Somewhere between endless carpool lines, twelve group chats, and frantic Whole Foods runs (Amazon returns stuffed in my purse), I stumbled into something I didn’t even know I needed: a Jewish mom sisterhood.
It didn’t magically appear at yoga or soccer practice, although a few recruits came from there. Some of these women were childhood acquaintances or old family friends who reemerged when our kids landed in the same swim class or dance studio. Apparently, the universe loves trapping Jewish moms in overlapping extracurriculars.
Others I met during my six-year tour of duty as a PTA warrior at my daughter’s preschool, bonding over shared trauma like COVID lockdowns and the cruel realization that both Jewish and federal holidays are off. (That calendar basically mocks you.) And some just arrived via the time-honored Jewish tradition of “a friend of a friend who is basically family now.”
Many of these women had older kids and became my unofficial guides through the chaos.
They had “been there, done that,” while I was still trying to unfold a pack ’n play without the instructions. (Side note: I had my first kid at 37, so by the time I was buying my first lunchbox, they were knee deep in mitzvah planning and college prep.)
Somewhere between the chaos and the carpool, a sisterhood quietly formed. At first, it was all logistics. “Does anyone know a babysitter for tonight?” “A roofer who won’t charge three grand to fix a shingle?” Then came the unofficial Jewish Moms Night Out with wine, charcuterie boards, and a chorus of collective eye rolls. Eventually, we renamed the group chat to make it sound more legit because nothing says grown-up like a renamed text thread.
Meanwhile, in another group, someone boldly declared, Let’s have a Book Club. Adorable, until we realized only three people actually read the book. Now it is mostly charcuterie inspiration, shared referrals, and juicy mom gossip that somehow loops back to someone we all knew by the third sentence.
Speaking of camp … ah, summer camp, my latest source of bonding and mild panic. The infamous Jewish mom packing list reads less like a checklist and more like a survival guide for the apocalypse. At this point, I’m basically furnishing a college dorm room for a 9-year-old who still can’t butter her toast.
But here’s the thing, these women show up.
Not just with packing hacks or the magic sunscreen that doesn’t sting eyes. They show up with carpools when your week implodes. With soup when you are sick, hugs at drop off, tissues at sleepaway camp goodbyes, and SPF 50 on every field trip. They show up with sarcasm, snacks, stories, and a deep understanding of what it means to do Jewish motherhood right now.
Which means juggling a million questions before your first sip of coffee. Why didn’t Hashem stop Hamas? Is it dangerous to wear my Jewish star? Am I going to get kidnapped? All while trying not to be late for Sunday school and Mathnasium.
We are all a little different. Some of us light candles most Fridays. Some are kosher-ish. Some attend shul weekly, while others only show up for the Purim carnival and the latkes. But here’s the secret: we’re in it together.
I did not go looking for a village.
Honestly, I just wanted to survive Sunday school drop-off without an argument about why school on the weekend is even a thing and maybe sneak five minutes alone in the bathroom without someone yelling “MOM!” through the door.
What I found was so much better. A group of women who make me feel less alone in this wild, sticky, hilarious phase of raising Jewish kids. We don’t always agree. Some of us are proudly pro screens. Others are crazier like me. But we showed up. We laugh. We cry. We panic-ordered camp supplies at 11 p.m. from our Amazon account. We bring good snacks and even better gossip.
It’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s loud, messy, and full of people talking over each other. But it’s ours. I didn’t just find a sisterhood. I found my people, the ones who get the jokes, bring the sunscreen, and remind me that I’m not doing this alone.
