But there’s also this part of me that says, You’re not good at this, no matter how much you enjoy it

“It’s your time to shine,” my husband said. My brain immediately snorted — shine. In this area, I was competent at best.

My son was having a succah fair after completing Maseches Succah in Mishnayos. These fairs are a tradition. I remember my father building one with my brother light years ago, using a Little Tikes house and built-on addition that wasn’t kosher.

I made one five years ago with my oldest son (my next son learned Rosh Hashanah, so no fair for him) with a vine growing from the ground serving as sechach. I did a decent job on that one — we only threw it out when we moved.

I get a little weird when it comes to crafts and school projects. There’s a part of me that just wants to walk through Michaels, inhale the synthetic cinnamon and linen, spread my arms wide, and sweep everything from the shelves into my cart. (When the A.C. Moore near me was closing down, I practically did just that. They were selling everything at 80 percent off — the joy, oh, the joy over the possibilities!)

There’s another part of me that says, “This is dumb. Why are they making the kids do these things? Don’t they know the parents are gonna do most of it? Why are they torturing us?” I think that voice is my mother’s. (Shhhh, don’t tell her I said that.)

But there’s also this part of me that says, You’re not good at this, no matter how much you enjoy it.

And here’s where I share my childhood trauma.