the first night of Passover, and I was trying to coax my four-year-old into a clean outfit for the Seder. Her polka-dotted tank top from two summers ago and mismatched biking shorts didn’t seem appropriate for a formal religious dinner on a cold evening in Chicago.
She rejected each outfit I suggested.
“No, no, no, no, and no, with a side of no,” she chanted, as I pointed to dresses in her closet.
“I’ll wear that one,” she said finally, pointing to her favorite ice skating costume with the royal blue and white-satin-trimmed tulle tutu.
“Fine,” I said. All I said was that she had to wear something clean, after all.
“I don’t want to go to Passover,” she said. I don’t necessarily want to go to Passover either, I thought to myself, given my own complicated emotions around this particular holiday.
“What is Passover anyway?” she asked.