I feel the sharp fingernails of despair and frustration claw at me
We’re sitting around the Shabbos table, and I’m scooping (store-bought, of course) chocolate flake ice cream into cones and handing one to each kid. “Here you go, Motty,” I say, and hand my ten-year-old his.
He smiles and licks the cone. A white mustache forms on his upper lip.
“Hey!” my 12-year-old pipes up. “You said Motty isn’t allowed dessert because he sneaked cookies this morning.”
I freeze, ice cream scoop midair.
Motty freezes, ice cream cone midair.
I feel the sharp fingernails of despair and frustration claw at me.
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