The stress of being a Jewish American, and what we can do about it.
<p>I was in the park last week with my wife, our twin five month old boys, and our black and white Havanese puppy, Kugel. It was a gorgeous, unseasonably warm day, and we were enjoying taking a break from our phones, from the never ending cycle of horrific news stories about Israel, harrowing personal experiences, denial that these atrocities actually happened, the justification for them, and eventually, what random Twitter user @Kevbro3457x8cv7 replied to a post. We needed a break and some fresh air. As we walked along the path, Kugel saw a stranger she wanted to introduce herself to (she’s <em>very</em> friendly), and I instinctively said to her in Hebrew “Shvi!” (sit). Almost immediately, I felt a ping of regret. I grew up with an Israeli father, have generally spoken to him in mostly Hebrew, and practiced that skill with Kugel and my two sons, Kobi and Amos. </p>
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