Dear Helicopter Moms, You’re Ruining It For Everyone Else

by Elizabeth Broadbent for Playground Professionals

She’s standing there under my 3-year-old, arms aloft like she’s at church waiting for God to drop a truth bomb on her. Baby Bear monkey-shimmies 6-foot metal ladder.

“Do you know whose he is?” she asks me, almost breathless with terror.

“He’s mine,” I say. “And he’s been climbing that ladder since he was 2.”

She gawks at me. And then I know I’m doomed: She’s a hoverer. And unless I hover over my kids, she’ll do it for me, not-so-silently judging me all the time. Thanks for ruining my mama playdate, lady.

Because there are two kinds of parents at the park.

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I Don’t Let My Daughter Near Any Screens. This is Why

B.J. Epstein for Kveller

We don’t own a TV. There, I said it.

Shocked? Most people are when they find out. My students, who are in a university literature department, often talk about TV shows and movies in class, and when they hear that I haven’t seen any of the things they’re talking about, their mouths fall open. “But what do you do with your time?” they ask (yes, even literature students ask me what I do if I don’t watch TV).

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Day camp drama: Why can’t I find a Jewish program for my kids?

By Lisa Keys for JTA
I live in New York, one of the most Jewish cities in the world, and yet I reside in a pocket that has few options for Jewish life.

I love my western Queens neighborhood, where my husband and I have lived for more than a decade. The community is great — it’s the kind of place where we babysit each other’s kids — and it’s an easy commute to Manhattan.

But one thing I’ve despaired: the limited Jewish infrastructure. And never do I feel the pain of this more acutely than this time of year, when summer plans are being made. It’s my dream to send my kids, ages 5 and 8, to a Jewish summer camp. But this always seemed impossible, due to a combination of high cost and inconvenience.

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The Jewish Reason Why I Read Dr. Seuss to My Sons

Lela Casey for Kveller
The first time I read “Green Eggs and Ham” to my oldest son, he was 3 years old. I was trying to convince him to eat a cheese stick and getting nowhere. Finally, at my wits end over his impossible eating habits, I remembered the book that he’d recently received as a gift.

For the next 10 minutes he smiled and giggled at Sam I Am and his persistent sales pitch. When the book was over, I handed him the cheese stick one last time and smiled hopefully. He didn’t eat it… Not in his chair, not with his bear, not in the bed, not on his head. But, he did fall in love with Dr. Seuss.

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