Purim is funny. Passover, not so much.
I’m going through a difficult time. My husband is underemployed, and my job is very demanding and consuming. The hardest part is not seeing my kids as much as I’d like. And when stay-home mothers from my largely affluent suburb want to make small talk about their recent trip to Turks and Caicos or how they are so overwhelmed — though they have no jobs — with the task of adding a sunroom to their house or planning their child’s bar mitzvah, I want to clock them. I used to be a nice, patient person, and I would like to be again. In truth, I know I have many blessings, including a gorgeous rental home, two happy and healthy children, and a supportive family. But creeping bitterness makes me unable to do the suburban schmooze, and I don’t want to be that way.
Not long ago, I would have told you that the odds of my ever visiting a mikveh were approximately the same as those of George Bush tongue-kissing Dick Cheney. The mikveh always was an aspect of traditional Judaism I was uncomfortable with. I understand that my perspective isn’t shared by all women, and to those women who disagree with me, I say,
We New Yorkers are givers. By choosing to live in apartments the size of veal pens, and paying so much in monthly rent or mortgage that we could afford an entire herd of veal, we give people who live elsewhere something to feel superior about. You’re welcome.Josie and her possibly-born-by-the-time-you-read-this sister will be sharing a room. I
It has been a tumultuous couple of months in the Ingall-Steuer household. Zayde died. Josie’s beloved baby sitter was badly injured in an accident, breaking her femur and pelvis. Our new baby’s birth is so imminent, the milk in our fridge will expire after my due date. My husband is still trying to start a new business. (Translation: we’re
Newly expecting friends often ask me what pregnancy book they should buy. My answer always has been “none.” Because they are all vile. I suggest my friends sign up for weekly e-mails from babycenter.com instead, and search that superb site for answers to any questions that may come up.
My father was justly famous — or infamous — for his rendition of the Akedah, the binding of Isaac. Every year at Rosh Hashanah, he’d chant the Torah portion with all the terrifying drama of a camp counselor telling a ghost story.