All She Wrote

11/08/2011 | | Special To The Jewish Week | All She Wrote

The last time I recall feeling this disturbing sense of dislocation, a boyfriend informed me that he loved someone else. He explained that all through our short but spirited romance, all through his soft renditions of Yiddish lullabies and late-night phone calls, and for two years before that, he’d been seeing that someone else. I felt as if I’d been suddenly transported to an alternative and hostile universe; the person in whom I’d confided still wore the same sheepish grin, but was not at all the person I’d imagined he was.

09/27/2011 | | Special To The Jewish Week | All She Wrote

On rare occasions, she surfaces in my dreams. During these nights, she’s a loving friend, her expressions animated, her laughter loud and long.
In waking life, I haven’t spoken to her since my children, now 6 and 9, were tiny toddlers so demanding that I couldn’t summon the energy to focus on our fight, even as the flames roared beyond control. By the time I was paying attention, our friendship was extinguished.

08/09/2011 | | Special To The Jewish Week | All She Wrote

I received one of my best parenting tips while trapped in a dentist’s chair. Big with my first baby, my voice quieted by the examination, I was an obvious target for advice. My dentist, a mother of three, leaned over conspiratorially. “Don’t let them tell you what to do,” she said.

07/05/2011 | | Special To The Jewish Week | All She Wrote

After nearly 12 years of marriage, I know the groan well. I brace myself. Who could have died? “H&H is closing its West Side store,” my husband Jeremy says with a wince, referring to the acclaimed bagel shop. I exhale. But he adds, “It just confirms that everything is going to hell in a hand basket.”

06/07/2011 | | Special To The Jewish Week | All She Wrote

My long-legged 9-year-old clambers onto my lap, her eye-rolling cynicism suppressed for the moment. Together we wait, staring at the computer screen’s still image of an Israeli flag, listening as the sentimental strains of a symphony rise up. But when a disembodied voice explodes in song, Talia joins in, belting out the Hebrew words with a gusto she usually reserves for Broadway show tunes, her torso swaying from the effort. My daughter is caught up in the love and hope and dreams of “Hatikvah.”

05/10/2011 | | Special To The Jewish Week | All She Wrote

It was a day of shock (Obama!, Osama!) and a day of sorrow (The Six Million). But for my 9-year-old daughter Talia, that date, May 2, known as Yom HaShoah on Jewish calendars, was merely the day before a bigger, scarier one; the next morning, promptly at 9 a.m., the New York state tests would begin: a series of five, one hour-long exams that would measure her ability to understand reading passages and tackle third-grade math.