Can I, too, be created anew? Perhaps I can tap into the power of the day and become a new creation, sans impatience

There is glitter all over my face, my body. Externally, I am glowing. But inside, I feel choked and stifled. I can’t breathe. My heart is galloping so hard I feel it in my throat.

I’m smothered by my children. No, not physically (although that too, at times), but emotionally. I’m so totally and completely wrung out that I wonder where the Me is. I feel like an octopus, pulled in a million different directions, and I wonder when self-care became redefined as taking care of my basic physical needs.

I can’t seem to control my snappiness, my frustration at this endless, nerve-racking day. With Rosh Hashanah falling on the heels of Shabbos, it’s been five days of off-scheduled craziness, of sugar highs, of Ima completely and totally losing it.

Stop, just stop, I want to shout when they’re so entangled in a fight that I physically cannot tear them apart. They’ve been awake since 5:30 am, and it’s barely ten. Four hours down, more than four hours to go.

Even with all this adrenaline rushing through my veins, their strength outpowers my own. But I can’t scream at them, not today, so instead, I take a deep breath, and look up at the wall that we decorated on Erev Chag, amidst screams and tears and too many declarations of don’t put glitter in your hair!

In silvery words, our wall proclaims “Hashem Hu HaMelech.”

This moment, on this day of Rosh Hashanah, we’re making Hashem into our King. On this day of Brias Haolam, the world is being created afresh. Can I, too, be created anew? Perhaps I can tap into the power of the day and become a new creation, sans impatience.

The letters are wobbly, child-cut. The glitter is splotchy, large chunks where a heavy-handed child wielded his glue stick. Hashem Hu HaMelech.

I run my fingers over the words, leaving behind fingerprints only G-d can see. Only He is watching as I try to absorb this message through touch alone, beseeching His help in controlling my temper. Only He hears me wonder if I did this for my children or for myself, hoping that the exhibition would help the lesson trickle into my consciousness. Or maybe my motivations weren’t lishmah at all; perhaps I wanted to flaunt to my neighbors how very much of a good mommy I am, not only engaged with my children, but also inspiring.

I push aside my hair-splitting analysis, and remind myself to focus, to remember that this moment, every moment, Hashem is the King, Hashem is the King… He creates, He sustains, He renews.

There’s so much hanging on the line, especially now: We’re closing on a new house, I’m in the midst of a career change, three of our children are experiencing health issues (we’re still awaiting an answer from the audiologist, pulmonologist, and allergist), another child is being bullied….

I know without a doubt that all these things — each on their own — deserve hours of tefillah, of focus, beseeching Hashem. A friend tells me she wakes up for haneitz, davens before her children arise. Nice in theory, except my children greeted the day while it was still dark. No haneitz for me.

I remind myself of that mashal that every teacher everywhere tells women during Elul: If a mortal king hired a maidservant, and instead of taking care of his children, she lined up with the masses to put in her request, neglecting his progeny, he’d not only deny her request but be furious; she’s not doing her job. Surely, if she fulfills her obligation of that day, her wishes will be granted.

Eh.

Not cutting it for me. Refraining from davening at all just doesn’t resonate.

I’m desperate to connect to the day, like a parched man in the Sahara, so I continue to murmur tefillos, fast and furious. When not mumbling perakim of Tehillim, I try to remind myself of the importance of what I’m doing (being a mommy is my avodas hayom!), but in the middle of distributing pekelach, there is World War Three in my kitchen, each man his own army. It’s Rosh Hashanah — come on, guys!

And then I lose it. I threaten to take away all pekelach.

Deep breath. Hashem Hu HaMelech.

I desperately squeeze in tefillos while swooping in to save the baby from an impending attack (read: jealous sister) between dispensing cups of water. Yet when my child asks me a question and I respond “uh, nu, nu,” he grows frustrated and I wonder if this is really what Hashem wants of me. Is there really an oasis in sight? Perhaps this “focus on the day” is but a desert mirage, an optical illusion created by thirst.

Hashem Hu HaMelech. This moment. What does Hashem want of me?

Somehow, we make it to the park. Focus on the day.

I flip through my machzor, “Mi yichyeh u’mi yamus, mi yanua u’mi yanuach…” We fit into nearly every category.

My husband’s on a spiritual high, in his ivory tower of tefillah; I’m in the trenches, barely managing the day. I’m jealous of my husband, of shul, of hours of standing, of disconnecting from these very real, very challenging struggles.

But Hashem Hu HeMelech. He made me a woman, a blessed mother.

It’s hard being a mom. I need to acquire good middos and break bad middos. My growth comes slowly, baby steps that mimic my child’s own.

This is my life, these are all the things I davened for — a husband, a home, children. And this is where my mind is, on all the challenges that these brachos bring. Frustrations remind me of the life I am living, of the brachos I’ve been granted.

I put down the machzor, and blessedly, shockingly (or obviously), my children are suddenly all occupied. Pressure removed, I daven from my heart. Please Hashem, allow me to appreciate my portion, my avodah. Let me be patient with Your children. Let me not wish for a different tafkid.

He’s the King, He loves me. Just as I want to give my children good, He wants to bestow good upon me. Despite World Wars Five, Six, and Seven, at the end of the day, I shower my children with kisses.

Please Hashem, I’m Your maidservant. I take care of Your neshamos. Yes, I lose it. Yes, I’m not perfect. Yes, I have areas — too many! — where I need to improve. But please, I’m trying my best; shower me with Your affection. Help it be easy to see Your love and Your brachos.

I’m strengthened by the knowledge that He’s my Father. He knows the recesses of my hearts — what I need, what I want — without my even needing to say them. He can make the purchase of the house go smoothly, He can cure my children completely, He can help my career succeed.

As the day draws to a close, I whisper final tefillos. Now that the masses of people have come before Him, it is the maidservant’s turn.

Thank You for challenges that are truly brachos. Thank you for allowing me to stand strong. I took care of Your children today; only You can truly take care of them by providing them with what they need. Help me to help them. I’m Your servant, trying my best to do Your Will. Help me be a good mother to raise children who will serve You dutifully, joyfully.

I arise, gather my children to return home, and with a final shake of my wilted sheitel, notice a shower of silver glitter falling gently to the floor.

Hashem Hu HaMelech.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 661)