This was the first night of Hanukkah last year:
I was about to burst, we kind of half-assed it. My celebratory glass of wine put me right to sleep.
This year, we were (almost) totally ready at sunset. Presents wrapped, food cooking, baby’s new mama-made kippah loosely attached to whatever wispy hairs we could snag.
George helped to light the candles. He ate some of the challah we ran all over town to find this afternoon.
Mama got a new calendar; Papa got a new coat.
We learned that one of us doesn’t like couscous
But really likes paper bags.
This Hanukkah, when we celebrate miracles, I am most thankful that this — my commonplace — feels so miraculous.