“Tell me again,” Nadav says. My six-year-old lays curled into my side as I rest my back in bed. Well, I explain. Ima's back was broken, and the doctors said I couldn't carry you in my tummy for such a long time because you would be too heavy. So we took a little bit of Ima, a little bit of Abba, a little bit from Hashem and put it all in to Jenn.
“Your son is crying down in the playroom,” my friend offered helpfully. “I know,” I responded. “He’ll let me know if he needs me. “ We continued our meal at the Shabbat table as she looked uncomfortable and I internally debated my response, partially driven by my parenting philosophy, and partially by my pain level.