Temima surveyed her surroundings: another Motzei Shabbos
disaster. Most of the toys had been picked up, but there were
still a few blocks scattered here, some toy cars there, and
books everywhere. The havdalah implements had not been
put away from the dining room table. Even though all the
dishes from Shabbos had been washed, the sink was full once
again. Now it was from the various melava malka
fare.
"I'll bet Michal Shore's house is all cleaned up by now."
Temima grumbled to herself. She could just imagine it: all
the dishes away in the cupboard, the floors washed, the
bathrooms cleaned — even the silver already polished
and gleaming. Perfect, just perfect. Everything Michal Shore
did was just right: the right clothes, the good job,
outstanding husband and children — you name it. Michal
Shore just seemed to do it better than everyone else.
Temima knew that everyone had a perfect person in their life.
It was either a neighbor, sister, mother-in-law, or maybe
they were the perfect ones themselves. Personally, Temima
didn't believe in perfectionism. The only One truly perfect
was Hashem, so why bother even trying?
In truth, as Temima looked around at the mess, she wished she
could be more on top of it all. Somehow, it never worked. As
soon as she would clean up one room and move on to the next,
somebody would go and take out some toys or clothes and the
mess would start all over again. Would she ever be able to
control it?
It didn't just end with the house. Keeping her kids neatly
groomed was a never-ending battle. Sometimes Temima felt that
even if she won the battle, in the end she'd really lost the
war. Faces washed, hair brushed, shirts cleaned and tucked in
with tzitzis hanging down straight, no dusty knees and
keeping those shoes polished. "Oh, I'll never get it right,"
she'd despair.
Temima thought back to a couple of hours earlier. It had been
a lovely Shabbos afternoon. She decided to take advantage of
the good weather and take the kids out for a walk. Temima had
done her best to make her kids look respectable. OK, so
Arele's shirt had a light pink stain from a popsicle and
Mindy's hem was starting to come undone. Temima herself was
fairly presentable, if you didn't count her slightly
windblown sheitel and if you really looked close,
you'd notice the beginnings of a run in her stocking. All in
all, Temima was feeling fairly competent. She wiped the
baby's runny nose and looked pleased that for once her kids
were fairly much walking beside her and not flying off in
every direction as they normally did.
Suddenly, Temima saw them. Marching towards her in perfect
order, were Michal and her children. Like little soldiers,
Michal's kids were lined up beside her. Not a hair out of
place, no wrinkles, no dust, everything sparkling and, of
course, just perfect."Why, even the buttons on the boys'
blazers looked as if they had been polished," Temima muttered
quietly. Of course, Michal herself looked perfectly put
together — wig in style, matching suit to shoes, not a
crumb on her.
Suddenly the wind went out of Temima's sails. She meekly
wished her neighbor a good Shabbos and tried to direct her
kids home. "But we just came out, " they chorused. Temima had
no strength to fight, but on the other hand she didn't want
the neighborhood to see how she failed to keep up. She knew
she was wrong for thinking this way. In the end, the kids won
out. They came home with rosy glows on their faces from the
refreshing walk. "Isn't that what counts?" Temima tried to
convince herself, as she hurried up the stairs to get ready
for seuda shlishis.
Now in the calm after the storm of putting the kids to bed
and dealing with the rest of the post Shabbos mess, that
feeling of despair returned. Wouldn't she ever get it right?
How does Michal do it all so well? She works several hours a
week, the house is always immaculate, her kids are always
well groomed and successful and probably more. Temima worked
on not being envious but it did leave her a bit confused.
Temima pondered this often. She decided that mothering is
like pottery making. Some potters could turn out masterpieces
— shaped with perfect symmetry, painted and glazed
beautifully. Some potters were perhaps a bit less successful
but still their products were pleasant to look at and quite
functional. So what if the shape was a bit lopsided, the
paint a bit smeared or the glaze uneven — the vessel
still held its contents. Temima resolved not to think so much
about perfectionism anymore and to just get on with the
business of keeping house and mothering. After all, we're
only responsible for our actions. Hashem is in control of the
actual results.
Time went by and Temima continued to work hard at keeping her
ship going. It still nagged at her at times that she never
managed to have everything in perfect order, but she
reluctantly accepted herself as a potter still in
training.
One Shabbos afternoon, Temima saw things with a greater
clarity than she ever had. She had just gotten up from a her
nap. The usual bedlam of toys, crumbs and books greeted her
as she made her way to the living room couch. There was a
hasty apology from her husband as he rushed out to
shiur. Temima picked up one of the many books on the
floor and poised herself to read to a few of the little ones.
"Nobody's house looks like this," she fumed inside, blaming
everyone around, but mostly blaming herself. "If only I could
train them to be neater,"she despaired.
Just then, Temima's eleven-year-old son, Yossie, came rushing
in. He was black and dirty all over: his hands, his face,
even his hair seemed to be filled with sweat and dirt. His
Shabbos shirt was far from being white any more. "This is too
much!" Temima screamed inwardly.
Before she could say anything, Yossie started to speak very
excitedly. "I was going for a walk with Shmulie, when we
noticed a couple of little kids playing farther in the
forest. They were playing in the ashes of a recent bonfire or
barbecue. I told them to go away from there, but they
wouldn't listen to me, so I had to go and grab them away. One
of them even kicked me but it looked like some of the coals
could still be hot. They really could have hurt themselves. I
finally pulled them away and took them home." Yossi explained
all excited. "I...I guess they got me dirty." Yossi stammered
at the end, as he suddenly realized how he looked. "Sorry
about that. I'll go wash up and change."
All this time, Temima hadn't said a word and she was
especially glad that she hadn't let her first thoughts pop
out of her mouth. She proudly looked over at her son. No,
perhaps the pottery she was creating didn't have the
brightest colors or the smoothest finish on the outside, but
at least she knew there were no cracks on the inside. It
would hopefully become a vessel that would hold many great
things.
