Saturday was Yom Kippur, and as we were changing clothes to get ready to go the children's service at our synagogue, I explained that we were going to leave home, to go see the rabbi, and then go see Nana for dinner. "This isn't our house," he told me seriously.
"What?" I replied.
"This isn't our house. Our house is the templogog."
"Where?"
He looked at me like I was an utter moron. "The templogog."
"Honey, do we live at temple?"
"Yep!" he said seriously.
I pointed out that things hadn't gone particularly well for the last guy to make this observation. But it's nice that he feels at home there. Even if he requests to go to the car within minutes of the start of services.
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