Chevy doesn’t ask us to babysit next Tuesday. I’m not sure how she worked out getting to her EMT course, but I don’t mind at all. I have Aviva’s bas mitzvah to plan and I couldn’t really afford to spend the evening saying firmly to a four-month-old, “You are not hungry, good night, Rafi.”

Malky texts me for my banana bread recipe. I write that I’ll send it to her later, I’m busy bas mitzvah planning.

My phone rings a millisecond later.

“Hi, Ma, how are you?” Her voice is as calm and measured as always. Does that annoy me? I’ll never tell.

I wink at Aviva and rub her cheek. “Baruch Hashem, great, Malks. Busy planning a very special party for a very special girl.”

Aviva grins at me, green eyes sparkling. That kid is such a love muffin.

Malky clears her throat. “I know, Ma, that’s why I called. I just wanted to tell you that the wooden jewelry box painting and make-your-own pizzas isn’t going to cut it anymore, okay? Things have to be done a certain way, and I want Aviva to have the best.”

“What?” I gasp. “What’s wrong with jewelry box painting? Michaels is having a sale!”

There’s a strange sound on the other line, and then Malky says, “That’s just the way things are now, Ma. Gotta go with the flow.”

There’s that sound again. And suddenly I know exactly what it is.

“Malky? Is Rafi there?”

That snuffling sound again. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, Chevy had her EMT course. And my Sari is always bored, so I figured why not. It’s almost time to tuck him in though. This little man needs his eight hours. Isn’t he cute, Ma? Those eyelashes!”

I look at Aviva, flipping through the Michaels catalog. My shopping list is half finished, pizza doughs and cheeses underlined with hearts. I pick up a black pen and draw a big X over the whole thing.

“Yes, he’s delicious,” I say. And for once, my voice is as measured as hers is.

MY girls are on a mission to give Aviva the bas mitzvah party of her dreams. Or is it of their dreams? Mom-guilt overload; I will not go there.

Yitzchak comes home from Maariv to find me curled up on the couch, surrounded by a pile of old albums. He plops down next to me, causing some photos to flutter to the floor.

I show him the album I’m perusing: emerald-green cardboard with hot-pink puff paint declares it Malky’s Bas Mitzvah BB. The Q is long peeled off, but I remember that barbecue like it was yesterday.

We were still living on Neilson Street in Far Rockaway and had that fabulous backyard. The Kaplans from the yeshivah were our neighbors; there are so many pictures of Malky and their Brachi arm in arm.

We had tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and baskets of buns, platters of corn on the cob. And of course, that’s when I started the jewelry box painting minhag. The kids had loved it! Or so I thought…

Yitzchak points to a picture of Chevi covered in paint and I crack up, thinking of image-conscious Chevi allowing herself to be seen in public in paint-splattered clothes.

My phone pings. Still laughing, I read the message: Hey, Ma! I’m sending you the numbers of two top cookie girls. Kreindy Berg and Lali Feigenbaum. I guess compare prices and products?

Thanks, Malks. Will do.

I look up at Yitzchak. “What on earth is a cookie girl?”

A cookie girl, apparently, is someone who makes personalized cookies. And you need to decide on font and color soon so she can coordinate with the label girl. The label girl is the one who makes the personalized labels for the water bottles and the personalized placemats and the large mazel tov sign.

We’re a long way from Neilson Street now.

I call Shevi, my practical middle child. She will be practical along with me. Plus, she’ll remind me that I’m not such a bad mother after all; I’ll be hosting her three little ones this Shabbos in honor of her anniversary getaway.

“Hi, Ma!”

I smile at the phone; she’s such a ray of positivity. “Hi, Shevs! How’s the packing going?”

I can practically hear her shudder. “Blechh. I hate outfit planning.”

Girl after my own heart. “I know you do, hun, but you’re going to have an amazing time. It’s so sweet of Bentzi to surprise you like this.”

She giggles. “I know! And so sweet of my parents to take my little monste— I mean angels.”

Ah, I can feel my ego relaxing.

We laugh. “Oh, I love them, we’re going to have so much fun.”

We schmooze a bit more about her plans and then I just have to ask. “Shevs, did you like your bas mitzvah party?”

“My bas mitzvah party?” Her voice turns nostalgic. “Ohmigosh, it was the funnest. We painted jewelry boxes and made our own pizzas and then Fraidy and Baila made me that memory candle, and we accidentally melted the soda bottle, and Ta was so upset… Oh, wow, Ma! Aviva’s bas mitzvah! Is that why you’re asking?”

Is it strange that I have a lump in my throat? Since when am I so fragile? Or emotional? I cough. “Yes, we’re up to our ears in planning over here. I was going to get jewelry boxes and pizza ingredients, but Malky and Chevy said I need to get, uh, Pinky Presser to come dance with the girls? And that we need to actually hire someone to come with pizza ingredients and pizza ovens? And there are cookie girls and label girls and professional photographers?”

Shevi is quiet for a few moments. “Ma, I don’t know about cookies and labels. But I do know times have changed… maybe there’s something in the middle range you can do? Or better yet, why don’t you call some of the other moms and see what they’re all planning?”

My sweet, practical girl.

“Good idea, Shevs,” I say briskly, rummaging through the junk drawer — emphasis on junk — for Aviva’s class list.

Just as I’m about to call Shira Abrams’ s mom, the phone rings. It’s Chevy.

“Ma, how are you?”

I look at my kitchen, chicken packages defrosting on the counters, supper remnants littering the table, and is that milk on the kitchen floor? Like from the ‘Emes’ song?

“Tired,” I say, sitting heavily down on a chair. “How are you, sweetheart? How’s that gorgeous boy?”

“Gorgeous. And a handful.”

I allow myself a tiny smirk at how overwhelming new mothers find one new baby. Wait till you have five little ones, I think. But I keep that thought to myself and just tsk tsk in understanding.

“Anyway, Ma, I’m calling about Pinky Presser. We actually were in Touro together and I can probably get her to squeeze you in. She’s booked years in advance, but do you want me to see what I can do?”

I look at the class list. I’m exhausted just thinking about the phone calls. As one of the oldest mothers in the class, I can’t really say I really relish the idea of speaking to a bunch of 32-year-olds about their big plans for their first bas mitzvah.

“Sure,” I say woodenly. “See what Pinky says.”

The following Tuesday finds me squinting at pictures of balloon arrangements. Which is another way we can spill money down the drain in honor of this bas mitzvah party. Aviva is next to me, eyes sparkling. “Oooh, Ma, look at that giant 12!”

I wonder what I’m doing to her, if I’m introducing her to terrible concepts like peer pressure and keeping up with the Joneses and societal expectations, but she seems fine, just excited and happy.

When I told her Pinky Presser was coming, I thought she was going to fall over. I have never, in 12 years, seen my child that excited. Including the time when she was eight and I bought her a pink rubber camera that took real pictures. We had around 72 pictures of the living room couch floating around the house.

The phone rings, Aviva picks it up with a polished, “Hello, who’s calling please?”

She is too cute.

She listens for a second and then passes me the phone, nose wrinkled. “Chevy’s panicking about something.”

I smother a laugh and take the phone. “Hey, Chevs.”

“Hi, Ma, how are you?” I can hear the tension in her voice.

“Baruch Hashem, what’s doing, sweetie?”

Chevy huffs. “What’s doing is that my EMT course starts in 25 minutes and Malky just told me that she can’t watch Rafi! I really can’t believe h— whatever, the point is, Ma, do you mind taking him? So sorry it’s so last minute…”

Swallow your pride, just swallow your pride. “Of course, sweetie,” I say warmly. “Aviva and I can’t wait.”

I can hear her sigh of relief. “Thanks, Ma! But do you mind, like, uh, sticking to his schedule? Because otherwise it’s like all disrupted, and it’s really hard for me.”

Yes, I do mind, thank you very much. I raised you and all of your siblings. Who exactly do you think you are, giving me instructions about your four-month-old?!

“I’ll do my best, Chevs. I wouldn’t chas v’shalom want to make things harder for you!”

You could practically hear the whoosh as the sarcasm flew over her head.

“Thanks, Ma, I’ll bring him right over,” she said.

I turned to Aviva. “Looks like we have company for the evening.”

I tried. I really did. But either he hates my twenty-year-old Pack ‘n Play or he just really likes me, but the kid refused to go to sleep.

Chevy was upset, although good girl that she is, she tried to hide it. And I had no energy left to explain myself. I just kissed them both and practically shoved them out the door.

Yitzchak didn’t say anything, but I could see he wasn’t happy.

How do I explain mom guilt to him? How do I explain that there comes a point when you just want your kids to respect you and like you as you are?

Aviva walked by, holding an instant noodle-soup cup.

I forgot to make dinner. Again.

Yitzchak says I’m in a funk. Define funk, please. Yes, after Malky hinted that it would make more sense for her to take Aviva shopping for a bas mitzvah dress, I sulked. The entire time they were out, honestly. That’s a funk?

I click on the bas-mitzvah file. Two days till B-day. Everything is in place, the cookie girl and label girl and balloon girl and Pinky Presser…

I’m not ready, though. Aside from the emotional upheaval of my baby turning into a young woman, I feel cheated of the usual bonding experience between me and my bas mitzvah girl.

Maybe tomorrow, when we bake challah together, I’ll feel better. I perk up at the idea and take a steak out of the freezer for Yitzchak. Poor guy was about to have a tuna sandwich for the second day in a row.

There’s a knock on the door just as Yitzchak comes into the kitchen, sniffing happily. The scent of roasting steaks fills the air, and I’m slicing a salad, to alleviate any guilt I have over Yitzchak’s health. Ah, guilt, so many flavors and colors.

I open the door to find Chevi standing there. She looks a bit pale, and are her eyes red? I will not pry, I will not pry…

“Chevs?” I say gently. “How you doing, hun? What brings you here?”

She just looks at me. “Ma, can I look at those old photos you were talking about earlier?”

Yitzchak and I enjoy our steaks, although he keeps mouthing to me to find out why Chevy is on our couch at ten thirty at night looking at bas mitzvah albums. Finally, after some refreshing raspberry sorbet and a last, “I’m going!” glare at Yitzchak, I make my way into the den.

“Needed to get out a bit?” I say conversationally.

She sniffs and looks up from an album. Her bas mitzvah. “Yeah… Rafi was being a monster and Mendy told me he has it under control. Listen, Ma, Mendy wants us to fly in for his parents’ anniversary bash… and he doesn’t think it makes sense to take the baby with us.”

She sniffs again.

I will not get involved in my children’s shalom bayis, I will not—

“Hmm, that’ll be hard for you, huh?”

She doesn’t respond, just flips the page. “Ohmigosh, Ma, am I wearing a suit?”

I peer at the page, she’s in a lovely lilac Zoe suit, front bangs brushing her eyes as she hams for the camera.

“Most definitely,” I say, and we laugh.

I don’t ask her why her husband thinks a four-month-old can’t fly with his parents to another state, I don’t ask her why she’s on my couch, and I don’t ask her where she plans on leaving baby Rafi. I just sit and look at photos with my daughter until midnight.

And when I kiss her goodnight, I feel at peace. I was there for her. No guilt attached.

“…l’hafrish challah min ha’isah.” I’m not crying, I’m not crying… I’m crying.

I blink back tears and watch as Aviva closes her eyes and davens. Where’d my baby go and who is this beautiful young lady standing before me?

She uncovers her face and looks at me, one eye still closed. “Can we use food coloring to turn our challahs pink?”

Ah, there she is.

I hug her. “Love it, let’s do it.”

We sit there in companionable silence, painting our challahs pink, when she suddenly pipes up.

“Ma?”

“Mhhm?”

“I kind of wish we were painting jewelry boxes tomorrow. I really like painting.”

I put down my egg brush, speechless. I’m spending thousands on this bas mitzvah bash and she wants to paint jewelry boxes.

“But you’re excited about the party, right?”

She nods quickly. “Totally!”

Hmmm. “Let’s go,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron.

She stares at me. “To where?”

“Michaels. Leave the challahs, they have to rise anyway.” I grab her hand and we jump into the car. We have supplies to purchase.

The party is everything Malky wanted it to be. It’s chic and gorgeous and very, very not me. But Aviva, who looks stunning in the floral two-piece her sisters helped her purchase, is having the time of her life.

Pinky Presser really knows how to run a room, and everyone is hopping and bopping and uh, locking? Something like that. But after smoothies and refreshments, the girls all settle at their personalized placemats to paint jewelry boxes.

Aviva waves at me from the table and I wave back. I find the girls, Malky, Chevy, Shevs, and they’re all hard at work, painting away.

“Love that you still decided to do this, Ma,” says Malky breezily. “Great idea.”

I bite my tongue and smile sweetly at her.

Chevy comes over later, when I’m sweeping up some of the glitter Pinky had thrown around.

She takes the broom from my hand. “I got that, Ma.”

I sink into a chair gratefully.

“It was an amazing party,” she says, smiling. “Trendy but still with a lot of Ma-touches.”

I have no idea what to say, so I just sit there, tiredly.

“So, we were hoping to leave the baby by—”

“Malky,” I say nodding.

Chevy blinks. “Malky? No. She has her own schedule, I need someone who can accommodate Rafi. Ma, do you think we can leave him by you?”

I sit up straighter. “But I can’t sleep train him, Chevs, you know that.”

She sweeps the pile into the dustpan. “Maybe you can just try? And… you can love him with that special Ma-touch. What else can I want for him?”

Well, knock me over with a feather. My thoughts exactly.

“Maybe bring over his bassinet,” I say, by way of agreement. “He really hates my Pack ‘n Play.”

“Oh, we’ll bring over a lot of things,” she promises.

I don’t doubt it.

But I’m excited. Now I just need to break the news to Yitzchak. 

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 806)