***

The stash was twenty books deep. A mix of new and old. There was a new Gerald and Piggy book I’d never read, and “The Day the Crayons Came Home,” which I assumed was a sequel to “The Day the Crayons Quit,” which was so fun.

I sat down in a winged-back armchair and stacked my books on the table in front of me. I usually screen my books at home, but I had the time now, so I might as well weed them out before bringing them into my house.

Gerald and Piggy was a go; I started a Yes pile. I flipped through the crayon book. Cute, but I wasn’t comfortable with some of the humor. Hmm. Next book, an A to Z mystery. I was so sick of them, but Tzvi was still captivated. I settled in to read the latest on Dink Duncan and Co.

“Are you taking that?” a voice asked. I looked up, a frum woman a bit older than me was pointing at the crayon book.

“Nope, nixed it.”

“Anything wrong with it?”

“Nothing terrible, but I like to play it safe.”

“How old are your kids?”

I looked down at my stomach. I looked the same as I had last week. No one but me would know.

“My youngest is 6, but we all love picture books, me especially.”

The woman grinned.

“Me too, but I keep my grandson nearby as a socially acceptable excuse.”

We both laughed, and she pointed to her grandson who was currently fixated on a poster of a T. Rex in a nearby aisle. He looked to be around four.

“I’m retired, serve as my daughter’s ad-hoc babysitter. She’s a night nurse, so she’s generally home during the day, but when she needs to run errands and playgroup is out, it’s Grandma to the rescue.”

Grandma. Very American.

“You come here often?” I asked.

“At least once a week with him. I love it, he loves it, his mom loves it, win win win. You?”

“First time here! I just moved to the area, but I plan on making it a habit.”

She smiled at me; she had beautiful deep laugh lines.

“I hope you do. I’m Sharon Rothman, by the way.”

“Chana Schwartzberg.”

We both sat in the moment quietly. Her grandson toddled over, his eye caught the crayon book.

“Grandma, this one?” he asked. His brown eyes were framed by too long bangs, precious.

Sharon swept his bangs to the side and looked at me, questioning. I took the book and flipped it open to the brown crayons postcard and pointed out my hesitation. She read it and chuckled.

“It’s cute.”

“I know. But.”

“I hear your ‘but,’ but I’m not that sensitive.”

“Go for it.” I said.

She smiled at me again, a genuine grin that felt so different than Yehudis Schloss’s.

Sharon’s grandson started tugging at her skirt. “I wanna go home!”

“Coming, Dovi.” She patted my shoulder and took the book with her. “Hope to see you around.” I turned back to my book stack and took a moment to breathe before opening the next book. I like her. And I like this place, I’m definitely walking back here. This doctor’s orders exercise thing is under control.

***

Bam. There was a door on my forehead. “Ouch!” I yelped.

Avrumi poked his head in the bedroom.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were standing behind the door, I heard you talking. What’s going on?”

I massaged my forehead to dull the ache. “Practicing speaking.”

“Behind the door?”

“I was watching myself in the mirror.” I made a sheepish face.

Avrumi raised an eyebrow. I pointed to a book on my bed.

“Yehudis Schloss dropped this off. She signed me up for a class that teaches this guy’s public speaking methods. But it doesn’t start for a few weeks and I need to speak before then, so she dropped it off so I can ‘get some pointers.’” I air quoted “dropped” and “get some pointers.”

Avrumi gave me a sympathetic look. “She means well. She has the shul and the community’s best interests in mind.”

I waved a hand. “I know, it’s not her. I’m not killing the messenger. This whole thing is just unexpected and surprisingly hard.” I gestured toward the mirror. “I’m supposed to be noticing my presence and posture and creating equilibrium or something with my audience.”

Avrumi looked at me paternally. This stuff came naturally to him.

“And what are you noticing?” he asked.

“That my right arm does all the talking and my left arm just stays there like a nebach. It doesn’t even give attitude, it’s just limp.”

Avrumi chuckled. “What else?”

“I keep pushing my glasses up. I’m a mess, I make no sense, I’m talking about the topic before I organize it… And I’m kvetching like a pregnant woman.”

“Well, you are.” Avrumi smiled.

“Good point.”

“Chana,” Avrumi said softly, “let’s take this slowly. What’s your topic?”

I got my notes from my dresser.

“I’m gonna be talking to mothers with little kids who can’t go shul. I wanted to stick with the oldie-but-goodie, what Rav Eliyahu Lopian says about how a mother taking care of her kids on Rosh Hashanah has a direct pipeline to Hashem, but when I start saying anything like that in the mirror it feels so contrived. Like I can only say it sincerely if I say it spontaneously.”

Avrumi was listening closely. Then it hit me.

“I’m going to be one of those mothers next year!” I slumped on the bed and stared with blank eyes. New place, new role, new mother, too much.

“Avrumi, forget it, none of this is working. Can we move back?”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 692)