The DMC

A Column for Teens (of all Ages)

 as told to Michelle Mond

 Noooo…not Tzippy, I think to myself while clutching at the rack of coats at Macys. Anyone but Tzippy…please, Hashem, make her leave.”

Thoughts race in my head as I make a beeline for the dressing rooms in order to remain anonymous in an extremely public

 When my oldest aunt got engaged, I was over-the-moon excited – not just because I felt like I had a hand in it, having found out she was engaged exactly an hour after I had been fervently davening for her on a family trip to the Kosel, but because my Aunt Shira is simply the best aunt in the entire universe. She’s the kind of aunt who actually stops everything to babysit if my parents are in a bind and cleans the house while they’re away. She cooks up a storm for Yom Tov so none of her married siblings with kids have to work too hard. Her gooey delicious challah, delivered fresh every Friday from her oven, is the highlight of our week. She’s always been like this, Shira Leah. She is easy to please, the give-the-coat-off-her-back-for-someone-in-need kinda gal. Which is why, as the years went by and Shira remained single, we simply could not understand it. All her friends kept getting married, but Shira Leah seemed to be the only one still babysitting her nieces and nephews instead of driving her own kids’ carpools.

There’s nothing like a Goldberg and Goldstein who are best friends. You know the type? Friends since the nursery at the hospital. With the same birthdays, living on the same block – can you even imagine us not getting mixed up? I mean, come on. Basi Goldberg and Batsheva Goldstein both living on Glengyle and in seventh grade.

Batsheva and I decided that this would be the best summer of our lives. As best friends, I’m sure you can imagine we have had our fair share of fun times and great summers. Like last year, when we decided to make a camp. Did you know that choosing a name for your camp is almost as important as the counselors that you hire? The two of us hacked the system and figured out the method to the madness. You ready? Nursery through second-grade age: Camp names must include a food. Camp Sprinkles, Camp Ice-Pop, Camp Mac’n Cheese, Camp Cupcake. We stayed up late wondering why there are no boy staples in the mix, like Camp Deli-Roll or Camp Kishke or Camp Cholent – but I digress!

Twenty minutes had probably passed since I sat down with a heaping portion of today’s hot lunch, mac n’cheese, which was now, actually, cold lunch. To my right sat Chani Jacoby, and to my left sat Rikki Berns, and across the lunchroom sat Shira Lesman. Words were flying around the large room, inflections of high-pitched voices, stern commands from lunch lady Mrs. Cohn, laughs, gasps, and chewing sounds. But despite all that, I could not hear a thing.

I was 14 years old, a Bais Yaakov of Baltimore student, when I opened up the Where What When for the first time – back when Chinese slippers, Steve Madden platforms, and messy buns were “in,” and “tamagachis” were all the rage. Memories come to mind of sitting around with my then-best friend Emily on Shabbos afternoons passing the time. The two of us would sit by the bay window in her house on Fallstaff Road and talk about “all the things” – from homework to teachers to friends to who’s walking by at the moment to what we were going to do on motzaei Shabbos – and then, in what started as a one-time thing and turned into a tradition, we opened up the Where What When. During those long Shabbos afternoons, we flipped through page after page of articles. Scouring the magazine for something interesting, we came across articles with titles like, “Ten Ways to Promote your Gut Health!”  (What even is a gut?!), “To Refinance or Not To Refinance” (Is this from that Shakespeare play Mrs. Toso just read?), “How to Keep Kids Occupied on Long Trips” (Why do they even need an article about this; duh, just get us the latest thing!), and “Amazing Flax Seed Muffin Recipes” (Does it come in chocolate chip?). As teens, we quickly gave up our search and settled down with the shidduch column. At least that was nice and juicy!

About three months ago, I was perusing my newsfeed when a story from the famous modern artist, Yaeli Vogel, showed up. Her message was strong yet clear: Her newborn baby was inexplicably unable to eat and sustain weight gain. Doctor after doctor had been consulted, and, thankfully, every possible culprit was ruled out. This week, Yaeli posted an update that made my blood run cold – not because the diagnosis was severe; on the contrary. Her story resonated with me personally on a deep level as I went through something very similar about three years ago. Although it was the same mystery solved in the end, the path to get there was very different. One thing, however, was exactly the same: the lack of physician education on, and the failure to take seriously, a matter that took such a small fix.