On Sunday, I pulled out my trusty 16-quart pot and the ingredients for chicken soup. We would enjoy some for dinner today, and freeze the rest for Shabbos. The butcher, however, explained that he’d run out of turkey necks, and would have them fresh on Tuesday.

I didn’t panic. The list was organized; all I had to do was add one more thing to Tuesday’s list. I left the pot on the side of the counter just to ensure I’d “done” something for Shabbos on Sunday. Taking out a pot counts, I hoped.

On Monday I faxed a list to the grocery, finished the laundry from the past Shabbos, and cooked some farfel (it freezes well, is easy to make, and doubles as a side dish for supper). The groceries arrived. No mishaps. I was floating; I could do this. Monday night the baby cried for about seven consecutive hours, but l’halachah it was Tuesday already, since it was after shkiah, so Monday was marked successful on the List.

Tuesday started with a trip to the pediatrician, followed by a pharmacy visit for the antibiotic to cure the baby’s ear infection. Fighting to keep my drooping eyelids open, I briefly entertained the notion of shelving my plans for this week. But my seminary years were not that long ago, and I know a nisayon when I see one. Chatzos on Friday would be peaceful, come what may.

By the time the chicken soup was bubbling on the flame Tuesday night, it was Wednesday dawn. My family had eaten scrambled eggs and salad for supper Tuesday, my baby was well on his way to a successful chazzanus career, and I was bone weary, but triumphant.

Wednesday saw two more side dishes cooked, a quick trip to the grocery for salad ingredients, eggs, Shabbos nosh, and drinks. My lists were saving me, but my brain was muddled, the toddler had a stomach bug, and I was snapping at everyone who came near me. I hadn’t changed skirts in many hours — days? — and was drinking coffee straight from the urn just to keep awake.

But I could do this. My children went to bed without baths or bedtime stories, but my mushroom-onion-quinoa dish was ready for the Shabbos meal.

I spent Thursday in a daze of Mr. Clean and Windex. I wasn’t sure if I got to vacuum all the bedrooms, but my neighbor told me that she saw me washing the dining room windows twice, once in the morning and once in the evening. I guess they’re really clean now.

Thursday night I put up a batch of challos. For those of you who believe that sentence, I hope you stay young forever. The concept of “putting up a batch of challah dough” is a myth. You do not put up challah dough; you work your life around it.

It takes time for dough to be created, it takes effort to make it rise, it takes elbow grease to clean the bowl, it takes muscle strength to put the mixer away, it takes heart to make the brachah and take challah, it takes concentration and dexterity to divide the dough into strands and roll and straighten and even out and braid and spray pans and let it rise again and apply egg wash and put it in the oven.

And then it bakes. Yes, it smells delicious when it comes out of the oven. The problem is that after 2 a.m., my olfactory nerves are overpowered by my melatonin production. The smoke alarm woke me (I had just put my head down on the kitchen table) but the results were not too bad. The challos were slightly charred, but edible.

Friday dawned bright and early. I was coming down with a cold, but smiled in anticipation of the Calm that would come with chatzos. The images of board games were gone, replaced by the mirage of a nap. I put the tablecloth onto the dining room table, set the crystal glasses (they must have been surprised out of their wits; they usually make their appearance a minute before Kiddush), and prepared the salad dressings, dips, and some lunch for my children.

By eleven thirty, I was Done. I surveyed the scene. All was calm. My food was prepared. I was in balabusta heaven.

Then my children came home from school. I tried to serve my prepared lunch; they wanted pizza. I pulled out the toaster oven; they wanted milkshakes. Out came the blender. An ice cube tray spilled on the floor. My six-year-old who had caught the toddler’s stomach bug threw up in the bathroom. Shmattehs and bickering fought for center stage.

As the clock chimed chatzos, I opted out. I know a nisayon when I see one. I straightened up and put on music. With a smile, I catered to every child’s (and adult’s) needs, and then whipped up another dessert for Shabbos. I washed the floors an hour before the zeman and welcomed the Shabbos Queen with a tired smile, minutes after my shower.

My dream is still there, hovering in the air. But for now, I choose to live in reality.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 716)