I thought I’d slap on a sheitel, push my carriage with new babe, and presto — perfect middos, calm and collected Mommy, with a million tricks up my sleeve to solve every problem

Iam a fraud.

Three kids, and I still have no idea what I’m doing.

A Real Mother would — she would know how to deal with a child’s tantrums, how to put children to sleep calmly and smoothly, how to answer every last question. She would glide through the day with an air of equanimity and poise, doling out nutritious foods and sincere compliments.

On a good day, I give my kids cereal and milk (a carb and a protein!) and call it dinner, criticizing and nagging all the while, answering most of their questions with “I have no idea.” (And honestly, I don’t really care to find out the answer to where do mosquitoes build their homes.)

I pretend, I fluff, I act assured and confident, while inside, I just want to curl up in a ball and have someone else take care of me. Can someone else tuck my kids, and me, into bed? A few years or so of uninterrupted, deep sleep sounds about right.

I certainly don’t know what I’m doing. Not only do I not feel like a Real Mother, I barely feel like a grown-up. I’m still surprised when the cashier doesn’t ask for my ID when purchasing wine for our seudah. (Can’t she tell that the lines around my eyes are still fresh, and are just masking a girl playing pretend Mommy, for a pretend seudah, with a pretend family?)

I am nearing my thirties, yet too often, I still feel like a child.

I own my own home, my own car, have a real job, a real husband, real kids… so when does it stop feeling like I’m playing house?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this, ever since my son asked me to push up the ices that are encased in a plastic sleeve. He had first asked me to cut it, with the explanation that when he is an adult, he’ll be able to cut it himself. (True — we don’t allow sharp knives in the hands of three-year-olds).

After I oh-so-adroitly maneuvered the ices up, he mentioned off-handedly: “I’ll learn how to push it up myself when I’m a grown-up!” I laughed at his simplicity, at his sharp demarcations between child and grown-up, between unskilled and mature achievements.

It’s so clear in his mind, yet I still question my grownup-hood. Is this enough of an achievement for me to wear the badge of Real Mother?

And when indeed did I learn that skill of ices-pushing? When did I shed those Child layers? Some skin may have been sloughed off, but barely enough to be deemed a new creation, from Child to Mother. Just who declared me capable of standing on my own two feet as a responsible adult, and who says I’m mature enough to raise children?

I still have so much to learn, so many basic facts left to garner until I can be a Real Mother. When my children ask me to fix something, or they look at me wide-eyed, with hopes that I’ll somehow achieve the impossible, I know the truth: I am a Fake Mother. My oldest is barely five; for now, I have fooled my children, but with time, the truth will be revealed as the image of my omnipotence shatters into pieces.