Nava is sweet and earnest and just a tad overexcited.

“Leah, hi! It’s Nava! Yali’s cousin?”

I smile into my basket of lone socks.

I’m absolutely fooling myself, thinking matches will ever be made. No, this is purely a domesticity thing, like wearing a frilly apron. It makes me feel like a homemaker, to tsk tsk over a child’s lonely pink sock, when everyone knows its partner is deep in the abyss of my washing machine’s belly.

“Hi, Nava!” Oh wait, I’m so not the exclamation point type. I think it might be catchy. “How are you settling in?” I ask in my normal tone of voice.

“Oh, it’s amazing. Everyone is sooo nice and it’s like the cutest community. Plus Moishy loves the yeshivah, baruch Hashem.”

“Baruch Hashem,” I say agreeably. “So Yali told me you want to start a playgroup?”

“Yup! Is that okay? I know you have an amazing group, Yali always talks about how much her kids love Morah Leah. I was thinking I’d take six kids, and it would be so cute. Everyone warned me that being bored shanah rishonah is, like, the worst thing ever.”

I laugh. “Well, if you’re watching six kids, you most definitely will not be bored. It’s a lot of work.”

“Oh, I know! I’m a little bit nervous, but it’s not like I never watched kids before… I know I’ll get the hang of it. But you don’t mind? Are you sure?”

I nod, then remember she can’t see me. “Of course, there’s plenty to go around. But here’s a crazy thought: Do you want to come assist me for a few weeks, gain hands-on experience, and it’ll be a win-win?”

“Ohh, I’d love that! Thanks, Leah!”

I hang up, make a mental note to invite cousin Nava for a Shabbos seudah soon, and promptly drop the basket of socks back into the laundry room. Wasn’t fooling anyone anyway.

Four packs of boys’ socks: added to cart.

I don’t think I realized how incredible it is to have an assistant until Nava came to me for two hours a day. We decided she should try it out, kind of like an internship. She would gain experience; I’d get the extra set of hands. Win-win. Halfway through the year, she stopped coming; she was having a hard pregnancy. I missed having her around.

I attended her baby’s bris and gave her a warm hug, and I bought her prince the cutest little fur-trimmed sweater. (Why is buying baby clothing so dopamine inducing? I’d practically skipped out of the baby store.)

It was only a couple months later, when I started planning for next year in earnest, that it started niggling at me.

I pulled my list out, just to double check things. Braun, Shapiro, Wagshal, Fried, Grossman, Lowenstein, Koffman, Bleich. Eight. Hmm, isn’t it weird that Feldman didn’t call? She sent me her two older boys. And I was expecting Lewis to send as well.

Okay, well, I know there will be others, some very spaced-out mothers calling late in a panic.

I think about registration again almost a month later. Strange that no one has called; I’m usually regretfully turning desperate mothers away. These are, obviously, moms whose oldest is two; any veteran mom knows to sign up from the delivery rooms.

I decide to call Nava, see what’s going on with her. Maybe this year’s crop of kids is just smaller, for some reason. And as her friend slash mentor, it would be nice to see how she’s faring as a first-time mom, maybe offer her some tips. Also, it will help me procrastinate sorting the 300 pieces of Magna-Tiles out of the blocks. Thank you, Ari Hill, for helpfully combining the two during playgroup today.

“Nava? It’s Leah, how’s that gorgeous boy?”

I wait for an enthusiastic “Baruch Hashem!” but there’s an awkward pause and then, “Leah, hi. How are you?”

Oysh, I hope everything’s okay. Being a first-time mom is hard!

I inject more warmth into my voice. “How’s everything going? I’ve been meaning to make you dinner.”

Ahh, the pep is back. “Wow, Leah, that is so nice! And here I thought you were totally mad at me.”

What?

“Oh? Why on earth?”

“Because I ended up taking ten kids for my playgroup next year instead of six. Honestly, I know it’s a lot to start with, but we can really use the parnassah, you know? And I think everyone was just really excited that I can do until four and not just three. Apparently carpool’s a major issue around here.”

She laughs.

I don’t.

She opened without me. She took ten kids. At least two of those were mine, I have no doubt. And of course, since the Henners moved to Queens, there’s been a gap in playgroups. Of course everyone wants to send. Hey, I’d send if I could. Four o’clock? That’s the dream.

This was not happening.

“Nava, so sorry, slight emergency here, I need to run.”

And then I hang up before another perky word can be uttered.

“But it’s my parnassah, too,” I say to Gersh later, and not until I hear the crack in my voice do I realize how much this has shaken me. Not only in terms of finances, but I’m pretty sure my self-esteem as well.

I feel old and put out to pasture, in comparison to Nava and her brand-new excursion into adulthood, full of high-pitched possibilities and zero time constraints.

Gersh looks sympathetic, or as sympathetic as a man can look while spooning leftover chocolate mousse onto a wafer he found in one of the kids backpacks.

“It’s a test, Lay. A reminder that parnassah is from Hashem. She didn’t take anything from you that you were supposed to have, right? It was all decided on Rosh Hashanah.”

I know he’s right, but it’s still a hard pill to swallow. And the ten-year-old in me can’t help thinking that the eight I do have probably wish they can switch to Nava and get childcare until four.

The kids are finally tucked away, we’ve done three rounds of drinks and bathroom trips, and I’m so wrung out I think I even yelled something along the lines of “the next person to talk in bed will not be allowed to use the bathroom.”

So I’m doing great.

And that’s when Tamar Bechoffer calls to tell me she signed up with Nava — side note, she had totally told me she wanted to sign up with me but whatever — and Nava had told her I’d be a reference, that she’d worked for me and had my full support.

Chutzpah.

That’s the only word that comes to mind.

And that’s why I say, “I’m so sorry, I really don’t know her very well, she’s my best friend’s cousin,” curtly and then hang up.

I feel like a failure on all accounts, and I go to sleep in a bad mood, wondering what it would have taken for me to have said something nicer about Nava.

Would you like to respond to this column as a Second Guesser? Email familyfirst@mishpacha.com with Second Guessing in the subject line.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 874)