“What are you having?”

I hand her my credit card. “Surprise me.”

She grabs it and flounces off. I watch her hug two women who look like they just finished sheva brachos and smirk; they probably think Hadassah is their age. They would pass out if they knew she has a daughter leaving to seminary next year. I used to think I was the same way, but only once I heard Hadassah actually used Botox and HydraFacials and fillers, did I realize how old I actually looked in comparison.

We dig into our bowls in silence, then switch to taste each other’s.

“How’s Benjy?” I ask at the exact same time that she says, “I need to ask you something.”

I bite into a blueberry. “Ask me.”

She puts her spoon down; I find myself mirroring her action.

And then beautiful Hadassah of the snide comments and loud beeping bursts into sobs.

She’s even pretty when she cries.

I said yes. Of course I said yes. Hadassah never asks me for anything, ever. G-d forbid the woman ever needs help from anybody. But she and Yosef are struggling in their marriage apparently. That was bombshell one. Bombshell two was that things are so bad that they are going to be making a last-ditch effort to stay together and fly off to Israel together, away from the stresses of daily life… and life with a special needs child. Bombshell three was that she wants me, of all people, to take Benjy for a week and a half. Her Tammy’s a big girl and can watch the other five, but Benjy is a whole ’nother ballgame. And for that she asked me. Which totally makes sense, but also doesn’t really. What about her mom, her sister, her sister-in-law, or her 2,346 friends? But no, she wants me. Again, I get it. I’d also ask me over almost anyone else; I’m probably the most easygoing person she knows. We also do share a long history, even if our daily lives don’t intersect all that much anymore.

I rub my forehead, a habit I developed after discovering rubbing in concentric circles can lessen the inset wrinkles. It hadn’t. Which is why in two weeks, on my 40th birthday, I’m getting some very light and very tasteful Botox. That, and the fact that I’m friends with people who look like Hadassah. And my mom. And my three older sisters, all who started Botox when they turned 40. It’s a rite of passage, if you will. The only difference is that I’m an eighth-grade morah, while none of them work. I also don’t think anyone in Bais Miriam would notice if I got some injections, but apparently my sisters can’t leave their houses if they don’t look up to par. Which sounds exhausting, honestly. But still. Semantics. I don’t think I’m doing it from vanity, not really. I just feel I deserve to look young as much as the next woman. And honestly, after eight kids, two trajillion sleepless nights, and almost 40 years on this green earth, I’m ready for a little… improvement. Am I the shallowest Chumash teacher in the world? Quite possibly. I’ve always believed that my life kept me youthful; kollel life, far away from the rat race, from the involvement in things that cause white hairs and aging, like stocks and cars and risky investments. But it seems it all caught up with me at some point. And these days, I feel a million light-years away from the youthful morah I used to be.

Nachi thinks it’s funny; he always pretends to have no idea what I’m talking about when I point out my under-eye wrinkles and forehead creases. He’d bypassed my birthday on the calendar, instead decorating the day of my Botox appointment with a giant B-DAY decorated with squiggles that I think are supposed to be wrinkles.

I’m excited, if by excited I mean I get nauseous every time I think about it. I am not a needles person. But I’m ready. I’m so, so ready to feel satisfied when I look in the mirror.

Although, judging by the horrible consultation, Botox is not going to be enough. They also offered me tear trough fillers, laser for my under-eye circles, and several other brand-new things to be insecure about. But since I’m on a budget here, we’re sticking with Botox.

My phone pings just as I pull into the driveway. I absently scowl at the bikes strewn across the yard, the cushions missing from the porch chairs, and the flowerbed that needs trimming.

Thanks for letting me break down. No pressure about Benjy, but also… pressure.

I smile faintly because the text is so Hadassah. Of course we’ll take him. Nachi’s an innately nice person and would take in a stranger’s kid, and I’m not that nice, but Hadassah is still my best friend from childhood.

I text Nachi I need to speak to him and then enter the house, intent on not criticizing the kids for the mess today like I did yesterday. Spoiler alert: I criticized.

I’M on edge.

Nachi doesn’t say anything, but the fifth time I snap at him, he raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” I say, the guilt rising. And I tell him, about Hadassah, and Yosef, and Benjy. I tear up a bit, because it’s so awful.

Nachi tsks and sighs and even gives one low whistle, so I know he’s holding.

I sniff and blow my nose. “So? What should we do?”

Nachi shrugs. “Let’s take the kid, no?”

I squint at him. “Well, yeah. But it’s going to be hard. He has so many things going on, different issues and disabilities. It’s a huge deal. Plus a huge achrayus.”

Nachi shrugs again. “Yeah, but you know you’re going to say yes, eventually, right? That’s who you are. And honestly, I’m totally with you on this one.”

He’s serious.

I stress again how hard it would be. I remind him that we do have eight children of our own, in case he’s forgotten. I’m helpful like that. But really, I just want him to go in with eyes wide open; I don’t want him blaming me for whitewashing the situation, something I may or not be guilty of on a regular basis.

I talk and talk about how Ricky might be scared of him, and what if Aharon grabs Benjy’s crutches and will Devorah grouch about there being more people for her to watch.

He stands up and stretches, yawning loud enough to wake the dead.

“Baily. Tell her it’d be our zechus. Do we have any peanut chews left?”

Hadassah started crying again when I told her. I went over to her house, her huge, gorgeous, mid-century modern house with its kitchen that looks like it was plucked out of my dreams. Literally, if I could design a kitchen, it would be this.

I see it then, the pain behind the flawless skin, the fear etched in her huge brown eyes.

She squeezes my hand, hers is cold. “Thank you so much,” she whispers.

Then she’s back to being Hadassah. She tells me my hands are too dry, grabs a shea butter hand moisturizer from the counter and stuffs it into my bag.

WEsit down with Nespressos while she tells me all about Benjy’s schedule. Then she hands me a laminated list. “These are his numbers. Doctors, surgeons, stitches, therapists, nutritionist.”

I swallow, run my finger down it.

“Wow. Hadassah…” and I want to tell her how I never realized how much goes into all of this, that I had no idea she ever took any of her kids for stitches, let alone has a “stitches guy,” but she doesn’t want to hear that, she wants to hear how impressed I am with her organization skills, and for me to ooh and ahh over her laminator. So I do.

I raise my hand in the air. “Question: how often does Benjy, uh, get stitches? Or, you know, need a surgeon?”

Hadassah gives a half smile. “He’s amazing. He insists on doing things by himself, he’s sooo independent, and sometimes he manages, and sometimes he really doesn’t. And that’s why I have my own team, because I feel like an emergency room doctor will take one look at all the scars and scrapes and think I’m totally neglectful.”

I nod doubtfully. “Aha.” Well, I’m not going to tell Hadassah this, because she needs to get on that plane with Yosef, but I don’t plan on allowing there to be much independence when he’s under Aunt Baily’s roof. Nope, total dictatorship in the Levine home. Sorry, Benj.

I leave, weighed down with schedules and lists and medications. Nachi will pick him up tomorrow morning, once the other kids have left for school and Hadassah and Yosef are ready to leave for the airport.

I turn in the doorway hesitantly, Hadassah grabs me, hugs me tightly, and turns back inside, closing the door firmly behind her.

Well, then. Guess she didn’t want to hear that I’ll be davening for her and rooting for them and that everything will be okay.

Which is good, I guess, because I have no way to guarantee that it will be.

The first thing Benjy does when he enters my home is fall. Really! Nachi sets him down gingerly, and he crumples to the floor in a ball of boy and crutches.

I shriek, Nachi runs into action, pulling him back up, setting him upright on his crutches until he’s steady.

The kid is laughing. “That… funny…” he says.

“I’m glad you think so,” I say, bopping him on the nose. My heart is pounding a mile a minute.

I cash in on two of my vacation days, so I have Thursday and Monday off, in addition to my regular Tuesday off. Benjy’s school ends at two, so any regular scheduling is off the table. Thursday goes okay, Friday goes okay, Shabbos is amazing, and Sunday finds us at the stitches guy.

I’d gotten comfortable. That’s the honest truth. Shabbos had been so nice, and I’d been feeling so good about myself. I even looked in the mirror this morning and smiled instead of grimacing and pulling my skin this way and that. I like my face; it reminds me of my mother. And I like who I am. I’m a good person, between me and the mirror. The sort of person who takes in her best friend’s special needs child, and doesn’t gripe about it or call attention to it.

Apparently, though, I’m also the sort of person who returns her friend’s child with eleven stitches on his elbow, and a cut glued shut on his chin.

The kids had wanted ice cream, so I’d pulled out Klein’s best and a bottle of sprinkles. But Mindy had the brilliant idea to use cones as well, and they were on the top shelf of the pantry, and next thing I know Benjy jumps in the air to try to pull the pack down, and well, the rest is history. Bloody history.

Hadassah wasn’t kidding when she said the kid is covered in scars. But he and the stitches guy, Dr. Klahr, are playing a cheerful game of “name that scar.”

“And this one… climbed tree.” Benjy laughs proudly. “This one… hoverboard.” He cackles gleefully, and Dr. Klahr joins in.

“He’s earned his stripes, and he loves it,” he says to me, looking at Benjy fondly. “You ever saw a kid more excited to be alive?”

I nod with a perfunctory smile. Excited to be alive? He almost bled to death all over my very not-mid-century modern floors.

Hadassah texts me later, while I’m tucking Benjy in. Don’t worry that you almost maimed my child. 😛

Guess Dr. Klahr billed her.

I’m not, he’s too proud of his wound. How’s it going?

It’s going great, thanks so much Baily.

Why does that hurt me so much, the fact that she’s incapable of sharing more with me? Hadn’t I proven my worth as a friend yet?

Although, as I gaze down at her sleeping son, I guess she’s shared a whole lot this week.

MY birthday dawns bright and hot. I open my phone to a picture of a smiling Hadassah and Yosef in front of Mearas Hamachpeilah, with a “We davened for you on your special day!” caption. So that’s really nice, plus they seem happy, which is probably all the update I’m going to get from that vault.

The kids dance into my room with what seems like 100 balloons.

“It’s only forty,” Nachi assures me. Oh, well that might as well be 100 then.

I smile and laugh with the kids, they hand me cards and drawings, assure me there’s going to be plenty of cake and presents later, and run off to get ready for school.

“I’m middle-aged,” I moan to Nachi.

“Welcome to the club,” he says, bowing.

“Yuck,” I answer maturely. He rolls his eyes, tells me there’s a surprise breakfast in the fridge, and heads off to shul. I load Benjy into his van, wave goodbye, and then head into the blissfully silent house to mope in solitude. Of course, I have so much hakaras hatov. At 40, I’m exactly where I want to be: the wife of a good man, mother to beautiful children, making an okay salary at a job that gives me tremendous sipuk.

But I’m just not ready to label myself as middle-aged yet. I’m just not. And I’m definitely not ready to look middle-aged, either.

I peek in the fridge and grin: Nachi bought me a stack of waffles, a carton of strawberries, and real maple syrup. YUM. He might not be the best at presentation, but he gets major points for content.

I head toward the stairs to shower and daven, promising the waffles I’ll be back for them soon. The calendar glares at me on my way out, B-DAY outlined in silly squiggles. One day before I turn back the clock.

I stop at the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, forcing myself to ignore the fingerprints and smudges. I close my eyes and then reopen them. A nice-looking woman looks back at me: eyes tired, thin lines spreading out from under them. Her forehead is creased and there’s a stubborn “11” between her brows. But her face is smooth, cheeks tinged with pink, lips turned up in a smile. A nice face. A kind face. Happy, even.

Jaidene from the clinic said that if I want to cancel the appointment, I need to do so within 24 hours or be charged $200.

Why would I want to cancel? I don’t want to cancel.

I raise a finger, run it over the tired circles under my eyes. I am tired. I have a house full of children, thank G-d, ranging in all ages, each with needs as big as mansions. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been awake for the past 20 years, in a constant need for a nap or a snatched 20 minutes of sleep. I’ve worked so hard, cajoling my kids into being menschen and not monsters, brushing them and bathing them and dressing them and feeding them. I work hard creating exciting new lesson plans for my students, refusing to look back on last year’s. My students deserve the best of me, not a recording of my previous classes, and it shows in my efforts and my successes, but it’s definitely not the easy way out.

I pinch the 11. It’s my worried expression. I squeeze my brows together. Nachi loves to imitate it. And I’ve had things to worry about. Random fevers and rashes, broken bones, bullying, bug bites and ticks. There was the year Malki’s teacher didn’t get along with her, that tekufah when Meir hung out with Schreiber. There have been late mortgage payments and health scares and empty bank accounts. World crises and pandemics and war in Eretz Yisrael. Shalom bayis roller coasters and family dramas and friendship heartbreaks. The worries of a full life, of a frum life. The anxieties of being a mother and a wife and productive member of society, and all that goes along with that.

And suddenly, I hear a little voice saying, “This one… climbed tree. This one… hoverboard.” And his newest war story? “Ice cream cones!”

So proud of his scars, of his war stripes. So excited to share the stories behind each one.

I pinch the 11 again. Do I really want to eradicate mine? To erase each story, to pretend I came out of it all unscathed? The time Yoni got lost at the park and I aged ten years in ten minutes. When I found Nachi passed out in a pool of blood after hitting his head in the garage when he took out the succah boards. Malki being bullied in ninth grade, and Chevi not speaking until she was two, and Ricky not walking for longer than that….

Do I want to convince the world that child-rearing ovdei Hashem, day in and day out, didn’t take its toll on my face, on my nerves? Not really.

I think of Hadassah’s smooth face, hiding mountains of pain.

I think of my mother, my sisters, untroubled by parnassah issues, but each with pekelehs of their own, regular lives maybe, no Hadassah pain packages there, but really, doesn’t my own package prove that there’s nothing regular about life? Their young smooth faces, touched-up features…. What are they hiding?

Twenty-four hours to cancel. My appointment is in twenty-six.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 847)