It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty good. My kids cheered, and I looked at them and smiled

The sun was slowly sinking in the sky, and I felt ready to join. The table was covered with debris from a recent art project and cornflakes carpeted the floor. Yakov Shwekey’s upbeat lyrics were drowned out by a chorus of “there’s nothing I like for supper.” The screaming baby joined them.

With each passing minute I was getting more and more stressed out; I felt like I was walking on the edge of sanity and might fall off very soon.

“You know what I’m in the mood of?” I asked my 12-year-old daughter, as I surveyed the chaos in front of me. “I feel like doing a cartwheel.”

It had been many years since I’d last done cartwheels, but something inside pushed me to act a little crazy. Maybe my recently celebrated 40th birthday inspired an inner need to prove to myself that I was still young.

As I began to stretch my leg, I heard a voice inside me say “No way, this is not for you! It can be dangerous. You’re too old. Don’t do it!” Part of me wanted to push myself to do it, but part of me was scared. I remembered the last time I had felt this way.

Last fall my husband and went on a hike to Nachal Og, a stream in the Judean desert on the way down to the Dead Sea. It was the perfect location; close enough to Yerushalayim, but far enough to feel like we had been away.