I don’t want to get involved — but I need to

I

get it. A new baby is exciting.

What I don’t get is the difference between learning about my cousin Toby’s newest family member at 5 a.m versus at 7 a.m. While I’m asleep, especially during the last two precious hours before morning, I’m not all that news hungry. I can’t even know what I don’t know; I’m sleeping, for goodness’ sake.

I know it’s my fault. Why do I keep my phone next to my bed, right? Because I use it as my alarm clock, that’s why, and this morning, the mazel tov text wakes me at five, followed by an explosion of Mazel tov!!!! So exciting!!!! Lots of nachas!!! messages, because looks like other members of the family have been up and waiting for the news.

Plus, Toby happens to be my cousin on Yosef’s side as well, so I get double rounds of explosions. Yaaaaw— uh, yay.

I don’t reply until seven thirty. Just because Toby’s new baby stole my sleep doesn’t mean I should steal the sleep of others. When I send my mazel tov, I do it three times. Once on the Schaffer group, once on the Davidowitz group, and once privately to Toby, with my sincerest wishes and specific offers for help. Send me Leah for a week, she gets along so well with my Perlie.

Less than two minutes pass before Toby replies. You know something, Tamar? I might just take you up on that offer.

Nice. I love doing this kind of favor. I know how hard it is to come home to a houseful of kids with a newborn, and it’s really no big deal for me. Leah goes to school, she’s well-behaved as far as I know, and she’s five years old, pretty much independent. Having an additional kid around won’t stress me.

“We’re getting a guest this week!” I tell my kids as I pull out the toaster for breakfast.

Our guest shows up straight from school that day, with a pink oaktag mazel tov crown. “Maaaaaazel tov, Leah!” I squeal. Then, knowing what a kid who’s been farmed out to her cousins’ house needs most, I lift her in the air — tiny thing that she is — and embrace her.

Two things hit me.

One, her hand.

It hits me with startling unexpectedness, flat on my cheek.

I’m still processing what just happened — did I do something wrong by hugging her? — when the second thing hits me.

An odor. It hits like a wave. Her hair doesn’t smell right. I sniff again, cautiously.

Okay, someone needs a bath. She’d probably skipped one too many. I guess that happens when your mother’s approaching labor. I remember good and well what a wreck I’d been before I had my Efraim.

Perlie arrives home a few minutes later, and the two girls go off to play. I bustle around the kitchen, breading cutlets, cubing potatoes, mixing together a stir fry. I pop a container of frozen soup into a pot and set it to simmer.

An hour later, supper’s ready, and I call the kids to the table.

This is where my daily illusion disintegrates.