Dearest Mommy, We are yours. You wait for the validation of a baby’s first cry. Then, at last, you will feel that you deserve the title “Mommy.” But you are no less a Mommy than all the mothers around you. We are your neshamalehs. We are a paradox. We are the easiest children and we
It is from their pockets that I learn what they love, what they have eaten, how they have behaved in school, and just the little things that they hold dear.
You’re probably thinking, she means she needs an assistant, a secretary, an organizer. But I know what I’m saying. I don’t need a little help, I need a lot of help — and for that you need a wife.
My husband chews a pen as he calls Directory Enquiries. Hirschlander from N16, London, he asks. There are six numbers and he takes down all of them. He’s looking for Uri Hirschlander, he explains once, twice, four times. The fifth number has a lead. “Oh, you mean our nephew? He moved to Baltimore. Or was
I am a home day-care provider. I love the kids I spend my day with. It’s some of their mothers that I don’t like. Lots of people annoyed me when I was younger and less experienced — the mother who brought her baby with a dirty diaper every single day, and the ones who dropped off
