We’re sitting in her kitchen like it’s a stolen treat; I had an appointment in her neighborhood and grabbed the opportunity to take 15 minutes between errands to catch up.
“Minchah?” I nearly laugh aloud. “These days, I’m lucky if I get to say birchos hashachar.”
I mean that. The baby-and-toddlers stage is exhausting, overwhelming, physically demanding, sooo physically demanding. Life is a merry-go-round on steroids, sleep, feed, nap, feed, wipe, bathe, feed, change, sleep. I don’t daven Minchah. I don’t daven Shacharis. When I manage to say Brachos in the morning, I feel like a superhero.
Your tafkid is different right now, they say. It is, but they don’t really talk about the guilt.
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