The other weekend while my husband worked on the house, I found myself solo parenting my 3- and 6-year-old daughters for a full afternoon. Since it was raining, we were stuck inside without the relief of letting them run free-range at the playground. They’ve mastered the art of annoying each other, and anyone who has parented siblings close in age knows what came next: the relentless cycle of screaming, shrieking, poking, crying, and the occasional growl. My girls can go from giggling and chanting in gibberish to screaming about whose turn it is to get the pink plate in seconds.
Normally, I’d let them hash it out, but I live with chronic migraines. Whether it’s high-pitched whining or shrieks of laughter, noise doesn’t just hurt my ears, it pounds straight into my skull, leaving me useless for the rest of the evening while I hide in a dark room with a cold pack across my brow.
Anticipating how the afternoon would unfold, I tried something new. “Hey girls,” I said, “It’s just us today. Is anyone interested in an afternoon of screaming, crying, and generally no fun?” “No!” they shouted in unison. “OK, great. What we need is some Shalom in the Home.” Their little ears immediately perked up at the catchy old TV show title. I asked, for just three hours, if they could try extra hard to take one big deep breath before reacting to one another, and to use words at a normal volume instead of screaming at each other. Having framed it as an experiment, they were up for the challenge.
To my shock, they were pretty well-behaved through cookie baking, muddy puddle jumping, a bath, and two episodes of Bluey. The house felt more peaceful, and a bit quieter than usual. It was even safe to take out my earplugs.
Later, it hit me why the afternoon worked: I hadn’t asked for perfection, and I didn’t ask for forever. I asked for something small, manageable, and time-limited.
After the High Holidays, we walk away with the best of intentions: to return to our best selves. To be kinder, more patient, and more generous. Maimonides taught that teshuvah, or repentance, has three stages: confession, regret, and the resolve not to repeat the misdeed. In other words: a Jewish New Year’s resolution. The problem with resolutions is that they so often feel overwhelming—especially when we assume they must last an entire year.
However, Judaism offers us something more feasible: anchors throughout the calendar. There’s the annual reset of Yom Kippur, yes. But if you’d like a quarterly check-in, the Mishnah Rosh Hashanah identifies four “New Years” spread across the seasons. Want something more frequent? Each new moon brings Rosh Chodesh, a monthly reset button. Every Shabbat offers 25 hours to pause and ask: How did I do this week? What’s one small thing I want to try next week? Daily rituals like the Sh’ma before bed or the Modeh Ani blessing upon waking offer even smaller, bite-sized resets. And if that’s still not frequent enough, head over to Chabad.org and sign up for their Resolution Solution. You can even set up automatic reminders.
These cycles are essentially toddler-sized commitments for grownups. They remind us that being human and aspiring to our best selves is not an all-or-nothing pursuit, and it’s something we can practice incrementally.
For me, my daughters are my daily anchors. They may not look like me with their twinkling blue eyes and silky blonde hair (I’m a brown-eyed brunette), but they are my mirrors. I hear my words coming out of their mouths. I see my own impatience reflected in their little bodies. Like Shabbat or Rosh Chodesh, they remind me to pause and recalibrate, and reach for my best self not in theory, but in real time.
So, what if we applied those Jewish rhythms to parenting, or any overwhelming part of life? Instead of vowing “I’ll never yell at my kids again,” what if the promise was: “For the next hour, I’ll try to pause before raising my voice”? Instead of “I’ll always be patient,” maybe: “This afternoon, I’ll try to be calm through one tantrum.”
Our “Shalom in the Home” pact didn’t transform my kids into angels. By dinnertime, they were back to arguing about the pink plate. But for three hours, we all experienced a taste of peace. And because it had a limit, it was doable—for them and for me.
Maybe the key isn’t giant vows that set us up for guilt when we fail, but toddler-sized intentions: small, specific, time-limited promises that we can realistically keep, and then renew. That’s the gift Judaism offers: not the impossible expectation of perfection, but a framework for time-bound promises and fresh starts. We don’t need to conquer the whole year at once. We just need to try for the next stretch and take it week by week, day by day, or, maybe, just three hours at a time.