Two jokes

Two deeply private stories about parenthood from the holy weekend

My oldest child came into our bedroom at 6AM Saturday morning and immediately fake coughed. “Mama,” he croaked like a Dickensian factory orphan. “I’m sick.” He collapsed on the bed and continued coughing up into the air. I felt his forehead. Cool as a cucumber. I looked into his mouth. Completely fine. “I don’t think I can go to temple services,” he whispered. He had the tiniest shadow of a smile and avoided eye contact with us. It was a brilliant performance. Full Meryl. And that’s when I made the chilling diagnosis: