Somebody from my past, who was enormously important to me, used to tell me to be kind to myself. I’m not really good at that, and I never was. Somebody enormously important to me in my present recently told me, when we were discussing the power Jay and my sister still have over me, that the “enemy of my enemy is my friend.” While I, of course, know what that expression fundamentally means, I found it almost cathartic to listen to what this person was saying and its relevance to me.

I am my own worst enemy. Feeling devoid of value because my kids and grandkids are not in my life, I am my own enemy. I am clearly my sister’s enemy and Jay’s enemy, so, if I’m also my own enemy, I must be Jay’s and Lisa’s friend. Powerful …

So, I need to change, right? It’s not easy. Everywhere around me, people are with their kids and grandkids, relishing in all of the rites of passage with which they’re currently blessed. God, I miss those days. From the delicious chubby baby nuggets who only wanted to be held (I never wanted to put them down), to the toddlers running around and sharing every morsel of enthusiasm they’re devouring, I miss it and I want it. I actually need it.

As a teacher, I am lucky enough to be around kids every day. Though humility and constantly being on a diet of having no self-worth kicks in regularly, I know I’m a solid teacher. More importantly, however, I know that I’m a caring teacher. The kids feel safe coming to me; they know that their needs are paramount and will always surpass my own.

I’ve been lucky lately to spend time with some little people. One of them, a 9 month old whose smile is only outweighed by the creases in his wrists and pulkes (chunky thighs in Yiddish), helped fill a crushing void in me. Walking around a store with him in my arms, albeit for only 20 minutes or so, refilled a cavernous tank in me that has been running on empty for years. I’m so grateful to his parents, and I’m making it public here that I will watch anybody’s baby, toddler, child, or teen, anytime you need. I’m a grandma without her grandkids, a mom without her kids, and I have a lot of love and a lot of energy.

Ir’s too early in the morning right now to revisit my own childhood or my kids’ childhoods, but I hope it’s not too late to share a message about tomorrow, which is Election Day. I am going to write a few things that, according to Trump’s dictatorial aspirations, might land me dead or in jail. Well, Mr. Trump, this last decade of not having my kids has killed much of me and landed me in a proverbial prison where the shackles are harrowingly tight and so seldom come off.

I could make a plea as a woman, as a Jew, as a Jewish woman, as an American, as a mom whose kids survived because I was lucky enough to have the Lamborghini of health insurances, as a grandma, as a teacher, as an empath, as a Democrat, as a rape victim, and as somebody who will, one day, even after a quarter of a century of working as a public servant, need her Social Security. I could make a plea to every person Donald Trump and his crew of racist, anti-semitic, homophobic, and contemptuous cronies have been fear mongering and gaslighting. I could make a plea to those two older women who were sitting at the bar last week at Earl’s in Peddler’s Village, feeling all empowered in their shiny bedazzled Trump hats. He’s not your friend, ladies. He wants your Social Security and your soul, and he wouldn’t give you the time of day if he saw you.

The economy is strong. Jobs are up. Inflation is down. This hateful speech has to stop, and the Supreme Court needs to get back to its job of being that fair and final stop of justice on our nation’s Monopoly Board. It can’t be Trump’s Get Out of Jail Free card.

May kindness and decency prevail tomorrow.