Before is your cookies and cupcakes, sesame chicken and sweet-and-sour meatballs, Wednesday night schnitzel. Roast on Yom Tov, a second potato kugel for Friday afternoon, and spelt challah every Shabbos. After is the rest of us divvying up Shabbos duties.
I smile at the A+, but why, why did I pick some relative stranger in a far-off town as the object of my 15-year-old admiration?
Do desert islands have marshmallows? Please can it always be summer? The kids are happy, so I am. Throw some hot dogs on the grill and you don’t have to cook — that’s my vacation. Everyone eats them, too. The house is a happy mess — wet towels and goggles and flip-flops by the door. I don’t
It’s a boring place for a kid, but my kids are always begging to come to work with me. They know about “Mommy’s snack drawer”
My not-so-subtle message — that I did not want to hear any more — got through. Everyone backed off. I gathered up Aviva and her paraphernalia
It’s strange, raising children to be part of a culture that’s foreign to me. It’s strange to be a foreigner in my children’s culture
