Well, the yomim tovim are over, and we all survived. Over the course of the holidays, a number of things I wanted to blog about entered my mind, swirled there briefly, and exited, chased away by thoughts of setting tables, lighting candles, and changing diapers. I know I wanted to blog about Barak and his cousins; my SIL and her mysterious similarities to, um, me; why the freezer is the best thing that has ever happened to Jewish womankind; and, probably, a bunch of other things that have since vanished in the fog of eating, sleeping, not sleeping, and chasing small children that enveloped the last two weeks. Alas, at this point, thoughtful and entertaining blogging on any of the above topics is probably not going to happen. The holidays are over for another year, and as much as I enjoyed them, I'm relieved that they're over.
Well, but that brings me to at least one item on my list. Because soon after I post this, my SIL will read this entry. The SIL who, with her husband and 3 children under the age of 5, were with us for two weeks, for all of Succos and the following Shabbos. She'll read the entry. And she'll see one word. She'll see "relieved." And she'll think, "Relieved! She's relieved! She's glad we left! It's because she doesn't like us! And because my kids are badly behaved! And we ate all their food! And they don't ever want us to come back!" She'll worry about this. She'll harp. And sooner or later, she'll call me. She'll talk about something else first, but I'll know where it's heading. It's inevitable. Within sixty seconds, she'll burst out, "I read your blog. Are you relieved that we're gone?" and I'll heave a deep sigh, and say, "No, we like you, we miss you, we don't hate you or your kids, we loved having you and want you to come back next year." There will be a short pause. And then she'll say, "Really?"
I know that men are supposed to marry their mothers, but my husband, it appears, has married his sister. Which is why, at least a few times a week, he gets poked in the ribs in the middle of the night.
"Do you love me?"
"Are you sure?"
"Mph. Yes. Do I have to wake up?"
"No, no. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."
"Are you glad you married me?"
"Yes. I thought you said I didn't have to wake up."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."
"Do you think I'm fat?"
Howl of frustration from husband, who sits up, whacks me with his pillow, rolls over and goes back to sleep.
(I would like make a point of noting, in the interests of full disclosure and for the information of my legions of dedicated readers, that my SIL's kids areboth cute and well behaved. They did not eat all our food; in fact, they brought most of it. And we do like them, and we do want them to come back. And no matter what MHH says, I still think I'm fat. But I admit that he does love me. Probably. Most of the time. I think.)