People put a lot of pressure on themselves when it comes to their legacies, hoping their kids will carry the torch. Thank G-d, I have two daughters and one son that will carry on my tough-to-spell last name that I believe my grandfather adopted from his mother’s family in Czechoslovakia (a name of a country that ironically no longer exists).
My legacy will hopefully be the things I’ve taught my kids, which may or may not include a sense of comedic timing. And sure, instilling some middos in them is fine and good, but I’m talking about things that give you real nachas. Like my 7-year-old son taking a strawberry off my plate and saying the word “yoink,” something any avid fan of The Simpsons would appreciate. I recently played Mario Kart with him on Nintendo 64 and posted a picture of him playing with the caption “passing down the mesorah.”
My son does follow in my footsteps a bit, though sadly I’m not sure he’s a Cubs fan. But he is a performer, more natural than me and probably even more extraverted than I am, effortlessly finagling his way onstage when Simcha Leiner played a concert at our shul.
