I want to daven Brachos. I try to. But life and kids and sleep and changing, work, meals, bathing — and suddenly it’s another night and I come to Krias Shema and realize it’s the first time I’ve reached for my siddur all day.

Last Yom Kippur, I knew what my tafkid was. Take care of the kids. And to fast. That’s it. But… surely I could manage a little more. A little tefillah. Give the kids a lollipop, a bag of nosh, chap a Shemoneh Esreh. Everyone managed that. Couldn’t I?

In the morning, we went out. Played with friends. Served food and changed diapers, distributed treats and more treats, and tried not to pass out in the park.

In the afternoon, I had my moment. The kids were playing on the floor. They had well-stocked bags of nosh. I opened my machzor to birchos hashachar.

What do you bet, I thought to myself, that I don’t even get to turn the page?

I think it was during reishis chachmah that I had to stop to change my toddler.

By the end of Yom Kippur, I’d changed 13 diapers. Served countless sandwiches and drinks. Done bedtime once, and then again.

I davened a tiny Ne’ilah as the fast went out.

My tafkid, I knew. Except…

Mothers daven to Hashem in their own words. But what about when the mothers don’t? Am I the only one who doesn’t walk around with effortless prayer on her lips? Am I the only one who struggles to remember to voice my wants and needs as I rush, rush, rush? To the next appointment and the next pickup and the next deadline and and and—

Women are connected naturally, all the time, they say, and I wonder… am I?

Today, I went to the shoe store.

Two out of three children needed shoes. The store was in a neighborhood I’d never been to. I put the address in Waze and pulled out, wondering if I was a superwoman or a certified nutcase.

The 14-minute drive dragged when we hit traffic. I was stopping, starting, stopping, starting, breaking up backseat fights, nerves mounting at the task ahead.

I could picture the scene: carefully displayed shoes flying, toddler insisting on the pink sparkly booties, baby running out of the store in his socks, people watching in disdain at this failed attempt at mothering little boys, one frazzled me attempting to contain it all.

But I wasn’t backing out, not when the stars had aligned to get everyone out the house to begin with.

That’s when I found myself saying it.

Please, Hashem. Let me find parking. Let us find shoes easily. And let us make a kiddush Hashem.

A few minutes later, I pulled into a side street. There was the store. There were three parking spots. There was a sign informing us that parking was restricted until 4 p.m. It was 4:45.

The store was empty. The storekeeper was delighted to fit an adorable baby and his equally adorable big brother. We found shoes for both, comfy enough for the kids, cute enough for their mommy, trendy enough to pass muster with their aunts. The boys behaved.

We left the store — which had filled in the interim — with two pairs of shoes and smiles all around.

On the drive home, I breathed. And whispered, Thank You. And that’s when I realized that maybe they were right all along.

Your tafkid is different right now.

Mothers daven to Hashem in their own words.

They’re connected all the time.

Maybe it is.

Maybe we do.

Maybe I am.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 974)