This year, Miriam — 12 going on tortured poet — says she doesn’t even like ice cream. (This is news.) She says stickers are for babies, and the only reward she wants is for her siblings to stop breathing near her.

Yaakov, age nine, is actively hostile. He stuck a sticker on the baby’s forehead yesterday. “There. I earned it,” he said, arms crossed like he’d just brokered Middle East peace.

The five-year-old, Chaya, is in that charming stage where she must win every fight. I tell her to put on her shoes and she says, stone-faced, “I want you to say please.” I say please. She throws the shoes across the room. “Not like that.”

Only the toddler, Simcha, is still mesmerized by the chart. He has no idea what the chart means, but he shrieks with joy every time.

My husband comes home from work and glances at the board. “Chart’s up again? Nice.”

“They’re not using it.”

He opens the fridge. “It’s just a fun thing. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Doesn’t have to mean anything. I want to throw a glitter pen at his head.

Because it does for me. It means I’m not just a tired woman in an old T-shirt, chasing kids and doling out snacks. The chart was supposed to give me a handle on summer.

Instead, I burn the pancakes. I scream about shoes. I forget to defrost the chicken for dinner. Again.

Bedtime is like trying to evacuate a theme park with one working exit. Chaya is always sticky. Simcha cries because I won’t let him take the colander to bed. Miriam wants to finish her book first, and Yaakov insists on brushing his teeth in the downstairs bathroom.

One night, I find the chart shoved behind the toaster. “I don’t want anyone to see my stickers,” Yaakov says when I ask. “It’s private.”

“It’s a sticker chart, not your diary,” I say, like a villain.

At the grocery store, I run into Gila Schwartz, who’s wearing real shoes and eyeliner. She sees my frazzled expression and says, “My kids know they won’t get dessert if they act up. Consequences, not rewards.”

Her toddler holds up some plain Greek yogurt like it’s chocolate pudding. Gila follows me to the produce. “You should come by for a swim,” she adds. “The pool tires them out so bedtime’s less of a war zone.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe.”

I spend three minutes avoiding her by picking apples I don’t need. And another two fantasizing about telling her that one of her perfect children licked a cucumber and put it back.

I think about quietly taking down the chart. No one would notice. I could roll it up and shove it into recycling with all my broken expectations.

But then—

I’m scraping macaroni off the floor and yelling for Chaya to get in the bath when I see it. A tiny star sticker. Gold. Perfectly stuck in a box. No name. No fanfare.

Just… placed. By someone who still cares.

I don’t ask. But I draw a smiley face next to it.

The next morning, there’s another one.

I never find out who’s adding them. Maybe it’s Simcha. Maybe it’s Miriam, doing it ironically. Maybe it’s Yaakov, pretending not to care.

But something shifts. Not big, not dramatic. Just… softer.

We still fight. I still spend 20 minutes herding them to supper. I still deal with cries about the water temperature during bath time. But someone puts their shoes on without being asked. Someone else clears their plate. A sticker goes up. Another smiley face. We don’t talk about it. We just keep going.

On the first Thursday in July, I declare a beach day. I pack sandwiches, wipes, extra clothes. We drive 40 minutes to a lake with dirty sand. Simcha eats sand. Yaakov picks a fight with a stranger. Chaya cries because she dropped her sandwich. Miriam forgets her book in the car and blames me.

I nearly cry into my soggy tuna sandwich.

The bathrooms are locked. Yaakov gets stung by a bee and refuses to help pack up. Chaya skins her knee. I hand out granola bars. Miriam says they taste like sadness.

We stay for four hours.

On our way out, I catch the eye of a vaguely familiar mother. Her kids are also crying. She raises an eyebrow. “Success?” she asks, nodding toward my crew.

“Define success,” I say, and we both laugh.

“Honestly,” she says, “my son spent twenty minutes collecting seashells and shoving them into random shoes.”

“Mine threw sand at a seagull. Twice.”

She offers me the last bite of her kid’s granola bar. “They’ll remember the good parts,” she finally says.

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“Me, too.”

Later that night, someone adds three stickers to the chart.

For what? No one says. But I get it. We made it to the beach and back, mostly intact.

There are some good moments. Miriam sets the table without being asked. Yaakov takes Simcha upstairs without trying to ride him like a horse. Chaya eats her peas with minimal drama.

One night, there’s a note on the chart, scribbled in purple marker. “To Mommy: You should get a sticker, too.”

My hand lands on my heart. For a second, I nearly cry. Then Simcha toddles by in his diaper, holding a stick of butter.

It’s not magic. It won’t fix the mess or the long, hot afternoons where I dream of locking myself in the laundry room with earplugs.

But it’s something.

A sticker on a chart. A tiny flash of gold. A reminder that we’re all still showing up.

Of course, two days later, Chaya draws a mustache on the smiley face with a Sharpie and says, “That’s you.” Miriam tells me she needs a new headband that isn’t nerdy. Yaakov starts assigning his stickers to imaginary friends with elaborate backstories. Simcha dumps out the sticker box and eats two.

I think about setting the chart on fire.

Instead, I draw another smiley face.

And I give myself a sticker, too.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 956)