My youngest child does not eat.
We used to feed her with syringes of breast milk,
a gloved finger in her mouth.
At four months, she decided to dabble
in breastfeeding.
Â
At synagogue for Rosh HashanahThe Jewish New Year, also considered the Day of Judgment. The period of the High Holidays is a time of introspection and atonement. The holiday is celebrated with the sounding of the shofar, lengthy prayers in synagogue, the eating of apples and honey, and round challah for a sweet and whole year. Tashlikh, casting bread on the water to symbolize the washing away of sins, also takes place on Rosh Hashana.,
she nursed under my tallitA four-cornered garment to which ritual fringes (tzitzit/tzitzi'ot) are affixed. The knots in the fringes represent the name of God and remind us of God's commandments. The tallit is worn during prayer and can also be drawn about oneself or around the bride and groom to symbolize divine protection.,
her gulps awkward and precious.
My oldest child danced in the aisles,
swift and agile, creating
boundaries for the world around.
Â
Are they conversing with G!d?
Here we are!
they say.
Â
She stopped nursing    for good
before the blast of the last shofarA ram's horn that is blown on the High Holidays to "wake us up" and call Jews to repentance. It is also said that its blast will herald the coming of the messiah..
We went home to eat dinner,
my wife remarking,
I’ll give her a bottle.
Â
My daughter used to getA writ of divorce. Traditionally, only a man can grant his wife a get. Liberal Jews have amended this tradition, making divorce more egalitarian. sick every day,
her body rejecting the PediaSure.
Now we feed her with feigned disinterest
as if she will drink more,
if ignored.
Â
My daughter, liminal
at four months,
waiting for test results,
until the geneticist found
her mosaic.
Â
These children are beloved.
My daughter gently kisses
my son’s forehead at bedtime,
pushing bangs off his smooth, dry forehead.
Â
When she cries,
he holds her on his lap,
encircling her body with his arms.
Â
Escaping the dinner table,
they grasp hands. A shriek,
joyful and rebellious.
Â
My son travels by handstands and cartwheels.
He scampers up furniture like a cat,
or is it Spiderman?
He leans on my back
as I hook up his sister’s feeds,
tubing hanging from her pajama shirt.
Â
She is bright and solid in my arms.
My son balances
on the edge of her crib, beaming
as his arms reach toward the ceiling.
