Pack a diaper bag.
Extra wipes, extra clothes, extra anxiety, extra snacks.
Always enough snacks to share because inevitably my kid will
want your snacks and your kid will want my snacks and are you
really a Jewish mom if you’re not making sure everyone eats?
We share our food like we share our fears and hopes and—far too
often lately—our heartaches. I feel your little parenting wins in my soul
and I feel your grief in my bones. There is so little that separates us.
Why am I packing school lunches instead of sitting shiva?
Group chats ping, notifications lighting up our screens.
What time is drop-off?
Who’s free for a playdate?
Which synagogue was vandalized?
Did you see the news?
Are we packing bathing suits?
Are we safe?
The mundane and the profound intricately entwine.
It’s the armed security at the doors of a nursery school.
A duality that no longer surprises us.
And the darker questions.
Could I keep my daughter quiet if we ever had to hide?
In a bomb shelter, a closet, an attic.
How do I raise a good, kind human in a world that seems
intent on being neither good nor kind to her?
Anxious thoughts of the Jewish mom, passed down from
generation to generation.
L’dor v’dor.
But also—
The warmth of the Jewish mom. The valor of the Jewish mom.
The fierceness and the tears and the strength.
L’dor v’dor.
So I hold my daughters close. A hug like a shield.
