Despite my efforts, it was hard to shake off the criticism. I really had no idea how these superwomen did it all — I barely had space to breathe, how they managed was beyond me. And on the days I didn’t manage to tidy the house, or serve a decent supper, there was the voice, again: So what did you do with your time?

The joint sheva brachos I organized with my sisters-in-law brought it all to a head. My husband’s cousin, a sweet man already in his mid-thirties, got engaged to a lovely girl who had been in my bunk in camp (don’t they always say you should be nice to everyone, you never know who you end up being related to). The kallah was in school with my sisters-in-law, too, so we decided that it would be a nice gesture if we made a joint sheva brachos.

So far, so good.

My sisters-in-law and I get along fine, though they’re so busy (working mothers, all) that we don’t spend much time together. This would be fun, I decided as we sat together, pencils and papers at the ready, discussing menus and theme.

It was unanimously decided that the event should take place in our home. After all, they reasoned, I was home all day to set up the tables and be around for any deliveries. I tried telling them that yes, I was home, but my kids were home too. It would make more sense if we set up in one of their homes — no one would have to be on guard duty all day to make sure no one nibbled at the flower-and-fruit arrangements. I was voted down, and I grumbled good-naturedly.

We divided up the cooking — I gladly took the lion’s share — and everyone promised solemnly to arrive early so that we’d have time to heat up the food, etc. Did I say everything was organized?

Think again. The day before the grand event, when I was still bleary-eyed from the chasunah (yes, even though I didn’t have to go to work the next day, I still had to be up at six with my newborn and toddler), I get a phone call. Yocheved, aka, sister-in-law number one.

“My friend has these stunning burgundy tablecloths. They’ll be perfect with the floating candles you bought. And the flatware. I’m going to borrow them and I’ll bring them over tonight.”

I didn’t want them that evening. I wanted the tablecloths that afternoon, so that I could set the tables while my little ones were napping. I tried to argue, but apparently, the plain white tablecloths — even with the fancy runners I had found — were passé. Burgundy tablecloths were a must.

Yocheved didn’t turn up. Some emergency at work. I laid the tables with the passé tablecloths and the runners.

The sheva brachos was due to start at eight; my sisters-in-law were due to arrive at six-thirty.

By six-thirty, my contributions (twenty servings of tomato soup — Yocheved was bringing the remainder; French roast; wild rice with shitake mushrooms) were warming nicely. The tables were laid, and I had showered and was in my robe. By some miracle, my little ones were sleeping (please, Hashem, don’t let them wake up), and my big ones had done their homework, so I wouldn’t be interrupted with pleas of algebra tests in the morning.

Sister-in-law number two, Chemdi, was bringing decorations and dessert; Miriam was bringing the fruit punch for starter and the other sides. And Yocheved still insisted on bringing the tablecloths.

“But I’ve set the tables! They look gorgeous!”

“Just wait till you see these tablecloths … ” was all I could hear before the reception fuzzed and I was cut off.

By now, the clock was inching closer to seven and I was getting edgy. I needed to get the other dishes heated up, place the candles on the tables, ladle out the fruit punch …

The phone rang. “We’re running late,” said Yocheved. “But don’t worry. Ten minutes, max.”

Eight-ten. The first guests had arrived, the chassan and kallah were due in another twenty minutes. Chemdi (with the dessert and decorations) had arrived — the guests were helping her put up the posters and arrange the balloons. Talk about heimish …

Yocheved and Miriam were coming together. I called Yocheved’s cell phone for the 18th time; it rang and rang.

At 8:20, the front door burst open, and Yocheved ran in with the tablecloths. Ignoring me, she commandeered the children (and guests) to clear the tables so that she could put the burgundy tablecloths on and then reset them.

Was she nuts! The chassan and kallah would walk through the door in nine minutes! I watched the scene, hands on hips, ready to explode. But I knew I couldn’t make a scene in front of the guests, so I bit my lip, shook my head, and headed for the kitchen.

There, I saw Chemdi sorting through the box of food they’d brought along.

“The tomato soup needs to go into the pot on the stove.” I pointed to the large pot, where the twenty servings I had made was already bubbling. “And the punch needs to go into the cocktail glasses, garnished with grapes, passion fruit, and these mint leaves.” I held up a bowl of mint leaves I had washed and checked that morning, the baby on my hip.

“Sure.”

I breathed. Of all my sisters-in-law, I relate best to Chemdi. I was glad she was in the kitchen with me.

There was a sudden crash of (keyboard synthesizer) drums, and then the musician transitioned into Od Yishama. No! Oh no! The chassan and kallah!

Chemdi and I exchanged looks. Those tables had better be ready or I would … I ran out of the kitchen, past Chemdi, and as I ran I saw … No!

The punch. Chemdi was pouring the fruit punch into the tomato soup.

Outside, Yocheved was still patchkering with the tablecloths. I looked for my husband, “Distract everyone!” I hissed. “Keep them out of the dining room! The tables aren’t set.”

He looked at me strangely — last night I’d pulled him out of bed after midnight so he could compliment my handiwork. But he has learned never to question his wife’s orders, so he motioned to the musician to play another number, and another, and another, until everyone was tired out and wondering why their hosts were imposing an aerobics program on their guests.

I pulled off my apron and gave the kallah a quick hug, and then excused myself as I tried to salvage our menu.

In the kitchen, I found Chemdi squirting tomato ketchup into the punch-soup mixture. She poured in oregano and garlic powder, even a touch of chili, and then she handed me a spoon of the mixture to taste. I wrinkled my nose. “Yuk.”

“Maybe a little more salt? Some vinegar to offset the sweetness?” she suggested.

“Try.”

With the punch taking on an identity change as tomato soup, we had no appetizer. I decided to make an ad-hoc salad bar, instead. I took the salads Yocheved had prepared and started putting a red cabbage through my food processor.

Chemdi brought me another spoonful. It was even worse than before. “Forget it. Just dump it.”

I had a few boxes of chicken soup in the freezer; I found them and Chemdi started heating them up, while I got the appetizer ready.

We did it. We got it to the tables on time, we got the chassan and kallah seated, everyone washed. If the menu was a little … uh … different, no one commented. And I had to hand it to Yocheved, the tablecloths looked magnificent.

Still … I’m not proud of myself, but I couldn’t bring myself to take the whole thing as a huge joke. So when everyone waved goodbye, and the chassan and kallah gave us their thanks, and we were left with one huge mess, I wasn’t laughing. And just then my baby woke up with bright red cheeks and a fever, and started screaming the place down. Grrr.

So when Yocheved and Chemdi and Yocheved started complaining about their bosses, and how they couldn’t take time off, and they weren’t like me — they had to work, you see, and that’s why everything went wrong this evening. They simply couldn’t get here on time or organize things just so, because of all their pressures and deadlines, and other responsibilities. Not to mention the kids of course … Everything was justified, because they worked.

I looked at the three of them, wallowing in their victimhood, and I shook my head. “Yes, you work,” I said softly. “But does that make you all victims” I shifted the baby to my shoulder. He’d stopped crying, and his head was bobbing up and down as he tried to look at me while I spoke.

“Yes, I don’t work. Baruch Hashem, my life is busy enough. I could start to compare, to do the whole one-upmanship thing — I don’t get childcare, I don’t have cleaning help, I don’t buy takeout or cut corners — but I’m not going to. It’s not a competition. And even if I have to work hard, this is my life and I love it. I’m not a martyr. And I’m not victim to circumstances beyond my control.”

I’m not the outspoken type; it was hard for me to speak my mind. But I wanted to bury this, once and for all. “Really!” I said, waving my hands at the wrecked tables and the mess. “If this was important to you, you would have been here, helping me, making this a beautiful affair instead of a … a … a fiasco.”

They were quiet. I went to put the baby to bed, and left the mess to them.

•••

They were obviously feeling bad because they sent me a delicious chocolate arrangement for Shabbos. I called to thank each of them and they made patchwork apologies, stumbling bumbling affairs. “You don’t need to apologize,” I kept telling them. And I meant it. They had their lives, I had mine — and I was determined to savor the taste

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 305)