I had a dirty, little secret. I was mortified and embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know.
But you have to be brave and admit your failings if you’re going to work on them.
I didn’t love Purim.
There. I said it. Purim — the whole Adar — is marbim b’simchah, so how could I admit to being anything but joyous and exalted? But you see, I’m. Not. Organized. And other women are. So I’d assumed mine was the only house where junk food and missing costume parts and cellophane ruled.
All the organized mothers had neat, organized houses on Purim, just as on every other day of the year. And they loved waking up at the crack of dawn to get their adorable, neat, organized children into their adorable, neat, organized costumes (for the fourth time — after the family pictures and the school party and the night Megillah reading). And driving all over the city on their neat, organized route to deliver their perfectly executed, tasteful-yet-not-overdone mishloach manos. (While, of course — Of Course! — davening neitz and finishing Sefer Tehillim.)
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