I know we're friends, but my husband is off-duty. Call Hatzolah 

Naama: My husband doesn’t work for Hatzolah… if you have an emergency, we aren’t the address for it.

Ella: If you would only give me five minutes of your husband’s time, you would spare me hours away from my kids on Purim.

Naama

I remember exactly when I decided that something had to change.

It was three, maybe four years ago. Danny’s youngest sister had just gotten married, and we siblings were hosting the Shabbos sheva brachos.

There weren’t that many of us. My husband is one of four; his brother lives out of town, and his sister has a small house near my in-laws. Of course that meant we would be hosting, but that was fine with me; I love these kinds of things.

A lot of the preparations fell on me, too. One sister-in-law was a month after birth, the one who was traveling couldn’t bring much along. But again, that was okay; this was family, and it wasn’t as if we had that many family simchahs.

I went all out for that sheva brachos, centerpieces and menu and even splurging on a choir. It was nice to be able to treat the family to something special; my in-laws aren’t wealthy, and I’m grateful that Danny’s practice — he’s a family doctor — has really taken off, and we’re pretty comfortable today.

Danny works crazy hours during the week, so I pulled off the sheva brachos pretty much on my own, down to the setup on Friday morning. When Danny came home — later than planned, some emergency appointment that he squeezed in last minute — his mouth dropped open.

“Naama. This is… incredible. Wow. Just wow.”

I stepped back to survey the scene with him. I was really happy with how the decor came out — it was summery and fresh, florals and woven mats and lots of greenery; gorgeous tableware (no disposables, no sirree), and pretty serving dishes.

“Just wait until you see the food,” I said. “It’s gonna look even better.”

I had trays of sourdough rolls waiting in the kitchen that I planned to wrap with a ribbon, the place card threaded through. There would be elegantly plated tuna tartare appetizers, bright summer salads bursting with color, and lots of dips.

“Naama, this is just amazing. My family is going to love it.”

“They all helped,” I said modestly, even though one sister-in-law had made apple kugelettes and mini pecan desserts, and the other was bringing chicken nuggets, potato kugel, and nosh for the kids. Yes, I had done every single other thing myself.

“But this is all yours,” Danny said, and I didn’t argue.

Shabbos started out beautifully. The men came home, the chassan and kallah arrived, and everyone found their seats. The compliments flowed and the atmosphere was something special.

We were in the middle of the soup course, and Danny’s brother Moshe was entertaining the crowd with some hilarious rendition of his little sister’s funniest childhood moments, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.