In Which our heroine plans to lie to her children

 Tomorrow I will lie to my children.

I will tell them that they are safe, that the terrorist attack can't happen at our shul or at their Jewish day school, that our security is tops.

But today happened only a short drive away, somewhere I attended the occasional bar and bat mitzvah growing up.  No security is perfect.  Their Jewish school is a target.

So Monday morning I will put them on the bus with a hug and a kiss, and I will smile and say, "See you later," hoping to God I do, and I will tell them I love them because what if that is our last conversation?  I'll pretend that I'm not worried because maybe I can give them the illusion of safety.  Their cousins going to and from the safe room all night don't even have that.

This Shabbat we will go to shul.  And Monday, I will send my sweet babies to school.  Because we aren't going anywhere.  Am Yisrael Chai.

בבית

ושבו בנים לגבולם -- אחרי שנתיים של סיוט חזרו הביתה ואיתם גם ליבנו.  שהחיינו וקיימנו והגיענו לזמן הזה.  ב״ה שלא נצטרך לענוד אף פעם סרט צהוב שוב.  מתפללת לשיקום מהר ככל האפשר ולנחמת המשפחות השכולות.

עם ישראל חי!

יום הזיכרון לשואה ולגבורה: כעבור שמונים שנה

כעבור שמונים שנה וגם היום מתאבלים על אנשים חפי כל פשע שנשחטו ושנחטפו (חלקם עדיין בשבי) על ידי אנשים שרוצים להשמידנו.

כעבור שמונים שנה וגם היום העולם שותק.

כעבור שמונים שנה וגם היום המקום היחיד שאפשר לחיות בו ולהתגאות במי שאנו בביטחון מלא היא הארץ.

כעבור שמונים שנה ואני עדיין עושה לעצמי תוכניות אצל מי אוכל להפקיד את הילדים אים, חס וחלילה...

כעבור שמונים שנה וכמה מעט באמת השתנה.

נזכור את ששת המיליון

נזכור אותם לתמיד.

לעולם לא שוב -- זה עתה.

In Which a holiday approaches, but our heroine feels not at all festive.

 It hit me.

My children will be celebrating Pesach with their Abba.  God (and Delta Airlines) willing, they're flying to Israel to visit Saba and Savta, their aunt and uncle and cousins, and friends.  They'll likely be the youngest at the seder table and therefore it will fall to then to recite the Four Questions.

I will be thousands of miles away and won't hear them.  We won't go through the house with a candle, spoon, and feather searching for chametz the night before (yep, kicking it old school when trying to find those last leavened particles).  I bought them beautiful new yontif outfits, but I won't see A wear her new dress, or J his fancy button-down white shirt and golden-beige pants.  We won't go through the Haggadah together and my uncle won't reward them for finding the Afikomen.

I'll see them via FaceTime.  Maybe I'll even watch them sing the Four Questions live.  That's the beauty of technology, right?  Hopefully their Abba takes some pictures of them in their holiday finery.  And they're not going forever, just two weeks.

So why does it feel like it? 

I ought to be grateful that I see them often during what's technically "his" time.  I should thank the technological innovations that mean I can see their sweet (well, most of the time) faces every day while they're in Israel.  I should be comforted knowing how many other holidays we do celebrate together.

Why can't I?  My children, are, thank God...well, I won't even write it because I'm too superstitious.

This will be the first time I don't see them during a holiday.  At least with Rosh Hashanah I got half, and Yom Kippur I got to take them to shul.  We had Sukkot parties, and a joint Thanksgiving, and Chanukah parties, and New Year's Eve he invited me.  Even for Purim I got to watch my daughter read Megillah.  

Kashering my house for just little old me just feels so empty and so laborious. 

I guess this is life.  Maybe a fruit jelly slice (if you know you know) would sweeten it?

In Which our heroine is...still standing.

It has been exactly one year and one day since the secular divorce.  (The get ceremony occurred later last March, between Purim and Pesach.)

I'm not happier.  I'm not honestly even happy.  I hurt just as much.  Not being with my babies every day will NEVER be ok.  

But -- I am still standing.

I may curse and scream in the shower.

I may have two weeks of mail to organize.

I may still be embarrassed and ashamed.

But I am still standing.  Mediocre-ever-after. 

There is no silver lining.

I don't want a hobby.

I don't want a social life.

I don't want a break.

I want to be with my children every day.

There is no silver lining.

In Which Our Heroine does not feel very heroic at all, and does not get her happy ending

Dear Reader,

Assuming there is actually still someone still out there?  If so I hope you are well.  You made it through the worst of the COVID-19 pandemic and that is no small feat.  When I last wrote - 2017, goodness -- I had no idea the world would be turned upside down and I would watch patient after patient die while I had nothing to offer except empathy (including my own Zayde who died of post-COVID pneumococcal pneumonia complicated by bacteremia and empyema).  I had no idea I would have tears in my eyes when I got to schedule and take the first dose of the vaccine -- on the eighth day of Chanukkah, what a miracle!  Or that, almost a year later, I would say a Shehecheyanu blessing when my children got theirs.  I never thought masks would be a political statement.

I didn't expect my sweet A to be diagnosed with a brilliant intellect yet struggle with ADHD.  Thank goodness for dexmethylphenidate!  (Yes, we are Pharm-free on this blog!)

I didn't expect my sweet J to be just as smart.

I never dreamed I would get to witness and love such miracles.

I also never thought I'd write the following:  Husband wants to divorce.  He feels we simply are too different and will be happier, better people and better parents apart.  He wants to remain good friends.  Thinks we could still visit his family together.  So we are trying to work out an amicable, uncontested, divorce.

I feel crushed.  Heartbroken.  Humiliated.  Sad.  Angry  Devastated.  Everything everywhere all at once.  I feel like we won't be a family anymore.  I can't bear the thought of not seeing my babies (yes, I know they aren't babies anymore) every day.  And I would still rather work this out.  We can get along and we owe it to our kids to do so.  What happened to commitment?

But once again, major aspects of my life are not mine to control - even fight to change.  I couldn't do anything to make a successful transfer happen  and I couldn't stop a virus.  And I can't stop this.

But I did do something to control infertility, right?  I kept trying until we got our miracles.  And I kept putting on that N95 and holding patients' hands until things improved.  So maybe I can get though this?  I don't believe it at all right now.  It's too fresh.  But maybe once again, after another six years, I will be in a better place?