Night descends on our home like a heavy curtain. Story time begins. It’s an honored tradition in our home. Tales of the exciting adventures embarked upon during the day spill out in abandon. The venue: the kitchen table. The avid listener: my husband Aryeh. The storyteller: yours truly.

The air is silent, just waiting for my grand revelations. I know how to tell a good story, how to build suspense. I know just when to clear my throat and when to pause emphatically to create a dramatic effect.

“So today,” I say slowly, “Nachman turned over the garbage can. Inside, there were tuna cans and a bag of rotten potatoes and—”

“Uh, spare me the details.”

I stare at Aryeh. That was the best part of the story!

“As I was trying to clean up, Nachman kept kicking at the pile I’d swept up, so everything went flying.”

Aryeh looks skeptically around the kitchen. I’d done a fine job fixing the situation in the four hours since the fiasco. Then he notices the apple peels sticking out from under the fridge — testimony ­ — and nods.

“And Dovy discovered that empty tuna cans made great skating boards and went skidding around the house on them. I had a lot of fun wiping up the oily gook.”

Aryeh shudders. Good — now I’m getting a reaction. Audience feedback always prods me on.

“I started crying. Yes, crying, in front of the kids. Sury kept climbing on me to stroke my face.”

Aryeh just looks at me.

“Do you know how hard it is to be a mother?” I ask him.

“I… uh…” He gives up and just clamps his lips.

Audience rejoinder failed.

Self-pity sweeps in like a welcome friend. Will I ever really be understood? Why can’t Aryeh have a turn looking after these little troublemakers? Yes, he should have an afternoon taking care of the kids alone. Then I will be guaranteed the most attentive and empathetic audience when I recount the day’s experiences. He’ll just bubble over with words of sympathy and understanding.

It’s a great idea!

I share my plan with Aryeh, and he’s in. I vacillate between pitying him and rejoicing over my good fortune. I plan for my afternoon off like it’s the trip of the year. On the designated day, I pack goodies into my bag, then retreat into my room with a book and lock the door.

The afternoon begins quietly. I hear Aryeh lugging out the Clics box. I wait for a fight to erupt or for a grand Clics-throwing fit. It doesn’t happen.

The house is strangely placid. I realize that I’m not even enjoying my mini-vacation; I’m waiting with bated breath for the commotion. It will come; why am I waiting to hear it? I get out my headphones and turn on my favorite music.

Ahh… bliss. I won’t hear the scuffles or cries or any of the supper-bath-bedtime cacophony. That will be Aryeh’s exclusive privilege.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 632)