My boss’s simchah — or my best friend’s?

T

he wail is indignant and loud and very, very self-righteous. Smiling to myself, I head for the stairs and then pause in the foyer.

My rubber tree is looking sad. Very sad. When was the last time we watered it? Moishy is supposed to do it every other week, but lately he’s been too wrapped up in seventh grade Friday hockey to remember.

Another wail breaks through my inspection. I give the tree a sad pat and then fly up the stairs to my very annoyed granddaughter.

Why is there nothing cuter than a toddler waking from a nap? She glares at me, chubby cheeks flushed, stocky little legs leaning against the bars of the crib.

“You,” I say, scooping Ricky up, “are a mush. A giant mushy mush.”

Not my most poetic, but hey, it’s accurate. I can hear the echo of my phone ringing downstairs in the kitchen. Oh well, I’ll call whoever it is back. I’m too busy grandma-ing to the cutest kid in the world. Ricky has apparently forgiven my delayed reaction and is now keeping up a steady stream of chatter, cupping my face in her warm little hands.

“Mhhhhm,” I say, settling her into her highchair and pulling the plate of grapes I’d cut up for her out of the fridge.

“Drapes!” she says, clapping. I love how easy it is to make her happy. Why wasn’t it this fun when my own kids were little?

My phone rings again. Yaeli.

“Heeeeey, how’s the shopping going? Are you plotzing?”

“Yes,” she says tiredly. “But from exhaustion, not nachas. I’m just telling her to order sheitels from AliExpress and call it a day.”

I snort. “Oh, that’ll go over great with Dini.”