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.