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It Happened to Me: The Moaning has to Stop

Rhona Lewis

When I was in seventh grade, my younger sister, Shani, came home at lunch time with a horrible song. I’ll never forget the chorus: If you show him a rose, he’ll see the thorns. If it rains sweets and chocolates, he’ll ask for an umbrella. She sang it a few times. Mom looked thoughtful. Dad stroked his beard, like he always does when he’s about to say something important.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

She twisted the spaghetti onto her fork and then stopped and stared at me, “Hey Dovid, the song is just for you!” Then she giggled and knocked her glass of water over.

“You wet me,” I yelled.

“Never mind.”

“Shani, apologize. Dovid, you’ll dry off soon,” Dad said sternly.

“I’m soaked,” I shouted. “And I hate spaghetti. Why can’t we eat noodles?”

“Mom worked hard to make lunch and do you know how many children are starving in Africa?” Shani said.

I tried to kick her under the table, but I missed and stubbed my toe on the table leg.

“Enough, Dovid,” said Mom. “Let’s all think of one nice thing that happened to us this morning. By the way, do you know that some people say it takes 43 muscles to frown and 17 to smile?”

I listened to Shani’s never-ending list of all the nice things that had happened to her. Mom had a long list too. Dad said he’d enjoyed his shiur. And I kept quiet. Nice things never happened to me.


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