My tafkid, I knew. Except…

“You davened Minchah?” my friend asks.

We’re sitting in her kitchen like it’s a stolen treat; I had an appointment in her neighborhood and grabbed the opportunity to take 15 minutes between errands to catch up.

“Minchah?” I nearly laugh aloud. “These days, I’m lucky if I get to say birchos hashachar.”

I mean that. The baby-and-toddlers stage is exhausting, overwhelming, physically demanding, sooo physically demanding. Life is a merry-go-round on steroids, sleep, feed, nap, feed, wipe, bathe, feed, change, sleep. I don’t daven Minchah. I don’t daven Shacharis. When I manage to say Brachos in the morning, I feel like a superhero.

Your tafkid is different right now, they say. It is, but they don’t really talk about the guilt.