Mayim Rabim

When we were dating, and when we were engaged, I heard my soon-to-be-husband talk a lot about his rebbeim. As I planned the wedding, his biggest concern seemed to be which one should get which kibud*. Who should be mesader*? he agonized. Who should get which bracha*? To me, wrapped up in the burning question of how to get a kosher meal catered for less than $25 a plate (you can stop laughing now) and how to explain to my in-laws that they could not invite all the people they wanted to invite without giving us more money because I, myself, was paying for this wedding with the seven thousand dollars in my savings account—to me, that question seemed trivial if not insignificant.

In the end, the rebbe that my husband refers to as “my rebbe” the way Chabadniks refer to “the rebbe” had the bracha acharona*. I met him, briefly, at the chassuna*. He seemed nice. Enormous, physically, with many many children. Big black hat. Big black beard. You know. A rabbi.

When, a month or two after our wedding, I had to deal with some impossible personal problems, my husband had one piece of advice. “Call my rebbe,” he said. I didn’t do it. What did his rebbe know about the craziness in my life, the binding relationships that should not exist at all? I had my husband call. His rebbe gave me an unexpected heter*.

All right, I said.

A year later, when I was pregnant with our first child, toward the end of my pregnancy I found myself covered with the unspeakably awful rash that some women get while pregnant—they call it PUPP, which probably stands for something specific, but I came up with a different name every time. Perniciously Unpleasant Pregnancy Pustules. Plague of Utterly Putrid Putrescence. And so on. To say it itched would be failing to even hint at the utter collapse of mental balance, the unrelenting misery, the 5 AM hysteria. It was awful. Lotions and showers and oatmeal baths helped some—and it was almost Pesach, with four days of yom tov plus Shabbos.

I called his rebbe. When I got off the phone, an hour later, and showed my husband the list of notes—I could take a hot bath on yom tov, I could knit chol ha’moed—my husband’s mouth fell open in wonder. “The only thing you can’t do when you’re pregnant,” he said, “is play video games on Shabbos.”

I had that baby, after a long and difficult labor. I didn’t get my period back for a year, and then got pregnant and miscarried twice in quick succession. Already well into my thirties, with only one child to show for three pregnancies, I worried. Would I ever have another?

Another month went by with no pink line. And another. The next month, when it was the day to make a hefsek tahara, I knew I had to get it right—the next week we were going to visit my husband’s parents, in a town with no mikva. I wouldn’t come home until well after I’d ovulated. I had to go to the mikva the night before we left, or I would miss the month.

What happened? My daughter, sixteen months old, had a bad day—a cold, a tummyache, I don’t remember. One thing got on top of another and the next thing I knew, it was five minutes past shkia*. I cried.

“You could call my rebbe,” my husband suggested.

I wanted to hit him. Your rebbe can’t turn back the clock or make the sun go back up in the sky! But I called anyway. I explained. There was a long silence. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I feel terrible.” We talked about fertility, the miscarriages, my worries. Gam tzu l’tova, I kept saying. “A month is gam tzu l’tova*,” he said. “Two years is not.” But I had gotten pregnant three times, carried to term once. It would happen. I got off the phone feeling better, angry at myself but resigned.

A little while later the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, surprised. “Hello?”

“I thought of something,” he said. “Can you tell me...” and he asked me some questions. I answered them. Pause. “I want to look something up,” he said. “Are you going to be home tonight?”

Throughout the evening, a few times, the phone rang. More questions. More long pauses. Did you look at the toilet paper? How deeply did you wipe? When? What were you thinking? Did you look to see if there was blood? Did you even glance? I answered, he paused, he asked another question. I hung up. An hour later, the phone would ring again.

At almost midnight, the phone rang. I picked it up. “It’s fine,” he said. “You can count day one tomorrow.”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d missed my hefsek tahara. I’d totally forgotten. How could it just...be okay?

”Are you sure?” I asked, immediately feeling like a complete jerk. “I’m so sorry. Of course you’re sure. I just...okay.”

I counted one the next day, and a week later I went to the mikva. And do I even need to tell you what happened next?

He’s seven months old. He has blue eyes and brown hair and smells so good. And he is named for someone who had faith in Hashem and walked into the water, because that’s what Hashem told him to do.

~ Anonymous

Anonymous is a thirty-something mother of a daughter and a son, who is unafraid to walk into the water.

===

* kibud: honor
mesader: short for “mesader kiddushin” – the person who officiates at the wedding ceremony
bracha: blessing
bracha acharona: final blessing (at the wedding ceremony)
chassuna: wedding celebration
heter: halachic dispensation
shkia: sunset
gam tzu l’tova: “There is a reason for everything” (lit. “This is also for good”)

For those who haven't been keeping up, I'm on two forms of birth control now: a low-dose pill and a diaphragm. This is because a medication that I'm taking compromises the effectiveness of the pill. It's just as well that I have backup, because I can be a bit of a scatterbrain. Case in point: Last month, when I came back from the mikvah, I forgot to use the diaphragm.

I tried not to worry too much, since I did have some protection from the pill. I didn't tell my husband, so as not to make him unnecessarily anxious. All the same, I was hoping that my period would come on the early side and reassure me. Usually, it comes on Monday or Tuesday. By Wednesday, I began to get nervous and told my husband.

All the next day I was worried and confused. I knew that we couldn't afford a child and that if I was pregnant I'd have to go off my meds, which might have done some harm already. But the maternal urge is very strong in some women, and I couldn't help feeling a wave of irrational excitement when I thought about having a baby. I browsed the web, reading up on signs of early preganancy and health tips for preganant women. I speculated on whether our apartment was big enough for a young child. And I worried about the lack of responsibility that I'd exhibited in various areas of life in the recent past. Could I get my career back on track? Could I care for an infant? Could I possibly do both at once?

When I didn't menstruate by Thursday morning, I went to the drug store to buy a home pregnancy test. It was too early to get the 99% accuracy that the tests advertise, but Husband and I figured that we might as well have a little bit more information by Shavuot. False positives are very rare even at early stages, and if my reading was negative, at least we'd know that the odds were on our side.

I took the test and set a timer for two minutes, the amount of time it takes to yield a result. My whole body was tingling. I closed my eyes, not sure what I was hoping for. When I opened them, I saw a blue minus sign on the strip. The tingling stopped and my breathing returned to normal. Between the pill and the strip, the odds of my being pregnant were now quite low.

I took another test this morning and got the same result. This didn't surprise me. It isn't uncommon to miss a period when taking horemonal birth control; I've missed one before myself. But this was the first time that I really, seriously thought that I might be pregnant. It's a great relief to know that I'm not, but the irrational part of me that was excited before is now a little bit sad.

Ah, well. I guess this makes up for the month when I had to go to the mikvah twice.

At first I was apprehensive about my approaching labor. After all, childbirth would render me niddah, forcing a separation from my husband. After 9 months of being tahor, I dreaded once again being niddah.

But then as the contractions grew more intense, and I shifted into real labor, my focus shifted as well. Shifted and narrowed. I was forced to concentrate on each contraction as it washed over me, and I no longer wanted to prolong labor. My husband's presence in the delivery room was
important to me, but he sort of faded into the background. After all, he could offer me nothing in the way of physical support, being forbidden to touch me once labor began in earnest. But his emotional support was important to me, and very real. I needed him there: If he had been absent, I would have felt the wrongness, but since he was there, it was just part of the bigger picture, part of the harmony of the universe.

And then suddenly the baby was here, (wasn't there supposed to be a pushing stage? I think I missed it!) and being niddah meant nothing at all. I was exhilarated and exhausted, and between the baby nursing and the other kids climbing on me, the better see their new sister, I think if one more person touched me I would have screamed!

And my body is so tired, tired from pregnancy and tired from delivery. I do need time to recover before resuming my physical relationship with my husband. At first the harchakot seemed a bit silly, since I wasn't up for much more than cuddling anyway! But I remembered that he hadn't just gone through childbirth, and so they were mainly for him. And after a week or two, I needed them too, as I began to long for his touch once more, however much my body is not yet recovered.

While I "miss" the physical side of our relationship, I remember that my husband truly is my best friend, and we can relate on so many different levels. In fact, we have to remember to stop talking late into the night so that we can both get the sleep we need!

And I realize again the beauty of this arrangement, that not only gives me time to rest and recover, and helps us to develop the other aspects of our relationship, but also insures that our physical intimacy will resume, without any mixed signals, without each side wondering if
the other is "ready" yet. At some point I'll tell him I've made an appointment for the mikvah, and when I go, we'll both be on the same page, and (more than) ready for our reunion.

..Moshiach, of course. But along the way, also awaiting the end of pregnancy and the birth of a new baby. And as the birth neared, I found myself with very mixed feelings.

As the days of non-productive contractions dragged on, (this often happens when you've had a lot of babies, as I have) I found my focus was not on this new life I would (with G-d's help) merit to bring into the world within the next week or so, but on the fact that childbirth would leave me niddah. And all I wanted was for my husband to hold me and never let go.

As he put it, the baby will need me more than he will for a little while, and I'll need the space and time to recover from the trauma to my body (and let's face it, childbirth is traumatic to a woman's body.)

And yet I feel so silly and shallow, because becoming niddah is my focus, and shouldn't I instead be joyfully anticipating the birth of my baby?

It will be hard, though. Hard to not reach for him as he passes by, hard to remember not to pass things to him (after all, it's been 9 months since we had to worry about such things), hard to not be able to hand him the baby. We've done this before, many times, and we'll adjust, settle into the "new" old routine, have somewhere safe to put the baby for passing in most rooms of the house, even remember to put something on the table between us... and although it will be longer than the 2 weeks of a standard cycle, this too shall pass, and mikvah night will eventually come. Somehow knowing all that doesn't make it any easier!

A friend who got married 10 months ago gave birth today. She called to tell me the whole birth story.

And I got so jealous. Gosh, those hormones are in full force. I just finished my period and am in the midst of counting. I want to be pregnant. I want to give birth. I want to have a new baby in my arms.

But I can't let my emotions get the better of me. When I stop to actually think about these things, I realize that a) I HATE being pregnant. Pregnancy is physically very difficult for me and I'm basically useless for most of my pregnancy. b) Both my labors were difficult (the first more than the second), and I'm high risk so there has been a lot of medical intervention in both of my labors. And c) the last thing I need right now is two demanding toddlers and a demanding newborn.

Gosh, the thought of having three little kids all screaming at the same time is enough to make me run for my diaphragm.

Okay, that was a good reality check. But I still want a baby!

For those of you in the New York area, Nishmat is hosting "Women’s Health and Halacha Day" this Sunday, May 15.

There's info here: http://www.yoatzot.org/healthday_LI.php

This is appropriate to Mayim Rabim:

Opening Session: “Scenes from a Jewish Marriage:
Taharat HaMishpacha from Chupah to Menopause".
Deena Zimmerman, M. D., Yoetzet Halacha

This intrigues me:

Infertility and the Orthodox Couple.
Matthew A. Cohen, M. D., Dassi Jacobson, Ph. D., Zamira Ostrowski, Yoetzet Halacha

Has anyone noticed that infertility is the hot topic among Jewish organizations these days?

And this was just funny:

"Baby is available from 10:30 a.m. through 4:15 p.m."

Hmmm... for rent or purchase? ;)

The last time I went to the mikvah was in late August 2003 after my post-partum checkup.

Since then, my nursing hormones have been in full swing. While I was dealing with a three-week early baby who couldn’t nurse properly for the first few months, a colicky baby like you wouldn’t believe for the first six months and a baby who wouldn’t sleep more than two hours at a stretch until 18 months, at least there was no staining. Of course I was too frazzled and tired and cranky for intimacy. And then there was the post-natal depression and the Zoloft. But I digress.

Things had been getting better lately. The spouse and I were closer than ever. The baby was turning into an amusing toddler who loved to shout “Imma, nurse” or "Imma, nipple" loudly in shul. And both the older child and said baby were sleeping soundly enough for the parents to have some fun.

Then last Shabbat came. The spouse was out of town on business for a week and the older one was with the ex. It was just baby and Imma alone for the weekend. We came home from shul and whammo. Hmm...that's odd. The mini-pill is, in theory, working. The baby is still nursing--regardless of whether or not I want to. I still have a couple months left to go from my 24-month nursing clean clock. What’s up? Wait, scratch that. I know what it is. The question is why it is. My body is going wonky.

After phoning the OB, it was time to place a call to a local kallah teacher for a refresher course. Not a moment too soon, I guess.

I’d been thinking about mikvah for weeks, months. All of this available time does that. You know, I’ve been thinking about how I didn’t always take advantage of the available time. I’ve been thinking about how my body belonged to everyone but me -- nursing baby, wanting spouse, demanding older child. I’ve been thinking about how I missed having that regular time to myself and marking the month by my body’s calendar. But, I’ve been thinking in the theoretical. I haven’t really been thinking about checking and bedika cloths and slinking off in the dark of night and praying I wouldn’t run into anyone I know.

I’ve also been thinking about mikvah in new ways as I’ve read a variety of blogs and followed the development of this site. I’ve sat here in my cube at work sniffling as I read accounts of infertility and wishing I could loan out my functioning uterus – here take mine, I’m not using it. I’ve smiled as I imagine kallahs going off for that first visit. I’ve imagined the emotional power of the g’yoret coming out a changed person.

I am excited that I can again mark time with my body. I am looking forward to immersing again and feeling that moment of “kosher.” But I am also sad and scared. I’m sad that I didn’t take advantage of the together time as much as I should have…my own insecurities and inabilities to initiate. My mishegas. I’m also sad – a bit like Vaibel. This may be my last child. With work, community demands, the cost of day school, shul memberships, camp, daycare and on and on…I’m probably done.

I feel guilty even saying this here. I mean, here I am with two healthy children. What more could I ask for? A third? That’s pushing my luck. Yes, I want a third child – and one of the other gender – but what am I doing in this venue asking for more? For those who have none and yearn so, I feel like a complete heel wishing for one more go-round. I wish I could share more than just my prayers for those looking, trying, wishing to become parents. Still, the thought of re-entering the mikvah solely for the right to reconnect with the spouse without the intent to procreate is a little weird. It’s one thing to think "not now." It’s another to say, “I’m done.” Again, my mishegas.

So now I’m waiting, dealing and watching. The spouse came home from his trip last night to find me dealing with the latest emotional terrorism from the ex, the possibility that we’re have to look for a new house ASAP and that our shul voted to hire a new rabbi – one he and I don’t want. Anyway, what I wanted when he walked in the door I couldn’t have. And I’m told that since I’m staining mid-cycle, I could end up staining again later in the month. Classic.

Figures. I guess all this means is that I’m coming back to the real world. It’s been nice while it lasted.

I recently went to the mikvah - as in I was in niddah. My baby is basically sleeping through the night and so the nursing is not enough to keep my period away. I got what I thought was my period but it completely "dried up" within three days. So I counted five and seven and went to the mikvah.

I guess I will have to update my profile, because now I'm not "nursing clean" anymore. This makes me sad; sad on many levels.

It means my baby is growing up. It means that I could get pregnant again, although not really. I don't "do well" when I'm pregnant and it puts a great strain on my marriage. In fact, I would go as far to say that when I'm pregnant I'm a completely different woman - a hormonal, whacked out, emotional nutball.

So after I had this most recent baby, I went to the Rov.

And I asked for a heter.

It was perhaps the hardest thing I've ever asked a rov about. Maybe because it was so deeply personal, maybe because the last time I used birth control I didn't have to ask permission from another person, maybe it was because I would have to admit that I don't know if I can handle three babies under the age of four. It took a lot of tears and a lot of explaining that maybe my marriage would be at risk if I got pregnant again too soon, but in the end he gave me one for a certain amount of time.

Well, that time is up in a few months - and of course, now that I'm not nursing clean I need that heter more than ever. I am terrified that if I get pregnant again I will lose it completely.

I went to the Rov while I was in the seven clean days for a shailah on a stain, and while I was there I asked for an extension of the heter. He gave me another six months.

And so I went to the mikvah, the place from which all the brochas for children come from, and then went home and put in my diaphragm. And for the first time in my life, I went to the mikvah knowing that there was no way a child could result from it. It was a big let down and I felt like why was I even going? There was no way I was going to get pregnant!

It's then when I realized that in some small part of my mind I realized that one of the reasons I married my husband was so I could have children. He is just a means to an end - the goal of having children. Of course that's not the only reason why I married him. But now that goal is gone, at least for the immediate future.

And what's left?

The idea that my self worth is not directly proportional to the number of children I bear and raise. That and the real work - of developing a loving and emotionally healthy husband-wife relationship, a substantial parent-child relationship.

Am I going to feel like my life is futile unless I keep pumping out those babies?

I'm afraid.

I had a miscarriage Rosh Chodesh Adar. Ironic, isn't it? The Jewish month of joy, the new moon, Ash Wednesday, Chinese New Year...any way you slice it, it was a big day.

I was at the end of my first trimester. The time when finally parents-to-be cautiously breathe a sigh of relief that the most fragile third of the pregnancy has been successfully navigated. The time when family & friends may be privileged to hear the good news of an immanent new baby Jew.

Instead of sharing this news with the excitement and awe that we had been looking forward to on that day, we buried our fetus, along with its placenta, under a sapling. The hopes for our first child crushed. We really wanted this baby. No ritual or name for this little one, yet its early departure left me with the status of a yoledet - a woman who has recently given birth - according to Jewish Law. Which means that if we ever manage to conceive another child & it is a boy, that my husband, who is of the Israelite class, will not be allowed to perform pidyon haben. This makes sense to me, as the "first born" is the one who opens the womb initially. And this child did just that. A blindingly painful 5 hours of contractions, nausea & chaos. But not really. I delivered the entire contents of my womb on my own, thank G-d, and the only medical advice I received was, "Don't stick anything inside you for two weeks".

Well, being an Orthodox couple, we knew that a yoledet bears a longer period of nidah from her husband than a woman who has only experienced her menses. There was no way we could be intimate again for at least the next two weeks anyway, on religious grounds. And to be honest, I was feeling very protective of myself "down there", so was in no hurry.

I needed time to grieve our loss, as did my husband. And to deal with this flow of blood that signals death. One of the reasons given for a woman to go to mikvah before she unites with her husband is that she is brought so close to death by her cycle. Whether it is the loss of an ovum or a stillbirth child, G-d forbid, she must ready herself for intimacy by counting a minimum amount of time after her blood & then returning to another womb of sorts.

The mikvah is like going home. Like both your Father and your Mother enveloping you - but not your Earthly parents, The Supernal Aba & Ema. G-d.

The blood never seemed to stop. I felt like I was dying, but I knew it was just my fears there there might be something wrong with me. I confided in my friend Ariellah, who said, "How do you know that this wasn't just a very high soul who visited you temporarily because it needed to do a last little bit of teshuvah? How do you know that this Being did not find joy in you while you held it within you?" I wept.

As my breasts & belly shrank, I brought confusion and anger into my davenen. I had said a special prayer, traditional to Medieval Italian Jewish women, to protect myself & my pregnancy from any disaster. It hadn't worked. There were no answers. I didn't know what to do with my agony or questions, so I gave them all to G-d.

I tried so hard to focus on the things I had to be thankful for each time I threw myself on the bed & cried. I was so disappointed. But my womb did its job, B"H, and I did not hemorrage, B"H, and I did not require a D&C, B"H, and I was never in any physical danger, B"H, and my doctor is not concerned about my body. She is only very sorry for me.

During the "white" days I dreaded the bedikat. I didn't want to see any blood because I wanted to feel like I was healing and yet seeing the wrong color would assure me that I could postpone intimacy, that I could remain cloistered in my private grief. I hated all the counting & all the rules, which I had never hated before, because I just wanted to be free and on my own and not have any externally applied boundaries to my process of letting go and coming around.

Mikvah night came, "finally". I was full of mixed feelings during my preparation, partly because I wasn't sure if I felt emotionally ready to share a bed with my husband quite yet, as wonderful and supportive as he had been during this difficult time. My body seemed ready, though, showing me that I was already ovulating again. Eager to risk another miscarriage, or possibly a living child.

I was extra scrupulous in the tub, as it would be Shabbos when I immersed. I had never done tevilah on Shabbos, so I checked with the mikvah lady ahead of time about what extra or different or special things I would need to do or be aware of during my prep & while in the water. She reminded me to floss before candle lighting and to be more careful about my hands and feet. She also asked me to tie my hair back with an elastic after I had combed everything out, as knots in hair could not be unsnarled after Shabbos and those disqualify the tevilah. She was very nice about it.

I arrived at the mikvah and she let me in happily. She was 8 months pregnant. I tried not to feel jealous. I don't want to put the ayin hara on her or her baby. We wished each other a Shabbat Shalom and she showed me into one of the changing rooms so I could undress. "Don't worry," she said with a smile, "it's really fast on Friday night, because there's nothing for you to do."

I came out into the light in my towel for her to check me over. She said I looked pretty, which was very sweet of her. Then we went into the mikvah room and I stood in front of the steps. Such a beautiful, sacred place where all my fears, my shortcomings, my veneers of Self, of Ego which cover my neshamah get washed away each cycle. A place I used to be so eager to visit and now, not so much. As she closed the door behind her I suddenly broke down in sobs.

"Aw, are you okay?" she asked as she came over with a sympathetic look on her face.
"No," I answered through my tears, "I'm here because I had a miscarriage, so I was just hoping that I would not have had to come back to the mikvah this early. I'm sorry - I didn't think I would do this."
She gave me a great big hug, her with her great big belly & me in my white cotton towel. She looked me in the eye reassuringly & told me that this was a new beginning. She was right. I thanked her for reminding me.

I gave her my towel and descended into the warm, healing waters. The soft swirling whisper they made as they surrounded me was comforting. Because it was Shabbos, I dunked one time "for my shower" that normally I would take when I arrived at the mikvah on a chol day. Then a second time as usual. she pronounced it kosher. So I reached for the cloth to put on my head, crossed my arms in front of me and said the berachah with very narrow focus. After her "ameyn", I went under three more times.

Once with the hope that G-d would heal my body and soul so that I would be ready and able to birth a living, surviving child one day, drowning my tears and washing them away.

"Kosher."

Once with the request that G-d would help my husband and me through our sadness and strengthen our marriage from this crisis.

"Kosher."

Then one final time that I be enabled to make myself and my work and the way I am in the world all one, doing G-d's will.

"Kosher."

May this be the will of the Holy one, HaKadosh baruch Hu.
A new beginning.
Yeysh mey-ayin.

I think I’ll get my proverbial “feet wet” with a mikvah story about a friend, rather than myself. I was still a single girl when a good friend told me this story.

She was in her 30s, after being frum for a number of years. She was married for over three years and had been told by a few infertility specialists that she and her husband could never get pregnant without medical assistance (funny how often you hear that). She had been given a heter to only make bedikahs on the first and last day of counting (I don’t recommend this practice unless you absolutely must). The trick to this is that you must remember to make that last bedikah; if you forget you have to start counting all over again. (Just a technical note, this is a complicated matter and you should consult with a Rov and a Kallah Teacher if you have such a heter/practice and if you experience what happens next.)

So here was my friend who had made only her first bedikah, and she and her husband went “out of town” to help friends who were running a Purim Party at a Jewish Old Age home. She was due to make her last bedikah that day and toivel that evening. As everything Jewish goes, the Purim party started late, ran late and they left back to Brooklyn late. Sure enough, they got stuck in traffic, and between the craziness of the day and the traffic she either forgot or couldn’t make the last bedikah before sunset. She called the Rov who told her, unfortunately because she had not made any bedikahs other than the first, she would have to start all over again – i.e. if she had made even one bedikah in the middle she could have started counting seven again from that middle bedikah. But now she would have to start over again.

Devastated and with great mesiras nefesh, she counted again, feeling that now this was a wasted cycle, and that by the time she got to the mikvah it would be too late to get pregnant. Gam tzu la tova she told herself. This time she made sure to make her bedikah on the last day. She went to the mikvah feeling sad and blue. She bathed and prepared herself for the mikvah. When she was ready she rang the desk, and in a few minutes one of the mikvah ladies came to take her to the mikvah. Now this is a busy mikvah with four or five mikvah ladies that split up the days of the week amongst them – you never know which mikvah lady you will get on any given day. The mikvah lady, who hadn’t seen my friend in some time said, “I haven’t seen you in such a long time! Do you get a mazel tov? Did you have a baby?” Now I’m sure the mikvah lady had the best of intentions, but this just pushed my friend over the edge.

She began to cry and couldn’t stop. She explained that no, she wasn’t pregnant yet. The mikvah lady apologized, but my friend couldn’t stop crying. As she told me, “I couldn’t tell if the water I immersed in was rain water or my own tears.” She toiveled, the mikvah lady apologized again, she got dressed and went home a broken woman.

Of course, I’m sure you figured out by now, that she had a beautiful baby nine months later; a child that has gone on to be a bright star – a smart, funny, and beautiful six year old – and the now the oldest of four with a fifth on the way.

I tell this story not because of the miracle or divine providence in her getting pregnant, but because of her mesiras nefesh to keep halacha and to remind everyone to watch what they say. The mikvah lady in question was oblivious to this person’s situation and made what she thought was a nice comment. It devastated my friend instead. But perhaps that devastation was the teshuva she needed to get pregnant. I don’t know. I just know that if it was me I would have probably hauled off and belted the mikvah lady.