My natural state is usually sedentary, but flick on an Avraham Fried tune, and I morph from couch potato to spinning top
“It’s time for Mommy’s treat,” I say. Because it’s been a long day for me too, and I am such a good mother
“I see you’re drawing a lot of terrorists. Is that what the boys at school are talking about?” I ask my nine-year-old,
I am the official matriarch of our family. Too young for the job, in my mind, but it is mine nonetheless,
A quintessential Brit, my mother loves her tea: a simple Earl Grey, left to brew for the perfect few minutes, with just a dash of milk,
An overwhelming emotion filled me. It almost washed me away, a joy so pure I began to laugh. I could come up with no words for it then, and I still can’t, but it was joy, joy, joy — an indescribable, undiluted, thrilled joy that filled up my whole self and overflowed from my eyes
