It was at this moment that, I’m ashamed to say, I busted out the big guns
A half hour later, my husband, the responsible one, looked up from the souvenir Lego set (not Israel-themed, but five-year-old boys prefer what they prefer) he was putting together with my son and scanned the living room, a frown gathering. “Do you see my backpack? I want to put away the passports,” he said. I couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see it. Long story short: He’d left it in the back of the random yellow cab we hailed off the JFK taxi line. Long story shorter: It also contained his tefillin and wallet.
It was at this moment that, I’m ashamed to say, I busted out the big guns. “Gather round, children,” I called out in a honeyed morah voice that I’d never heard myself use before. “This is a huge opportunity for—”
“Bitachon!” my five-year-old called out.
“A hug from Hashem!” said my girls, who definitely learned that in day camp, shkoyach Camp Revach. I glowed with nachas from my place on the couch, feet up.
My husband? Less impressed. “These are my tefillin you’re talking about. Can you please dial it down and help me figure this out?” he telepathically beamed into my head (we never argue in front of the kids, you see).
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