What do you do when you have a horrible singing voice but you love to sing? You have a baby.
I've heard tell of supermarkets on the road where not even the orange juice and bottled water is kosher, where the tiny Ks and Us and Hebrew letters we search for in our secret codes are absent, where even the potato chips and white-bread loaves are baked with lard.
Somebody handed me a crying baby. There wasn't really a sense that I was a stranger.
The usual outcome of being nine months pregnant is to have a baby. Baruch Hashem, I had one.
