So Close Yet So Far

Tzippy

I started planning Benny’s upsheren before he even turned one.

Look, he was the first boy after three girls, so of course I wanted it to be special. And baby Aliza made her appearance a few months before Benny’s third birthday, so Benny was seriously outnumbered. It was definitely his turn for some real boy-friendly limelight.

Maybe I went a little over the top with his car-themed party. Black-and-white checkered tablecloths, tiny toy cars lined up like centerpieces, a whole “fuel station” setup with blue drinks in glass bottles and striped straws. I ordered cupcake toppers with little race flags, planned a “spare tire” doughnut wall, ordered a long table runner like a highway with toy cars racing down the middle. I designed Canva labels for everything — “fuel up,” “pit stop,” “finish-line snacks” — the whole thing.

It was… a lot. But in my defense, after three girls and bows and pink and more bows, I was ready for something that involved wheels.

So I had the theme, the decor, the program, and the food all planned out. The guest list, though, was the hard part. Because we just don’t have much family living nearby.

Shmuli’s the youngest, most of his siblings live abroad, and his parents made aliyah shortly after we got married. His oldest sister lives in Brooklyn, so that made one family who would hopefully be there. On my side? I have one sister in Israel, and a brother who lives out of town, like a ten-hour drive away. My parents live nearby, so of course they would be there, but basically, our guest list was pitifully small.

I’d invite my aunts and a few friends but… yeah. It was just one of those times when we really felt the lack of family.

“You know Yaakov’s coming for Lag B’omer,” Ma mentioned to me. We were visiting my parents for Shalosh Seudos — we did it every week in the summer, and went over for Melaveh Malkah in the winter months. My kids were the only grandchildren nearby, so I knew it meant the world to them. “Sari’s sister is getting married, so they’re coming a day before, and staying until after Shabbos sheva brachos. They’ll be in Passaic, but we’ll go to the chasunah, and I’m sure we’ll get to see them here a little….”

Wait, Lag B’omer? How had I forgotten? Did that mean he would make it for the upsheren?

I would even rearrange the date or time if that would help.

Right after Shabbos, I texted my sister-in-law.

Hi! When are you guys on this side of the world? Excited to see you!

Sari replied a little later. Coming Monday, traveling back prob Sunday evening. Would be nice to see you, will you be in Passaic at all?

No, but we’re making Benny’s upsheren on Sunday! I inserted a series of celebratory emojis. I’m so excited you could be there! Literally doubling the number of family members we can invite 😉

To my surprise, Sari didn’t reply right away. Maybe she was just busy. Just before I went to sleep, though, I noticed her last message: We don’t have plans yet, so I have no idea what will be happening on Sunday, let’s be in touch nearer the time…

Okay, sure – but… was this even a question?

I sent her an upsheren invite the next day with an extra we really would love to have you there! tacked on.

She sent back a heart emoji. Great.

It would be so nice to have Yaakov and his family there. The kids would be over the moon — my brother had daughters around my oldest girls’ ages, and a four-year-old boy, Benny’s only boy cousin close in age. Having them there would make all the difference to our party.

The favor boxes arrived a week before the big day: neat rows of black-and-white checkered boxes, each one with a glossy red stripe and a little race number sticker already printed on the front, like they were waiting to be assigned to their drivers.

I spent around two hours painstakingly putting them together, stuffing each one with the same mix: a mini car, obviously; a “spare tire” donut wrapped just so; a little bottle labeled fuel up, and color-coded candies I sorted into tiny clear bags so they’d look like something out of a themed display instead of the bulk section of the grocery. I even matched the race numbers on the boxes to the place cards I’d already printed, because if I was doing this, I was doing it properly.

Then because I couldn’t resist, I posted a snapshot to the family chat, one-time view, with the caption sneak preview!!!!

Soooo cute! My sister Mindy replied. So sad we’ll miss it!

Sari gave the picture a heart emoji, and Yaakov made some comment about whether his upsheren even counted, since he’d given out pieces of cake on paper plates.

I smirked at the screen, then wrote, @Yaakov @Sari so excited you can hopefully join!!!

The chat went strangely quiet.

Maybe they were just busy? They were traveling the next day, after all.

I didn’t hear much from Yaakov or Sari over the next few days. Okay, they were traveling, they were busy with the wedding, and then Ma said Sari and her siblings were making the first night’s sheva brachos.

On Thursday, though, when I checked my phone to make sure my last Amazon delivery would be coming on time, I saw a text from Yaakov.

Hi Tzippy… so sorry but I don’t think we’ll make it on Sunday. Save us pekelach 😉

I didn’t smile. It wasn’t a joke. What did he mean, I don’t think we’ll make it??

Instead of replying, I called him. “Yaakov? What’s going on, how come you won’t be coming?”

He was talking in a low voice, like he didn’t want to disturb anyone. “One sec, the kids are all still sleeping. I’m just—” he went quiet a minute, then continued in a regular voice. “Hi, sorry about that. So, Sunday? Listen, we really didn’t know our schedule until now, I’m sorry for the late notice….”

Late notice? That wasn’t the issue.

“But… why not? We’re so close. It’s literally an hour’s drive — we do it all the time, sometimes it’s even quicker… and — I mean, how often do I make an upsheren? How often are you in town when I do it?!” My voice was rising a little. Why didn’t he get it? This was major for me, and how much family did I have already?

Yaakov didn’t seem convinced. “I know it’s not a huge drive, but an hour with all the kids is a lot. Remember, they’ve been in the car ten hours just to get here. We’re driving upstate for Shabbos sheva brachos. We’re driving back on Motzaei Shabbos. And we’re already leaving Sunday night to get home — it’s just not going to work.” Yaakov sounded apologetic. But I was too desperate to notice.

“Yaakov, come on, you know what it’s like to make events with no family. We literally have no one here. I mean, there’s Shmuli’s sister, whose kids are all teens, and there’s you. We — my kids were so excited.” My voice caught a little, but I didn’t care. “Listen, what if I change the timing? I could make it morning. You could even sleep over here Motzaei Shabbos, instead of driving back and forth. Would that help?”

Even as I offered, I wondered if I’d regret it. Making the party earlier would be a huge hassle for me. But if that’s what it took for Yaakov to come, it would be worth it.

“I’ll ask Sari, but I don’t think it’ll really make such a difference,” Yaakov said. “She was talking about using the day for some shopping. It’s our only free day here….”

Shopping?

They were going to miss the upsheren because Sari needed a full day to shop? Seriously?

“Listen, discuss it and let me know, okay?” I said. “It would mean so much to us if you could be here.”

The party was… perfect.

Like, literally perfect. The tablescape came out even nicer than I imagined. The buffet looked like something out of a magazine — platters labeled fuel up and pit stop, mini sliders and fries in paper cones, rows of cupcakes topped with tiny flags. We’d set up a photo booth and a racetrack for the kids, the room was entirely transformed, and the birthday boy was ecstatic.

Or at least… it would have been perfect, had we actually had more guests my children’s ages.

Shmuli’s sister came with her family, which was nice — really nice — but her kids are all teenagers already, not the cousins my kids were waiting for. A couple of my aunts stopped by, and two of my friends came with their little ones, everyone warm, everyone complimentary — so beautiful, so creative, wow, you really went all out — and I was grateful for that.

But… there were so few kids. So little family.

“Are the Weisses coming?” my kids kept asking, like maybe I knew something they didn’t.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

Shmuli didn’t think it was a big deal. “Listen, we never have your brother’s family when we make a simchah, so what’s the difference that this time they’re one hour away instead of ten?”

“That is the difference!” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “They’re finally close enough to come. It’s not like I’m asking them to fly in or rearrange their lives. We’re literally just an hour away!”

Shmuli looked at me like he wasn’t sure he fully understood but it wasn’t worth his while to argue. But he didn’t care about these things like I did. I’d planned the party, worked so hard, wanted so much to celebrate with family.

“I planned everything to work for them. I offered to move the timing, I told them they could sleep over, whatever would make it easier. And they still couldn’t make the effort to be here?”

Shmuli shrugged. “Let’s just pretend they were home. We wouldn’t have expected them to come then.”

But that was exactly what I couldn’t do.

Neither of my siblings had been at Benny’s bris, and I’d never had a sibling at any of the kiddushim we’d made for our girls either. That was just how it was, everyone spread out, everyone busy, life.

But this time… this time they were here.

Now, I had one sibling who could finally attend a simchah of mine. I’d been factoring that in in the planning, I’d been so hopeful, I’d let them know how much it would mean to me and my kids to have their cousins there.

And he still couldn’t drive an hour to join us.

If I could tell Yaakov one thing it would be: You’re finally nearby when we make a simchah — how can you not show up?

Yaakov

The hardest part of living out of town is coming back.

Not the drive — we’re used to that, or as much as you can get used to a ten-hour stretch in the car. We’ve perfected the snacks-music-strategic-picnic-stops thing. And we love coming in, we really do. The weddings, the simchahs, seeing family, letting the kids feel like they’re part of something bigger…

It’s once we’re back home that things get… complicated.

“Harder than figuring out clothing and kids and travel,” Sari said at some point while we were packing for her sister’s wedding, half-laughing as she tried to zip a suitcase that was clearly overstuffed, “is figuring out how we’re going to fit everyone in.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Because once you’re “in the area,” there are suddenly all these expectations.

There’s my parents. Her parents. Grandparents on both sides. Her siblings — we’d see them at the chasunah and sheva brachos, obviously, but that’s not the same as actually sitting and visiting, and Sari has six sisters and two sisters-in-law, all clamoring for us to make sure we visit them personally while we’re in the area. Then there’s my side — my sister in the Five Towns, other relatives scattered around, friends who hear we’re in town and want to get together. Everything is technically “close,” but not actually close. Twenty minutes that turns into an hour. One hour that feels like a whole trip.

At some point, after one too many visits where we came home more exhausted than when we’d arrived, we made a rule for ourselves.

We stay with parents. We visit grandparents. Everyone else? We love you, we really do, but we’re not schlepping from one house to another trying to squeeze in every possible stop.

Maybe it doesn’t sound so nice, but it was really, really necessary. If it worked out to make an extra visit or meet somewhere, great, but otherwise? Everyone knew where we were staying, and they were more than welcome to come see us there.

This visit was already pretty tight. We were coming in for Sari’s sister’s wedding — driving Monday, wedding Tuesday, making sheva brachos Wednesday, seeing the grandparents on Thursday, then heading upstate for Shabbos. Another drive, another pack, unpack, repack. By the time we’d be back Motzaei Shabbos, we’d barely have had a minute to breathe.

Sunday was the only day that was even remotely open.

And we had so many plans for that day.

The kids needed shoes, Baruch needed a new hat, and Sari wanted to hit the spring sales, maybe pick up a few things for Shavuos while we actually had access to all the popular kids’ clothing stores.

Sunday was the day everything was supposed to happen.

Something about that was niggling at me, though. Like there was something I was forgetting.

My phone buzzed.

I glanced down, expecting another message about the sheva brachos menu or another update about hair and makeup for the girls, but this time, it was on my family chat.

A picture from Tzippy. Neat rows of little checkered boxes, red stripes, race numbers, everything lined up like some kind of miniature production. Underneath, sneak preview!!!!

Oh, right, the upsheren!

“Tzippy,” I said aloud, looking over at Sari, who was still folding things into an already overpacked suitcase. “She’s making the upsheren on Sunday.”

“Yeah,” Sari said absently. “She told me. I said we’re not sure what’s happening yet, but I don’t think we can go.”

I hesitated. “I think she thinks we’re coming.”

Sari looked up at that. “Then we should probably tell her we’re not.”

I picked my phone back up, scrolling through the messages again. The emojis, the excitement, the so excited you could be there.

“She sounds really excited,” I said, wincing

Sari gave a small shrug. “I’m sure she is. But we can’t just assume we’re free. She doesn’t even live near my parents.”

“Are we definitely not going to manage it?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

Sari didn’t answer right away. She zipped the suitcase, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Think about it a sec,” she said. “It’s an hour each way. Minimum. Probably more with traffic. That’s at least two hours just driving, plus however long we stay there. We’re basically talking about the whole day.”

I nodded slowly.

“It’s Sunday, our only day available for everything we want to get done. The kids are going to sleep in, we said we’d take them out for lunch, and we still have to do all the shopping. Shoes, hat, clothes… everything. When exactly are we supposed to fit that in?”

She wasn’t wrong.

“If we go,” she said, “it means leaving midday and getting back around supper time. That gives me maybe an hour or two in the morning to run around like crazy and hope we find everything we need. And the girls have been waiting for this trip for weeks.”

I could picture it already — the rushed stops, the pressure, the kids getting upset, Sari trying to choose between ten things in ten minutes.

“Besides,” she wasn’t done, “we’re driving back that night. Which means you should really take a nap in the afternoon, not drive more.”

“True,” I said. “I just feel bad about Tzippy. It’s not like your family, with so many siblings and cousins that it doesn’t really matter if one skips a party. There’s going to be no one there on my side besides my parents.”

Sari sighed. “I know, but we live far away, it just is what it is,” she said. “And Sunday is my only real day to get things done. The kids are desperate for new stuff.”

I got it.

I just wasn’t sure Tzippy would.

Tzippy called me on Thursday morning. Sari and the girls were still sleeping — last night’s sheva brachos had been stunning, but a ton of work, and Sari and our teens had stayed late to help finish cleaning up. I was keeping an eye on the little ones, and trying to keep things quiet so Sari could sleep.

I’d written a nice text, telling her we couldn’t come and we were sorry to miss it. Apparently, though, she wasn’t happy with that.

“Yaakov, what’s going on, how come you can’t come?” she sounded wounded.

I stepped out of the bedroom. “One second, Tzip.” Downstairs, where the little kids were playing, I could talk properly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. It’s been so crazy. And we were still confirming our schedule. But it’s just not going to work.”

If I thought she was going to buy that… well, I was mistaken.

“But… why not? We’re so close. It’s literally an hour’s drive — even quicker, sometimes. And — I mean, how often do I make an upsheren? How often are you in town when I do it?!”

Whoa. She was really upset.

“I know it’s not a huge drive, but an hour with all the kids is a lot,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “They’ve been in the car ten hours just to get here. We’re driving upstate for Shabbos sheva brachos. We’re driving back on Motzaei Shabbos. And we’re already leaving Sunday night to get home….” Honestly, I was tired just thinking about it. Why couldn’t Tzippy get that even though we felt bad, this was literally too much?

“Yaakov, come on, you know what it’s like to make events with no family. We literally have almost no one here. There’s Shmuli’s sister, whose kids are all teens, and there’s you. We — my kids were so excited.” She sounded desperate. “Listen, I could change the timing. You could stay here overnight….”

I closed my eyes momentarily. This was a bigger deal than I’d thought. “Listen, I can ask Sari, but I don’t think it’ll work, she really needs the time to shop…” I said, a little lamely, and then regretted it instantly. Why should I put it on Sari? This was too much for us. We couldn’t do it, we said we couldn’t do it. Tzippy would just have to understand.

My sister’s voice dropped. “It would mean so much to us if you could be here.”

I winced. “I know. I wish we could.”

Sunday was as busy as we’d imagined.

The morning went slower than planned, kids sleeping in, everyone kind of exhausted after the busy week we’d had. By the time we got out, it was later than we’d hoped, and the day filled up fast. One store, then another, the kids getting restless, Sari trying to make decisions quickly and not quite managing, me keeping an eye on the time because we still had a long drive ahead of us that night.

At some point, my phone buzzed with pictures from Tzippy, posted on our family chat.

The setup, the tables, the kids’ table with the little boxes all lined up, the racetrack on the floor. Benny with his upsheren haircut, grinning, everyone gathered around him.

I stared at the pictures for a second longer than I meant to.

Was I imagining it, or was there something… off in the way she was posting so much, one after another? Like she was trying to prove how nice it all was. Or… show us what we were missing?

I was probably imagining it.

Sari leaned over. “Oh wow, that looks gorgeous,” she said, reaching for my phone. “She really did a whole thing.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Sari tapped a quick comment — So beautiful!! — and handed the phone back.

Tzippy didn’t respond.

Okay, she was busy. Obviously. It was her son’s upsheren.

Still, something uncomfortable lingered.

Later, sometime in the evening, when we were getting ready to leave and attempting to fit a dozen shopping bags into our already-full trunk, I called my mother.

“How was the upsheren?” I asked.

“Nice,” she said. “Very nice. Tzippy really outdid herself.”

“Yeah, I saw the pictures.”

There was a small pause.

“I think she was a little upset you weren’t there,” my mother added, gently.

I felt it like a punch to the stomach.

“I know,” I said, hating how defensive it sounded. “We really wanted to come. It just… didn’t work.”

“I understand,” my mother said. “It’s not easy, all the back and forth.”

No, it wasn’t.

I hung up a few minutes later and sat there for a second. The kids were arguing and Sari was stressed, wondering whether there was enough food for the drive, but I was just drained.

Didn’t anyone get it? Couldn’t they understand?

This wasn’t about not caring, or not wanting, or choosing something else instead. We would have loved to be there. But our time was limited and it really wasn’t possible.

If I could tell Tzippy one thing it would be: We would have loved to be there, but our time is stretched too thin to do it all. —