When we named you Kalanit – after the beautiful anemones that bloom in Israel in spring, right around your birthday – little did we know how precious and honorable a flower we nurtured into the world.
I refuse to be the mother of a daughter/ Who spends her whole life believing/ She isn’t enough/ to let my daughter be brought up/ in a world that believes/ She is only something/ When she has a wedding ring.
There was something different about us, those whose parents came to halachic Judaism later in life -- and I wondered if it was just me who noticed it.
“Mommy, next time you daven to Hashem can you please, please, ask for another baby?”
For many, today is the first day of school. I planned on writing this piece with advice for parents and...
I am eight years old, lying in my parents bed. In another room, my parents are arguing. I drift away feeling this was all my fault. That somehow, I am responsible for the pain and rage around me. That somehow, I have to fix things. That somehow, I am only lovable if I am perfect. It's a heavy, heavy burden to bear. And now I am a mother of four, still bearing this weight.
Somehow, we learn that modesty is about externals. About hemlines. About shame. About sex. Yet is it?
If that security guard/Were to ask me today/“Little girl are you lost?”/.../The unspoken answer/Would be yes
What if watching the Olympics together would spark something in her that I cannot control?
Is there a security in believing we fully know the ones we love?
