With her on my team, I knew I’d lose the deal

“Today I looked at the bathtub and thought ‘You can totally fit a bassinet in there.’”

My long-suffering husband looks at me. “Rachelli. We are not putting our child in the bathtub, okay? He or she will sleep in our room until we have a better arrangement.”

I have a sudden vision of a faceless twelve-year-old camped out on the floor of our room. I shudder.

“Yehudah, we need a bigger place.”

He shrugs, and dons his hat, Minchah-bound. “Oh, I know.”

Of course he knows — I mention it in passing once or twice a day. Poor man, it’s like being married to a robocall. Just the same words on repeat. I like to think that when I’m not in my eighth month, I’m a lot more easygoing. But right now, the stress is getting to me.

My work phone pings. It’s Chana, bless her soul.

The Bermans bit! Close the deal! Now! It should be with hatzlachah!

So very many exclamation points, but I agree with each one. I grope for a chair and plop down heavily.

I can’t believe it. I’m all over this. Thanks Chana!

A little exclamation point of my own.

I’m one of those annoying people who loves going to work. I hide it well, don’t worry. I complain with the best of them, moan about just wanting my bed and a week of Sundays. Even at work, I gripe in the kitchen and at the coffee station; I don’t want to be the weirdly enthusiastic one. But inwardly, I love it.