“Just go shopping,” my husband said. He’s a good man, and he usually gets it. That day, he did not

“Ican’t get it on,” my 12-year-old growled.

It was an hour after he’d gone to bed, and he held out a rubber band. We’d been to the orthodontist that day, and he’d been given a new configuration. Apparently, it was level-ten dexterity.

I tried, I gave up. My husband tried, he got it on after a while. Same thing happened the next night sans success. And the next. All we had was a lot of frustration (understatement, I’m trying to protect dignities here). Not putting on the rubber bands was not an option in my uber-responsible son’s head. Even when I told him, “Try for five minutes. If it’s not going, skip it.” I called the orthodontist: they suggested trying with a tweezer. Spoiler alert: It didn’t work.

I’ve been on a bit of an emunah and bitachon kick over the past year, and in what I hope wasn’t, but probably was, a sanctimoniously condescending mini-lecture, I told my son, “You’re supposed to experience frustration now. Hashem is sending it in the form of braces rubber bands. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else. The question is how you are going to handle your frustration.”

I called the orthodontist again; they said to come in two days.