“Going crazy yet, Malky?” Shira asked, as she fiddled with the doggie bags that were next to each seat.

“You kidding? I’m living it up. I even volunteered on Tehila’s committee this year. I made the doggie bags. You cannot imagine how stressful it was curling each ribbon properly.”

Dina laughed. “And don’t forget — you first bought the wrong shade of yellow.”

“Oh my gosh. You’d think people would die if the yellow ribbons did not match exactly to the napkins. Never again. Next year, I’m back to rugelach.”

“You didn’t make the rugelach this year?” Ita asked. “I was like, I must have one of Malky’s rugelach, even though they are so not on my diet.”

“I made them.”

“You’re giving me a complex. You work and you make a gazillion rugelach for the tea, and you helped with the doggie bags?”

“Didn’t you hear, Ita? She’s on extended maternity leave.”

“How nice! Enjoying?”

“It’s like a kiss from Heaven,” Malky said.

“That’s beautiful and nauseating at the same time.”

“Loving it. No rush in the morning, I mean, there’s a rush, duh, but I’m not trying to get out, so it’s not the end of the world when things get messy. Homework’s homework, but my whole day is more relaxed. When the mother’s relaxed, everything is less of a big deal.”

Something niggled. Malky thought back to the other day, when this had played out. She had been trying to make a birthday supper for Yehuda, and Dovid had refused to let her do anything.

“Go make Mommy a tower, Dovid,” Malky coaxed. “I need to make supper.”

“Want to HELP!” Dovid screamed, for perhaps the millionth time.

“I know, sweetie,” Malky was determined to keep her cool. “Maybe soon. Oh, look, Miri wants you to smile at her. Go smile at Miri.”

Dovid bopped Miri on the head.

Brilliant, Malky. What were you thinking?

“Dovid, NO!” Malky scooped up the baby and shepherded Dovid into the corner. His giggles turned into cries.

With two screaming kids, it was hard to hear the timer beeping, but Malky smelled the onions. She ran into the kitchen to shut the flame, then ran to put Dovid back into the corner. Honestly! Go to bed, everyone! Miri refused to be consoled, and really, who could blame her? But seriously! I do need to make supper, don’t I?

Miri finally calmed down, and Malky led Dovid to the playroom.

“Come, Dovid,” she said with a very forced enthusiasm. “Come make a tower with Mommy.”

Malky stayed until she was sure Dovid was immersed in his toys. Then she tiptoed back into the kitchen. Of course. There goes Miri. She picked up the baby at the first whimper, but just her luck — Dovid had heard. Reframe, Malky. She looked at her watch. 10:30 a.m. An early nap? She settled on the couch to feed the baby.

“Go bring Mommy a book, sweetie,” she said to Dovid. At least her voice sounded more normal. All she needed was for the poor guy to be in therapy at 17 because his mother had stayed home with him for a year when he was not even two.

Whoops —Dovid wanted his bottle. Malky put Miri down. “Two minutes, little girl. Give me a break, I’m not abandoning you,” she muttered, as Miri let her know just what she thought of her meal being interrupted. Dovid came back with his book, and Malky sent him for his blanket.

Finally! They were ensconced cozily on the couch — the idea was one out of Malky’s dreams, and she couldn’t resist the expression even though she was fed up and exasperated. Malky read, fed, and cuddled, and clearly G-d smiled, because both Miri and Dovid were sleeping before the book was finished.

Malky put the kids into their beds and went back to finish the supper that comprised as many parts as the eight-year-old could think of. She just felt lucky that hilchos kashrus precluded Yehuda from demanding pizza with olives and poutine and onion soup AND burgers and potato knishes and the butternut squash soup she’d made for Yom Tov.

She’d been wiped by the time everyone came home from school, but it was a good kind of tired. She was a mommy who could be there. This must be how Shulamis felt. This year — it’s a kiss from Heaven, she thought, smiling at her metaphor.

“Good advertising,” Shira said, patting Malky on the back. “I still think you’ll need a hobby.”

“No. Life is so busy. And it’s only a year. It’s like a dream. Try it, Shira, you may shock yourself.”

“Honey, you’ve been so busy curling those yellow ribbons, it hasn’t hit you yet.”

“Don’t listen to her, Malky. If you’re bored, start thinking Pesach. Enjoy your year. It’ll fly, you’ll see.”

“Eww, what is that?”

“Would you like to try that again, Rena?”

Rena heaved a sigh, and Malky stifled a laugh. She was sooo nine years old.

“Ma!” Yeruchum said. “What are you making?”

“Jujube cake. Perfect for Tu B’Shevat.”

“Eww, I’m not eating that.”

“Your loss. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

“Can you make a regular cake also?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I?” Rena begged. “I’ll clean everything up. I’ll do it so fast. I’ll wash all the containers before I put them back. I’ll — I’ll even mop.”

Oh, why not? You have no major plans for tomorrow. No big deal if there’s a bit of extra cleanup. And Rena will feel like a million dollars.

Oh, to be able to say that!

“Uh… the house smells interesting,” Chaim said later that night.

“It’s my jujube cake.”

“Your what?”

“A new recipe I tried for Tu B’Shevat. But don’t worry. Rena made chocolate cake.”

Chaim looked around the kitchen. “Looks like it.”

It did. Despite Malky’s best intentions, Rena had been in tears when she went to bed. And the floor, which Rena had promised to mop, was hard to find.

Malky felt bad. This was supposed to be the Year of Smiles, but it turned out that even mothers who can mop floors tomorrow also get annoyed when their kids make flour tornadoes in the kitchen. At least she made the cake, Malky thought tiredly. And Chaim is eating hers, not mine. Which does smell… interesting.

“I was about to mop when Miri woke up. I’ll just wipe up and go to bed. I’ll finish in the morning.”

Chaim stared at his wife, cake halfway to his mouth.

“You’ll what?”

“I don’t work, remember? It’s okay if I clean things in the morning now,” Malky sighed.

“What are you doing for Purim this year, Shulamis?”

“We’re going boring this year. Monkeys with banana cake. You?”

“I have no clue. I’m feeling so pressured to do something really cute, because, hello, I should have the time now, but I feel like my brain is slowly atrophying, spending the whole day reading the same stupid book to Dovid.”

“Malky!”

“I know. But I’m not you, Shulamis. I can’t read Do Kangaroos Have a Mother, Too? 30 times in a row without wanting to throw it across the room.”

“But you’re enjoying being home?” Shulamis sounded so earnest.

“Honestly? I enjoyed working. It was stressful, yes, but I thrive on structure and organization and pressure. And I need intellectual stimulation. Look at me, usually bursting with Purim plans, and here it’s almost Rosh Chodesh, and I’m waiting for the magazines to give me ideas.”

“But—”

“And Dovid is that age where I really sometimes can’t. He needs to do everything himself, which, I mean, baruch Hashem, he’s growing up and everything, but no, you cannot pour your own bottle. If he can, isn’t he too old for bottles? Whatever. All I do all day is chase after him, cleaning up. And Miri is teething and making everyone miserable along with her. I am going out of my mind. What was I even thinking when I said I wanted to stay home this year? Seriously. By the time the older kids come home I am so stressed from doing nothing, you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oy, Malky.” Shulamis seemed to be at a loss, and Malky felt bad.

“I take that back. I’m happy, really. This year has been like a kiss from Heaven.” She said it tiredly. “I’m just having a hard day, I guess.”

“Oh, yeah.” Shulamis sounded relieved.

“Still, I worked full-time for ten years and my house never looked like this!”

“Oy.”

Malky felt like throwing the phone all the way to Israel. Well, why did you think Shulamis would be a good person to vent to? She’s this whole super-engaged mother. She likes babbling with her babies. How did we even get to be sisters?

“Whatever. Let me see if I can put things together here. If you have any good Purim ideas, let me know.”

Two hours later, the house was decent, Miri was happy, and she had set Dovid down with baby scissors and a flyer. And she had ordered pizza. In the olden days, she had never dreamed of ordering pizza. She’d have made a pot of macaroni or tuna sandwiches. Pizza smelled of failure, but it would make the kids happy, and Malky was too tired to care.

She sat on the couch and watched the kids play. (Why did she have no problem doing that at the park in the summer, but at home in the winter it felt like such a waste of time?)

Calling Shulamis had been a disaster, obviously, but who else was there?

“Join a shiur or something,” Chaim said. “What do your friends do?”

Malky sighed, going through the roster of her friends again.

Dina would laugh and say, “I told you that staying at home is a full-time job. Lower your expectations.”

Shira might stop short from saying “I told you so,” but at least she understood. Then again, she wasn’t nearly as domesticated as Malky, and she wasn’t shy about it. She wasn’t even embarrassed to tell her friends that she wasn’t a kid person. “I love mine,” she’d say. “But please don’t ask me to watch your kids. Children make me nervous.”

Tehila. Tehila didn’t work, but she sent her kids out very young and was the poster-child for me-time. She went to the gym and attended classes and volunteered. And she went on an annual retreat to recharge her batteries. A retreat sounded so nice. Forget about retreats. Chaim had gotten that promotion, but let’s get real.

All she really wanted to do was read a book.

“So read a book,” Chaim had said.

But today, she had done just that, feeling resentful of Dovid for wanting her to play with him, and even of six-month-old Miri! She had gotten up in the middle to wash the dishes and throw something in the oven, and now, as she closed the book on the last page, she felt unproductive and yucky.

And the poor kids were walking in the door and it was not their fault that it was still so cold and dreary and that she had done nothing all day. She always told them that they could be as upset as they wanted but they could not take it out on their siblings and here she was just wishing she could tell them all to go downstairs so she wouldn’t have to listen to their babbling, they were giving her such a headache and chorusing oh my gosh it’s chicken and rice (eww, I hate chicken and rice) and—

See? This whole thing made no sense at all. And she couldn’t even complain. It was one year. Just one stupid year! It was supposed to be the Year of the Engaged Mother, allowing Malky to attend siddur plays and Chanukah parties and take kids to the doctor without twisting herself into a pretzel. The house was supposed to be calm and clean. It was the Year of No Fighting; laughter in every corner, the kids basking in the extra attention—

“Mommy! Ma! Look at me! You never listen!”

“Shut that thing off. What time is it?”

“5:45. Sorry, I thought I turned it off before. I didn’t want you to hear it.”

“Why are you up?”

“I have a million things to do. I want to go shopping today and stock the Pesach kitchen so I can cook at night when I’m not in the mood of cleaning. Isn’t that brilliant? I need to get a head start so I’m not pressured while I’m shopping.”

“Hmmm.”

Malky laughed. “Go back to sleep.”

She went downstairs and started the coffee while she davened. Then she made supper and lunches and breakfast (in that order. Priorities). She got the kids up and dressed and out the door. She cleaned up and prepared food for Dovid and a bottle for Miri and went food shopping. When she came home, she put the kids to nap, unloaded the groceries, ate a quick lunch, and cleaned her bedroom before the older ones came home.

“Hello!” Malky sang to each of them as she planted a big juicy kiss on their foreheads. (“Eww, Maaaa!”)

The afternoon went similarly well; the children cooperated to the point where Malky wondered if it would be prudent to take their temperatures. Then, after homework, baths, and bed, Malky read a bit before turning out the light on what had been a busy, productive day.

Life was wonderful. What had she been so depressed about?

“Shulamis, don’t shoot me, but I’m going back to work.”

“I know. I feel so bad for you. How are you going to live up these last three months?”

“No, like, next week.”

“Huh?”

“I know. But I need it. I need to be busy. I need to be out.”

“But now?” Shulamis sounded pained. “It’s almost the summer. You hate working in the summer. Just finish the year.”

“I know. I’ve thought about it a lot. Trust me. I can’t stay home, Shulamis. I make a terrible full-time mother, and I’m afraid the summer will be worse.”

“Oh, Malky, I’m so sad for you.”

“I’m sad for me, too. But… I don’t know. I’m glad I did this year. I needed it. I was looking forward to it, and now I need to go back. I’m not like you, Shulamis. I love my family, but it turns out that working is my me-time.”

“Can you at least cut down your hours?”

“Yes. No. Don’t know. I’m a Jewish mother. No matter what I do, I’ll beat myself up for not doing something else.”

“Well,” Shulamis sounded deflated, “that’s great, if you’ll be happy.”

Malky hung up, and felt herself finally relaxing. She’d gotten that call over with. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone else about the Year of the Failed Experiment. But maybe it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was the Year of Finding Herself—

from behind the mountain of laundry.

(Originally featured in Family First Issue 570)