Of ceremonies, memories, and pregnancy

Dear Beenie,

Your Abba and I always go to Kikar Rabin on erev Yom Hazikaron. As the siren sounds at the start of Israel's Memorial Day, we stand silently alongside thousands of others, and remember all those who gave their lives in service of our great, beautiful state. And then the ceremony begins. We hear stories of brothers, fathers, husbands. And sons. We hear music that reminds us of people we never knew. Every year, we go, and despite my reluctance to cry in general, I am always in tears. So proud of your Abba and his more than a decade of service. So proud of your uncles, and your grandfather, and your great-grandfather, and so many cousins, all of whom served.

But this year, Beenie, I didn't go. As I write this, you're kicking away inside of me, unaware of the world around you. It's so hot outside, and I'm so tired. I can't stand for two hours and being without a bathroom for that long would lead to some unfortunate situations.

It's more than that, though.

I always go to Kikar Rabin because I need to feel and understand the loss and meaning of this day. As you'll learn, I didn't serve in the army like your female cousins, because I came to Israel too late in my life. I didn't grow up learning about the man your Uncle U is named for and I still don't know all the details of his life. I can't recite the names of half a dozen people who died fighting for this country. And so I go to Kikar Rabin, and cry with the rest of the country, for people I don't know. My tears are real, but impersonal.

This year is different, though, because of you. I'm not just pregnant with a son, I'm growing a person who might be in a combat unit, or a fighter pilot. You might be in intelligence, or something else that doesn't even exist yet, but you'll be a solider in our army. And we'll be so proud of you, a little more than 18 years from now when we send you off, please God.

But we'll also be petrified. Of what could happen. Of what might be.

So I didn't go this year, Beenie, because I don't need to be reminded of pain. There's been too much of that too close to us this last year or two, and I simply can't take any more. There has been too much illness, and even as I write this, someone I love is close to losing someone they love. I don't need to cry this year, to be aware of their losses.

Even before I've met you, I can't imagine losing you. I don't need to hear mothers talk of losing their children who they've known for decades; I've only known about you for a few months and already I can't bear to think of us without you.

We'll take you to Kikar Rabin, Beenie, and you'll share in our sorrow. We'll explain what loss means, and why this day is important, but this year, dear little one, this year, I'm giving myself a pass. I hope you'll forgive me.

Love,
Mum