We talk about the past, growing up with parents who lived in the same house — no upsizing back then. Maybe they remodeled the kitchen once in the 30 years they owned the house. My grandfather, a tailor from Poland, sewed my dress for my brother’s bar mitzvah. Our closets were sparse and didn’t sport any fancy names or brands. As for toys, the few family board games, a couple of decks of cards, and dolls and action figures for imaginary play were all tucked into one closet. When we were bored, we’d ride our banana seats — one speed-bikes — often second-hand, aimlessly around the neighborhood.

We discuss the early years of our marriages. Both of us had husbands in school. We counted every dollar, allotted them for essentials like groceries and rent. We reminisce about our first cars, Toyota Corollas. We squeezed three kids into the back seat, and when we “moved up” to Honda Odysseys, it was a pleasure to buckle in the kids without straining our backs.

Lunch was bagged and we cooked dinner every night. Our older children considered going to the main avenue with the kosher pizza stores and restaurants a family trip. If we could take a day off from work on Chol Hamoed, we’d head over to Great Adventure. If not, the kids would happily go to the local park with the babysitter.

Our talk moves to the present.

Our houses and kitchens have been renovated. The additions to our home have created more space, which ironically is still not enough. The kids’ closets aren’t big enough to hold all their clothes. The playroom is filled with toys — Lego, Magna-Tiles, games, and game consoles. We don’t even know how many speeds the kids’ bikes have. Don’t mention the hover boards and scooters that need to be charged every few days.

We still cook dinner every night. But our kids get lunch money. Or a credit card.

We took our daughters to Israel for the youngest’s bas mitzvah, the new version of a family trip.

“I still consider myself a plain, pashut woman,” I say. “After all, I make my girls use their babysitting money to buy their fancy bags and clothes.”

My friend stares at me. “Pashut?!” she exclaims. “You picked me up to come here in a Lexus.”

Silence.

“We’re like frogs in boiling water,” I splutter. She gives me a puzzled look, waiting for an explanation. “The way you cook a frog is you place it in a pot of water and bring it to a boil. The frog doesn’t feel the gradual increase in temperature, but by the time the water comes to a boil, it’s very much dead.”

I look up at my friend and ask, “Are you enjoying your caramel macchiato?”

“As much as you’re enjoying your oat milk Frappuccino,” she retorts.

“We’re cooked frogs.”

I sit back, her words hanging between us, and I feel a twinge of something uncomfortable — a mix of guilt and defensiveness. She’s not wrong. The Lexus, the oat milk Frappuccino — they’re all things I chose, things I justified with little moments of “I deserve this” or “it doesn’t cost that much.”

Maybe the frog didn’t just sit there, oblivious. Maybe it thought the warmth felt nice at first.

Maybe I thought the warmth felt nice.

I glance at her, wondering if she feels the same tug between gratitude for what we have and unease.

I don’t know if I’m ready to give it all up — or if I even want to — but I can’t shake the feeling that this conversation isn’t just about us. It’s about the choices we make, big and small, and whether we’re willing to admit when we’ve made them with our eyes wide shut.

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 938)