Adventures in Mama-Land

Another one from the archives… It’s done! Once again, this year, I've been putting it off and putting it off, and now, at last, it's done. It's a week before Purim, and the shemurah matzos have been ordered for the year. “Mrs. Paquette, please?” He always pronounces the name right, an oddity I can't help respecting. My matzah man, Rabbi Aronov — he always refers to himself tersely as “Aronov”— has been calling for over a month, and I have been putting him off, not wanting to admit that Pesach is right around the corner again. I told him I needed to speak to my parents, which was true, and then I told him I hadn't had a chance yet, which was true, and then I said I would call him back, which was true, and asked for an absolute latest deadline when I could phone him and squeak my order in under the wire. Almost up until Purim, he said, and I sighed with relief. But still the deadline loomed, and tonight, when he calls me back, I finally take the plunge. I spok

That Purim was bitterly cold. I was newly divorced with two babies, scared and lonely and tired. I probably wasn't thinking straight, but all I knew was I couldn't afford a babysitter for the night-time megillah reading. So I hauled the kids along, to a friend's shul, basically a tiny storefront deal. The women's and men's sides were separated by a wall with just a few tiny windows for sound. I also noticed that mine were the only small children there. Once the laining began, we crowded in, straining to read along with every single word. There were graggers, but they had to stay silent for the first two chapters. My son, then two, was holding his, but out of boredom, he’d begun turning it around. Click…click… No big deal; we could still hear the megillah. But after a couple of minutes, the woman beside me started shushing. I didn't know what to do. If I took away the gragger, he'd start screaming and really disturb things. Click…click… I felt everybody

So the Rony Pony baby is… um, not exactly a baby anymore? When did that happen?  We just woke up one day and – well – you know.  All the cliche stuff.  It’s all true. I started this blog, of course, to blog about her infancy and the joy of being with all four of my children every single day – or at least, of feeding them supper every day, of diapering them every day, of homeschooling them every day.  After a decade of being a single and working mama, it felt like a miracle a lot of the time. Now, a big chunk of that period is behind me.  Probably a lesser person would get a new blog and move on, but this is my home, and it’s okay to redecorate from time to time as our lifestyle changes.  True, I don’t come home very often these days, but when I do, it’s happy-making to be here. Here’s what I said at the not-so-big event last week.  We made a challah-making party for the girls in her class.  No shtick, no DJs, no craziness.  It was very DIY and very fun and very exhausting. Here’s

Everyone knows writers write -- every day. So how are writers supposed to deal with Shabbos – a day that comes once a week, always at the worst possible time, interrupting the “flow” and standing in the way of creativity?  And what if you get your best ideas at a time when you’re forbidden to write them down??? I’ve dredged this old article up from the archives – published back in 2001, and maybe not how I’d write it today, but still highly relevant.  Enjoy! Gorgeous Hebrew typewriter photo © Shira Gal via Flickr . ----- Everyone knows writers write -- every day. But since I became an Orthodox Jew a decade ago, writing hasn't been an option at least one day out of every week. From sundown Friday to sundown Saturday, and on holidays, traditional Jewish law prohibits writing, whether with a pen or computer. The goal of the Sabbath isn't just "not working" but "not creating" -- as God did after making the world. It's hard enough for the busy stockb