Ami Living Issue 382 August 29 2018

THE ATHEIST WHO AT TENDED A MINYAN

What Is Your Child Really Eating for Lunch?

INSIDE

AUGUST 29, 2018 18 ELUL 5778 ISSUE 382

My Take

Please let me cry

When Fargessen became Ferguson Who really changed Jewish immigrants’ names?

With all the rules and regulations, are our kids actually healthier?

A Tale of Two Teachers

Teaching what really counts

Grillings Hidden Danger

An ill-fated steak dinner

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CONTENTS

18 Elul 5778 August 29, 2018 Issue 382

Features 28 Truth or Consequences: Who Bad-Mouthed My Son?

Someone gave false information to his yeshivah As told to Meira Nissel

30 The Clean Bill: Menace in the Meat

Ronit Lapid’s steak dinner put her in serious danger. What happened?

As told to Riva Pomerantz

36 What’s on the Lunch Menu?

30

Departments

New government guidelines affect what our kids eat in school.

An expert dishes out exactly what’s going on.

By Victoria Dwek

Whisk M agazine —part of your packag Ami e

10 A Word from the Editor

By Rechy Frankfurter

12 Letters 16 The Rebbetzin Speaks

By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski 18 Parshah

By Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi 20 Aha! Moments

By Rabbi Yoel Gold 22 My Take Poem from a sick child

By Chaim Eisen

24

26

46

Bytes

36

By Miriam Glick

Parenting

By Minda Zetlin

Enough

24

By Riva Pomerantz

50 The Stars Are Fire

By Rachel Berger

52 The Rest of the Story

By Chaya Silber

56 Our Days

The rhythm of our lives

62 The Back Page

By Dina Neuman

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Dear Readers, This week’s “My Take” column is very powerful. However, I do find it disconcerting when adult children “have taanos” to their parents.

Publisher, CEO Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

When we are young we don’t really view our parents as “people.” It is only years later when we are standing in their shoes that we realize they weren’t only parents, but people struggling with many other issues in their lives. Some had to contend with the pressures of parnasah, others belonged to the “sandwich generation” and were taking care of elderly parents, while others had health problems we weren’t aware of at the time. Our ignorance can last well into our adult years. Many of my peers concur that it wasn’t until they were raising their own children that they realized what our parents went through and why they did certain things. In fact, many who had always faulted their parents for being less than perfect have come to be more accepting, and now look at them in a different light.

Editorial

Senior Editor Rechy Frankfurter Managing Editors Victoria Dwek Yossi Krausz Feature Editor Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum

Another insight that comes from seeing our parents as people who “just happened to be parenting” is that expecting your parents to have no flaws is an unrealistic expectation, and that a flawed person can still be a perfect parent who strives for the best. And while many of us thought that we would do a much better job than they did, at the end of the day we are all only human. There’s nothing like being a parent for a dose of humility!

Coordinating Editor Gitty Chein Copy Editors Basha Majerczyk Mendelovicii Rabbi Yisroel Benedek Rachel Langer Editors/Proofreaders Dina Schreiber Yitzchok A. Preis Sholom Laine

One friend shared that until she was marrying off her own children, she still didn’t understand many of the things her mother had gone through. For example, when she was a kallah and looking forward to getting married, it was totally about her.

Years later her oldest daughter got married, and she found herself struggling with many difficult emotions. She missed her daughter immensely, and as genuinely happy as she was, she was still saddened by the “loss” of her child and the changing dynamics in the family. It was only then that she thought back to her own first year of marriage and the interactions she had with her mother and was able see what had never occurred to her as a self-centered newlywed: That her mother was also trying to adjust to the new situation and develop a new relationship with her, as the old relationship no longer existed. This was such an epiphany and explained so many things she’d been resentful about that it was like a light bulb going off in her head. Fortunately, she was able to tell her mother how her thinking had evolved, and that she now understood what an emotional roller coaster it is to marry off a child.

Art

Art Director Paul Crawford

Advertising

Executive Account Manager Zack Blumenfeld Executive Sales Directors Surie Katz Esther Friedman Europe Advertising 44 203 519 0278 Advertising Coordinator Malky Weinberger

The writer’s pain is still very deep, and his message about how to parent sick children is critically important, as sadly many sick children are suffering from what he unfortunately suffered.

Marketing Director Raquel Mlabassati

May the coming year bring yeshuos and refuos for all of klal Yisrael!

Markowitz Distribution 917-202-3973 347-675-7456

Rechy Frankfurter

Ami Magazine

rechy@amimagazine.org

P: 718-534-8800 F: 718-484-7731 info@amimagazine.org Ami Magazine. Published by Mehulol Publications LLC. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form without prior written permission from the publisher is prohibited. The publisher reserves the right to edit all articles for clarity, space, and editorial sensitivities. Ami Magazine assumes no responsibility for the content of advertisements in the publication, nor for the contents of books that are referred to or excerpted herein.

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CHRAIN

LETTERS

Tips on Tipping Not only with money In reference to “My Take,” Issue 380

Dear Editor: I’m writing in response to the “My Take” about tipping camp staff.

Although I don’t have children in camp, I still felt the author’s stress over his tipping situation. I am on the other side of the fence and therefore would like to share a valid point.

As a preschool teacher in a large school, I felt I should share what I have seen and felt throughout my two years of teaching, regarding this topic.

Showing appreciation does not only happen through money. On the contrary, when receiving a sincere thank you note, the appreciation is much greater. Not to say that hardworking teachers or counselors don’t appreciate tips. They do. They deserve it. They should be tipped.

However, for those parents who have a couple of children whose staff members need to be tipped, please don’t stress over the dollar amount. Instead, sit down and write a thank you note. Specify in it the little things you have noticed and appreciated. Teachers and counselors don’t necessarily appreciate getting a very creative rhyme written decades ago, which is just passed down from morah to morah throughout the years. Quit the rhyme. Quit the formality and write from your heart. Write what you have seen that has made a dif-

ference. I am touched when I recieve letters and little notes from parents who recognize the work I do and the changes I’ve made with their children. It is appreciated far beyond any dollar amount. And that, I am sure, fits into anyone’s budget.

Much hatzlachah, A.N.

Tipping Debate Appreciation with words In reference to “My Take,” Issue 380

Dear Editor: I read the “My Take” essay featuring the tipping debate with great appreciation for both sides. I would like to comment specifically on the aspect of a tip showing appreciation. In our society, money is often used to show gratitude or acknowledgement of a job well done. We often forget that there are other ways to show gratitude, especially for those who simply cannot afford it. My boys went to a phenomenal local camp this summer and had amazing counselors. At the end of the summer, I gave them a fair and generous monetary gift and wrote a short appreciative letter to each one. One of the counselors came over to me and said, “Thank you so much for the meaningful note,” clearly touched, mentioning the gift only as an afterthought.

Oftentimes, the money will get spent and forgotten, but kind, appreciative and encouraging words can reverberate for a

lifetime. Telling our children that we will tip the amount we can afford but will show appreciation with a beautiful card or homebaked cookies might teach our children a lifetime lesson in true appreciation.

M.F. Ramat Beit Shemesh

Tipping Debate Attitudes and policies In reference to “My Take,” Issue 380

Dear Editor: In your “My Take” column, the essays on tipping counselors at summer camp provided the “con” perspective of a parent and the “pro” position of a camp director. I assume these are typical viewpoints. The parent resents the manner in which tips are demanded—including signs listing tipping amounts—and believes that tipping is factored into the counselors’ salaries. Camp Director, Rabbi Yaakov, conveys that the counselors depend on tips to supplement their meager salaries. Indeed, staff who go the extra mile for their campers are deserving of appreciation. Rabbi Yaakov asks, “Do these parents know what it costs to run a camp?” These costs are not the concern of parents. The camp owners should determine whether camp fees will justify their business investment and operational costs. Counselors are well aware that a camp job is low-paying and are free to find more lucrative summer employment.

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LETTERS

Parents who pay a “king’s ransom” to send their kids to camp should reevaluate this expenditure. While chinuch is mandatory in the frum world, sleepaway camp is not. Tipping should be tactfully encouraged but amounts should be discretional. Children who truly need a camp experience due to challenging home circumstances are generally granted camp scholarships and should seek out those which offer this consideration. Those parents who have regular Amazon shipments of luxury items delivered to their “deprived princesses” (which has become the norm) can definitely afford to tip. Imagine that after splurging for a meal at an upscale restaurant, the patron decides that the tip will break his wallet.

Whatever happened to the wholesome camp experience of yesteryear when campers learned to rough it, tolerate camp food (sans sushi platters), live without central A/C, and just enjoy themselves? This overindulgence is counterproductive.

Let us hope that the summer camps will continue to be an option for families but some fine-tuning of policies and attitudes could ensure a more positive experience.

Deena Roness Surfside, Florida

D-Mer Awareness of the condition In reference to “When Psychiatric Illness Isn’t,” Issue 378

Dear Editor: I’m writing to add to the discussion on misdiagnosed symptoms of depression and anxiety after having a baby. I would like to bring attention to a little-known condition (but I suspect not all that rare) called D-MER (dysphoric milk ejection reflex).

According to Wikipedia, “The lactating woman who has D-MER experiences a brief period of dysphoria that begins just prior to the milk ejection reflex and continues for not more than several minutes.

It may recur with every milk release or only with the initial milk release at each feeding. D-MER always presents as an emotional reaction but may also produce a hollow or churning feeling in the pit of the stomach. When experiencing D-MER, mothers may report any of a spectrum of different unpleasant emotions, ranging from depression to anxiety to anger. Each of these emotions can be felt at a different level of intensity.”

Many doctors are not aware of this completely physiological and not psychological condition, and women end up feeling like they are going mad because

they do not know what it is they are experiencing.

I experienced this with a few of my babies and would dread the postpartum period and becoming a basket case each time. Once I became aware of the condition, everything changed, because I knew that all I had to do was wait out the few seconds that these feelings overwhelmed me, and that I was not developing a panic disorder.

Since then, I spoke to a few women who admitted to feeling like they are “not managing” since they had their baby, and with further discussion I realized that they, too, were suffering from D-MER. Their relief upon understanding what is happening to them was heartbreaking, because who knows how many women are suffering in silence. Because the symptoms don’t last very long each time, awareness is all it takes to turn something that feels really overwhelming to something that is completely manageable. (Of course, in extreme cases stopping to nurse would also be a solution.)

I think you would be doing a great service by publishing this letter.

M.B. AMI MAGAZINE 1575 50th St., Brooklyn, NY 11219 Phone: 718-534-8800 Fax: 718-484-7731 letters@amimagazine.org

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TEARS AND LAUGHTER EVERYTHING IN ITS TIME

O

n Shabbos, Parshas Re’eh, our community experienced the entirety of life cycle events.

Firstly, the father of a new baby boy was summoned for an aliyah to the Torah. A bar mitzvah celebrant came next, followed by a chasan—a groom—who was showered with small bags of candies and nuts in honor of his aufruf. What was not announced, other than what circulated as a hushed whisper that passed through the mispallelim, was that one of the pillars of the shul, a dear friend of all, Donald (Dovid) Grande, had, moments earlier, passed away.

People in shul did their best to navigate the roller-coaster of emotions that gripped us all. Since open mourning is halachically proscribed on Shabbos, we had, to the best of our ability, to try to suppress our feelings of grief. There were, of course, the involuntary tears that escaped and streamed down many faces. Nonetheless, everyone made a heroic effort to be fully present and respectful both of Shabbos and of the wonderful celebrants whose joyous occasions deserved nothing less.

For us, the Jewish people, laughing and crying coexisting simultaneously, is a wellknown phenomenon. Given our tortured past, the religious calendar demands that we lament the many tragedies of both our collective and individual histories, while celebrating whatever happy occasions are current in our lives. On a collective level, for example, we are the same people who, on Tishah B’Av, are called upon to grieve and weep for the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, and yet, to jubilantly embrace the holiday of Sukkos with ecstatic joy, “V ’samachta b’chagecha.” That is what the Master of the World mandates and wants of us. Counterintuitive as it may be, the Torah legislates, if not inwardly, then in behavior, the emotions of joy and sadness.

As such, the Torah insists that we respond responsibly and appropriately to the situation before us. In a sense, the Torah is telling us that life doesn’t happen to us.

Rather we are to take hold of the reins and do what the Ribbono Shel Olam requires of us and then, “Acharei hapeulos, holchos halevavos,” the feelings eventually catch up with the deeds. Arguably, it is much

BY REBBETZIN FEIGE TWERSKI

would be a paraphrase of Shlomo Hamelech’s words in Koheles (3:1), “Everything has its season, and there is a time for everything under the heavens…a time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance…”

May Donald be a “meilitz yosher,” an intercessor, by the Divine throne for his family, his community, and all of klal Yisrael to successfully bring about that Hashem usher in the promised time when all tears will be banished forever, and that “the time to laugh and dance” will grace us forevermore. l

easier said than done. However, following Hashem’s dictates to act out certain emotions even when we don’t feel them has been a major key to our survival.

Our devoted friend, Donald Grande, will be sorely missed. His integrity, his pursuit of truth and justice at any cost, his self-sacrifice for everything in which he believed, his loyalty to his family and friends, his joy for life, and his singular sense of humor have left an indelible mark on everyone’s lives. Donald’s heroic battle against a rare and grim disease, his courageous refusal to capitulate to the malach hamaves, the angel of death, astounded his doctors, who had never seen anyone with his condition survive so long.

Donald’s parting words to his spectacularly devoted wife, Barbara, was that he would beseech her not to dwell on her loss. He entreated that she move on and enjoy the years with which the Almighty would bless her.

Indeed, the essence of Donald’s life

Rebbetzin Feige Twerski is the mother of 11 children and many grandchildren, bli ayin hara.

Alongside her husband, Rabbi Michel Twerski, she serves as rebbetzin to her community in Milwaukee and counsels people all over the globe. The Rebbetzin is a popular lecturer, speaking on a wide variety of topics to audiences in America and overseas. She is the author of Ask Rebbetzin Feige, Rebbetzin Feige Responds and The New Normal.

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For us, the Jewish people, laughing and crying coexisting simultaneously, is a well-known phenomenon.

PARSHAH

By Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi PARSHAT KI TAVO

T

Ask to Enter

he new year is coming, we feel it in the air. But, wait a moment.

Time doesn’t come to us, says Rav Dessler in Michtav Mei’Eliyahu.

We have to come toward it. Only if we engage in the “ki tavo,” in the proactive steps of welcoming the time, do we merit a new year, a new life. There is no other way to enter.

Otherwise, says Rav Dessler, everything stays the same, chas v’shalom. There’s no new beginning, no new chance. If we simply stand at the gates, we don’t automatically enter.

Ask to enter, dear sisters.

The navi Yeshayahu commands, “Dirshu Hashem b’himatzo, kera’uhu biheyoto karov— Seek Hashem when He can be found, call to Him when he is close.” Don’t these words sound strange? If Hashem is already close to us, why are we commanded to seek him now? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to seek Him when He’s far away? No, the commentators explain. On this very verse Rabbi Yehudah Halevi wrote an entire poem, a

Rabbanit Mizrachi is one of Israel’s most popular speakers, with tens of thousands of students. Her lectures are attended by hundreds of women. Her first book, a magnificent compilation of Torah thoughts for women, facilitated by Shiffy Friedman, recently debuted.

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composition in which He talks to Hashem and says, “When I called to You with all my heart, You came toward me.” Even when Hashem is right nearby, He’s hovering over us, if we don’t extend our invitation, we don’t merit seeing Him, we don’t merit feeling Him in our lives.

When the month of Elul comes and goes without our acknowledgment, we haven’t extended that invitation. We may be busy preparing large batches of honey cookies and getting an entire new wardrobe for the chag, but if we haven’t called to Hashem during this time, nothing has changed.

In her heartfelt tefillah to Hashem, Chanah beseeches, “Im ra’oh tir’eh ba’ani amasecha—If You see in the pain of your servant.” What does she mean by “if ”?

Doesn’t Hakadosh Baruch Hu see everything? A gorgeous midrash explains Chanah’s seemingly strange usage of the word “if ” with a parable: Imagine a king prepares a lavish feast and one pauper takes a stand at the entrance. He cries out to the guests, “Please give me one slice of bread,” but no one pays attention to him.

And so, he pushes his way through the crowds until he reaches the king. “Your honor,” he begs, “From the entire feast that you’ve prepared, is it hard for you to give me just one slice?”

How beautiful. The midrash suggests that to Chanah, who was like that pauper, it seemed as if Hashem didn’t see her. She had to meander her way through the crowds for an audience, but Hashem, the King of Kings, saw her all that time, even when she thought He didn’t. In order for her to realize that He was there, however, she had to do the pushing.

It’s not enough that the year is coming; we have to come to it! This is exactly what we read about in this week’s parshah. “Ki tavo el ha’aretz.” Hashem says to am Yisrael, “The land is coming, but if you don’t come forward…” Hashem wants to give us many treasures in the coming year, but in order to feel them, we must come forward.

From The scene we read about in this week’s parshah is full of emotion.

The nation is divided into two parts, with six shevatim on Har Gerizim and six on Har Eival. After every blessing and curse that is called out, the nation responds with a resounding “Amein!” This is the first time that we find the word Amein in Tanach, says the Sefat Emet, because at the nation’s entrance to a new land, emunah is a vital element. In the midbar, it was easier for am Yisrael to see Hashem. They were blessed with the mann and with the Clouds of Glory. Now, as they prepare to enter Eretz Yisrael, they’re preparing to lose that clarity, too. What will happen when Hashem’s Hand will be hidden in nature, in the foods they plant and in the huts they build? Will they believe that there, too, Hashem is guiding them at every moment?

What do we need to believe in when we enter a new territory, a new year, a new school year? We must have faith that: “Arur makleh aviv v’imo, Amein… Baruch ha’ish asher yakim et kol divrei haTorah

Hashem wants to give us many treasures in the coming year, but in order to feel them, we must come forward. hazot, Amein.” Amein to the curses and Amein to the blessings. To believe that when I do something positive, I’m bringing blessing upon myself, and when I do something negative, I bring, chas v’shalom, the curse.

Women tell me all the time how hard it is for them to believe this. They see with their own eyes how pious people suffer and that the wicked live a life of bliss. How can they say Amein with a whole heart? The Sefat Emet says that it’s hard to see Ani l’dodi v’dodi li.

It’s not something we can often see with our own eyes, because we live in a world of hester panim. However, he says, during the month of Elul, we do have an opportunity to get a glimpse of this reality.

During this month, he writes, if we take upon ourselves a change for the better, we will merit seeing a change in our lives. Go one day without speaking lashon hara and see how your next day is transformed. Take upon yourself something small in tzniut and watch how your relationships change. Do it, dear sisters. You have the Sefat Emet’s word on this. Go for it, and Hashem will show you that He’s at your side. l Facilitated by Shiffy Friedman

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Rabbi Yoel Gold, rabbi of Congregation Bais Naftoli in Los Angeles, California, and a ninth-grade rebbe at Mesivta Birkas Yitzchok, has inspired hundreds of thousands of people with his stories. To watch some of his videos or to share your story with him, please visit InspireClips.com.

MOMENTS

BY RABBI YOEL GOLD

THE ATHEIST, THE CONVENTION, AND L.A.

Y

ou don’t expect to stumble upon a minyan while walking on a California boardwalk. On a visit to Venice Beach, Rabbi Shalom Rubanowitz did.

The minyan on the boardwalk was actually an established minyan—the Pacific Jewish Center, also known as the “Shul on the Beach.” Today, a decade or so later, Rabbi Rubanowitz is its rav, but back then he was just another Jew staying in town with his family.

He had gone for a walk on the boardwalk with his children, when one of them called out: “Abba, look.

That building says ‘Jewish’!”

The words “Jewish Family Services” were emblazoned on a wall. Peeking into the lobby, they saw a small group of Jewish men, all preparing to daven.

They had less than a minyan, and were waiting for more participants. Rabbi Rubanowitz decided to join them. It wasn’t the shul they had planned on davening at, but why not help out?

“How many people do you have already?” he asked one of the others.

“With you, we have nine.”

The afternoon was wearing on; they had to start or it would be too late.

Though there didn’t seem to be any rabbi in charge of this minyan, a self-appointed gabbai went outside to find a tenth man.

He returned a few minutes later, accompanied by an old man who looked vaguely familiar to Rabbi Rubanowitz. The minyan now complete, the ten began davening.

When, a few minutes into Minchah, an eleventh man entered, the old man who had been the tenth promptly walked out.

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This struck Rabbi Rubanowitz as somewhat odd, and he was more convinced than ever that he had seen the old man somewhere before. “Who was that?” he asked another mispallel.

“Oh, he’s that atheist guy. We call him whenever we need someone.”

“That atheist guy?”

Suddenly, he knew where he had seen the man before. Out on the boardwalk, among the souvenir stands hawking flipflops, there had been an informational

booth set up to advertise a group he vaguely remembered as the Atheist Society of America. Behind the table had sat an old man of at least 85 years of age. It was this man who had been their tenth.

Minchah went on, the minyan numbering 12 by now, but Rabbi Rubanowitz remained distracted by the revelation. Why had the atheist evangelizer joined the minyan? As an apikores, did he even qualify?

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After davening, Rabbi Rubanowitz retraced his steps, following the boardwalk back to the information center for the Atheist Society of America. The old man had returned to his post, selling books and handing out leaflets to passersby. The literature identified him as a senior figure in the organization.

Rabbi Rubanowitz couldn’t believe it.

This man, their tzenter, was not just any apikores but the evangelizer-in-chief of the Atheist Society of America? He approached the booth, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Excuse me,” he said, “but if you claim not to believe in G-d, why did you complete our minyan?”

The old man reached for his wallet and pulled out a well-worn sepia picture. In it, a couple and three children posed in front of an old house in prewar Europe, the father bearded, the mother kerchiefed. The youngest child was perched on a barrel, while his brother and sister stood beside him.

“This is my mother and father, my sister and brother,” the man said, pointing to each face in turn. “And this on the barrel is me. They were all killed in the war; I am the only one left. They were my family.

“Now I have no family but the Jewish people. I am a Jew, and I will always help another Jew, wherever he is, whatever he needs. Even if it’s a tenth man for the minyan.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Rabbi Rubanowitz told the man who had made their minyan, “you are not an atheist. Your soul knows where it belongs.”

And perhaps as Chazal say, “Mitoch shelo lishmah, ba lishmah... (From being done not for its own sake it will come to be done for its own sake.) l

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AMILIVING READERS ARE INVITED TO USE THIS FORUM AS A MEANS OF EXPRESSING THEIR CONCERNS REGARDING ISSUES FACING OUR FAMILIES AND COMMUNITIES. THIS IS YOUR SOAPBOX. SEND YOUR SUBMISSION TO EDITORIAL@AMIMAGAZINE.ORG.

By Chaim Eisen

PLEASE LET ME CRY

“J

ust be brave” said the doctor and nurse to my face, And my parents, who were there, both agreed.

So I did all I could to fight back the tears, A performance they all truly believed.

But I wanted to cry, and I wanted to scream, “It’s not fair,” and “it hurts,” and “why me?”

But as a sick child who’s told to be brave It’s not what grown-ups wish to see.

Coz they’ve already got so much on their plate Other kids and a job and a life Trying to be a normal mum, Dad, husband and wife.

But I came along and ruined it all By being sick and needing care.

I know that deep down in their hearts and their minds Their voices both scream “it’s not fair.”

“Why do our friends have such easy lives, Whilst one of our kids is not well?

He’s different and needs so much help all the time, Why do we have to live in this hell?”

So I have to be brave—not cry, shout or scream, Not for my sake, but theirs, I can tell.

And so I stay silent and block out the tears, But inside me, there’s something I yell:

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ALL I HEAR IS: “YOUR PAIN’S TOO HARD FOR ME” YOU aren’t the one being prodded and poked Or cut open with needles and knives, So I’m sorry that I’ve inconvenienced you, I’m sorry I ruined your lives.

But just as you didn’t want it this way Trust me, neither did I. It’s not my fault I have to have this So don’t tell me that I cannot cry.

I know it will make the procedure less smooth And I’m trying my best can’t you see.

But each time you say – “Come on, be brave,” All I hear is: “Your pain’s too hard for me” I’m only a child, this can’t be right If I cry that should be okay.

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But instead I just sit there and “try to be brave,” Feeling things I cannot say.

And many years later, now all is well Life is normal you see.

But something my parents and others don’t get: Life can’t be normal for me.

Thank G-d I am better and healed today But the scars of the past are still here.

The emotional ones, the ones deep inside The ones that I actually fear.

So I tell everyone how brave I have been And I’m proud that I never cry.

But denying emotions for so many years Means making part of you die. l Chaim Eisen is, thank G-d, healthy today and married with children.

New Chapters for the New Year Flight to Freedom

Six Degrees

Behind Closed Doors

In this sefer, Rabbi Fletcher invites us to learn what the purpose of Chol HaMoed is and how the halachos help us experience real simchas yom tov as the Torah intended.

This is the remarkable memoir of a Jewish family struggling to stay one step ahead of the Nazi invasion. Without passports or visas, bitachon becomes the family’s ticket on a perilous flight to freedom.

Six Degrees, by best-selling author Riva Pomerantz, is a captivating tale of courage and connection, healing and hope. Because we’re all so much closer than we even realize.

This candid and fascinating clinical memoir gives an illuminating account of what really goes on behind the closed doors of the consultation room.

The Baker’s Dozen #6: Trapped!

Yanky’s Amazing Discovery

Hanna’s Harvest

Do You Know Hilchos Chol HaMoed?

Rabbi Michoel Fletcher

Created by Miriam Zakon Just before Shabbos, the girls find themselves stranded in a mansion, trapped by a raging tornado! What lies ahead of them is a Shabbos they’ll never forget.

Renée Worch

Reuven Bauman

Yanky is having a hard time in yeshivah. To forget his difficulties, he escapes to the attic, where he finds an unusual treasure. Will his amazing discovery help solve his problems?

Riva Pomerantz

Dr. Meir Wikler

Henye Meyer

Welcome Back, Madame Chamberlaine

In this historical masterpiece set in Victorian England by popular author Henye Meyer, readers will cheer Hanna on as she strives to become the heroine she’d always dreamed of being.

When Madame Chamberlaine visits Shprintzi and Shuly, even a simple day becomes extraordinary. Follow along as they visit a fancy French resort, milk cows on a farm, and more.

Tzipie Wolner

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BYTES

// Morsels of Wisdom, Wit and Popular Advice By Miriam Glick

With worldwide studies showing no correlation between academic success and homework, Israel’s Education Ministry is proposing that elementary schools stop assigning homework to students.

According to Etty Sasi, who heads the Ministry’s Elementary Education Department, “The decision was made after both parents and children complained about homework, and the proposal doesn’t apply to all subjects equally. English and math require practice at home. But even in these subjects, schools should examine how much students are required to do, making decisions based on their capabilities.”

One American teacher has started her own no-homework initiative.

Brandy Young, a teacher at the Godley Elementary School in Texas, sent a letter to parents stating, “I am trying something new. Homework will only consist of work that your child didn’t finish during the school day. There will be no formally assigned homework this year. Research has been unable to prove that homework improves student performance. Rather, I ask that you spend your evenings doing things that are proven to correlate with student success. Eat dinner as a family, read together, play outside, and get your child to bed early.”

The move was praised by dozens of parents.

HANDS UP FOR NO MORE HOMEWORK

And Never the Twain Shall Meet How flexible work hours can “kill” marriages

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New research from Virginia Tech has found that constantly checking work emails after hours not only leads to increased anxiety, but it also has a “spillover effect” on an employee’s spouse.

As Dr. William Becker, coauthor of the study explains, “Flexible work boundaries often turn into work without boundaries,” compromising everyone’s health and well-being.

“When you’re always ‘on call,’ notes career coach Nicole Wood, “it means that you’re always waiting for your phone to buzz. This can actually aggravate the situation further because people will check their phones even more frequently to avoid the stress of not knowing if something is going wrong. And even if all is well, simply opening up your work email can take you out of your current head space, so mentally you’re back at work.”

“What our closest relationships need most of all is our focused attention, not constantly, of course, but regularly,” says family therapist Jill Whitney. “Research shows that having your phone around results in more superficial conversations; since you know you can be interrupted at any time, you tend not to get into deeper conversations.”

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ADD A FROZEN DRINK TO YOUR LUNCHBOX TO KEEP LUNCH FRESH.

PUTTERD AROUNUSE THE HO

SPOT REMOVAL GUIDE TO INK STAINS

l Mix cornstarch with then brush off milk to create a paste and wash. and apply to stain. l Dab stain with nail Allow to sit for a few polish remover. hours before washing. l Wet stain with l Spray stain with vinegar; then create hairspray. a paste of two parts l Add two tablespoons vinegar to three parts of lemon juice to two cornstarch. Apply tablespoons of cream paste and allow of tartar. Cover the garment to dry stain with the mixture thoroughly before for three to four hours, washing.

SOME 45 MILLION AMERICANS WEAR CONTACT LENSES. THAT’S ONE IN EVERY EIGHT PEOPLE.

Taking Playtime Seriously Unstructured play beneficial for kids

According to a recent report issued by the American Academy of Pediatrics, “Play is not frivolous. It nurtures children’s ingenuity, cooperation and problem-solving skills—all of which are critical. It lays the neural groundwork that helps us pursue goals and ignore distractions.”

“This may seem old-fashioned, but there are skills to be learned when kids aren’t told what to do,” says pediatrician Dr. Michael Yogman. “Whether it’s rough-and-tumble physical play, outdoor play or social or pretend play, kids derive important lessons from the chance to make things up as they go.”

“The notion that parents need to schedule every minute of their kids’ time isn’t doing them a great service,” adds psychologist Dr. Kathy Hirsh-Pasek. Even well-meaning parents may be “robbing them of the opportunity to have that joy of discovery and curiosity—the chance to find things out on their own.”

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PARENTING // By Minda Zetlin

Confronting

Every parent needs to learn how to let th eir children fail grac efully.

Here’s how to ge t them through failures when they head back to school.

FEARof FAILURE

the

W

e’ve all heard a lot in the past few years about the importance of failure.

Take risks, fail fast, learn from the experience, and bring the knowledge you’ve gained to the next thing you try. We all know this is good advice—except when it comes to our children. Most parents should get better at encouraging their children to risk failure, and helping them benefit from it when it happens.

As children go back to school, where failure can be literal, with an actual letter grade, we particularly need to learn how to deal with children’s failures. That can not only help them and us have a successful school year, it can make the school year—not just the subjects being taught, but the experience itself—a learning lesson for life. This article first appeared on Inc.com.

1

Stop worrying that your child’s failure reflects badly on you.

If your child messes up on a test or misbehaves around their teachers or peers or grandparents, that doesn’t mean you’re a bad parent, says researcher and author Katherine Reynolds Lewis. “We need to let them be imperfect and stop feeling that it’s a negative reflection on us.” Expecting our children to always behave perfectly to everyone is denying them the right to be human, with human frailties. If we do that, “We’re teaching our kids to shove down their emotions,” she says.

2

Don’t act like everything depends on academic or sports achievements.

We live in a very competitive world, so it’s easy for parents to get wrapped up in the question of how their children can get the best grades, best learn a new language or skill, run fastest or have the greatest athletic successes. It’s normal to want your child to achieve great things, but it’s easy to get carried away.

“Many of us have this dream of a child prodigy,” Lewis says. “But we shouldn’t make them feel their work is their only important achievement, or that our love is dependent on how well they perform.”

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3

Encourage them to try things they may fail at.

Childhood should be a time for experimentation, so it’s smart to encourage kids to try things they may not be naturally good at. “There’s this idea that you should specialize early, that if you’re not playing a sport at age eight, you’ll never make the varsity team,” Lewis says. “Make it okay if they don’t make the team—or if they decide to quit.”

4

Let them fall down.

Lewis means that literally. “The classic parenting comment when your kids play on the playground is, ‘Be careful!’” she notes. “That’s not helpful, it just transmits a vague sense of worry and fear.” Here’s a disturbing statistic Lewis quotes: 32 percent of children will have an anxiety diagnosis by the time they’re 18. “You can help them get over that fear by letting them take lots and lots of small risks and having them learn that they can survive a scratch.”

5

Ask them about their failures.

Lewis suggests making it a dinnertime tradition to instill the idea that risk-taking and failure are a normal part of

your children’s development. “Ask: ‘What kind of risks did you take today? How did you fail? What did you learn from it?’”

6

Don’t jump in to solve problems too quickly.

It can take some self-discipline to say, “What are you forgetting this morning? Have you looked at your list?” as your child heads for the door, rather than “Here, you forgot your lunch.” But every time you let a child make a mistake and then find his or her own solution, the more you are setting that child up for success down the road, Lewis says.

The same applies to more serious failures, such as getting a D. A grade like that obviously means something needs to change, but there’s a difference between correcting a problem and treating it like a crisis, Lewis says.

“If we take it on as our problem, they’ll never take it on as theirs,” she continues. “We can save them from getting a D by nagging them to do their homework all the time until they graduate, but then they won’t have taken ownership of it.”

Don’t worry that if you don’t treat a bad grade like it’s the end of the world, your child won’t care about it, she adds.

“They’re already embarrassed by their teachers’ disappointment,” Lewis says. “Plus, their peers all know about it, because kids always share their grades. No one wants to get a D.”

7

Acknowledge your own failures.

One powerful way to teach kids how to deal with failure is to model that behavior yourself. So if you lose your temper, or forget to sign a school form or pick up something that they needed, acknowledge that you made a mistake, apologize, and do what you can to make amends, Lewis advises. “So often we want kids to be responsible for their actions when we’re not willing to do that ourselves,” she says.

8

Think 20 years in the future.

“Kids develop at the pace they develop and there’s only so much we can do to goose it along,” Lewis says. “So accept that it’s a very long path and try to parent from a place that’s 20 years from now.” She asks, in 20 years, will it matter more that your child got an A on a test, or learned the value of hard work? “When you’re parenting with that very long-term horizon, you’re going to make the right choices.”

TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

Who BadMouthed My Son? Our son was a jewel, but the yeshivah refused to even farher him. What was going on?

AS TOLD TO MEIRA NISSEL

I

was half asleep when I heard movement in the kitchen and smiled. I knew it was Kalman, my undeserved gift from Hashem.

I knew he would smile when he found the note and snack I’d left under his hat. He would also check to see if the garbage needed to be taken out and lock the door behind him. I cuddled under my warm blanket and went back to sleep.

I know I’m his mother but it’s true: my Kalman is a special kid. He’s kind, he’s polite, he’s popular and he has a good head on his shoulders. He’s always learning. In the cheder he goes to there’s an early morning shiur before davening. It’s optional, and out of a class of 30 boys, only three or four show up on a regular basis. Kalman has never missed a day. He’s just that kind of boy, the kind you don’t have to ask to go above and beyond the call of duty.

So when it came time to register Kalman in a yeshivah ketanah (high school), we chose

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one that had a very high level of learning.

We filled out an application and were told that he’d be called in for a farher (interview).

As this was our oldest son, we didn’t know how the system worked. So we waited and waited for the yeshivah to call us. They never did, and by the time we started getting nervous all the other yeshivos had already closed their registration.

My husband called the yeshivah we’d applied to and asked them what was going on. “He’s on our list,” they responded.

“Maybe in the meantime you should register him somewhere else.”

“All the other yeshivos are already closed,” my husband told them. “Why isn’t he being called in for a farher?”

“As we said, he’s on our list. We’ll let you know.”

My husband had a good friend, Rabbi G., who was on the staff of that particular yeshivah, so he gave him a call.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on

11 ELUL 5778

in your yeshivah? They’re telling us that Kalman is on their list, but they’re not calling him in for a farher and advising us to look into other options.”

“Well, I know that they’re really full.

Maybe it really is a good idea to look into other yeshivos.”

“Rabbi G., you know that all the yeshivos have already closed their registration. Maybe I could find a different yeshivah somewhere, but you know Kalman. He’d never be matzliach in a weaker system.”

Rabbi G. hemmed and hawed and went around in circles until my husband was rather confused by the time he put the phone down. “What did he say?” I asked him.

He threw up his hands. “I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you should call him back and ask him to put in a good word.”

He really didn’t want to, but he called Rabbi G. again. “Could you do me a favor and speak to the rosh yeshivah and tell him

how special Kalman is?”

“I’ve already spoken to him. You have no idea how hard I tried to convince him.”

“Thanks, but could you please keep trying?

We have no other options right now and we’re kind of desperate.”

“Sure, anything for you,” he assured us.

We waited another two days, and still no one called Kalman in for a farher.

My husband called the office again. They insisted that Kalman was still on the list.

Meanwhile, we heard through the grapevine that the yeshivah was almost full. My husband called them back. “What’s going on? I just heard that you’re almost full and my son still hasn’t been farhered!”

“We’re sorry, but we’re not sure your son is a good match for our yeshivah.”

WHAT?!

We were in shock. Why didn’t they tell us that right away? Why did they wait until all the other yeshivos were already full? If we’d been older and wiser we would have applied to several schools, but it had never crossed our minds that they wouldn’t take him.

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” my husband demanded. He was pretty mad.

“Well, we were going to take him, but then we heard not such good things about him.”

My husband called his friend Rabbi G. right away. “Someone gave faulty information to the yeshivah about our son. You see Kalman all the time in shul. You know he’d be an asset. Could you please explain to the rosh yeshivah that what they heard isn’t true?”

Next, my husband called the menahel of Kalman’s cheder. He was shocked when he heard that the yeshivah didn’t want to accept him.

“Kalman? He’s the last boy I thought would ever have a problem! Let me call them.” He did, but they still refused to allow Kalman to come in for a farher.

But my husband refused to give up. “Just farher him!” he pleaded with the hanhalah.

He knew that as soon as Kalman opened his mouth they’d been impressed. The yeshivah stuck to its guns.

Then my husband remembered he had an acquaintance who also worked in that yeshivah and called him up. After explaining the situation and apologizing for getting him involved, he asked if there was any way he could exert some influence. “I only deal

with the older bachurim,” the man said, “so I don’t have much say in the matter. But I’ll try to find out what it was that they heard about your son. Maybe then we’ll have something to work with.”

We were sitting on shpilkes. He got back to us that same night.

“I can’t tell you who gave them the misinformation because I’m not sure I’m allowed to. But he has a very strong influence in the school, and he told the rosh yeshivah that Kalman wouldn’t fit in. I spoke to the rosh yeshivah and explained that he must have been misinformed because I’d seen Kalman many times and he seemed to be very eidel. I also found out that there are exactly two slots left, and there are three boys coming to be farhered tomorrow. Try to make sure that Kalman is also given a chance.”

My husband called the rosh yeshivah right away. “All I’m asking for is a farher,” he begged. “If he doesn’t know his stuff, you have every right not to accept him.”

“There are three boys ahead of him,” the rosh yeshivah replied. “And according to Rabbi G., Kalman will never be able to keep up with our intense curriculum. I’ll test him if you really insist. But don’t get your hopes up, because we probably won’t accept him.”

“Rabbi G.?” my husband asked. His hands were shaking.

“Yes. I respect his opinion and he has a very big say around here. Tell your son to be here tomorrow at three o’clock.”

My husband, livid at this point, dialed his “friend,” Rabbi G. “Be careful,” I cautioned. “You still need him to help you, and if Kalman gets into this yeshivah he’s going to be his mashgiach.”

“I can’t do it,” my husband said, putting the phone down.

Neither of us could sleep that night.

The next day my husband accompanied Kalman to the yeshivah and met Rabbi G. Should he tell him what he knew?

When the rosh yeshivah and several other rebbes saw Kalman and farhered him they were knocked off their feet. Kalman was accepted on the spot.

We will never know why Rabbi G. badmouthed our son. We’ve never confronted him, although I’ve wanted to do it plenty of times. Will I ever? I don’t know, but it helps to remind myself that Hashem is in charge. l

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Hidd THE CLEAN BILL

Grilling’s

DAN

denM Ronit Lapid thought she was just sitting down to a meal with her son. She had no idea about the danger she was in.

By Ronit Lapid, as told to Riva Pomerantz

NGER

My story began more than innocently—it actually started off rather festively, as I sat down to a perfectly-grilled steak dinner together with my grown son. It was a rare treat for us to meet up on an ordinary Thursday evening, a chance to spend some quality time with each other, and I was enjoying every moment of it. Until I suddenly yelped and clutched at my throat.

“I swallowed a bone!” I gasped, as the pain—sharp as a needle—gripped me by surprise.

“There are no bones in steak,” my son tried to reassure me as he passed me some water. I tried eating and drinking to try to clear whatever was in my throat, but to no avail. Although my breathing was unaffected, the pain was very real and I couldn’t even figure out what had happened.

I paced my living room, waiting for the episode to pass.

How could a beautiful barbecue have gone so awry? Seeing his poor mother in such distress, my son very reasonably said, “Mom, maybe I should take you to the ER?” Oy! No one likes to go to the ER—the wait, the shlep, it’s definitely no fun! But it was slowly sinking in that something was very wrong here, so I grabbed a sweater and we made our way to Staten Island University Hospital.

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THE CLEAN BILL

All that night, there were endless visits from specialists, countless exams, X-rays, and then a CAT scan, as I wondered what in the world could be wrong with me. On Friday morning, a gastric surgeon came in to my room in the ER, sat down and gave me a friendly smile.

“I hear you had a steak last night,” he said.

“By any chance, did you grill it?”

“Yup!” I affirmed.

His next question blew me away.

“Okay, then. By any chance, did you clean the grill with a barbecue brush beforehand?”

“Yeeees,” I admitted, as a cold flash of horrified intuition hit.

“Well, that’s what’s in your throat,” he told me. “A metal bristle from the brush was left on the grill and became embedded in your steak. When you swallowed that bite, it implanted itself in your throat.” He shook his head ruefully. “That’s the reason I never use those brushes anymore. I’ve seen this happen way too often—more often than people realize.”

And that’s when my ordeal began. A razor-sharp metal pin, very thin and about an inch in length, was impaled inside my throat.

Definitely not the way I had envisioned my steak dinner turning out!

It was Friday, right before Shabbos. Things had to happen quickly, because a foreign object in the throat is never a good thing.

On Friday afternoon, they prepped me for an endoscopy, although the surgeon warned me that he wasn’t too sanguine he’d be able to fish out the bristle during the procedure.

While a normal endoscopy is done under light anesthesia, they knocked me out fully since they suspected I’d need something more intensive.

When I woke up, the surgeon’s grim face told me that things hadn’t gone well. There are several layers that comprise the esophagus, and my razor-sharp bristle had traveled through all the layers and lodged itself in the deepest muscle layer.

“Listen,” the surgeon told me, “I didn’t have the proper tools to get it out. We tried and it kept slipping. It’s in an extremely difficult location and we didn’t want to cause further damage so we just called it quits for

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now and we’ll have to try something new.”

Aside from the complexity of where the bristle had ended up, the anatomy of the throat is so delicate that a millimeter or two could mean damage to the trachea, G-d forbid. Much too risky.

The whole situation had become both bizarre and downright hilarious, if you didn’t count the tension. I was now “The Barbecue Lady,” the one who’d swallowed her steak “medium metallic,” which was “very rare”; and since I’m always good for a laugh, I was enjoying the jokes as much as anyone else.

At the same time, I had crippling pain in my throat and was surviving on an IV line with a lot of uncertainty around how that piece of metal was going to come out!

By now my story had gone viral and I was flabbergasted at the kinds of similar incidents rolling in. “You’re a lucky woman!” someone told me. “I know a guy who had the same thing happen to him with a barbecue bristle, and it ended up lodged in his pancreas!

Nearly killed him!”

As this sank in, my medical team was trying to figure out how to best relieve me of the barb in my throat. Their top priority was to try to remove it from within, rather than go in from the outside of my neck, but it was definitely going to be tricky, if not impossible. “If this had happened five years

Things hadn’t gone well. There are several layers that comprise the esophagus, and my razor-sharp bristle had traveled through all the layers and lodged itself in the deepest muscle layer.

18 ELUL 5778

ago, no question they would have cut you from the outside,” the doctor told me.

My hospital decided to bring in a seasoned “top gun,” Dr. Sherif Andrawes, MD, Director of Gastroenterology at Northwell Health Staten Island University Hospital, who had expertise in performing surgeries similar to what I would need. It took five days just to clear his overbooked operating schedule and bring him in to help me out. Meanwhile, I was hospitalized with heavy doses of antibiotics to prevent infection, being monitored with daily X-rays, but I spent my days in the hospital in great spirits, enjoying my endless streams of wonderful visitors.

“Aren’t you nervous?” my daughter asked me. “You’re cool as a cucumber, but everyone around you is petrified!”

I guess my natural positivity served me nicely during this chaotic time, although I can’t say my physical state fared as well.

Swallowing food was obviously impossible, but even the saliva in my mouth was a force to be reckoned with. The experience gave me a unique opportunity to truly appreciate the chesed that we experience on a moment-

to-moment basis when we can easily—painlessly!— swallow our saliva!

As it turned out, my amazing medical team actually invented a new procedure to use specifically in my case! “You need to write this up in a medical journal!”

I told Dr. Andrawes.

On the day of the surgery, the operating room was packed with an expanded team of surgeons from various fields who were on-hand to help out, if need be, including Adam Lackey, MD, Chief of Thoracic Surgery, as a backup surgeon in case they needed to go in from outside my throat as a last resort. No one knew how the operation would go and what it would entail. I had been well-prepped for the surgery and I knew what to expect and all the risks involved. It was only as they put the oxygen mask over my mouth that I began to panic, but a second later, I was already out cold.

The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes and saw my surgeon beaming down at me.

“We got it!” he cheered. I flashed my team an ecstatic smile. Baruch Hashem! My throat was once again officially metal-free! Well, not quite. The surgery had entailed some pretty extensive cutting and stitching and I was now the official owner of internal butterfly wound closures that would dissolve

on their own as the incision healed. It was an intense post-operative experience, including a stay in the ICU and close monitoring afterwards, plus large doses of antibiotics to fight an infection that developed after surgery. The pain was beyond belief, to the point that I was wiping my saliva with gauze pads because swallowing was impossible.

Two days after the operation, I ate my first real food in a week: a cup of Jello. It took me 1½ hours to finish it!

After spending most of my pre-surgery time feeling upbeat and energized, I was surprised to find myself completely sapped and exhausted after the surgery. The realization of what I had gone through really began to sink in. “You know,” I told my son, “I really made light of the whole thing, but this was pretty serious. Now I can say, ‘Gosh! This was a really big deal!’”

“Yeah,” my son retorted, “You’re the only one who was calm, by the way. I didn’t work all week, I was so worried!”

Today, I’m back to myself, and I feel fantastic, thank G-d. I like to quote my father, z”l, who used to say, “Aside from what’s not good, everything is great!”

Of course, I’m tremendously relieved that this story is behind me. Yet the more my saga circulated, the more horrified I became about the facts on the ground. Barbecue brushes, I discovered, were a known danger, yet they are still being sold in stores and blithely used by uninformed people like me—often with disastrous consequences!

I’m an interior decorator by profession, but in an instant, my life took a new twist and I took on a new mission: to spread awareness of this barbecue grill menace to as many people as possible. In fact, a national media outlet is featuring my story just in time for Labor Day weekend.

All I can still say is that I’ll never look at a sizzling steak in quite the same way again! l

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Could Clay Beat Bacteria?

FOUR FACTS ABOUT DIABETES DISTRESS This is a condition similar to depression or anxiety—It occurs when someone feels overwhelmed due to the difficulties of diabetes daily care, due to lack of results, due to diabetes health issues, or similar problems.

But it’s different from depression or anxiety—It’s not treatable with psychiatric medications, because it is a

situational depression.

It can still be dangerous—It occurs in about 33% to 50% of people with diabetes in any 18-month period, and it can cause people to stop taking care of themselves.

Talk about it with your doctor—Getting a referral to a mental health professional who deals with chronic illness can help, and an endocrinologist can assist with diabetes’ challenges.

Using mud to treat infections or skin disorders sounds like something you’d expect from a primitive idea of medicine—and it was indeed a treatment in many ancient systems of healing.

But there may be a reason to bring the treatment back, at least in the case of a special blue clay from Oregon.

Researchers at the Mayo Clinic and Arizona State University are looking at the effect that this clay, which contains iron, has on bacteria. They’ve found that it’s been effective at killing bacteria such as E. coli and Staphylococcus aureus, including strains that are antibiotic resistant.

One additional factor about this clay is that it seems to treat bacteria even when they are in the form of biofilms, in which they form a coating on surfaces and are harder to kill. About two-thirds of bacterial infections involve biofilms.

The number of women having heart attacks before, during and after giving birth increased by 25% from 2002 through 2013, with 4.5% of those women dying.

(Mayo Clinic Proceedings)

Preeclampsia—It’s Not Just in Pregnancy A report by ProPublica found that much of the information available online about the dangerous condition preeclampsia— even from government or other reputable websites—is inaccurate in one way. While preeclampsia is a danger to pregnant women, most sites did not note that it can also endanger women who have given birth already. In fact, most deaths from the condition occur after birth.

Preeclampsia is dangerous high blood pressure associated with pregnancy, the cause of which isn’t yet really understood.

There are a number of associated symptoms, including protein in the urine and swelling of extremities. But it is the strokes it can cause that most often kill women, though it is estimated that 60 percent of preeclampsia deaths are preventable if symptoms are noted and reported to a doctor.

It affects up to 200,000 women a year in the US alone, and kills about five women around the world every hour. And unlike what people might see online, women should be watching out for it even after they’ve already had their baby.

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FEATURE // Back to School

What Is Your Child Really Eating for Lunch?

Our schools are required to follow a complicated list of governmentenforced rules on what they’re allowed to serve your child for lunch. But with all these rules and regulations–all in the name of health–are our kids actually healthier? I spoke to food service director Chava Shemesh to learn the story behind school lunches.

By Victoria Dwek

FEATURE // Back to School

‘‘Ma

...I’m starving! I didn’t eat the lunch today.”

“What do you mean?

Pizza is your favorite day.”

“Yeah, but Ma...it was whole-wheat! Ewww!

No one ate it.”

Do you remember the first time your child came home after the new federal school lunch program was put into place during the 20122013 school year?

I do. And as a parent, I had conflicted feelings about it.

Sure, it’s great to serve kids more healthful food. Idealistically, it’s hard to argue that there’s anything wrong with it. Reality, though, is different. As parents, it’s a balancing act every day, trying to get nutrition into them while giving them meals that they’ll actually eat. For a school lunch administrator, who has to deal with the different picky tendencies of hundreds of kids, I can imagine it’s so much harder.

To the parents who successfully raised their kids to truly enjoy whole-wheat pizza, without secretly wishing they were having the other stuff (because then you know what’s going to happen when they’re grown), kudos. I think that the rest of us are simply happy if our children have something balanced for lunch...something simple they enjoy, even if it’s sometimes whole-grain and sometimes white-flour-based...along with a bit of protein and some kind of fruit or vegetable. In a perfect world, I’d be really happy with that.

“Not all kids would eat whole-wheat in school. Maybe they’ll have fresh whole-wheat bread at home, but not wholewheat pasta. Is it better for kids to be walking around hungry with a headache? A lot of kids are picky, picky eaters and they were really starving,” one mother told me.

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The New Program In 2010, the Healthy Hunger-Free Kids Act was passed, to go into effect nationwide during the school year of 2012-2013. Getting kids to eat more healthfully was Michelle Obama’s signature project during her husband’s terms in office. And something did need to be done, although it’s debatable whether it was the federal government’s job to do it. Obesity rates among children were rising at a treacherous rate nationwide, particularly among lower-income families.

And the processed, greasy lunch offerings in the typical public school cafeteria weren’t helping. And though that wasn’t the case in our yeshivos, lunch administrators everywhere now had a host of new specific and strict rules by which to abide if they wanted

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to receive the federal subsidies (see “You Can Keep Your Money”).

“In the beginning, the rules were the craziest. Everything had to be whole wheat. The administration received a lot of backlash,” Chava Shemesh tells me.

Chava is a food service director; part of her job involves creating menus and developing recipes—but not the type of recipes you see in Whisk. Chava creates menus and recipes for school lunch programs so that the meals are compliant with all the government regulations.

She began this career while teaching in a girl’s elementary school; she had taken over the task of school lunch administration back in the days when the regulations were simple.

When the Healthy HungerFree Kids Act bill was passed, she became an expert, and then more schools tapped her expertise to help successfully implement the regulations in their own schools.

Today, Chava is a food service director with SLP (School Lunch Program) Consulting Services, based in Lakewood, New Jersey, administering lunch programs in a number of elementary and high schools in both the Deal and Lakewood areas, and consulting for both New York schools and for vendors who prepare school lunch items. She prepares menus and helps streamline the complicated, bureaucratic process that schools need to go through to secure the government subsidies for school lunch programs.

“How did the yeshivah administrators react in the beginning when these rules were thrown on them?” I ask her.

“Everyone was in an uproar. Before the new regulations were in place, it was very easy to make a menu. There were no whole-grain requirements or sodium limits. There was just a minimum of grain, protein, fruits and vegetables that had to be served. Now there’s a minimum of each type of fruit and vegetable in five sub-categories, including legumes. Legumes are the hardest to plan in a menu, because they are not so popular among kids.”

The school lunch regulations are a head-spinning pages and pages long. It’s hard enough to feed our own family without so many technical rules and requirements. I can’t imagine how overwhelmed

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FEATURE // Back to School

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school lunch administrators must have been feeling at the time.

With the new regulations in place, each school would be required to serve a fruit every day (exactly ½ cup). They’d also be required to serve ¾ cup of vegetable every day, and there needed to be one from each group served weekly: a dark green vegetable; a red/orange vegetable; one starchy vegetable (a member of the legume family); and “other.” All grains must be wholegrain, be a two-ounce serving, and there would be a weekly minimum for grains served. There must be a specific amount of meat or meat alternatives, also two ounces in size.

All milk must be either non-fat flavored or low-fat, and must be served every day. There would be a calorie minimum and maximum (a different amount for each grade level), and specific sodium, trans fat, and saturated fat limits. And the schools had to serve all five components—fruit, vegetable, grain, protein, and milk—each day.

And when each student got to the lunchroom, there were more rules. Students were required to choose three out of five components each day, including one fruit or vegetable. They couldn’t take two of one component, and they couldn’t take two or four components. If they didn’t want three components, one went in the garbage. What if Sarah really wants two yogurts and a peach for lunch and she really isn’t in the mood for any whole-grain pasta? Sorry. Rules are rules.

“In the beginning, there were no waivers or exemptions. It was very hard. The vendors who supply food to the schools weren’t on board and didn’t have products that would work. Everyone was thrown into it. People went nuts, and so, after the first year, the rules were relaxed a bit and it became more doable. Originally, when the bill was passed, the sodium restrictions were supposed to became tighter and tighter over a few years.

But they held it at a certain point and didn’t go further with it. Nowadays, the vendors make new items that are compliant, but back then there was really nothing to eat,” Chava tells me.

Agudas Yisrael was able to attain two religious waivers for yeshivos. The first problem was the dark green vegetables.

While we’d love for our kids to eat their leafy greens, schools simply can’t afford to serve Pos’tiv or Bodek lettuce (they do serve iceberg-based salads, which don’t qualify as “dark”). Instead, yeshivos were given permission to serve vegetables from the “red” category twice per week. Yeshivos also needed a religious exemption from the requirement of serving milk every day; on fleishig Wednesday, there’s no milk served.

I thought that President Trump would be the one credited with easing the school lunch requirements, but Chava tells me the loosening began in 2014 under the Obama ad-

ministration.

First, the strict portion limits were relaxed. The states were then given the power to grant exemptions to schools that demonstrated hardship in filling the whole-grain requirement with products that are acceptable to the students.

“Schools are now allowed to pick five items that they serve, over the course of the year, that aren’t whole-wheat. Still, at least half of the grains served in a week must be whole-wheat. Notice how your kids don’t complain about the pizza and pasta anymore? In most schools, those are two of the five items selected for the waiver,” Chava tells me.

This year, US Secretary of Agriculture Sonny Perdue, who favors greater flexibility for schools, extended the exemptions. “In the South, the schools want to serve grits. But the whole-grain variety has little black flakes in it, and the kids won’t eat it. The school is compliant with the whole-grain requirements, but no one is eating the grits,” he said when he voiced his support of the waivers.

Recently, Perdue also gave schools back the right to serve low-fat, flavored milk, to increase its palatability, because overall milk consumption was down.

Oh, the Technicalities

It’s lunchtime at Yeshivah X (a yeshivah that is already fully on board with the lunch regulations). Shmuel gets on line, and when it’s his turn, he punches his identification code into a device that looks like an old-fashioned calculator. He hears a cheerful beeping noise and then moves along, taking his tray and picking up his whole-wheat pita with falafel, hummus, and Israeli salad (his favorite lunch), and makes his way over to the table where his classmates have already begun eating.

If Shmuel was absent today, or if he simply decided to skip lunch so he could study for his afternoon math test and he didn’t punch in his code, then his school would not be eligible to receive the $3.31 they’re supposed to get to feed him, even though they had to order and prepare his portion.

“The government requires that there’s proof that the student

FEATURE // Back to School

took the meal. A teacher has to manually take attendance and check off each name. Of course, it isn’t feasible to manually take attendance in the short time there is for lunch. Many schools don’t want tablets or iPad-like devices in the cafeteria where kids could ‘check in.’

We found these old-fashioned calculators where kids would type in their personal code, usually their phone number and a couple of extra digits, and their name comes up with the word ‘Success.’ One menahel commented, ‘This is amazing.

For some children, it’s the only time they hear “success” all day.’ With this system, there are perfect digital records of how many children...had lunch each day.

We’re trying to get it into more schools.”

In the past, schools also had to go through thousands of applications to determine how much money each school was eligible for, depending on how many students were eligible for “free” or “reduced price” meals.

“Now, I helped develop custom software that checks the applications,” Chava says. She also uses software to track the nutritional information and content of each meal served to make sure everyone is compliant. Government inspectors visit each school about every three years to check the paperwork and calorie reports to make sure that the food meets all regulations. It’s so important to have every little detail in place every day—because those records will be pored over. Government inspectors also look at how schools spend their allocated lunch dollars. And so, between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. each day, Chava goes from school to school,

lunchroom to lunchroom, to make sure that the program is running smoothly and the schools are following instructions.

What Are the Kids Eating?

Now we get to the actual meal.

“The aim of the game is to get dishes that are made with whole grains, but the kids can’t tell. With pizza rolls or pizza snaps, you can’t tell. When breading is whole-

wheat, such as the breading on fish sticks, you can’t tell,” Chava tells me.

In most schools, food items are prepared by outside vendors and simply warmed up and portioned in the school’s kitchen.

“One school has a commercial kettle, so they’re able to boil pasta and cook from scratch. Most items, though, like personal pizza pies, knishes, fish sticks, pizza rolls, and pizza snaps come frozen and just need to be cooked. A vendor brings it in.”

“Are there rules against frying?” I ask.

Simplistic Fashion of a dish. One high school served a choice of wraps: tuna, egg salad, grilled vegetables, and falafel. This year, it’s off the menu.”

“I would love a choice of wraps like that for lunch!”

“The kids don’t want it anymore!”

Since schools are allowed to apply for up to five whole-wheat waivers, today pizza and pasta can be the standard versions that kids like.

Not-So-Wholesome

“There’s no frying. If there’s a deep fryer in a school kitchen, it’s a big red flag. A vendor, though, can par-fry an item before sending it to a school, and the schools would warm it up in the oven. There’s no salt allowed on the tables either. Everything has to be portion controlled, as well. Condiments are also portioned.”

“What have you seen as successful and not successful when trying to get the veggie requirement in?”

“Kids like soups. Soups are great because you can put lots of vegetables in there, and the kids like having them in those individual containers with lids. The soup mixes are full of sodium, but we’re able to use a lower sodium one that meets regulations.”

“Anything that hasn’t gone over well?”

“Eggplant parmesan. I thought this would be popular, especially with the girls. But it wasn’t. They rather have a simple grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Kids simply like simple food. Sometimes kids simply get sick

“Have you seen our Rice Krispie-like treat?” Chava asks me.

“Yes, you once dropped a couple off at my house. They’re delicious.”

“That product went through many stages.

They’re a marshmallow treat made from brown rice. Though they were originally developed as a snack that satisfied regulations, they’re now sold at retail by B’gan.

Gelbsteins also came out with a wholewheat Danish that the kids like. I helped one bakery develop a whole-grain cookie; he hired me so he could have a product that fits regulations that he could sell to schools.

We’ve also developed a whole-grain brownie that’s compliant.”

“These items might be whole-grain, but are they necessarily healthier?”

“You’re right. Many items made from whole wheat, including those you find on grocery stores, are packed with sugar.

Schools, though, are forced by the government to serve a certain amount of wholegrain items, so they need to find things that are palatable to kids. They’re serving the Danish instead of pretzels as a snack, because the pretzels have to be whole-wheat and the kids don’t want them.”

One woman who has been running the lunch program in her school for 25 years told Chava that she’s seen an uptick in kids diagnosed with diabetes since the regulations were put into place. In years past, she used to have to prepare special meals for 1-2 kids.

Now, there’s much more. And she thinks it’s due to the increased sugar in the food.

“A whole-wheat cheese pretzel isn’t nec-

bambuukids.com

FEATURE // Back to School

Are We Better Off? “They say that the more kids are exposed to certain foods, the more they’ll be accepting of it. Have you seen this to be the case in schools? Is there less waste of new foods over time?”

“The kids are getting more fruits and vegetables than they used to. And they’re

getting accustomed to eating whole-wheat, which is good.”

“Do you think, for the most part, that the regulations have helped?”

“Kids are definitely eating better now that the rules are a bit more moderate, and not as strict as they were in the beginning. In one high school, the kids were starving and roaming the halls. They’d leave school and go to a local bagel store. Now, we have things in order. Lunch is social time. They sit down

and enjoy time together. It’s organized. And the teachers say that after lunch, the kids really do concentrate better.”

In another school, there had been a horrible lunch program, with only the cheapest food being served. Now, if they want to continue to earn federal dollars, they’re forced to comply, “One parent from this school told me, ‘You don’t understand, my son is so much happier!’ You have to feed the kids good food.’” l

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essarily healthful, but it’s compliant. So is a granola bar.”

There are no rules regarding the quantity of sugar, only calories.

“That’s not the only con.

There’s a lot of waste. The kids don’t eat the beans but the schools are forced to serve them. And kids must take three out of the five components, even if they don’t want them. It’s a lot of food and it’s hard to eat a pasta, a soup, and a salad. They have to take it but they don’t have to eat it. If they don’t want it, it goes in the garbage. Components aren’t allowed to be reused. The only way to save against the waste is to give it to another person. In many schools, there’s a “share table” with extra components where students can donate an item to another. In general, though, being forced to take something they don’t want teaches that waste is okay.”

YOU CAN KEEP YOUR MONEY

Beginning this September, the school district of Wentzville, Missouri, won’t be participating in the National School Lunch Program. They won’t be receiving federal money...and the federal government won’t be dictating what they can feed their students.

“The students just aren’t eating,” says child nutrition director Susan Raster. “Our participation keeps going down. We’ve lost money.”

For the past six school years, they’ve tried everything to make the regulations work. The students, though, still didn’t like the food and parents are upset when their children go an entire day without eating.

Across the whole school district, 75,000 more children have opted out of the program, preferring to bring lunch from home.

It’s one thing when students who must pay for lunch opt out. It’s another when students who’d otherwise receive it for free decline to participate. And that’s what’s happening in Wentzville. Mrs. Raster and the school board agree that they can do a better job themselves and cover costs without government involvement.

“We’ll still provide a healthful lunch but we’ll set guidelines ourselves. My main job is to get kids to eat,” Raster said. “We felt we needed to try something different.”

Not all schools feel it is worthwhile to comply. Schools receive federal reimbursement for each lunch they serve, but the amount depends on the income levels of their students. In 2017, schools received $3.31 per lunch for each student who qualified for a “free lunch” (income under $45,000 for a family of six), $2.91 for each student who qualified for a “reduced price” lunch (income under $72,000 for a family of six), and $0.31 for everyone else. For schools in upper income districts, where better quality lunches likely were already being served, changing their programs to comply to the regulations just wasn’t worth it.

Over 500 schools declined to implement the regulations. After the 2012-2013 school year, another few hundred schools pulled out, including those in the school district of Caitlin, Illinois, whose school lunch program incurred a $30,000 loss that year.

“Some of the stuff we had to offer, they wouldn’t eat,” said Superintendent Gary Lewis. “So you sit there and watch the kids, and you know they’re hungry at the end of the day, and that led to some behavior issues and some lack of attentiveness.”

One Brooklyn yeshivah has also called it quits and opted out, deciding that “it’s just impossible and not worth it.” Now, all parents must pay the $500 lunch fee or send lunch from home.

Most schools really can’t afford to quit. Some schools where a large percentage of the student body is on food stamps, or meets income eligibility, are able to offer free lunches to everyone, with all meals being government subsidized.

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Chapter 6

Last week: Eli believes he has a great real estate investment opportunity, but he won’t involve his father. Instead, he got his naive brother Gershie to invest in it with him.

By Riva Pomerantz

O

stensibly, Moish had put her office right near the reception area so she could keep a watchful eye on the secretaries and make sure they did their jobs. Yeah, right. She was more of a friend than an overseer! Reenie hung up her sweater and her purse and craned her neck to hear the rest of what Malka Taubman was saying. Malka was smart and worldly and Reenie privately envied her down-to-earth, practical parenting stance.

“I don’t really know how I felt about it,” Malka was telling her co-worker Cindy. “Some of the mothers were a bit up-in-arms, like, ‘Why are you using our children as lab rats’? But I think it was interesting and a good way to teach them. It’s not like they’re repeating the actual experiment, and today we know that this kind of thing is super important in teaching our kids.” She caught a glimpse of Reenie’s head around the bend. Reenie was the nicest “wife of the boss” you could ever meet and the secretaries had lots of fun with her even if she was nearly twice their age.

“We’re just talking about this Marshmallow Experiment,” she told Reenie, beckoning her to join them. “They did it in my son Shimmy’s preschool. I was just telling Cindy there’s a lot of controversy around it.

Have you heard about it?”

“Marshmallow experiment?” Reenie picked up her coffee cup and sauntered over to the receptionist desk. “I thought they’re not supposed to give out sugar in schools today. It makes the kids hyper.”

“I’ll bet you there are kids allergic to marshmallows in the schools today,” Cindy sighed. “Today, all these kids are allergic. I know one parent, her kid is literally allergic to air. She has to keep him home; he can’t go outside!”

Cindy had a tendency to be slightly melodramatic.

Reenie dutifully clucked her tongue and murmured a reassuring, “Allergies are terrible today.”

“No, no,” Malka explained patiently, “There was this experiment they did a long time ago at one of the big universities, can’t remember which one. Yale? Stanford, maybe? I don’t know. Basically, they were trying to measure

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kids’ willpower, like how good they were at pushing off getting what they wanted.

They gave these kids a marshmallow and told them that if they didn’t eat it they’d get two marshmallows later on. Basically, they did that in my kids’ preschool, but in a modified way. They made this sort of thing out of it for the kids and for the parents, to try to raise awareness of teaching kids to delay gratification and not get everything they want right away. I mean, it’s a good lesson, no?”

Cindy snorted.

“How could kids get everything they want right away anyway? It’s not even possible! They want a pony! They want ten lollipops! Kids want everything, right this minute! There’s no way they can have it. They’re always delaying gratification.

What’s the point of the experiment?”

Malka thought that over for a moment.

“Well,” she said doubtfully. “I guess you’re right. But, I’m saying, there are degrees. It’s not black or white. Of course kids can’t get whatever they want when they want it, but the idea is that if you try to give them more and more willpower to delay gratification then they can be much more successful in life because in life, you need to work hard if you want to be successful. If you don’t have the ability to delay gratification, then you’re not going to have the push to do the hard work. That’s the point, I guess.”

“Hold on a second,” Cindy said. “How did we get from delaying gratification to becoming more successful in life?”

“That’s what the experiment showed!”

Malka exclaimed. “They followed these kids in the original study and found that the kids who waited to eat their marshmallow were much more successful than the kids who gave in to the temptation and gobbled it up right away!”

Reenie took a big, necessary swig of coffee.

“I don’t know if it’s something you can actually teach kids—how to delay gratification,” she said with a frown. “I think it’s just a matter of nature. There are some kids who will be more patient or more compliant and they’ll naturally sit there and wait to eat the marshmallow.”

Gershie, for instance, came to mind. “And there are other kids who are impulsive and they won’t think twice about gobbling it up and there’s really no way to change that.”

“The school talked about it. The teacher talked about it at Parent Night, actually.

Apparently there’s research that you can help kids train themselves to delay gratification in certain ways, setting limits with them, trying not to spoil them too much so they don’t develop expectations.

I think that the school, in general, is trying to implement this kind of stuff in the curriculum, to try to train kids—and parents—when they’re younger so they’re set up for success when they’re older. Not a bad idea, don’t you think?”

“Let’s see the parents implement it!”

Cindy sniffed. “I, for one, am very careful about what I do and don’t give my kids, but there’s so much peer pressure it’s hard to stand up to it. You can’t have your child feeling like the outcast because she doesn’t have the right backpack and the entire rest of the class does!”

“Definitely a balance,” Malka agreed. She and Cindy definitely had their differences, but when all was said and done, they worked very well together.

“Always a good idea to raise awareness,” Reenie found herself saying, as Malka switched into her professional chirp to answer the ringing phone.

“Momentum, good morning, Malka speaking. I’m sorry, Mr. Green is in a meeting. Can I take a message?”

Reenie walked back to her office, sat down heavily at her desk, and began to leaf through the stack of bills. Office supplies, toilet paper, elevator maintenance, phone bill, electricity—every transaction, every order, every staple was a bill that needed to be handled, never mind the list of telephone calls she needed to return. As if on cue, Cindy buzzed in with a call for Reenie from the marketing firm with a question about a missing payment.

It wasn’t until two o’clock that afternoon that she reached the last bill in the stack.

It had obviously been placed by someone else into her pile, since Reenie slit open her mail very carefully and saved the envelopes, and this particular bill had not only been opened by another person, but it had no accompanying envelope. To add insult to injury, the single sheet of paper was wrinkled, as though it had spent time in the bottom of someone’s pocket, which annoyed Reenie. Her invoices were always perfectly neat and well cared for and they

“I have no idea who ordered a hotel in Daddy’s name a couple weeks ago. Do you?”

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went smoothly from the “To Pay” stack to the “Paid” basket before being meticulously filed away.

She smoothed out the single sheet of paper and scrutinized it carefully.

Three nights @ Deluxe Skyline Suite w/ full board Total Paid: 6,000 USD. Her eyes snapped to the letterhead. An upscale Jerusalem hotel. It had been booked and paid for by Moshe Velvel Green. Moish hadn’t been to Israel in at least three months. The receipt was issued two weeks ago.

Reenie watched herself calmly process the receipt, cross-check the payment on the credit card statement, and file it under Recreation (Personal). She watched herself empty the last dregs of her coffee cup and place it methodically in the wastebasket. Reenie Green never threw things; she placed them where they needed to be.

Then she took a deep breath and dialed Moish.

“Hi!” She was totally, marvelously neutral, no signs of trouble. “You know anything about a hotel bill for $6,000 in Yerushalayim?”

“I can’t right now.” He sounded distracted and tense. “I got a problem that I need to deal with right this second. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay, good luck.” She took a deep breath. This really wasn’t that big of a deal. These kinds of things happened all the time.

Reenie deliberately released the tension in her jaw.

Why was she feeling so on-edge right now? Why was this random receipt making her so antsy?

“Hi Ma!” came a cheerful voice as Eli made a brief appearance at her doorway.

“Eli! Come here!” she called, before she even understood why, and she instinctively shoved the crumpled receipt into his hands.

Eli was flustered. He held the paper gingerly in his hands and looked at his mother uncertainly.

“I…do you happen to know anything about this?”

Reenie asked him, feeling foolish. Why would Eli know about a bill in her pile?

But Eli’s face indicated that he definitely did know about the bill in his hands.

“Uh, why?” he asked, trying to be nonchalant. “Is there a problem with it?”

Alarm bells clanged loud in Reenie’s mind.

“No, no problem at all,” she said evenly. “I just have no idea who ordered a hotel in Daddy’s name a couple weeks ago. Do you?”

Eli regained his composure.

“Not a big deal, Ma,” he said silkily. “It’s from Yossi. He went away with Elisheva for a few days and AUGUST 29, 2018

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they used the credit card. He sent it to me and asked me to print it out and put it in your pile and I kept forgetting. Sorry…it got a little ratty.”

Reenie stared at her son, fighting a maelstrom of emotion that she did not fully understand.

“They…went on vacation…to an expensive hotel for three days, plus all meals,” she stammered.

Eli was looking at her oddly.

“He said they needed a break, a getaway,” he said, in his brother’s defense. “I mean, is it a problem? I don’t think he meant any harm by it.”

“We just…went away to Switzerland, like a month ago,” Reenie said in a robotic staccato, as several key pieces of information clicked into place in her brain.

“They’re newly marrieds, being fully supported, she never worked a day in her life and they needed a $6,000 getaway, so they just did it. Without asking about it. On Daddy’s credit card.”

When Yossi had asked him to slip the receipt onto Mommy’s desk, Eli had read something curious in his voice. Maybe Yossi had also realized that it was a bit over-the-top? Then again, there had never been any real defined parameters for what could and couldn’t go on the tab. Eli sighed.

“Listen, I don’t think he thought it was such a problem,” he said, swiftly ridding himself of the incriminating document by throwing it onto one of the neatly-stacked piles. “I can talk to him about it if you want, or maybe you want to talk to him yourself?”

He paused. “It could be he felt pressured. You know how it is—the other guys in the kollel are going away to hotels and having fun and stuff, and then they come back and schmooze about where they were for Shabbos and maybe he just didn’t want to feel left out.

Maybe that’s why he did it. Y’know, you don’t want to be the odd one out.”

Reenie’s face went pale.

“The odd one out,” she whispered. “You have no willpower because you can’t delay gratification because you have peer pressure and you don’t want to be the odd one out.”

“Huh?” “Nothing.” Reenie pasted a smile on her face and gave Eli a little wave of dismissal. “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Forget it.”

Quickly, before any of this could wear off, she texted Moish an urgent message. Something cool I need to talk to you about tonight, she wrote furiously. It’s called the Marshmallow Experiment. l To be continued…

the rest of the story...

nections, buying tickets and filling out the ship’s manifest.

Even before they sailed, the immigrants went through a vaccination/disinfection process, and were given a medical inspection card (which clearly showed their names) to show the US authorities, both at the port of departure, where the card was stamped by a US consular medical officer, and once again upon their arrival.

Typically, a clerk at the shipping company would clearly write the immigrant’s name on the card, to match the name on the ship’s manifest. Considering that about 20 percent of pre-1917 immigrants to Ellis Island were illiterate, it was vital that the shipping company made sure all the necessary documents matched. When they arrived at Ellis Island, protocol was carefully followed. Changing an immigrant’s name could get an official into trouble.

The Ellis Island inspectors had no reason, requirement, legal authority, time, or motivation to change immigrant names. They had enough on their plates. The names on the manifest, medical inspection card, and landing tag had to match or it would raise questions about the validity of the documents. There was no paperwork that

“Each time someone calls you by your new name, Mottel Weinberger, it reminds the beis din in shamayim of your mesiras nefesh for another Yid. Why would you want to change that?”

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would record a possible name change.

The historians argue that between 1892 and 1920, when thousands of immigrants passed through Ellis Island each day, there were no descriptions of Ellis Island name-changing in local periodicals or books. And even after immigration slowed significantly in the 1920s, the issue of officials changing names was not mentioned.

It was not until the 1970s that the myth of name changing at Ellis Island became accepted as a fact. One popular 1979 book about the immigrant experience described officials who were “casual and uncaring on the matter of names.”

When the culture in America changed in the late ’60s, after the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act eliminated the discriminatory immigration quotas, the immigrants and their struggles became the stuff of national pride. Now it was fashionable to blame the government for messing up, especially after the ill-fated Vietnam War and the Watergate scandal.

As the historians stress, the myth of rampant name changing at Ellis Island was a perfect story to highlight how the government had hoodwinked the vulnerable immigrants, depriving them of their identities.

Blaming boorish government officials at Ellis Island for erasing Jewish names became very popular. l

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MADE IN SPAIN

THE

CHAPTER 22

ARE FIRE

“T

he private investigator hadn’t wanted us to see Ephraim. He didn’t even know Ephraim, because I never sent him his picture. This is who we were supposed to see, two minutes later—” Daniel pointed at the screen in front of them—“This. Him.” Tyler Galler had started with FireStar Communications 30 years ago as a secretary.

It was supposed to be a part-time job to get him through college, but when he graduated, he stayed. He had worked his way up the ladder slowly, and mostly by virtue of simply always being there. His employee ID pictures had started off showing a young, eagerlooking man with nut-brown hair. The brown in the hair had given way to silver, and the smile to a set grimace in his latest picture, taken at the beginning of the year.

Miri had only ever seen him behind his desk, hunched over his computer. An exchange of absent-minded waves was their main interaction, but he was, to Miri and to her brothers, as part of the office as the very building, as surely as the model satellites on the ceiling that were set amongst the fake glittering stars.

Michael and Daniel went to the police with the footage that showed Tyler Galler— the rain plastering his gray hair to his head— climbing the steps of Intelcom with his slow, heavy tread. They told Officer Geffries, who had seated them down in his office that smelled of pastries and stale coffee and was nearly buried in stacks of papers and files, that they had reason to believe that he was their thief.

“Because of this video?” the officer asked,

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Recap: Miri and her brothers confront Ephraim about his apparent betrayal of the company, but he explains that it can’t possibly be him.

Meanwhile, the film continues to roll, and the real culprit appears on the screen.

after they had filled out a frankly unbelievable amount of paperwork. He shook his head.

“Poaching is not exactly illegal.”

Miri shook own her head. “I am assuming you don’t mean the poaching of animals, because that would be contextually strange and also, that is illegal.”

Daniel leaned towards his sister. “Poaching is a term used for when a company hires an employee from a rival company.”

“Yeah, that does make more sense in this situation.”

“But it’s not illegal.” Officer Geffries wiped at a stray doughnut crumb from his trim goatee. “It’s not even unethical, in my opinion. Keep your employees happy, and they won’t want to leave.”

Daniel bristled. “Our employees are happy, but thanks for the business advice.”

Officer Geffries seemed to be one of those individuals on whom sarcasm was wasted.

“No problem,” he said. “I have a lot of ideas. I think about this kind of stuff.”

“Well, think about this.” Michael took out a set of specs for FireStar’s mini-satellites from his attaché case. Then he removed another set of specs. He looked for a place to set them on Geffries’ desk, and finding none, settled for holding them up in front of him. They were a perfect match. “One of these is our specs.

The others are from Intelcom. Ours were top secret. Theirs…less so. Someone stole ours and handed them over to Intelcom.”

For the first time since the conversation had started, Officer Geffries looked interested.

He sat up straight and brushed any stray crumbs off of his uniform. “Proof?” he asked.

Michael pointed at the video. “Right there.

Proof that our employee used his access to

by Rachel Berger

classified files to steal them and sell them to our rival company.”

“What we see here,” said Geffries, and the spark of interest faded from his eyes as fast as it had been lit, “is a man walking up the stairs to a building.” He stood up. “Walking is legal.

Come back to me when you have proof of something that isn’t.”

After they left, there was much debate about just confronting him themselves.

Michael argued that he would just lie. Daniel countered that he might be startled enough to lie badly, and then they would have him.

“Why don’t we ask the investigator what to do?” Miri suggested. “I’m sure he has a lot more experience with this than we do.”

“Good idea. But there’s another problem that we have now,” said Daniel. He took a sip of his coffee. Miri had lost count of how many coffees they had each drunk today; the conference room must smell like Officer Geffries’ office. “The problem is, Mr. Galler is still in touch with Dad.” “Oh, no.” Miri spoke first.

“Oh, yes. Say we confront him. If he didn’t do it, if he’s innocent, there’s no way that Dad’s not going to find out about it. And even if he did do it, he might drag Dad into this to defend him.”

“His heart,” said Miri. “Daddy can’t find out what’s going on around here.”

“He won’t.” Michael spoke up. “We’ll figure something out. And by we, I mean Miri. Miri, you got something?”

Miri glanced at her watch and bolted to her feet. “Shimmy,” she cried. Her heart sank.

She would be late. “I have to run. Call me!” she shouted over her shoulder as she flew down the staircase. “Call me later and we’ll figure this all out!”

She ran until she reached her car, and dialed Bashie’s number even as she put the key into the ignition. “Are you still there?” she asked her without so much as a hello. “Are you still at pickup?” Please, please, please still be at pickup…

“Yes, I am. And you are not. I know this because I am the world’s greatest detective.

Do you know how I detected that you’re not here?”

“Because…” Bashie could make Miri’s head whirl, but usually in a pleasant way.

“Because I’m not there?”

“I forgot what we were talking about.

Anyway, do you want me to get Shimmy?”

“Can you? Please? And if you have some time, can you just hold him there for me? I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” Miri stepped on the gas, and made it through the first light just before it turned red.

“No problem. No rush. Shimmy!” Miri heard Bashie exclaim. “Tanta Bashie is here to pick you up, tzaddik’l! And guess what? I have cookies! Do you want a cookie? Of course you want a cookie, cookies are the best! Have a cookie!” Her voice dropped in register. “I do, however, have one condition.”

“Are you talking to me?” Miri missed the next light, and eased to a stop. She looked at the time: She’d be there in five minutes. Not so bad.

“Yes, I’m talking to you, who else would I be talking to?”

“You were just talking to Shimmy… never mind. What do you mean, you have a condition? What’s your condition?”

“There is this guy. No, no, hear me out,” Bashie said hastily, even though Miri hadn’t said anything. “He is perfect for you. Perfect.

In every way. I know you have all sorts of things going on in your life right now. But trust me. Just hear me out. Will you hear me out?”

Miri’s stomach was tensed; she still smelled the stale coffee smell of the police station, and she hadn’t even begun to process Ephraim’s big, beautiful house—with a pool, thank you very much, and a pool house; who does he think he is?—and she hated being late for Shimmy, even if she was very grateful that Bashie was there to take charge of him, but she felt alive. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t even feel the urge to sleep away the afternoon. Was it just because she had been so busy today, too busy to dwell?

Maybe.

But it was also the reason why instead of saying a decisive “no,” Miri sighed and said, “Okay. Okay, Bashie. I’ll hear you out.” l To be continued...

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the rest of the story...

When Fargessen became Ferguson Who really changed Jewish immigrants’ names?

T

BY CHAYA SILBER

he shell-shocked immigrant landed at Ellis Island, bewildered and frightened. He had been warned, multiple times, to be wary of the immigration officials, who would scrutinize him carefully, and deport him at the slightest sign of trouble. A lingering cough, a bruise on the back, or an imperceptible limp—these were all excuses to place the new arrival in quarantine and throw him into steerage for the lengthy journey back to Europe.

Was it any surprise that in his haste and confusion, he blurted out the wrong name?

There’s a famous joke told of a flummoxed young man who stood before the Ellis Island officials, who glared at him from behind heavy lids. “Your name, sir,” an officer demanded.

The immigrant blanched. In his fright and confusion, he had forgotten his name!

“What is your name, sir? Are you deaf and dumb?”

“My n…name? Shoin fargessen.” (I already forgot.)

He stood, all atremble, waiting for the axe to fall. But the

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officials nodded in approval, for the immigrant had a decent, Americanized name.

“Name: Sean Ferguson,” an official wrote, giving the new arrival his identity papers. And so one newly minted Sean began his life in the Big Apple, with a brand new name and mazel.

Though the above anecdote is just an oft-repeated joke, there seems to be a rampant misunderstanding about the issue of name changes at Ellis Island in the late 1800s and early 1900s, during the era of mass emigration from Russia and Poland. As the common theory goes, the American-born officers employed on Ellis Island, which was in operation from 1892 through 1954, struggled to understand the dialect and heavy accents of the new arrivals, and would deliberately Americanize their names.

Perhaps they wanted to make the processing easier, or give the immigrants a fighting chance to succeed. Whatever the reason, if your name was long and complicated, chances were, you had it lopped off at customs.

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Thus, Yehoshua Greenstein became Josh Green, while Hermann Wicentowky was shortened to Harry Witt. The Vladomirski family morphed into the Vanns, and one ambitious Zechariah was now dubbed Zeke.

The immigrants often had no issue with their new identities, as they were eager to melt into American culture. They already were noticeably different by virtue of their heavy accents and strange manner of dress. A challenging, unpronounceable name would further complicate matters.

Thus goes a common misconception that is prevalent until today. “Oh, your last name isn’t really Silber? It’s Zilberstein? Aha. Your great-grandfather probably had it changed by the officials at Ellis Island.”

Except that he probably hadn’t.

There is growing evidence that Jews changed their names on their own, without the knowledge of the Ellis Island officers.

Why would they do that? Perhaps they were traveling with forged or borrowed papers, escaping from creditors, or simply, because they wanted to leave every last vestige of the old country, and of their heritage, behind. The famously heartbreaking images of new arrivals throwing their tefillin into the water when the ship docked at Ellis Island occurred far too many times.

But not every immigrant wanted to leave his faith behind. For some, changing one’s name was a heroic act. In one iconic story, Holocaust survivors Mottel Greenfeld and Chaim Engel both received visas for America, but Chaim’s visa was denied at the last moment because he had typhus. As Mottel prepared to depart, Chaim broke down, begging his friend not to leave him behind. Mottel was devastated at his friend’s pain. As the captain announced “final boarding,” he made a split-second decision that would have lasting repercussions.

“Your name isn’t Engel anymore,” he said, handing his friend his visa and ticket, which did not have his photograph. “From today onward, your name is Greenfeld.”

And with a lingering backward glance, Chaim, now Greenfeld, was propelled onto the ship, taking his generous friend’s place. After an exhausting journey, Chaim arrived in Montreal, where he slowly recovered from his illness, got married, and rebuilt his life as Chaim Greenfeld. He never used the name Engel again.

Mottel later emigrated, taking the papers of a Yankel Weinberger, who tragically died. Thus, Mottel Greenfeld became Mottel Weinberger, while his close friend Chaim adopted his family name.

The two men remained close throughout the years. As a Vizhnitzer chasid, Mottel Weinberger once asked his Rebbe, the Imrei Chaim, if he should go back to his original family name, the name of his murdered parents. The Rebbe replied, “Each time someone calls you by your new name, Mottel Weinberger, it reminds the beis din in shamayim of your mesiras nefesh for another Yid. Why would you want to change that?”

The above anecdote is probably closer to the real truth of what occurred. For various reasons, the traumatized new arrivals changed their name, due to necessity, often at the last moment.

Still unsure? Here’s more proof.

Marian Smith and Vincent Cannato, both historians, claim that it is improbable that officials on Ellis Island, overburdened and busy ensuring the data matched, wantonly changed the names of the new arrivals. In fact, they claim, immigration procedures did not typically include the question “What is your name?” Bureaucrats simply checked immigrants’ names to make sure they matched the names already listed on ships’ passenger lists, which had been filled back in the Old Country.

As Smith and Cannato explained, most immigrants were penniless and planned their trip carefully, filling out paperwork months in advance. Shipping company agents in the Old Country sold steamship tickets and helped make travel con-

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Making Every Child Count: Counting Each Child What I learned about kindness in math class As told to Dina Neuman

M

ath was always my toughest subject. I like the concept of math— that big important ideas, the building blocks of the universe, can be expressed in neat, logical formulas. But applying neat logical formulas, i.e., numbers and stuff, and then throwing in some letters—because why not?—was for me a foreign language, the kind that when you hear people speaking it, you are 99 percent sure that they are totally making it up.

But while math was a difficult subject, it was not what made school difficult for me.

You’ve had that dream, right? You’re standing on stage and you suddenly realize that you don’t know any of the lines you’re supposed to say. You don’t even know what play it is that you are performing in, or if it’s even a play at all. Plus, you’re probably wearing something like pajamas, or worse,

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the emperor’s pajamas, and the faceless, nameless audience is roaring with laughter and the laughter is because of you. But part of you knows it’s just a dream—or needs to know it’s just a dream, because how can something so terribly humiliating happen to you in real life, how can you go on living afterward—so you force your eyelids open and there you are, heart still pounding, but safe in your own bed.

Except for the part where it’s all a dream and you wake up in your own bed, that’s pretty much how I experienced life in general, and school in particular, when I was a little girl.

Yes, I know. You came for the laughs, but I’m going to have to get serious for a second here, if that’s okay. Come for the laughs, stay for the cookies. In this case, “cookies” is code for humiliation, but they have chocolate chips, so they’re totally worth it, and I forgot what the metaphor was here, but bear with me anyway. Have

18 ELUL 5778

a cookie.

School for me when I was single digits years old was a world of its own, and a thoroughly bewildering one. It was very much like everyone had gotten a rule book that detailed the way this world was run, and I, for some unknown reason, had not.

When adult me looks back on little me, I think that I should have whistled in the dark somehow. I should have pretended to be Jane Goodall, studying Bais Yaakov Girls, magnificent and mysterious in their natural habitat, until they finally accept me as one of their own. But hindsight forgets that you are the product right now of those exact circumstances that you used to be in, and you are therefore incapable of understanding your own mindset while still in that situation. To put it in less confusing terms, I was too young to laugh at myself.

I would only watch, and I would wonder.

“Hi,” I saw one girl say to another on the first day of fourth grade. “How was

I KNEW LOTS OF WORDS, I KNEW LOTS OF IDEAS. I WAS JUST LIKE THEM. UNTIL I OPENED MY MOUTH. Until I opened my mouth.

“Hi,” said one girl to me, the one who sat with the sort of boneless grace that let the world know she was completely comfortable living in it. She was smiling, too, a smile that promised the potential of friendship. “How was your summer?”

And this is what I said in reply: “Should I tell you why my hair is so brown? Because it was blond before the summer. Well, a little. Like, my highlights. It was blond your summer?” when I was a baby but now it’s not. But it “Great!” the first girl replied. She smiled was before. A little. But over the summer, easily at the first girl. I remember noting my highlights became brown, too. So now the way she rested her arms loosely on her it’s all brown.” desk, her feet sprawled into the aisle. “Lots Um, what? said the little part of myself of fun!” that sat on my own shoulder and listened I knew how to say things like that. I to my nonsensical monologue with sick could say “hi” and I could say “fun,” with fascination. Child, do yourself a favor and or without the addition of “lots of ” to form close your mouth. You are not making a lick a more complete thought. In fact, I knew of sense. all the same words they did. I knew more But no. I would not stop. I was an unwords, actually, many more words, as I was stoppable force of hapless, hopeless babble one of those little girls with an insatiable about my hair, a feature for which no exneed to read, anything from the back of planation had been required or requested, cereal boxes to encyclopedias, and when I when a simple “Hi, my summer was very was not reading I was drawing, and when nice,” would have done quite well. I I was not drawing, I was dreaming. What watched as the potential friend looked if the whole world is actually a stage, I would more and more confused as I continued to wonder, and I can stare at the edges of the sky talk, then bored as I came to a stumbling long enough to see the edges of the scenery halt at last. I watched the smile of friendmoving? So I knew lots of words, I knew ship turn into a smile of derision. lots of ideas and some (rather iffy) concepts.

I didn’t look different from the rest of I was just like them. them, either. I am told I was a pretty little

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girl, and if I wore a ridiculous number of colorful plastic hair accessories to hold down my halo of frizz—the unfortunate and inevitable by-product of brushing curly hair—and sweaters covered with threedimensional embroidered fruit, it was the ’80s, and who amongst us did not commit horrible crimes against fashion in that dark era? I looked like everyone else. It’s just that I wasn’t like everyone else. I didn’t understand the rules of social engagement, and I was terribly conscious that I didn’t know them, which made it all so much worse.

But I wasn’t teased, not really, not right away. I was simply ignored.

I don’t remember being terribly upset about that at the time. Being ignored meant less stuttering gibberish emerging from my mouth. Less stuttering gibberish equals good, which was a math equation that I could get behind. Being ignored also meant I was free to spend my recess reading or drawing, or looking up at the sky and waiting to see the edges of the scenery of the play-that-was-my-life waver.

But everything changed when the bell rang, and my new teacher walked into the classroom.

Decades later—when I was already a wife and mother and had learned how to greet “hi” with “hi” and in general spoke a great deal less about the effects of additional melanin upon skin and/or follicles— I heard about a wonderful teacher. She was a math teacher, which I won’t hold against her. At the end of every week, she would tell her students to take out a piece of paper and write on it the names of four children with whom they would like to sit the following week. They were also asked to nominate a fellow student they felt had

been exceptional for whatever reason that week. These papers were then submitted to the teacher with the reassurance that their picks would remain private. They also knew that their requests might not be honored—and there was a very good reason for this.

Because this wonderful teacher took the papers home not to create new seating charts or to nominate class favorites, but to look for the patterns that were hidden underneath, such as: Who is not getting requested by anyone? Who doesn’t even know whom to request? Who never gets nominated as exceptional because they never get noticed?

Who had friends but now has none?

This math teacher put her math skills to use noticing the children in her class who might otherwise not have been noticed at all. She used the notes to look for the lonely children, the ones who, for whatever reason, were failing to connect with their peers.

She saw the ones who were invisible.

The truth, said this teacher, came out of those private little papers. Through the ballots, she could see underneath the surface of the classroom and see just who was falling between the cracks. And then,

WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO BE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO WOULD HURT A LONELY LITTLE GIRL? once the patterns were clear, she could do something about it. And she did. She used her knowledge to help those children, to teach them how to make friends, how to join a group, how to stand up and see and be seen. With her knowledge, she cracked the code of loneliness.

This wonderful teacher whom I heard about years after I left the fourth grade behind me was not my new teacher. My new teacher that year, on that very first day of school, stood in front of the classroom looking at us straight-backed girls in stiff new uniforms looking back at her with nervous excitement. And pointed at me.

“Get out,” she said. “Go sit in the stairwell.”

If you can believe it, that was my best day the whole year. It was downhill from there.

The only thing these two teachers—my old teacher, and the teacher I heard about— had in common was that both of them seemed to have a way of zeroing in on the lonely, invisible children in the class. But what they did with that information was vastly different. The teacher in the article saved children. My teacher turned invisible

children visible in order to bully them.

Maybe this is why I have a hard time with math. Because sometimes the two parts of the equation can be the same, but the answer varies wildly.

I think about that old teacher of mine often. Not to linger on old hurts, because, let’s be honest, that’s almost always a kind of dumb thing to do, and also, I long ago forgave her, but just to wonder: What does it take to be the kind of person who would hurt a lonely little girl?

And this other teacher, whose name I have forgotten, or maybe I never knew it, who spends her free weekends poring over lists of names written in a myriad of semiillegible childish handwritings to find patterns of loneliness, of her I think: What does it take to be the kind of person who would try to save all the lonely children?

So maybe I believe in math after all.

Because I do understand that in math, the slightest difference can change the entire outcome.

In both of our equations, there is an intuitive teacher plus a lonely child. But just look what can happen when you add into the calculation a caring heart. l

OUR

days

THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

What Dreams Are Made Of The legacy of bedtime

By Naomi Raksin

I

remember watching the sun sink through my window while my father pulled the blanket up to my chin. I knew he’d be gone soon and I’d close my eyes, calling to the monsters.

Come now, I would tell them. Come right now. But they’d only come when my father tried to leave, and I’d cry out to him to stay just a little longer. This repeated itself for several cycles. My father eventually rested his weary head on my pillow, and I’d finally relax in the safe shadow of his protection.

There was nothing in the world more comforting than the sound of his snores.

I never thought much about the sacrifice, about the wasted hours, about what it must have felt like to be held hostage by the wild imagination of a little girl.

Until I entered motherhood.

Today, when I watch the sun sink through my daughter’s window, I remember my father sitting on my bed for hours at a time.

I know he must have been gritting his teeth, counting the minutes, eyeing the glow of freedom beneath my bedroom door while he waited for my eyes to close, sealing in the sweet dreams.

I know he must have been doing all that because that is what I do, night after night.

It is what all parents do for children.

Until one day, I don’t.

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It happens on the third night my husband is not home for the evening to help me through the dinner-bath-bed rut. My daughter does not want to eat dinner. She does not want a bath. Once in the bath, she does not want to come out. She wants to play hide ’n seek in her undershirt, and I have to search all over the house before I am allowed to look in her closet. She wants to wear her winter pajamas. She is hungry and she doesn’t know which snack to choose. She is thirsty.

“Bedtime. Now.” I squeeze toothpaste onto her toothbrush and place it in her hand. “Brush.”

“I don’t like this toothpaste, Mommy.

Remember when we went to Bubby’s house and she had toothpaste and it was pink and—” “This is what we have. Brush.”

I watch her touch the toothpaste to her lips. Lick it. Rub it on her tongue. “I’m counting to ten and then I take the toothbrush.” I hate using the counting thing; my daughter hates when I use the counting thing. “One. Two. Three…” I start making bargains with myself. If tonight ends with a simple, sweet tuck-in, I will scrub the kitchen cabinets when I get downstairs. I will volunteer. I will host the next community event. I will never again

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do the counting thing.

My daughter is in her bed and she’s hot.

Of course she is. I change her out of the fleece pajamas. She’s cold. I cover her. She’s thirsty.

“You can drink until I reach the number ten. One. Two. Three…”

I hover over her bed as I sing Shema, hoping to lull her to sleep. I finish Shema and move on to Mommy-Tatty-Hashem loves you and then other songs, whatever I can think of, the slowest ones. Shalom Aleichem, Ani Maamin, These Are the Mitzva Men. Her head rises and a cautious pair of eyes peek up at me above the guardrail.

“Mommy?”

I count to ten quietly, for me. “Yes?” “What will you do when you leave my room?”

“Work,” I say. “Now no more talking or I will have to leave.”

“What does it mean, work?”

I do not answer. She lies back in her bed.

Sighs a little. Turns over.

Sleep, I beg, please, please sleep. It is a prayer, or an attempt to tap into the secret hypnotic power that mothers have over children, maybe both.

It works.

I lean over her bed, listening for the deep,

I LINGER FOR A LONG MOMENT. HER HEART BEATS AGAINST MY SHOULDER, HER LITTLE PALM RESTS ON TOP OF MY OWN. rhythmic breathing. I tiptoe to the door, turn it ever so slowly.

“Mommy! Stay!”

I collapse onto the toddler bed, feeling the mattress sag beneath me. My head falls back, half of it landing on the little pillow, half on the sheet. I can see a ghostly image of my father on the edge of the bed, crumpled in exhaustion, reminding himself that sweet, simple tuck-ins are but wishful dreams.

A tuft of my daughter’s hair brushes against my cheek as she turns to face me.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?” “Benny said the new girl is stupid.”

My eyes startle open. I look up at the slanted ceiling, blink a few times. “He whispered in my ear, ‘Right, we don’t like the new girl?’”

“He…he said that? That’s…that’s not very nice, right?”

“Right. Mommy?”

“Yes?” “Can you buy me a dress that has sparkly hearts on the top and bwutter-flies on the bottom?”

“I can look for a dress like that.”

“Okay. Mommy?”

“Yes?” “Leah told Morah she has a lot of mos-

quito bites.”

“Ohhh.”

“Mommy? I don’t have mosquito bites, right?”

“Right.”

“Mommy?”

“Yes?” “What are mosquito bites?”

She falls asleep eventually. I don’t have to lean over her bed and cock an ear to listen for her deep, rhythmic breathing.

Today I can feel the gentle wind, strawberry-scented, cool against my neck.

I linger for a long moment. Her heart beats against my shoulder; her little palm rests on top of my own. I think of my daughter’s friend Benny, of sparkly dresses, of mosquito bites, and I wonder what I missed yesterday, two days ago, all the nights before this one when I have hovered over her bed instead of gazing up at the ceiling beside her, listening to her tales.

When I finally stagger out of her bedroom, I squint beneath the blinding glare of the kitchen lights. The clock on the oven reads 9:30 p.m., and I know I must have drifted off. I suddenly think back to my father, of what happened afterward.

What time did he rise from his slumber and stagger away? Did he catch a glimpse of pink lines crisscrossing his cheek in a kitchen window dotted with the underbellies of moths?

I wonder if, as he stood there blinking at his reflection, he tried to hold on to the falling stars, the settling dust of tales whispered in the dim glow of the night light. I wonder if his heart fluttered as he realized that after a blur of nights and days, his little girl would be a mother stretching out her own hands to catch her little girl’s secrets.

I wonder if, when he closes his eyes today, he can still feel the tickle of a toddler’s fuzzy blanket.

I think he can. I think he must.

I think that in the nightmarish parental chore of getting a fearful child to sleep, both of us discovered the sweet dream. l

Amazon Reviews of My Kids

BY DINA NEUMAN

I

’m not saying they’re for sale. I’m not saying I want to put them up for sale. Because I love each of them dearly and they are incredible, priceless gifts, and also because I looked into it and selling them is “against Amazon policy.” Like, in every country. I’m just saying hypothetically that if they were for sale, and they were purchased, the following would probably be their reviews: The Baby: HHHHH SO GOOD (but also a tiny bit evil) I had ordered a Roomba, but I canceled my order when this product arrived. Although not advertised as an automatic cleaner, it did a great job on my floor, scooping up even the most microscopic debris into its intake. Already it has turned up a missing button and four dollars and 50 cents in loose change. One downside: The projectile vomiting does put a damper on its Roomba function. Also, warning: This product goes off at random times of day or night. Mostly night. Technical support was no help. I have not slept through the night since I ordered it. I have started to hallucinate.

The Toddler: HHH NOT WHAT I ORDERED AT ALL I followed all of the instructions exactly, but somehow, this product came out exactly the opposite of how I expected it to turn out. It is unpredictable, unintuitive, and almost has a mind of its own, usually several minds of its own, actually. In bigger models, this behavior would be alarmingly similar to multiple personalities. In The Toddler model, this is considered normal. I did not know this. Sound quality A+++. You can hear this product clear across the house. The block. The country. Similar to surround sound.

Has no off-switch that I can detect. Self-dirtying. *Update: sometimes the off-switch is lollypops. *Update: sometimes the on-switch is lollypops!

The Big Boy: HHHH CONFUSING BUT IN A GOOD WAY,MOSTLY Overall good first impressions. Very sturdily built. Really should have built-in wheels. But upon further inspection, is prone to cracks in its finished exterior and sometimes seems

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as unintuitive as a different product I have once purchased: The Toddler. Other times, it exceeds all expectations beyond my wildest dreams. I do not detect any difference in the way I am interacting with product to induce such drastic see-saw of changes. I lose sleep over this. Or that could just be because of my recent purchase of The Baby.

The Tween: HHHHH WHOA, WHAT? A+++++ on recording capabilities! This product records everything you say with crystal-clear clarity, and plays it back to you at moments opportune or otherwise. The most versatile of all the products I have purchased from this seller, this product can interface with dolls and the next moment signal that such childish fripperies are no longer compatible.

Seems to be mostly made out of rubber, while you are made out of glue.

The Teen: HHHH WORK IN PROGRESS Often not user-friendly. Does not respond to commands.

Overall, model is as-expected, no complaints about the make; it is everything that I could have hoped for and more, but any accessories I try to get for it, even if designed for this particular model, seems to develop some sort of fault. The accessories reach obsolescence rapidly, or are “nerdy” even if they don’t seem nerdy to me.

Additional notes: the more expensive the accessory, the more rapidly it becomes incompatible.

Additional notes: Any attempts to replace expensive accessories with cheaper ones to avoid this problem have not been met with success.

In order for this product to achieve optimal performance, I have discovered it needs an astonishing amount of time interfacing with other, similar products, and if those products are not available, the product displays an “is soooooo bored” error message. When interfacing, they mostly exchange data about hair.

A+ on waterproofing: can be fully immersed in a shower for upwards of an hour with no damage to anything other than my water bill. l

PART OF

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The Moment: Shalom Steiner, 21, at his vort: “It was mamesh siyata dishmaya that I asked my Rosh Yeshiva about starting shidduchim right before this shidduch was redt!”

you’re 21.

You’re a Ben Torah. You’re a Baal Achrayos.

You’re Mechabed others. You follow Daas Torah.

You may be ready for marriage. ”It is an obligation to enable the bochurim to begin shidduchim at a younger age including encouraging them to return sooner from Eretz Yisroel.”

- Hagaon HaRav Aharon Leib Shteinman Zt”l

A

by 21 may be the right age to begin shidduchim.

graphika 732.363.8887 / Hilly Hill

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