A Bubby's Prayers -- as appeared in the Bina

Have any of you heard of Sir Nicholas Winton? A British businessman, during the Holocaust he succeeded in saving the lives of over 650 Jewish children by bringing them to England under the very noses of the Nazis, in what is commonly known as the Kindertransport. An unassuming individual, his noble deed most probably would have remained unknown except that one day, some sixty years after the war, his wife decided to clean out the junk in the attic. She discovered an old-looking box containing lists of names with their personal details. When she asked her husband about it, he responded that they were just names. But she was persistent, until finally he told her that the list contained the names of all the children he had saved during the war, but that it was nothing extraordinary; anyone would have done the same.

Mrs. Winton arranged a surprise evening to honor her husband’s heroism. The majority of people invited were “Winton’s children,” that she had somehow (and it was not an easy feat) managed to track down, men and women who owed their lives to his heroism. It was an emotional reunion, and Mr. Winton was awestruck as he looked around the room at the children, now adults and heads of families, that he had saved and realized the momentous impact of his actions. One of the people whose life he saved is Harav Yitzchak Tuvia Weiss, shlita, Gaavad of the Eidah Hacharedis in Yerushalayim, a true amud of Torah and yiras Shamayim. I am sure there are many other Torah scholars and ehrlicher Yidden who owe their lives to Winton’s heroism. 

After hearing this story, I decided to do a bit of research, to learn what would compel a wealthy businessman to risk his career, and even more so, his very life, to save innocent Jewish children. What zechus did he have to play a part in bringing about the revival of Torah from the ashes? I discovered that although the world viewed Nicholas as a gentile, and even he considered himself a gentile, he was, in fact, a Jew. His parents had converted to Catholicisam at the turn of the century, when they emigrated from Germany to London. To remove all traces of their Jewish roots, they Anglicized their name and raised their son as a gentile.

But despite his very non-Jewish upbringing and name, Nicholas, was, in fact a Jew, a precious Yiddishe neshamah forcefully severed from his people. And like every Jewish child, he most probably had a Jewish bubby, and bubbies are known to daven for their grandchildren.

I can only imagine the tears his bubby shed as she beseeched the One Above that her precious grandchild somehow discover that spark of Yiddishkeit that exists within every Jew and reconnect to his heritage. And although her prayers were not answered in the way that she had hoped, perhaps, it is in the zechus of her tefillos that her grandson found the courage to save so many Yiddishe children, and in doing so, to have a share in bringing so much light of Torah to the world.

Of course, it would be presumptuous of me to try to understand Hashem’s ways, and no one can really ever know why Nicholas merited to accomplish what he did. But one thing I do know: Bubbies (and zeidies and mommies and tatties) daven for their children – and Hashem answers their tefillos, although sometimes in ways that we may never fathom.

We just have to keep on davening.

This year, on zos Chanukah, one of my einekelach turned three. Together with his parents and siblings (as well as a couple of cousins and a set of mechutanim thrown in for good measure) we made the arduous journey to Meiron for the chalakah. It was a mini Lag B’Omer, with lots of music, dancing, and of course, tearful tefillah.

I noticed a nine-year-old granddaughter observing me as I davened. When I finished, I called her over and showed her the list of family members that I keep on me (in case I have a “senior moment”). “Look,” I said, pointing to her name on the list. “Here’s your name, together with your mommy’s name. That’s because Bubby davens for you every single day, just like I daven for all my children and grandchildren.”

She didn’t seem moved. Actually, she couldn’t wait to run away from me as quickly as possible to get back to her cousins. But I felt that it was important to impress on her the fact that I daven for her. I want her to know that no matter what might happen down the line, where she ends up in her life, her bubby will always be there for her, storming the Heavenly Throne on her behalf.

My cell phone rang as we were about to board the minibus to return home. Mazel tov, my daughter had just given birth to a little girl! Amidst all the laughter, hugging and joyous commotion, that same granddaughter came up to me and asked the one question that really weighed on her mind: “Bubby, are you also going to daven for the new baby?”

“Of course I will, shefela, just like I daven for you, and your sisters, and all my precious grandchildren.”

Her entire face lit up. Then she skipped back to her cousins.

She understood.

Keeping it All Together - as appeared in Binah

This year, as every year, our annual Chanukah party was a humongous affair. Dozens of grandchildren of all ages, together with their parents, somehow managed to squeeze themselves into our tiny apartment (reminiscent of how, in the early 60s, college students would try to see how many teens could fit into a telephone booth). They filled every nook and cranny, leaving a thick trail of sufganiyot crumbs and sticky jelly- covered fingerprints.

Ah, the beauty of family. Thirty-three years ago, when my husband and I started our lives together, it was just the two of us, (plus the six small children we were bringing into this new marriage), and no extended family . My children felt disadvantaged. ll their friends were members of large, cohesive clans that got together regularly for cousins’ bar mitzvah celebrations, family melaveh malkah, weddings, and, of course, Chanukah parties and Purim seudos. At school, discussion in the school yard often centered on the details of these gatherings, and since most of the children were somehow related, there were lots of private family jokes and reminiscing.

Today, when my children talk about those years, there is an undercurrent of bitterness at having been different. Yes, of course, they understand that no one was at fault — one can’t create instant family — yet they lack those wonderful, sweet memories of cousins getting together.

This is why I try so hard to keep the family together, to find reasons to celebrate, to make sure that my einekelach have a strong attachment to our personal link in the golden chain of mesorah leading back to Har Sinai.

It’s not always easy. Our family certainly doesn’t fit into any niche. We’re a pretty eclectic bunch. Chassidim, Misnagdim, Kena’im, Chabadnikim; we have representatives in every camp. On Pesach, some of us won’t touch gebrochts or machine matzos, while for others, that’s their main staple. As for head gear, to each his own hat or shtreimel or sheitel or turban or whatever. To tell you the truth, to me, those externals are really not important, as long as it’s al pi halachah.

Then, of course, my children are extremely busy raising beautiful, large families, (MY einekelach, bli ayin hora), while at the same time working full time, making bar mitzvahs, weddings, taking kids to dentists and somehow even finding time to purchase new shoes. So scheduling a time that everyone – or at least all those “everyones” living within a two-hour drive of my house – can get together is a major challenge. 

But I do it. I make the effort because I see how important it is for my grandchildren’s sense of identity. I watch the cousins huddle in a corner, whispering together, sharing secrets, and then producing plays and choirs for the adults, and I realize that I am giving them the greatest gift – the gift of belonging to a large, cohesive family unit, feeling the tangible achdus of Klal Yisrael, of being part of something much greater than themselves.  

In addition to our grand family gatherings, I arrange times for just the siblings and their spouses, to get together for a melaveh malkah or just plain middle of the week, no special occasion meal. No special reason, that is, except that family is family. And family is important.

Once or twice a year, I make a “mothers’ retreat” for my daughters and daughters-in- law, plus any nursing babies. Basically, it’s a slumber party, where no one sleeps and the “girls” end up giggling half the night! Last year, we sat in a deserted park until three in the morning, drinking ice coffees and having a blast. When we returned home, I collapsed into my bed and within minutes was sound asleep. But although “the girls” were officially safely ensconced in their blankets, the talking, and occasional shrieks of laughter or outbursts of song continued until the morning.

And then there’s the cousin camps, where girls of the same general age group come to Bubby’s house for a couple of days of fun. We close all the lights, place candles on the living room floor and have a kumsitz; we wake up in the predawn hours to catch the bus to kever Rachel; we visit chashuve Rebbetzins and gain from their insights. I let the girls prepare an entire Shabbos together, and then, when they all leave, I collapse! My husband tells me that I should stop exerting myself like this, but I explain to him that although I’m totally exhausted and feeling horrific, it is completely worth it. That’s because watching my family be together is one of my biggest sources of nachas.

 And I’m a bubby, and bubbies are supposed to have nachas!  

The H Word -- appeared in Binah

I tend not to do things very quietly, which is probably why when I chose to lose my balance and fall, it was right on the corner of Kikar Shabbos, on Erev Sukkos. That morning, I had realized that I was actually ahead of schedule and decided to run up to Geula to purchase a few presents for the einiklach. (Which was really dumb. No one in their right mind runs up to Geula on Erev Yom Tov, but bubbies have been known to do crazy things to get their grandchildren to smile! And besides, in my last column, I did point out that despite the wrinkles, we still have lots to learn.) And then, smack in the middle of the Erev Yom Tov rush, I crashed to the ground and succeeded in spraining my knee, finger, and elbow, as well as twisting a few ligaments.

It was not a pretty sight.

Two weeks after Simchos Torah, I was scheduled to travel to the United States to visit family and friends. It is a long trip, with a two-hour layover in Boston, and although I was looking forward to seeing my family, I was dreading getting there, especially the hassle at the airport. My leg still throbbed. Walking, or standing in one place, was very difficult, and  I knew that between security and customs, I'd have to do a lot of that!

My husband suggested that I request a wheelchair and disabled priority seating.

I was aghast. Me? A wheelchair? Disabled? No way!

But I listened to reason, and what can say? It was an amazing experience!

Instead of standing in multiple lines while juggling purse, hand luggage, and papers (and often resorting to using my teeth as a third hand!), not to mention removing my shoes and maneuvering my belongings onto a conveyer belt while somehow keeping my balance, I was treated like a queen. In Tel Aviv, my escort swiftly pushed me through the first class priority line, and within minutes, I was seated at the gate, awaiting my flight.

The same scene repeated itself in Boston. When my escort, a young man named Mohammed, spent over half an hour pushing me through what seemed like endless airport corridors, and across a busy street to get to the proper terminal, I realized that I could have never done it alone.

Well, actually, I probably could have, but I would have ended up exhausted and frazzled. And it would have taken me a week, if not more, to recover, and by then it would be time to return home.
It is humbling to ask for help. It means that we’re not invincible, that as we get older we are no longer that incredibly capable superwoman that we aspired to be (but really never were). But at the same time, it's even more humiliating to have the contents of your hand luggage come tumbling to the floor while trying to open it and place that tiny bottle of hand cream into the Ziploc bag that you can't possibly unzip with one hand, or trip over your shoe laces since you knew it would be impossible to balance on one foot to tie them, or watch the security officer try to hide his disgust as you remove the passport from between your teeth and hand it to him, slightly damp… Shall I go on?

I participate in a monthly telephone support group for women dealing with Parkinson's disease. In our last meeting, we talked about how difficult it can be to have to rely on other people and how we tend to push ourselves beyond our limitations, and then end up collapsing. It's easy to ask for help. We are used to being the nurturers, the quintessential Yiddishe mamas.. 

But, like most people, I still have a lot to learn, and one of them is to accept help graciously. Yes, it's true, I could have traveled around the world without assistance, but would it have been worth the price? Cleaning help, paper dishes, ready-made food (believe me, no one will ever mention in your eulogy that you actually bought most of Shabbos!); they are all there to make life easier. 

Grandchildren and friendly neighborhood teens who come to help with the shopping or tidying up are a gift in disguise, but the question is, who is the recipient? Perhaps through accepting help graciously, and with dignity, we are providing the next generation with an example to look up to and emulate. 

Shared Secrets (mishpacha magaziine)

The pain was unbearable. Excruciating. It was impossible to hide from it. It encroached on every fiber of her being and left her exhausted, a shadow of herself.

                              

Quiet. She wanted silence. Instead, the machine, the little blue monster, constantly beeped (it sounded like a scream) as it monitored the amount of medicine entering her bloodstream. And then, whenever she succeeded in ignoring the constant beeping and, after taking a pill to calm the pain, fall into a restless sleep, a doctor or a nurse, or a technician would appear, and with a forced smile say, "Good morning (or good evening, or good afternoon) Mrs. Kohn. We're here to check your pulse (or take your blood, or bring you to another test. There was no limit to their creativity)."

Batya Kohn would open her eyes, take a deep breath, choke on her own lack of lung capacity and try to smile. She had to smile. It was her tenuous hold on normalcy, to the world that had once been.

The nightmare began four weeks ago, on a Friday afternoon. Well actually, it began even months before that, but Batya had just thought that she was under the weather, or, that at the ripe old age of twenty nine she was beginning to feel the first pangs of middle age. The doctors kept on telling her that it was nothing; that she was under too much stress and much too lonely, that she needed to be married, that being a single mother was overwhelming her and that she desperately needed a vacation.

Everyone pitied her. One of the local tzedaka ladies had arranged for Batya to spend a week at a fancy hotel in the North. Meanwhile, another local tzedaka lady arranged for families to take care of Batya's children while she was away "getting her strength back." So to keep everyone but herself happy, Batya had spent a week trying to rest, eating more than she should and gabbing about absolutely nothing with the other ladies, all the while worrying about her children – after all, they were all she had -- and wishing that she was strong enough to be home, taking care of them, instead of pretending to enjoy herself at a hotel.

But when Batya returned home, she was still as exhausted, as totally drained as she had been before the vacation. She was unable to cope with anything – absolutely nothing. She could barely prepare herself a cup of coffee, let alone take care of her family.

Batya spent that Friday morning lounging in her apartment, wondering how she would possibly manage to get Shabbos together. Actually, there wasn't very much to do. The neighbors were sending in the meals, and a local seminary girl had come that morning to tidy the apartment (Oh, she could feel the pity in their eyes). Still, she had to organize the children's clothes – iron the boys' white shirts, make sure they had matching socks, and mend her daughter's white stockings. And the shoes – oh yes, the shoes! --had to be polished.

At three o'clock, Batya she realized that she had better start doing something. After all, how long could a healthy woman (at least that's what everyone said she was) remain in bed? She quickly donned a robe and threw a white table cloth on the dining room table. She set up the Shabbos candles and started organizing the children's clothes. For the first time in a week, she was moving around instead of lying in bed staring at a book that she was incapable of reading.

It happened when she was in the middle of ironing her younger son's Shabbos shirt. Her head exploded, shattering into a million, billion pieces of agony. Her entire body went into spasms as every muscle contracted. She felt as if her entire being was in the very last stage of labor. And then she started vomiting. She couldn't stop. She vomited until there was nothing left, and then she continued vomiting ugly specks of putrid green bile, over and over and over again.

Batya somehow managed to fling herself onto the sofa. She saw everything in triplicate. Tables and chairs and toys, they were floating everywhere, intermingled with overwhelming waves of pain and a deep abyss of fear that threatened to engulf with its wide tentacles, like the enormous mad monster with its many slides at the playground on the other side of the city; the one she took the children to when she wanted to take them on a special outings. Batya lifted her hand and brought it up to her face. She saw three hands -- fifteen perfectly formed fingers -- dancing grotesquely in front of her eyes. Her hand went limp as she closed her eyes and vomited, again and again and again – and again.

When the neighbor came in half an hour later, she found Batya curled up on the sofa, her eyes closed, a puddle of vomit on the floor. "Are you all right?" she asked, ("Boy, the stress of raising those children alone is really getting to her," she thought.)

Batya gasped, "Everything hurts," and then vomited, again.

Batya was in so much pain that she could not lift her head off the pillow, so the neighbor lit the Shabbos candles for her. Se was too weak to even say thank you. She felt as if a million hammers – no heavy iron anvils – were whipping relentlessly at her brain. Every time she opened her eyes and saw the world spinning around her -- in triplicate -- she gagged and vomited, again.

The neighborhood doctor came that evening on his way to shul. "A bad case of the stomach flu" was his diagnosis, at least that's what he told her. To the neighbors he quietly clucked his tongue and said that he didn't see anything wrong, and that the stress and loneliness must be getting to her.

While the children ate their  Shabbos seudah with the neighbors that evening, Batya managed to crawl (on all fours, vomiting the entire way) to the bathroom. When the neighbor appeared a few hours later to see how Batya was feeling, she found her lying in a pool of vomit and blood. She was still vomiting.

Batya spent the next four days in the hospital. After endless tests (which although abnormal but did not point to anything definite), the hospital staff was unable to come up with a diagnosis. They concluded that Batya's symptoms were psychosomatic; she was under much too much stress.

Batya returned home to piece her life together. But she couldn't. She wanted to, she really did. But she was just too exhausted. Problems that she had always viewed as challenges to be dealt with were now impossible tzuros that threatened to overwhelm and engulf her. So she returned to her and bed in a vain attempt to get her strength back, until it was erev Shabbos – again -- and the house had to be readied and the children's clothes ironed.

This time, Batya managed to call a friend the moment she felt the explosion as her world turned black. "I'm dying," she gasped, before dropping the phone on the table and collapsing on the sofa.

Batya has no memory of how she managed to get to her friend's house. She thinks that she was carried to the car. She does have vague memories of lying on the sofa during the Shabbos meal, wishing that everyone would be silent –- her head felt as if it was on fire -- and that she would stop vomiting. She bit her lips to stop herself from screaming.

"Batya," her friend's husband gently told her, "Sometimes when we are overwhelmed by emotions and unable to cope, our bodies react this way. You must start giving yourself positive messages. If you think positive, you'll feel better."

Batya wanted to explain that although she really, truly, with all her might wanted to think positive, it was impossible for her to think. The pain engulfed her, leaving no room for such a luxury. Instead, she was overwhelmed by another wave of nausea and shut her eyes to escape the dizzying triple visions spinning around her.

When Batya started coughing up blood several days later, she didn't even bother to tell anyone. She was positive that it must just be another figment of her imagination, and that she had not yet succeeded in attaining the fine art of positive thinking. Everyone insisted that she was perfectly healthy.

When Batya went to see a specialist a few days later, everyone was positive the doctor would confirm their suspicions that Batya was having a nervous breakdown. "I'll park the car, and meet you in his office," Batya's friend had said as they pulled up in front of the hospital. Using  strength that she never knew she possessed, Batya managed to get out of the car. She was learning to see reality through the thick haze of growing blackness and to know which of the three things dancing in front of her were real, and which were nothing more than figments of her imagination, psychosomatic signs of stress and a lack of positive thinking.

When the doctor asked Batya to describe what was bothering her, all she could answer was, "Everything." She was afraid of listing all her complaints, and besides, it took all her energy to just continue breathing. "Why bother talking when no one believes me?" she wondered.

So she handed him the hospital report instead. The doctor spent a few minutes reading it. "Mrs. Kohn," he said, "you are a very healthy young woman."

"Baruch Hashem," she managed to gasp. She certainly didn't feel like one.

But within seconds of starting the examination, the doctor put down his stethoscope and, with a very serious expression on his face said, "Mrs. Kohn, you are an extremely sick young woman. We're hospitalizing you immediately."

"How wonderful," was all Batya could answer. Finally, someone believed her. She felt like dancing for joy that she was sick, and not insane.

That was two weeks ago. For two weeks, Batya had felt herself fading in and out of reality. The world around her seemed to dance grotesquely, in perfectly choreographed triplicate, turning light, and then dark, and then light again. The doctors told her that her situation was extremely precarious. Blood clots were pulsating throughout her body. Some had gone into her brain, others had paralyzed an eye muscle, while several hundred had lodged in her lungs. According to statistics, she should go into heart failure. If she was very, very lucky, she wouldn't.

*  *  *

The miracle began a few days before Chanuka -- Batya was lying perfectly motionless -- so as not to place any additional stress on the heart -- while wiggling her toes to prevent additional clots from forming in her legs, and staring into soupy blackness. A man entered the room, playing a Chanuka melody on his violin.

"Chanuka?"  Batya turned to her friend who had come to visit. The nightmare had started before Rosh Hashana.

"It's the twentieth of Kislev. Chanuka begins in another few days," the friend answered.

"The twentieth of Kislev," Batya repeated. "Next year, on the twentieth of Kislev, I'm going to celebrate! I'll make a seudos hodaya to rejoice that I'm still alive, and that I'm healthy to boot!" Batya predicted. 

When Batya left the hospital two weeks later, she was forty pounds thinner. She barely had the strength to walk from the taxi to her apartment. The next few months were in some ways even more challenging than the weeks she had spent fading in and out of consciousness. She wanted (oh, how much she wanted…) to return to normal life, but the doctors warned her that she must rest. Neighbors and Seminary students took turns helping with the children while cleaning ladies took over the housework. But Batya was happy; people believed her. She was not insane, and she couldn't wait to return to her former, vibrant self.

Whenever Batya saw the friend, the one who had been visiting her when the musician entered the room playing a Chanuka melody, she would smile and whisper, "We're going to make that seudos hodaya. Remember? The twentieth of Kislev."

A few days before Rosh Hashana, one of the neighbors suggested a shidduch, Batya laughed. She couldn't imagine getting married again. Her children were too young, and she was much too busy living-- and enjoying -- life. She had gone through too much pain and had invested too much energy in creating a warm and loving home. "No," she firmly told the neighbor, "I'm not interested. I'm very happy with my life."

But the day after Sukkos Batya found herself carefully applying lipstick and brushing her shaitel as she got ready to meet a young widower with three small children. Although she kept on telling herself that she would politely find a reason to leave at the first opportunity, she found herself strangely excited at the prospect of going out on a date.

When, after close to two months of dating, Batya found herself beginning every second sentence with, "If I decide to marry you then…" (and blushing furiously as she said those words) she came to the conclusion that she had better decide whether or not she would marry Avraham.

And so, at two thirty-five in the morning, on the nineteenth of Kislev, Batya and Avraham decided to build their lives together. They were so wrapped up in the joy of finding their soul mates that they – or at least Batya – did not notice the date.

The following morning, Batya and Avraham informed their friends of their momentous decision. That evening, the neighbors made a small engagement party. Everyone sang, danced, and cried. In the middle of the festivities, some of the ladies began started talking about everything that Batya had gone through that year.

That was when Batya remembered – the seudos hodaya! "What's the date?" she asked one of the ladies.

"The twentieth of Kislev, a mazeldik shah," was the reply. 

Batya glanced at her friend, the one who had sat by her bed; the one who had heard the musician playing the Chanuka songs. They looked at each other and smiled -- and then broke into tears.

Some secrets are too sacred to share.

Who Me? Couldn't Be!

When I write about the various aspects of my life as a mature (ah, isn't that a great description …), frum women, I can't help but feel as if I'm in a time warp. Me? Mature? I get a thrill from turning off all the lights and sitting on the living room floor with my friends (actually, they're my grandchildren, but please don't tell) singing slow, hartzige songs before collapsing into a mound of giggles. But then, when our stomachs begin to rumble, they jump up like ripened kernels of popcorn, and I, well, to put it succinctly, don’t — or, to be more accurate, can't. And that's when I realize that — hey lady! You ain’t seventeen anymore!

Just to remind me that I am now an official member of the Golden Age Club, yesterday, I received an official government letter wishing me mazel tov on my having become a senior citizen, and another letter from the bank inviting me to an evening on the financial aspects of retirement (or how to make your non-existent assets grow, a type of yesh mei'ayin). Although more often than not I have to pinch myself to believe it, chronologically I am old enough to be considered mature, which means that I am probably old enough to write about it!

I'm sure that there are other women reading this who can relate to my feelings of disbelief. A close friend of mine, who is approaching seventy and still teaching full-time, told me that she once entered the teachers' room and was surprised to see a  group of "real old ladies" sitting there, until she realized with a start that she was the oldest of the bunch – with the wrinkles to match.

I was recently reminiscing with a close friend — our relationship goes back to our days in Bais Yaakov Yerushalayim, over 43 years ago! — about how we used to sit in the park together, oohing and aahing over our little ones. I actually thought I'd be pushing a stroller forever! With a bittersweet smile, she asked, "Debbie, do you remember that elderly lady who used to come to the park? She always told us that she felt young; that it seemed like just yesterday she was a young mother trying to cope with temper tantrums and bedtime. And then she'd wistfully sigh and say something about how those years flew by so quickly, and that she can't believe she's already a great grandmother. Back then, it sounded crazy. Bedtime often seemed like eternity! But now looking back, I feel the same way."

Yup, people might see us as wise old women, but we know the truth (but please, don't divulge this to my sweet, trusting grandchildren): yes, we do have more experience, but we're still very much works in process, with lots of growing up to do. 

This morning, I spoke with the coordinator of our local community center's Senior Citizen club about instituting new classes for the coming year. When I mentioned some of the projects I am working on, or hope to work on in the future (or as my husband wryly commented, "Someday, Debbie, you'll figure out what you want to be when you grow up!"), I overheard the very wet-behind-the-ears secretary whisper to her equally young friend, "What an adorable old lady!" OUCH! Although I definitely have more wrinkles than she does (and in case I forget, I have my darling grandchildren to ask, "Bubby, what are all those funny looking creases covering your face?”) I am not adorable, or cute, and haven't been for at least 55 years (although according to my mother, a"h, prior to that I was very cute…). Senior citizens are people, just like everyone else, and most of us, or at least a large percentage of us, are dealing with a multitude of challenges, many of them unique to our age group, and to our new, changing roles in life, like going from being the shvigger to the shvigger of the shvigger.

My first granddaughter recently became a kallah – mazel tov! – and I'm still in a state of shock. When I came to the l'chayim, her younger brother raced over to me and almost yelled in my face,   "Bubby, do you realize that in another year or so, you will hopefully be an elter-bubby?" It took me more than a few seconds to catch my breath. Yes, Yiddishe nachas is wonderful, but still, as with the transition to marriage, to motherhood, to shvigger-hood and bubby-hood, every graduation means leaving something behind and learning to adapt – no, that's the wrong word, to thrive and grow – with that new reality. Hopefully with this new column, I'll be able to share with my readers some of the wisdom that I will hopefully gain along the way.

Wishing all my readers a wonderful journey.

published in Binah, Jan. 7, 2016