Of course, this was all a lot of work, but things were coming together nicely … right up until we starting arranging the Kiddush. Seemed simple enough. The kid will lein, the mother will cry, the women will congratulate her as if she spent hours learning the trop (well, by that time, I did kind of learn it), and after davening is over, we’d all go down to the Kiddush. Didn’t seem all that difficult. Until I broached the subject with the caterer who was handling our daytime meal in the shul…

“You daven at Bais Medrash Curious Radomsk, right? Oh, no. No way. You have another minyan downstairs, don’t you?”

“Yes, so what?”

“We won’t have enough time to set up the Kiddush if we have to wait for the downstairs minyan to be finished.”

“Can’t you set it up in the corner the night before and just drag everything out when they are done?” I ask, reasonably.

“Mrs. Grossman. I’m a professional. If I can’t do something right, I won’t do it at all. I have my reputation to consider.”

“Well, what do you suggest that I do? Give each mispallel a doggy bag?”

He’s strongly considering the idea. I’m strongly considering some violence.

It took several tense conversations and a little finagling with the second minyan, but we figured out that by the time our davening will end, between the speech and all, it will be late enough that it shouldn’t be a problem. Ha.

***

As the date of the bar mitzvah drew closer, everything seemed to be under control. (Don’t ever say that phrase out loud. Ever. I mean it.) The hall was rented, the two caterers (one for Friday night and one for Shabbos day) drew up lovely menus for the Shabbos meals, the suits, hats, ties, dresses, and shoes were purchased, and the flowers were chosen. (It’s good to have a son-in-law in the business.) Yes, it was all moving along swimmingly … right up until Hatzolah showed up at my door.

“Hatzooolah!” bellows the EMT with the langeh bourd ‘n payis, his mighty key fob clanking with every rap on the door.

I run to the side door and spy the ambulance. I’m pretty sure I see Uncle Harry waving from the stretcher inside.

“Hatzoolah!” reiterates Mr. Schlissel.

“Meeses no home!” I shriek.

“Mrs. Grossman, I recognize your voice. Your Uncle Harry is being transported to Our Pious Lady of Deductibles Medical Center and he wants you to come along.”

For one split second I consider not going. Okay, a full second. But ultimately, I grab my purse (and a bag of diet cookies — I have priorities, you know) and run out to the ambulance. Uncle Harry, on the stretcher, rambles on about “de oldeneh days in de shtetl.”

“Uncle Harry, you were born in the Bronx!”

He ignores me. Every time we go over a bump he yells “Gevalt! Geshrigen!”

The EMTs pepper me with questions about medications and my uncle’s medical history.

“This is all very well and good,” I respond in a highly agitated tone of voice, “but it’s just a day and a half before my son’s bar mitzvah and … are you sure you have to take him in? He looks fine to me!”

The Hatzolah guys exchange glances, wordlessly communicating “Danger! Woman under pressure.”

“And as far as his records are concerned,” I continue, “Our Pious Lady Medical Center has them all already, in triplicate. In fact, I understand they’re going to have them bound in leather as a six-part series and present them to my uncle for his 90th birthday.”

Uncle Harry gets excited at the mention of his birthday, which is ten months away.

I spend the night sitting in the ER, in a chair which clearly dates back to Sodom — from their Deluxe Hospitality Suite. I snatch a wink here and there in between furiously texting my daughters and husband, reassigning them the duties I had left for that night.

By morning, other family members took up the command post at the ER, freeing me to run around, trying to get all the last-minute things done. (Because if you’re a Censor, all things are last-minute things.)

After a whirlwind 24 hours of shopping, appointments, and picking up this and that, it’s Friday morning, just before the guests arrive. My couch and living room chairs have taken up residence in the kitchen, while folding tables and chairs fill the space. The silk taffeta tablecloths covering every horizontal surface will soon be dragged away by grandchildren to make teepees. My son-in-law will charge in at the last moment with gorgeous bouquets, to lend elegance to the proceedings (once we recapture the teepee materials), and the waiters will set the table with all the glamour disposable dishes can afford.

I dash out to have my makeup done. Yes, I know I shouldn’t be so vain, and I should be focusing on the ruchniyus of the simchah, but I’m hoping that some tiny vestige of cosmetics will remain for Shabbos day. Just enough to create rivulets of blackish liquid trailing down my cheeks throughout my son’s leining. Anyway, I am too nervous to apply my own makeup with a steady hand! I might chas v’shalom need to be rushed to the eye doctor after stabbing myself with the mascara wand — talk about a black eye…

I spring for those “enhanced lashes.” Not the giant ones that resemble black widows nesting on your eyelids, rather sedate, barely noticeable ones. I just wanted a tiny touch of not-too-obvious chic, without anyone being the wiser.

I return home and the doorbell rings. It’s my best friend, Suri. I graciously accept the giant potato kugel she prepared for my Erev Shabbos guests. I put it on the stove and walk her out.

She looks at me, does a double-take, and tries to smother a giggle.

“What?” I demand.

“You did those eyelashes.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing. You look great,” she says with loads of false sincerity.

There goes my confidence. For one brief moment, I consider trying to remove them. But I fear I will rip out my own lashes, meager as they are. I enter the house and am instantly disturbed by the doorbell again.

People start to drift in. Not my married kids, no. I hinted broadly to them that it might be best to arrive no more than ten minutes before licht tzinden, lest the cloth napkins end up repurposed as tichels and the dishes sent sailing through the air like Frisbees — they are quite aerodynamic, you know.

I am directing our guests to the list of hosts, the map of the area that I have cleverly tacked up on the wall, and the gift bags, when my husband insists on speaking to me. Privately.

“Hi…” he begins, smiling charmingly.

He has exactly 30 seconds before he will lose me to the crowd.

“Just checking that you are okay and everything is going according to plan?”

I smile and nod, ready to bolt.

“The food arrived?”

Food … Food? FOOD!

A range of emotions must have played across my face. I consult my watch.

“Oh, it’s one o’clock. Shabbos isn’t until 4:15! Plenty of time,” I assure him.

“Still … maybe you should check with the caterer, just to know what time the food is arriving,” he urges.

“I guess you’re right. It can’t hurt to call. I’m also waiting to hear if Uncle Harry will be released from the hospital today. He claims he’s coming to the bar mitzvah.”

I look up the caterer’s number in my trusty Bar Mitzvah Notebook and dial. It rings 84 times or so. My blood pressure rises one point for each ring. Finally…

“Shmelka’s Appetizing! Whaddoyouwant?”

“Uh…hi. It’s Mrs. Grossman. I know it’s silly, but I’m just calling to see what time I can expect the delivery.”

“Delivery? You the one who ordered six pounds of lox?”

“Noooooo. I’m the one who ordered a full Shabbos meal for 38 people, who are arriving as we speak.”

“Oooh, that Grossman. Grossman? You sure? Not Grossberg? Grossfeld?”

“May I please speak to Mr. Galereta?”

The phone is fumbled but recovered. Somebody else picks up.

“Ya! How can I help you? It’s Erev Shabbos so please be snappy!”

“I need to speak to Mr. Galereta. This is Mrs. Grossman. I ordered the Friday night meal from you, for our bar mitzvah…?”

“Grossman? When is the bar mitzvah?”

“It’s tonight!” I squeak.

“You sure? Not next week?”

“Yes, I am quite sure. Either that, or all these people have come to my house on the wrong date.”

“Let me get the boss. Hold on.”

I am holding on. But just barely. My knuckles are white as I grip the phone in a death lock. Meanwhile, people stream in, and my husband is accepting gift-wrapped seforim and bottles of wine, while attempting to distribute guest bags and maps. I’m pretty sure he handed one guest a bottle of schnapps instead of his gift bag.

“Hello? Mrs … SORRY? Who is this?”

“GROSSMAN! G-R-O-S-S-M-A-N. I emailed you on Tuesday to confirm the catering job for THIS Shabbos?! Remember, we met a few weeks ago and—”

“Ooooh! Grooooossman. Yeeeees. Just hold on one minute.”

Thus begins the longest minute of my life. At this point, it’s about two and a half hours before one of the earliest Shabbosos of the year. I start tallying up, mentally, my food supplies. Let’s see … I have one jar of gefilte fish, two stale challah rolls in the freezer, half a pint of crystal-hairy ice cream…

“Mrs. Grossman?” Mr. Galareta sounds confident and resolute. “You will have your food. And you will never taste fresher food in your life! Just sit tight!”

The phone goes dead.

I have to shift out of panic mode to continue greeting guests. The kitchen clock is ticking like a time bomb in my head. Two hours till Shabbos. We have a house full of company and nothing to feed them. Tick-tick-tick…

An hour and half till Shabbos. I find two diet coffee candies in my purse and a stick of gum. I could cut them up into tiny pieces…?

An hour before Shabbos. Worst case, I can go door-to-door to the neighbors and ask them to tithe their food for a good cause.

The waiters are getting restless. “You sure it’s coming?” they ask again and again. So soothing.

My husband suggests that I go upstairs and change.

Ten minutes till Shabbos. I am silently reciting the last page of Tehillim while putting the finishing touches on my outfit, when a sudden crash shatters the stillness of my room.

BOOM!!

My husband peeks out the window.

“‘Food’s here!” he announces cheerfully.

I demand to know what that crash was.

“The food! I told you. Looks like the caterer’s van backed into my father’s Caddy.”

“Oh, joy.”

“And there’s Uncle Harry with his aide.”

I rush downstairs just in time to witness two guys schlepping in huge trays of steaming aromatic food and handing them off to the waiters.

Simultaneously, the caterer is yelling instructions to my father-in-law about collision insurance and the name of his agent. In sweeps Ayeesha with Uncle Harry.

“A kusherin Peysich!” he calls jovially.

Ayeesha whispers something in his ear.

“Oh! Why didn’cha say so! Mazel tov, mazel tov! Where’s the lucky guy? Are you the kallah?” he asks my four-year-old granddaughter. I pray that he’s joking and not under the influence of medication.

“Mrs. Grossman!” the headwaiter calls out, “Where does this g—” The question dies on his lips as he notices my state of distress. “Never mind, I’ll figure it out.”

Moments later, licht benching time is upon us. I join my female relatives near the candles, light my candles, and tearfully thank Hashem for bringing me to this point in time. With food! Aaaah! Now I can relax and spend time with my daughters, mother, aunts, and female cousins … plus Uncle Harry, who’s not well enough for shul.

“Pereleh!” he bellows from his wing chair, “when are we starting the Seder?!”

Oh, brother … Apparently he’s not well enough to go to a bar mitzvah either. I suggest a game of Rummikub with my mother, the family champ, but he’s focused on the tea and cookies that Ayeesha is bringing him.

“Chumitz! Help! Somebody! Burn the chumitz!!”

Way too much drama for one day. I sneak into the kitchen to check on the food.

“Mrs. Grossman?” ventures the headwaiter, tentatively. “Looks like we don’t got no drinks!”

Drinks? Drinks!! Did I even order drinks from the caterer? Or were we supposed to pick them up? Aaaaahhhhh!!!!

My heart is thumping louder than the clicking of my splendid, impractical heels, made all the more ridiculous by the slingbacks that have slung themselves way back below my feet.

I force myself to concentrate. I remember. The caterer definitely was supposed to supply the soda. But he must have forgotten in the last-minute craziness. I clop over to my cupboard, open it, and crouch down to look at the bottom shelf, while teetering precariously on those heels. It’s a miracle I don’t fall off. Would hate to explain to Mr. Schlissel how I broke my ankles.

I stick my head deeper into the shelf and … Eureka! One bottle of lemon seltzer. A lot of good that will do me.

A rakish knock precedes the sound of deep, rumbling voices; a cacophony of discussion about the length of the davening, and the cost of tuition in Lakewood, interwoven between bits of Gemara “reyd”. I beckon to my husband. He approaches warily.

“What now?”

“Okay, I am trying not to get upset because, after all, Baruch Hashem, we do have food but— “

“What? Is it Uncle Harry? Is your mother not well? Do any of the grandkids need stitches?” he demands fearfully.

“No, no, nothing like that, baruch Hashem! It’s just … well, most people will drink tap water, won’t they?” I inquire delicately.

“Sure. But what are you saving the ten cases of soda on the porch for?”

“The porch??!! Why didn’t anyone tell me? I’ve been a nervous chelaria for the last hour and—”

He calms me down, then starts Shalom Aleichem. Our family begins the usual game of musical chairs, with the bossiest of my relatives ordering people to get up and relocate, because they have a different seating arrangement in mind. Once they notice the place cards at each seat, the fun is over.

The meal proceeds well, with delicious, ultra fresh fare, warm zemiros, scintillating divrei Torah, and just a wee bit of barely discernable snoring in the background.

Suddenly, the soft babble of schmoozing is shattered with a loud banging noise. Behold, it’s Uncle Harry, slamming his four-prong cane on the floor, demanding to be heard. The audience hushes as Uncle slowly draws himself upright. We wait. He sways. We gasp. He grabs the edge of the table and begins.

“As you know, ladies and gentlemen, no occasion is truly complete until your uncle gets up to say a few woids. I want to thank everyone for coming to my birthday party, but I also want to thank a very special lady who works so hard and doesn’t get much in the way of thanks!”

The guests glance my way. I lower my spidery eyelashes modestly.

“She is always there for me, no matter why and no matter when.”

I blush and busy myself with my napkin.

“She is never too busy for me!”

Now I’m starting to feel a little guilty. I probably could do more for him.

“Ladies and gentleman, let’s give a big hand to … AYEESHA!!”

A stunned silence is followed by a smattering of polite applause, led by me. Ayeesha rises shyly and takes a bow, then another. She’s really warming to this. Thankfully, the waiters arrive with desert before she can make her acceptance speech.

***

The next morning, I’m up bright and early. I dress carefully in my new, perfectly tailored dress, and slip on the beautiful, elegant silver shoes with just the right-size heel — the ones I ordered online and marveled at when they actually fit like a glove. The ones that matched my dress exactly. The ones that are suddenly two sizes too big.

Drawing from my emunah reserves, I determine that Hashem just doesn’t want me to wear those shoes. And then I remember that I never returned that other pair. Thank you, Hakadosh Baruch Hu!

I sit in shul flanked by my daughters who keep jumping up to grab fleeing children. My mother will be arriving later with her aide, if she’s up to it. The Torah is removed from the aron and I can already feel the tears forming. The boy begins to lein and I try mightily to cry prettily and just dab at my under eye area, as the makeup artist taught me. He’s doing well. Very well. He’s also leining quickly. Very quickly. Too quickly. Oh no! This won’t work! The Kiddush won’t be ready and the oilem will just leave, hungry and disappointed. I have to do something!

I beckon to my grandson who has meandered into the women’s section. Between aliyos, I instruct him to tell Saba to give Uncle Dave an aliyah.

“Uncle Dave?” he asks, astonished. “But he can never remember the names of his kids and he makes a misheberach for anyone he has ever met!”

“Exactly. Now go tell Saba, please. Thank you, tatelleh!”

Phew! Disaster averted, yet again.

Soon I find myself mingling at the Kiddush, accepting mazel tovs, and trying to keep the left strap of my perfectly tailored dress from falling down.

My cousin Shoshana approaches, hugs me, and exclaims, “This simchah has been so beautiful! Everything went so smoothly. And you were calm and cool as a cucumber all Shabbos. How do you do it?!”

And I think to myself … if you only knew!

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 578)