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As I approach my 30's, I've finally begun to accept that no one loves me as much as my mom. And that no one else's love can exert such a hold over me. My mom might overwhelm, overstep, and overbear, but she still bears the torch. She still has the power to guide the course of my life, to give it an added spark of meaning. My mom has a way of making me feel like even the most insignificant moment matters: a bad date, a butchered haircut, a fight with a friend. No situation is too inconsequential. If it happened to me, then it matters to her.

Sure, my mom's overconcern might at times make her seem nuts. Extreme love and dedication often blur reason and perception. Every time I miss her call or text, she imagines me hospitalized or imprisoned. Every time I complain about a headache or stomach pain she will want to know who the hell has knocked me up. My mom only knows how to tread in the waters of the extremes. But inside those waters of extremes is insuppressible love.

What makes a Jewish mom stand out is not the degree of her love but how her love materializes. Love suffuses a Jewish mom's every thought, her every behavior. She cannot rein any of it in. And when so much love blares so forcefully out into the world, the sentiment can't help but be returned. America loves Jewish moms because they show us their entire selves. Honesty is infectious. Honesty combined with pluck and gumption is intoxicating.

I wanted to capture this exposed feeling, this raw love. I grew up around a parade of Jewish moms. Now, in my late twenties, living in a big lonely city, I find myself searching for a new squadron of Jewish moms to love. I miss the energy, the warmth, the rawness of Jewish moms. But what I perhaps miss most is the humor. Jewish moms are hilarious. They are classic, old-school camp: bold, unpredictable, and over the top. When I tell my friends funny stories about my childhood or about my twenties, the stories almost always circle back to my mom. She is the heart of every tale. She is where the plot rises, where the dialogue stuns.

A few years ago, I started noticing a similar trend in the stories told by many of my Jewish friends. In almost all the stories, the moms were driving the story line; the moms were peddling the jokes. I wanted to find a way to gather these funny stories of Jewish moms (and grandmas) into a single collection. So I started emailing some of my favorite Jewish writers and entertainers, asking them to send me their stories. The response was astounding. All the writers were thrilled to tell the story of their crazy Jewish mom. And many of them insisted that their mom had to be the absolute craziest.

Of course I realize the thematic challenges in putting together this collection. I realize that a Jewish mom is not a one-size-fits-all archetype. That there are variants of the archetype, many of which appear in this book. There are Jewish moms who are farmers; Jewish moms who are hippies; Jewish moms who are drunks. I wanted to share all these stories. But I also want to tell the story that connects them. Within all these tales, there tends to be a unifying force. And that, of course, is the way the Jewish mom loves.

This book is by no means representative of the entire Jewish mother experience. I simply set out to share stories that will move you, that will make you laugh. My life has been charmed with stories on top of stories of Jewish moms. My hope is that now everyone else's can be, too.