When I am measuring, measuring, measuring, there is no way I can appreciate the delight of my daughter
Dear Mommy, Yes, it’s fine with me if you don’t come to my high school production. You came last year, didn’t you?
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
Shalom bayis. It’s one thing to learn about it in a shiur. It’s quite another to share a household with your husband every single day
With a cursory shake of my head, I told him I didn’t have any money and went on my way without a second thought.
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
