CLOSED THE DOOR AND stepped into my home after a week’s vacation. I stopped. The whole world stopped with me. On the dining room table were mountains of everything, though the floor was clear. I cautiously stepped in, only to be confronted with the reality of what men call “cleanup.” Dried food crushed under my feet. Its fresh twins were swimming in pots soaking in the sink. The counters were laden with every condiment available, including closed packages of plastic plates, cups and cutlery. Every toothbrush used, towel unfolded, item opened, game played, arts and craft created and book read was plainly visible. There went my post-vacation nap. A mental calculation notified me of quickly approaching deadlines and the futility of bringing Shabbos in this short time span. The nearest book beckoned more invitingly than anything else, and I sat down heavily with it. Then the telephone rang. “Welcome back,” Goldie’s sing-song voice came through the line, “I am itching to come over to…” I did not let her finish. “Goldie,” I ventured, “I am inviting myself and family for Shabbos.” She laughed, “Your house is that bad?” “Worse.” “Okay,” she said, “we are starting with the Shabbos table.” “You are coming over?” “I am with you on the phone.” Under Goldie’s strict guidance, I categorized all items by room and tossed them into bags mentally labeled “Sunday.” The dining room table shone through. A quick throw of the tablecloth and the clanking of the Shabbos leichter pulled Goldie’s brakes. “Stop,” she said. My protests fell on deaf ears. “You will nominate a lucky child to set the table; your family needs food.” I walked towards the kitchen, zombielike. “First I need to wash all my pots,” I half whispered. “Only two,” she admonished. I protested again. “The rest you can wash while the food simmers.” The water gushed and pots clanged while Goldie’s mixer whirled up a chocolate cake I secretly hoped was for me. I peeled vegetables over the garbage can,
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filled pots with water using a pitcher and checked cholent beans over the mess, because Goldie prohibited counter or sink cleanup. I followed her every whim like a loyal maid. I baked the fish in a disposable pan, placed eggs and meat directly into the cholent and added cake to my grocery list (so much for my dream of Goldie’s fresh chocolate cake). When I finished, Goldie gave me permission to clear the counters, but not wash them, because “the children will enjoy doing it.” She let me wash the pots and pans, but not wipe them, because “they can air dry.” She let me sweep the floor, but not wash it, because “it’s time to prepare lunch.” This time I protested. “Well-fed mommies, tatties and children are calmer, more helpful and less cranky,” Goldie said. I prepared lunch and put down the telephone. THE LITTLE ONES CAME HOME FROM playgroup and cheder and unloaded their arts and crafts on the dining room table. Then they unloaded their emotions about Mommy’s absence on me. I reloaded them with hugs and affection, a cheese sandwich and my homecoming gifts. Time, too, kept unloading. I rushed the little ones through bath time as I greeted the older ones coming through the door. We ate lunch then designed an “Operation Shabbos Cleanup” chart as per Goldie’s instruction. Everyone had to choose, one “set up,” two “wash ups,” three items for “pickup and delivery” and two “self grooming” things to do. I gave examples of each. On the bottom, I wrote, “Cooperation equals a choice of the following privileges.” I thought I had covered every child’s job and reward preference. I was wrong. My all-time dawdler went from lunch to out of the bath all “groomed” in record breaking time. She did everyone’s allotment of “pickup and deliveries” and sold her “set up” and “wash up” to six-yearold Nachman. Then she curled up with a magazine. Nachman ate his Shabbos dessert amid much praise and chest pumping on his sudden growth to Big Boy after he finished an insurmountable amount of work. Only my usually cooperative and quick-minded daughter’s jobs remained outstanding. Her bath, together with her shrugs, grew cold. My husband came in with the groceries and sat down to lunch as I sidestepped into the shower. I emerged with an open heart and found a