Erev Shavuos afternoon found me rushing around the house doing some last-minute tasks. Yom Tov was fast approaching, and I was frantically trying to cram the last few items into the suitcase as I reviewed my mental to-do list: Shabbos sheitel, check; Mendy’s non-dairy cheesecake and rash-relief creams, check; Sruli’s Kendamil, check; flowers for Mommy…?
I had just started to panic when my phone pinged with an incoming message. I quickly swiped up when I saw the message from Blossom. “Your order has been placed. Address of delivery, please?” I tapped in my mother’s address, rolling my eyes. Seriously? You would think they would know the address by now. I had been ordering flowers from them for my mother every Yom Tov for years.
I asked to make a payment by phone, but they replied that cash would be appreciated, and no rush—it could be arranged after Yom Tov.
I was thanking them politely when my husband burst into the apartment loaded with shopping bags, our three kids in tow. “Need me to load the suitcases into the car?” he asked as he deposited an almost-sleeping Sruli in my arms.
It was the typical Erev Yom Tov scene. My husband had gone to the grocery store with the kids so that I could have an important half-hour to myself to complete the last-minute packing.
“Thanks,” I said, nodding. “The suitcases are waiting by the door. Oh, and don’t forget the baby’s bag, like last time!” I was recalling last Yom Tov’s hustle to retrieve the bag, loaded with diapers, baby formula, bottles and other vital baby stuff, before the zman.
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