A warm greeting to all those who connect to the internet and visit this sanctuary of scattered words because they wish to step through the doors of our virtual home.
I like tango, and one of my favorites is the one that was part of the film Shall We Dance. Everything about it is perfect: the music, the dancers, the set, the atmosphere... everything.
https://youtu.be/4u6ycs90YIk?si=20IBfS4v_WFL6sBh
Before we begin, I’d like to clarify an important point:
The title—
“When Tears Interrupt the Tango”
Is the name I chose for this gathering of scattered words. But why? Why this title? Could it be that I’ll be giving you dance lessons between tearful poems and stories?

Nothing could be further from the truth!
What you’re about to hear isn’t meant to deliver judgments, verdicts, or finger-pointing—much less universal recipes or absolute truths. These are words born from personal experiences and reflections shared in confidence, offered with the intention of opening a truly human space for dialogue about life as a couple, intimacy, and the everyday interruptions that life inevitably brings.
Perhaps one of the two experiences I’m about to share will resonate with your own—or maybe not at all. What truly matters is that you listen with freedom: without guilt or judgment, without worry or shame, without taboos. Listen with maturity. Keep in mind that intimacy in a relationship isn’t measured by perfection, but by the ability to find each other again and again amidst real, everyday life.
After all, even the tango is danced with pauses.
When I think about marital intimacy amid the daily chaos of raising children, I’m not flooded with images of perfect romance or cinematic scenes where time stops so two bodies can merge without interruption.
What comes to mind is something far more real, far more human: a dark kitchen after a family celebration, soft music playing in the background, and my husband’s hands brushing my hip as we wash the dishes together. It’s there—in the small, seemingly insignificant moments—where true connection begins.
Because intimacy doesn’t start when the children fall asleep; it starts much earlier, in every gesture of complicity we choose not to let die under the avalanche of diapers, medical appointments, and grocery lists.
I’ve learned—sometimes through frustration, sometimes through tenderness—that desire isn’t a switch you flip on at the end of the day. It’s a flame that must be fed from morning onward.
A kiss stolen before he leaves to handle a psychiatric emergency. A silly midday text: “You know you’re wearing my favorite shirt today… the one that smells like us.”
A playful pat on the butt while I’m mixing za’atar for the family lunch. These micro-connections are the invisible threads that keep our relationship woven together when the weight of parenthood threatens to unravel it.
Yes, we’ve been interrupted—many times. Mid-kiss, when the taste of strawberries and nostalgia was still on our lips. Seconds from orgasm. In the middle of a body-to-body dance that finally believed it had a moment of peace.
Our child’s cry has sounded like an anti-erotic alarm more than once. And yes—in that instant—I’ve felt the visceral rage of biology betrayed, the almost animal impulse to ignore the cry and keep going.
But I’ve also watched my husband—that man of overflowing ethics and an even greater paternal instinct—take a deep breath, gently pause, look at me with eyes full of both frustration and love, and say: “Maybe they need us.”
There’s no blame in those words—only shared responsibility. Because we are parents… but before that, we are a couple.
And that’s where the essence lies. Not in avoiding interruptions—they’re inevitable, with or without children—but in how we handle them. We don’t turn them into excuses. We turn them into pauses.
Like in the tango: there is no dance without silence, without that held tension that makes the next step even more intense.
Because what matters isn’t that the music stops—but that we both keep listening to the same rhythm, ready to resume the dance when the moment allows. My neighbor asked me if I love my husband.
And I didn’t answer with a simple “yes.”
I told her that love isn’t just a feeling—it’s a daily choice. We choose to see each other, to touch each other, to laugh together even when we’re exhausted. Even when our bodies fail to respond—because of migraines, cramps, hypocalcemia, or gestational nausea—we keep seeking each other, not just as parents, but as imperfect lovers who need one another beyond sex.
Because conjugal sexuality isn’t measured by the absence of failure, but by our ability to rebuild—again and again—that bridge of skin, words, and glances that brings us back to each other. We live surrounded by family, in a house full of voices, laughter, and demands. But in the midst of that whirlwind, we’ve learned to create corners.
Sometimes literal ones—like our attic bedroom with the door locked and the monitor off. Other times symbolic: a shared coffee in silence, a knowing laugh when one of the little ones flings purée at the ceiling. It’s these moments that hold the structure up when storms come.
And yes—we cry. Sometimes from exhaustion, sometimes from anger, often from a love so deep it aches. But those tears don’t interrupt the tango. They enrich it. Because the most authentic dance isn’t the one performed in an empty ballroom— it’s the one woven with bare feet on a floor scattered with toys, with a heart torn between two equally urgent voices: the crying child and the whispering spouse saying, “I miss you.”
And in choosing—each time—not to sacrifice one for the other, but to weave them together with grace, patience, and a good sense of humor— we find our balance. Because at the end of the day—after baths, bedtime stories, and goodnight kisses— when we’re finally alone again, we’re not just seeking to relieve sexual tension.
We’re seeking to remember who we are when we’re not “Mom” or “Dad.” We are Rebe and Bínyamin—two adults who chose each other, and who keep choosing each other, even when the whole world seems to conspire to make us forget one another.
And in that conscious choice—repeated in a thousand small gestures— lies true intimacy. Not in the absence of interruptions, but in the firm decision not to let those interruptions silence us forever.
Because, as my husband so wisely said: Sex doesn’t pause—it’s simply postponed… “to be continued with even greater intensity.” And in that promise, in that mutual faith, we find not only pleasure—but healing.

I think this is where I’ll end my personal reflection for today. Thank you for joining me in this video from start to finish. May my Creator and Sustainer allow my husband and me to share again in a new opportunity granted by life.
A big hug, and may you have a wonderful day, with peace in every corner.
See you soon.

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