Last night I went to see a stepford art friend. She was sitting shiva for her mother. During shiva you need 10 jews (more typically male jews, but not in my egalitarian congregation) to be present before you say prayers. Some congregants who had committed to show up didn't show, only 8 jews were present, and the rabbi turned to me and asked if Matt could come. I said I'd call him. Then the rabbi asked if Evan could come too. We needed two more bodies. A couple of quick calls later and Matt and Evan pulled up, everyone grabbed a prayer book and stood for prayers. To keep my motherless self from bursting into tears, I focused on my kids, who had saved the day by coming down, and who were present because since they have been bar mitzvah-ed they are both considered adults according to Jewish law, who were the tallest two people in the room, whose deep voices prayed and sang along with the crowd. It was amazing to me that I am the mom of these adults, these adults that saved the day for a mourning family, these adults that towered above the (admittedly kind of short) crowd, these adults with smooth deep voices, these adults who better go straight home and do their homework, these adults that fight me every night over going to bed at a reasonable time, these adults who never remember to bring the thermos that I packed their homemade hot lunch in. Okay, I feel better now.