Today

I keep trying to come up with something pithy to say about what's happening--a sweet analogy, something to bring out a tear, something to help you understand what it's like to be here, now, how I'm feeling. That the ground has shifted, that I can't focus, that I'm irrationally angry at small things.

And I keep coming up empty.

Because before, when things happened, I wasn't a Mom, so I was scared, but it had its limits. I could run, I could hide, I could protect just me.

And now I'm a Mom. There's a tiny redheaded being who counts on me to pick him up in the morning, give him lots of hugs and kisses, nurse him morning and eve, and most importantly, keep him safe, all the time.

And I'm terrified that I'm going to fail at that. 

When we walk to daycare in the morning, I talk to him about the day (he will speak perfect English, he will speak perfect English, he WILL speak perfect English), but now I'm distracted on our three minute walk. 

How fast could I run with a stroller? What if I had put him the wrap--could I run faster?

Every person we pass, I ask myself "is that a knife in their bag?" or "do they look suspicious" or the question I hate asking myself most of all, "is that an Arab?"

I hate so much of what is happening right now. I hate my fear, I hate that it's well-grounded, I hate that my Israeli friends, colleagues and neighbors are just as freaked out. 

But I really, really hate that I feel I need to cross the street when I hear Arabic--just to be safe, because the only people attacking very white, clearly Jewish women are Arabic speakers.

I hate it, because Hebrew is my language, but the language of this country is "shukran" as much as it is "todah", "chalas!", as much as "dai!". I hate it because a country is in so many ways defined by how it treats its minorities, because I voted for Meretz and hope for two states, because I want my child to study Arabic, because I'm damn proud that 25% of this country is not Jewish.

But there's this little boy, waiting for his Mum to come and pick him up. And right now, only Arabic speakers are going after people who look like his Mum. So I cross the street, check people out again and again, don't eat lunch on the busiest street near my office. 

I ask myself if I can safely take my kiddo to the park, I log onto Facebook to see what's happening, what other Moms are doing about the park, what my friends in America are saying about the people who are trying to kill me and my little redhead.

And the silence is deafening. 

I get it, what's happening here is hard, maybe you're processing, too. It's far away, I know. And it's always something, here, and it's so hard to understand. I get it. 

But here are some distinctions you can draw:

They are sending their women and children to stab us. Un-uniformed, going after civilians.

We have an army, in uniform. They may make mistakes but they only go after military targets. Our children would never, ever be used as tools in our fight.

They are stabbing us--any of us, all of us. Their religious leaders are calling for it.

We're singing our national anthem outside the bus station where minutes earlier one of them tried to stab a 70 year old woman. 

We're debating borders, how much of Jerusalem is too much to give up. They're coming after us in Tel Aviv, Afula, Ra'anana. 

It's late. I'm tired. and I have nothing pithy to say. Tomorrow, we get up, and we do it again. 

Beth

Rosh Hashanah was always my favorite holiday. Other kids liked Chanukah, or Pesach. There was never anyone else who liked Rosh Hashanah. I used to relish Rosh Hashanah in Israel. I loved the way everyone would wish me a sweet new year, everywhere I went.

This year, I want to scream.

"Don't you know that Beth is dying?" I want to ask. "Don't you get it? Rosh Hashanah was my favorite holiday, and Beth was such a huge part of that."

But Beth is more than Rosh Hashanah--she's Chanukah and the Bruners famous party, with a pinata and sugar cookies with multi-color frosting to decorate, and chicken to eat and a Chanukah party important enough that I flew my infant son to the US so he could be there, at least once.

Beth is Sukkot, with freezing cold weather, always, but the warmth of her hospitality masking it. She brings out piping hat matzah ball soup, discussing with me the merits of hard vs. soft matzah balls.

She's Pesach, a season of renewal, Beth and Josh perpetual guests at our house. She brings a fruit platter, but instead of being mostly melon, it's full of the good stuff--berries, mango, pineapple.

Beth is in the audience at every play I'm ever in, her snorting laughter telling me she and Josh picked tonight as I wait for my cue.

She's with us on a boat at their cottage, loaning me a sweater, since as we always joked, she was my "real" mom, with matching hair and body types.

She's grinning away at my wedding, even though after a debate of who to ask to give a blessing, I asked other wonderful, close friends, rather than them. She's cooing at my baby boy, giving him a soft blue bunny, complimenting my mothering skills.

Beth is in the air I breathe, the holidays I celebrate, the Chanukiah I light, a gift when I graduated...college? High school? She's solid advice when I spend days in the hospital at the side of a loved one, she's hot tea and a visit, even though she's not feeling so hot these days.

Beth is important enough that when I learn she has advanced cancer, the fact that I don't, in general, cry goes out the window as I spend a solid hour sobbing on the stoop of the building where we've come to visit friends. There is not a week that goes by from then until now without my worrying about her.

Rosh Hashanah will never be the same. Pesach, Sukkot, Chanukah...I will never be the same. I've never known a world without her--I'm sure she came in to it at some point, but I know her as I know my blood relatives, from forever, through traditions and meals and hugs and laughter and most of all, love.

I will miss her more than I have words to say.

The Thing I Can't Talk to You About

Dearest Beens,

We talk all the time. I tell you about my day, my past, my friends. We talk about the weather, what's happening in the news, why things are the way they are. I talk to you, so you will understand, so you will speak proper English, so you will figure out the world around you. I talk to you all the time, about everything. One day, you'll talk back. For now, our conversations are mostly one-sided.

Today, I started.

"Beens," I said. "It's going to be Yom Hazikaron."

And then I stopped.

A lump caught in my throat.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't explain this day to you--tell you about the fallen soldiers and heroes we remember this day. I couldn't tell you of the tragedy, the unbearable losses. I couldn't, because this day becomes more painful by the year, as slowly, I become more Israeli.

It started years ago, when I came to visit your Dad, my boyfriend at the time, and a war broke out. Instead of spending our days together, I was alone in his apartment, and he was in a bunker. I saw him in the mornings and the evenings, before and after he came home from working long, hard nights.

It continued when I made aliyah, and chose to make my emerging "Israeliness" official. I learned to love not just your Dad, but his brothers--your uncles. I feared for them, too--a new level of Israeliness. I prayed that your youngest uncle, serving in a combat unit, would be out of active service before another war broke out--even though I don't really know if I believe in God. I spent last summer terrified that one of your uncles would be sent straight into the conflict.You see, at some point, they became my brothers--and not just "in-law" as we say.

I met your cousins, learned to worry for them. They got called up last summer, and I kept my phone nervously on my desk, in meetings, always on, afraid of a call. It came--a cousin of your cousins was brutally struck down weeks before his wedding. I didn't know him but your Dad and uncles did. Too close. Too real.

And then you arrived, last Rosh Hashanah. All 4.170 kilos of you. You learned to smile, then laugh, then giggle with glee as we kiss you. And now that Yom Hazikaron is here, I am forced to imagine pain I cannot even dream of, because now I am a mother. I have reached a new level of being Israeli. Gone is my need to go to the national ceremony and experience other people's pain--to hear mothers tell of their losses. I hope more fervently than I have ever hoped for anything that this day will never get closer than it is now.

I think of our neighbors, the ones who lost their son last summer. I don't know them, probably never will. I think of their tremendous loss, of the son who won't sit with them for dinner, tonight, tomorrow, or any other night.

And I am so grateful. So very grateful. To those many people who have given their most precious gifts so that you could be born into a beautiful, free, Jewish state.

Because it came at a cost--a high one.

And we musn't ever, ever take that for granted, my sweet boy.

But all of this? It's a lot for a boy who's not yet seven months old. So for now, sleep, my sweet child, and know that your making me ache on this day is a gift I couldn't have imagined you would give.

Much love,

Mummy