I have to wonder what, exactly, makes a Jewish mother distinct from all other mothers. Is it her neurosis and smothering? Or is it her unconditional love for her kids? As a convert to Judaism, I have a fresh, flattering idea of what it is to be a Jewish mother… doting, caring, nurturing, and always bragging. Maybe that’s because I’ve been surrounded by some pretty incredible Jewish mothers.

Wikipedia, however, offers a different version. The author of the post suggests the stereotype “generally involves a nagging, overprotective, manipulative, controlling, smothering, and overbearing mother or wife, one who persists in interfering in her children’s lives long after they have become adults.”

As my son Harrison would say, “Harumph!” (he reads a lot of comics).

In Twenty Five Questions for a Jewish Mother, the Jewish Mother  is described in a wide range of ways – from living in hand-wringing angst, to being beautifully child-centered, and to acting neurotic. I have to say, I fit all of those. I’ve felt like a Jewish Mother since the moment I gave birth -and I wasn’t even Jewish then. I know its true because my kids tell me so.

 Like when I sent Harrison and Olivia off to walk to the store by themselves. At ages 12 and 10, one would think it wouldn’t be a matter of concern. However, our house is about half a mile from our only local market, and the journey involves crossing one busy intersection. But I was determined to let them experience the independence I had at their age, so I zipped their jackets, handed them my cell phone, and had them repeat the route to me five times (which, admittedly, involved only one turn). 

“You know where you’re going.”
“Yes, mom”
“You know to call me if you get lost.”
“Yes, mom.”
“Are you warm enough? I could just–”
“Mom. We’re fine!”
“Tell me again where you turn.”

The first leg of their trek was on the path behind our house. Lucky for me, it was partially visible from my balcony. I patted their backs, sent them on their way, and sprinted to my perch.

One minute passed. Two. Three. Half a day went by (or, in Rational Mom time– four minutes). Finally, I dialed my cell phone number.

“Yes, mom?” I heard a smiling sigh on the other end of the line.

“Did you find the path.”

“Yes, mom. Look down. We’re right here.” The phone clicked, and I heard Harrison’s voice call out across the expanse of lawn.

“Mom!”

“YES?” 

“We feel so independent!”

I congratulated myself on my choice to let them take the walk alone. Sure, it was hard for me, but look at the payoff already! My babies were growing up.  And I made it happen!

“That’s great!” I hollered back. “I’m so glad!”

“Yes!  We feel so independent with our Jewish Mother standing outside, watching us walk, and calling to us from the balcony!”

I took it as a compliment.