I’d done it. Achieved supreme of Jewish womanhood, and I was only married four years

"I dropped my Mordechai-cyle” my eldest son said, replacing the soft “c” with a gutteral “ch”. He was three then, and at that moment I knew what we were dressing up as that Purim — a motorcycle gang. I’d give out beer, cigarette gum, and cupcakes iced in Harley Davidson orange, topped with chocolate mold motorcycles and Harley Davidson cupcake toppers (yes, they exist.)

I found perfect costumes, leather jackets with a Harley Davidson T-shirt attached, a bandana. I bought stick-on mustaches, and borrowed a real motorcycle helmet for my husband. My shalach manos included the requisite picture of kids posed in costume, there was orange and chain ribbon. Basically, the whole shebang. This was the shalach manos you spoke about after Purim.

I’d done it. Achieved supreme of Jewish womanhood, and I was only married four years.

With that checked off my bucket list, I moved on to bigger prizes, like being known for a recipe (still haven’t really achieved that.)

The next Purim I didn’t pull out all the stops, I didn’t have to. I had already proven to myself and the world that I could do it, so therefore I didn’t.