I’m your mother, and I need help badly. Why won’t you let your daughter pitch in?
When you’ve been making Pesach for close to four decades, you pretty much have it down to a science.
What you don’t take into account — at least, I didn’t — is that it gets harder and harder to keep up the pace.
Some things are easy: the grocery order, the menu plan. Pesach prep doesn’t involve much thinking these days. But scrubbing out cabinets, standing for hours at the stove, schlepping the Pesach boxes from the basement, or climbing on a step stool to wipe the furthest corners of the pantry — we were just not up to that anymore, Nachum and I.
What we really needed was family close by, but none of our five children lived near us. Sara, the oldest, lived out of town; her husband was the rav of a small, growing community. Moshe was married to an Israeli girl; they lived in Kiryat Sefer. The others lived closer, an hour or two away, but none of them were at a stage of life where they could take time off to help me.
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