Mrs. Drucks goes running all over town yesterday.

She buys the costumes the wine. Then she gets sidetracked a bit. “I’ll visit an old friend as long as I’m in the city” — and check on boot sales since winter’s almost over.

“And maybe I’ll treat myself to a little coffee and a piece of cake at that cute bakery on the corner.”

Mrs. Drucks gets home late having forgetten that she’d left the sink full of dirty dishes with no dinner in sight.

She rushes to whip up “something” as she talks to three friends on the phone while she leaves the children to play or scream.

Well they always scream when she gets on the phone. Even if they’re in the farthest reaches of the world the minute they hear Mommy’s on the phone they come crawling out from every corner as if a global siren sounds announced: “Everyone come on out of your places. Mommy’s on the phone.”

“It’s so annoying Can’t I just have a little fun and relaxation for myself without everyone interfering?”

Her will though is so strong to indulge in her own fun — not needs — because she hasn’t really defined those. So despite the sprawled out three-year-old in torn tights and the hysterical five-year-old holding her new doll’s head in one hand and the body in the other — the doll Aunt Molly had just bought her — Mrs. Drucks talks on laughing and joking as if this were the victory.

What she doesn’t know is that the misplaced laughter and ruckus in the center of her home is a not a victory but a defeat..

She thinks she can defy the whining — they were wrong.

Everyone was wrong.

But what she doesn’t understand is that a natural acceptable emotion that a person sitting in a room with another person experiences is yearning to be acknowledged. When and if that basic need is not being fulfilled — consciously or subconsciously — there are going to be bruises and agitation and someone or everyone’s going to scream out from the pain of being ignored.

Mrs. Drucks turns around from her laughter with her friend and cups the phone in an attempt to muffle her scream: “Why does everyone cry every time I get on the phone?”

Just then she hears the footsteps of her husband coming up the driveway and only then realizes that she herself hasn’t eaten in ten hours focusing on her own hunger pangs as opposed to her husband as he opens the front door. She tries to continue her conversation on the phone but the whole house starts to spin out of control like a wild party though it isn’t even Purim yet.

Of course dinner is very late. And no one goes to bed on time — and no one gets up on time.

“Chani’s three pairs of tights are all torn” is all Mrs. Drucks hears as she rolls over the next morning holding her head. Not having ever drank too much wine herself she imagines this is what a hangover must feel like of someone who has overdone it. The family’s calls for help continue: “Yoni’s shoe lace broke in two” … “There’s no bread and no cheese.”

It’s at this moment Mrs. Drucks truly realizes that she had run around too much yesterday — and maybe every day — and today she’s feeling and seeing the damages and the chaos of her unmeasured “drunken” behavior.

She drags herself up and starts the morning all the while fumbling through the chaos that so easily rushes in through the cracks she now knows that only she created in her house’s foundation.

It’s raining out. One boot is missing. So is a hat and a coat.

Somehow maybe through the force of her intoxicated anger she manages to get everyone dressed and out.

After dropping everyone off she starts to feel dizzy. The combination of anger chased by distress mixes like beer after wine or wine after beer or whatever mixing of alcohol the inexperienced do on Purim.

Walking back home now alone the winds pick up speed — and it starts to pour harder than it had all throughout winter. The street she lives on is open with nothing to block the winds; she feels them even harder.

Finally she gets home. She opens the door. She feels the warmth and the stillness. The peace inside is in such contradiction to the open winds and storm outside and it hits her.

“These walls” — she runs her hand across the hallway’s wall — “the roof” — she looks at the ceiling — “the door.” She stands still and quiet thinking about how they protect providing warmth and safety. It’s then she realizes.

This is my job.

The walls the roof and the door — are me.

If I’m wobbly unsteady or so-called drunk so is .the house.

Signs of Purim are everywhere. The costumes the wine. Thoughts of Esther.

Would Esther laugh and joke or have long conversations in the middle of the palace in front of the king? In front of the King of kings? Esther sacrificed all of her self everything to save the Jewish People.

Mrs. Drucks commits to not to talk on the phone in the middle of the house anymore in the hope that focusing on her home to bring order and shalom from where all blessing stems and flowers that she too would merit to save her husband her children and all Israel. As it says he who makes shalom in his home is as if he made shalom in every house in Israel. I can’t be drunk with self-desire if I want to accomplish this.

After all only once in a year is a Jew commanded to get drunk.