I am jealous of my son. He is going on a field trip to the Old City of Yerushalayim tomorrow. As much as I would love to go with him, I was surprised to learn that not all of the mothers of his classmates feel the same way. About a year ago, when all of

Three o’clock on a winter Friday afternoon, with a four-month-old baby in my left hand, I am tacking olive-green fatigues onto a laundry line with my right. My husband needs these uniforms dry in time to pack Saturday night because he’ll be davening at neitz on Sunday before leaving at seven AM for another long

“May the L-rd make you like Sarah, Rivka, Rachel, and Leah.” The lights in the chandelier are dimmed. Four candles are burning in brass candlesticks on the side table in the next room over. The frenzied rush of cooking, straightening up, and showers has been replaced by a quiet calm. My parents, sister Alexis and