By Stephanie Lewis
Being Jewish, the only Godmother I ever actually knew was obsessed with pumpkins, mice, the stroke of midnight, and pranced around singing “Bippity Boppety Boo.” However I saw a lot of my non-Jewish friends give careful consideration to selecting godparents when their babies were born. I breathed a sigh of relief that we wouldn’t have to choose anyone.
Fast-forward to a time when we grasped our own mortality and hired an attorney to draw up our living trust. It’s interesting that it’s called a living trust and yet they force you to name a legal guardian in case of your death.
My husband thought it should be his mother. And by mother, I mean the woman who took a razor to our newborn baby’s head so her hair would grow in thicker and then sought a wet nurse because she was convinced I couldn’t breastfeed properly. My own mother (upon hearing the possibility that my mother-in-law was in the running) stormed into a fit of jealously just thinking about having to make an appointment to see her own grandchildren with someone who went out of her way to wear an all-white mother-of-the groom dress at my wedding. “Who does she think she is? Snow White?” Clearly neither grandmother was a good choice.
We moved on to siblings. My husband and I both wrote down the qualifications we thought made our sisters outstanding candidates. Each list had the exact same number of positive attributes, which got us nowhere. At my suggestion, we next jotted down both ladies’ faults so we could pick the lesser of the two evils. (Hi Sis … I love you!)
Still eats Capt. Crunch cereal.
Wears open-toe heels with those nylons.
Never saw Star Wars.
Shaves her head.
Became a wet nurse.
Wears white to compete with brides at their wedding.
Hmmmm, understand our dilemma? Also, do you understand his genetics?
Next, we began to weed through our friends, but soon it came down to offering really good “incentives.” That’s a nice way of saying our kids were so bratty, it required bribing our mere acquaintances to accept this profound responsibility. My friend who owns a beauty salon asked if we’d throw in a lifetime supply of latex gloves along with our five-bedroom home. (Apparently henna stains are unsightly.) I consoled myself thinking my daughter would have perfectly manicured nails for her Bat Mitzvah. What was happening? This was crazy thinking! What were the odds that something bad would happen to both of us at the same time? We could board separate airplanes. He hates to fly with me anyhow because I leave deep fingernail marks (non-manicured!) in his arms during turbulence.
It was settled. We wouldn’t choose any legal guardians because the plan was to live forever. As an extra measure of security however, I have an idea. I’ll buy our daughter a red curly wig and teach her to belt out, “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow!”
Stephanie D. Lewis is a regular writer for The Huffington Post and has a humor blog at OnceUponYourPrime.com. Her book “Lullabies & Alibis” is available on Amazon. Follow her on Twitter @missmenopause