I see them everywhere. Mothers and children, children and mothers. Mothers picking up children from preschool, hugging them close, reading the notes teachers pinned to little backpacks. Mothers coming to shul every Shabbos at Mussaf’s end, propping little ones up against the mechitzah, peeking and pointing at their fathers davening. Children going food shopping with
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
