It’s a business conference. Over the weekend. My daughter Bruchy just can’t get out of it. She has to go.

She moans, she complains. She casually reminds me that babies are welcomed, older siblings, not. Regrettably, Bubby and Zeidy Horowitz will be on their annual Miami-California-Israel-Bahamas jaunt.

[Cue horror music.]

Don’t get me wrong; I love my grandsons. Really, I do. In fact, I have a special pet name for them, the tzvei mashchisim — the destroyers. This is not to say that I don’t get tremendous joy from the very sight of them. At three and five years of age, kein ayin hara, they’re “delicious as knishes.” But wherever they go, adventure follows. And by adventure, I mean havoc.

To be fair, Bruchy did give me advance notice. Not so far in advance that I could get out of it. (“Oh, shucks, too bad. Looks like I’m having emergency dental work that Friday, six months from now. So sorry!”) But enough notice for me to be forewarned. And forewarned is forearmed. With those two boys, I could definitely use an extra couple of arms.

I ring my other daughter, Rivky, to see if her eldest child would come for Shabbos and help. I now know that young Shani has a very active social schedule and would have been happy to do it, if only I had asked her a year ago when she was planning this particular weekend. She sends her regrets. Her momma didn’t raise no dummy.

A couple of days later, I pick up my teenage son from yeshivah to take him to an appointment. With as casual an air as I can muster, I ask him if he really has to be in yeshivah every Shabbos. He mumbles something. I think it’s, “Pretty much, yeah, why?” (Or possibly, “I forgot to tell you but I’m switching yeshivos to one that is far, far away.”) I play dumb, which comes rather naturally to me.

“Oh, you don’t? That’s great, because I could really use your help this Shabbos.”

Mumble, grumble.

Do not be alarmed. This is not a speech impediment; merely yeshivah bochur reid.

“So, you’ll ask your mashgiach?”

Mumble, mumble, grumble.

“Okay, great! Tell him it’s a matter of pikuach nefesh.”

That night, Rivky calls with a counteroffer. Her seven-year-old, Ora, is willing to come help. The kid is mature and good with younger children. More importantly, she’s willing. Agreed!

I work hard on Thursday preparing as much of the Shabbos food as I can. I make all the kids’ favorites — pretzel challah, chicken soup with crunchies (“Grossman-ese” for croutons), chicken with yams, potato kugel, pickles, salad, cholent with good meat (since when do five-year-olds appreciate good meat?), and plenty of cookies, ices, lebens, and chocolate.

Friday morning, I shuttle back and forth between my computer (yes, I work on Fridays) and my kitchen. I’m just about to start peeling potatoes but decide to text Bruchy first to see what time my little guests are due to arrive. I should have a good couple of hours yet to work and cook.

Sorry to bother u. When can I expect the boys?

Bing!

I am already at the hotel. Avrumy is on his way with the kids.

Yikes! Umm…

What’s their ETA?

Bing!

I dunno. Thanks! Good Shabbos!

I move into zoom mode, dashing around the kitchen with potatoes, onions, flanken, and spices. Before I can say, “I wonder if they’ve eaten lunch,” in march the boys, their father trailing behind them, schlepping a duffel bag, a knapsack, and a blankie, and holding little Brynie. I plaster a giant smile on my face, get down on one knee, and throw my arms wide open to my kinderlach. Zevy sails right by me, oblivious to my bid for affection, heading toward something he sees beyond me. Probably something dangerous, possibly flammable. Simchi walks into my arms and tolerates a hug, then tells me how hungry he is.

I look toward Brynie, and in the ridiculous high-pitched voice that otherwise normal adults use to address babies I say, “Hiii, Brynie-mynie!”

I turn to my son-in-law, not wanting him to feel left out, and in the same silly voice say, “Hiii, Avrumy!”

He gives me the old “chesed laugh.”

I put up a pot of pasta while the children throw open the doors of every kitchen cabinet, searching for contraband.

“Any important information I might need?” I ask Avrumy.

“Nothing I can think of.”

“Did you send Zevy’s nebulizer?” Neurotic grandmother alert.

“Nebulizer? Mom, he hasn’t had asthma symptoms for years, baruch Hashem!”

Yes, I’m neurotic. I decide to embrace it.

Zevy starts coughing as I stir the pasta.

“I see Zevy is coughing,” I declare in a distinctly accusatory tone of voice. “Did Bruchy send any cough medicine?”

“Nah, he won’t need it. But if you want, you can give him anything you have in the house.”

He knows we own every pharmaceutical remedy known to mankind.

Avrumy leaves Brynie in the kitchen and goes to bring in the car seats. With a wink, I slip her a bag of nosh. Soon Avrumy and Brynie leave.

I try to feed the boys pasta with cheese, then without, with tomato sauce, then scrape away the sauce. Ultimately, they eat none of it, but pilfer two lebens when I turn my back to shove the kugel into the oven.

The timer rings, reminding me to pick up Ari from yeshivah. With plenty of fuss and carrying-on, I manage to strap the car seats into the car, then the boys into their seats. One of them has seized our guestroom alarm clock, and they amuse themselves halfway to the yeshivah by fighting over it.

Then I hear Zevy joyfully propose to his brother, “Let’s play I-hurt-you-and-you-hurt-me!”

“Yeah!” Simchi agrees.

“No, you don’t! Savti has a bag of nosh for anyone who behaves.”

“When is it my turn to get the clock?” Zevy yells.

I tell him we’ll try to find him another one when we get home. We arrive at the yeshivah. My son darts into the car, carrying a pile of seforim so high, only his eyebrows are visible.

“Zevy and Simchi, say hello to Uncle Eyebrows.”

We drive Ari to the dorm to get his things, and I try to play International Peacekeeper over the clock. Zevy sets off the alarm, and its soothing, high-pitched buzz accompanies the fighting in the back.

We finally make it home where Zevy finds a second clock, but he’s frustrated that this one doesn’t make noise.

“Tatteleh, I don’t think this one has an alarm,” I explain gently.

He’s not mekabel. He’s gonna make it happen no matter what.

Shortly, Saba makes his entrance with Ora in tow. Ora, our family drama diva, puts down her bags and pronounces, “I am staaaaarving!”

Music to a Yiddishe mama’s ears! Joyfully, I lay out all the Shabbos delicacies. She twitches her cute little freckled nose in disdain, pulls open the fridge, and deftly removes three of those yogurts-that-are-an-excuse-to-eat-candy. She hands them out to the boys and helps them pour the faux M&Ms into the cup of yogurt. With the skill of seasoned neurosurgeons, the children extricate the treats from the cup, careful not to allow anything nutritious to infiltrate their lips. They wipe their gooey fingers on my freshly cleaned Formica table and head upstairs, at my urging, to get dressed for Shabbos. Ora will help the boys.

Meanwhile, I light the Shabbos candles and whisper a few heartfelt tefillos. But I’m disturbed by the utter silence emanating from above. I schlep myself up the steps to find Ora fully dressed in her pretty little robe. The boys, however, are in various stages of undress and have unearthed a decade’s worth of carefully crafted Lego battleships and aircraft, deconstructing them down to their smallest atomic parts. These parts are scattered throughout the hairy purple shag carpeting. (Remember shag?)

Ora and Simchi are trying to build a beauty parlor for Ora’s dolls, while Zevy is stalking around, screwdriver in hand, a maniacal gleam in his eye. He’s also coughing like a madman. I manage to stuff the boys into some kind of attire, and we go down to set the table. This involves me putting down a plate, Ora positioning a cup next to it, Zevy coughing all over the napkin before fashioning it into some wild shape and plunking it smack in middle of the plate, then Simchi raising each cup to his lips to “try it out.”

The door creaks open and Hubby calls “Sh’bat sh’lom, y’all!”

Obviously, he’s been reminiscing about our recent trip to Atlanta. Ari strides in behind his father, grabs Simchi, and throws him up in the air, then tickles Zevy.

“Don’t get them riled up! It’s almost bedtime!” I warn.

As the men sing “Shalom Aleichem,” I look pointedly at my husband, then at Zevy, and touch the back of my hand to my forehead — the universal sign for, “I’m afraid he’s sick.” My husband responds by putting his index finger to his temple and moving it in a circular motion — the universal sign for, “I’m afraid you’re nuts!”

The seudah moves along pretty well, despite the fact that none of the children will even sniff the dishes that I’ve slaved over. Lest you think they are not hungry, the children end up gorging on a whole package of black-and-white cookies. Amazingly, they only wiped the black cream on the white tablecloth, and the white cream on their dark clothing. Hashgachah pratis in motion.

Yosef and Ari settle down to learn. Of course, I can’t disturb them at such a time, so it’s up to me to get the children to sleep.

After a half hour of cajoling, threatening, and, I’ll admit, a little crying and pleading, the kids are in pajamas and ready for bed. We say Shema, sing three different versions of “Hamalach Hago’el,” and read several stories. It actually looks like they might be drifting off… but at that moment, Zevy starts hacking away. Cough, cough, cough.

I run to the medicine cabinet, fling it open, and duck to avoid falling pharmaceuticals. The noise wakes the children, who start yelling to each other from their respective bedrooms, giggling like hyenas and fighting. It’s gonna be a looong night.

I administer the gooey purple medicine to Zevy. He swallows some, sharing the rest with his teddy bear, his sheet, and his pillowcase. He’s so giving. After separating the boys into two different bedrooms and standing guard for a while, they finally settle down to sleep. Peace reigns…for at least 30 seconds. Then along comes Ari with a sefer and a ’tude.

“Uh… Ma? How am I supposed to sleep with the light on?” he demands to know.

Lights? Uh-oh. Rookie mistake. Forgot to tape the lights. And now my room and Ari’s are fully illuminated. Make that a looonger night.

Turns out, Ari manages just fine. Dorm life prepares one for anything. Soon he’s out like... well, a light! Yosef dons a pair of silky eye covers lifted from some rich relative’s air travel kit. That’s the closest we’ll ever get to business class.

I decide to take my chances with the living room recliner. The light’s not as bright down there, and I already have an appointment scheduled with my chiropractor. I grab a fluffy blanket and settle into the cushiony depths of the chair. Aaahh! A mechayeh… I’m finally drifting off to sleep…

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Guess he made it happen after all.

Five a.m. Shabbos morning. My bewildered husband finds me buried beneath a mound of blankets, quilts, and pillows, while a wacky mound of items adorn our kitchen counter. He dismantles it, peeling away two blankets, a Wesley Kosher box, a stainless steel bowl, piles of Mishpacha magazines, and beneath it all, a small, innocuous-looking clock.

I emerge from my cocoon and make a beeline for my room, hoping to catch another couple of hours of shut-eye. A moment later, the sweet pitter-patter of baby elephants is heard stampeding down the steps. I generously allow Saba to deal with them. A couple of hours later, I get up and head to the ladies’ room to wash my face. This is the exact moment that the children begin pounding at my bedroom door.

“Savti? Savti?” they chant. Knock-knock-knock-knock.

“Yes, sweeties?”

“Savtisavtisavtisavti!”

“One miiiinuuuute!”

“Saaaaaavti! Saaaaaavti!”

“One minute!”

Within three minutes, I fling the door open. Ora and Simchi tumble in, breathlessly speaking over one another.

“Where’s Zevy?” I ask suspiciously.

Ora begins, “Zevy was working on some stuff by the treadmill…”

My eyes widen in horror. “Nobody plugged it in, right?”

Ora gets defensive. “Well, I told him not to but…’”

My heart’s in my mouth. “Is he okay?”

“He okay,” confirms Simchi with a sunny grin.

“But-b-b-but, Savti! Savti!” Ora taps my arm with every mention of my name.

“What? What? What?!”

“Zevy did something by the treadmill and…”

“A big spark came out!” supplies Simchi helpfully.

“A what?” I shriek.

“A spark, y’know! Like a flash and then…” Ora pauses for dramatic effect. “The lights went out!”

“A spark? A spark? Stay here!” I command, flying down two flights of steps.

Baruch Hashem, no smoke. No fire. No light. Also, no playing in the basement this Shabbos. Rats!

Where is that child?

I run back upstairs and search carefully. Two lively brown eyes peep out from behind a pile of blankets.

Zevy and I have a heart-to-heart. I attempt to hug him, but he slips from my grasp.

Eventually we all get dressed, and I settle the kids with some toys and books while I utter a string of what were probably brachos l’vatalah, punctuated by several “uh’s,” a couple of shocked “nu’s,” and more than one insistent, “uh-uh!” By the time I’m done, my entire stock of canned goods is arrayed on the kitchen table, empty juice boxes are scattered all around, and the boys are attacking each other with toothpicks.

I hear my husband and son at the door. I’m already dreaming of a little down time while they watch the kids, but one look at Ari, and I know he will be of no earthly good to me.

“I’m sick,” he announces, then shuts himself in his room, save for a few minutes when he joins us for an abbreviated seudah. He won’t describe his symptoms, take any medicine, or reassure me in any way. I would be even more worried than I am, but I’m too busy worrying about the kids.

Zevy also slips away during the meal, does something mysterious downstairs, then ends up falling asleep in a corner of his room. Good thing his parents will be picking him up in a few hours; maybe they can take him to one of those drive-through urgent care places on the way home.

The meal ends with a grand birthday party for Savti, celebrated by me serving the kids cupcakes and ice cream, while I just take a tiny lick of the scooper. (My nutritionist reads Family First…)

The afternoon passes with all the speed of the last three impossibly long hours of Tishah B’Av. In fact, the Churban is reenacted when the boys deconstruct every couch in the house, ultimately reconstructing them into an elaborate cushion castle. I’m pretty sure Simchi is somewhere within its labyrinthine depths, held captive by the evil Queen Ora-ra. The entire contents of both odds and ends drawers are spread across the kitchen counters, and important tax-related papers have been fashioned into airplanes. Lego has gained a foothold in the deep pile of our guestroom carpet; hours of fun for unsuspecting guests stumbling around in the dark.

“Can we go outside?” the kids clamor to ask.

“Can they go outside?” my husband entreats.

It’s about 18 degrees outside. (Fahrenheit.) The wind is howling. None of them have really warm coats.

“Sure! Let’s bundle up!”

We head outside, a motley crew, with hats falling over eyes, oversized gloves, mad long scarves, and grins. It’s freezing. But at least my house is safe for a while.

They spend a few minutes on our ridiculous excuse for a swing set (the kind that people point to, awestruck at what a storm can do, and then we have to admit that it has looked like that since we moved in). Then we head next door to “Klein Park.” Unlike the Grossmans, the Klein grandparents really care about their grandkids; they have erected a whole array of really cool clubhouses and climbing.

The kids get a good game of hide-and-go-seek going, and I finally have a minute to relax and reminisce about the fun times I had with my older brother playing the same. (“Go hide,” he would say, “and maybe I’ll come find you at some point.”) This is great. Cough.

It’s a cough. But it sounds like a bark. And the skin around Zevy’s nose and mouth is a funny color.

I know asthma when I see it.

I get him to stand still, relax, and breathe deeply. Baruch Hashem, the color returns to his face, but the game is clearly over. I usher the kids back inside, where they elect to guzzle down a huge Shabbos party instead of eating Shalosh Seudos.

I peek in on Ari, who is sound asleep with a sefer over his face. I mentally pencil in a worry period for him, to be fulfilled once the children are picked up. Just a few hours to go.

Havdalah time arrives. One of the boys is in full melt down, the other is speeding madly around like a windup toy on steroids, and the evil Queen Ora-ra has destroyed her castle in a fit of pique. I promise the kids they can watch one Uncle Moishy DVD if they get into pajamas quickly. I wonder if Bruchy will call first or just show up.

Buzz. A text message.

Hope Shabbos went well.

I don’t have to answer that; it’s not an actual question.

I assume the kids are asleep, so I won’t call.

Besides, you’ll see them soon.

We hope to be in Monsey around noon tomorrow.

I really need new reading glasses, because, I know this sounds funny but, what I thought she wrote was…

The kids are fighting over the remote. Ari floats by, a thermometer hanging at a jaunty angle from his mouth.

“Five more minutes until bedtime!” I yell down the steps as I dial Dr. Wurzburger’s office.

“Hi, it’s Perel Grossman. I’d like to bring my son in… What’s wrong with him? I’m actually not sure… Sorry, I don’t know how long he’s been feeling like this… Of course I’m his mother… Look, he’s a 16-year-old yeshivah bochur… I knew you would understand. Gut voch!”

Husband and son depart to the doctor’s office; good thing I had them around this weekend to help.

I tuck the kids into bed with promises of more videos tomorrow, along with a dance-a-thon to a Rabbi Jake’s CD, and a not-normal amount of nosh. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Sunday morning. The kids are banging at my door. It’s 7 a.m. I throw my slipper at the door and tell them to go bother Saba. When Saba goes to shul, trailed by a miserable looking Ari, I reluctantly dress and come join the fracas.

For the next few hours, I lose all concern for the well-being of my grandkids. “Thank You, Hashem!” is blasting from the CD while the evil Queen Ora-ra hands out poisonous lollipops to her subjects, after a royal feast of lebens, Sugar Honey Fried Loopy O’s, and my $10 bag of gluten-free wafers. I offer cash prizes for anyone who will dress, and a bonus if they can all agree on one DVD to watch.

It’s amazing what strategic investments will yield.

Before I pop in the Miami Boys Choir DVD, I whisper some important instructions, and we negotiate a settlement for one more action. While they sit mesmerized by the music, I run around like a madwoman, hiding broken toys and disassembled family heirlooms under couches and beds, pack up their bags, and line up their car seats near the door.

At a minute to noon, I give the signal. The kids scurry upstairs, arrange themselves on the couch, accept bags of carrot and celery sticks, and stare at the biography of Reb Isser Zalman Meltzer with great interest.

Just then (what a coincidence!), their parents arrive. They are so impressed with what a geshikt grandparent I am. They even offer to leave the kids for another few days. I tell them that ordinarily I would love that, but I have this article due really soon…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 631)