Brunch therapy

My son began his army service earlier this week. He’s not our first child to serve, and he won’t be our last, but as another parent wisely said to me at the drop off, “Today, they are each our only one.”

My husband and I milled around the tent outside the base with the other nervous families. The would-be soldiers found their friends. They sang and danced, looking brave and strong and joyful. I will admit that I was crying. But I had also sprayed sunscreen directly into both eyes while exiting the car, which gives some necessary context to the extent of the tear-streaming. Sunscreen can be tricky.

As we waited around, I tried to name each of my emotions, in the hopes of untangling them. There was fear of course. And love. There was pride at watching my child stride confidently into his future as a defender of the Jewish people, and anger that this future includes a growing list of global threats. History is not classically counted as an emotion, but as Zionists living in the State of Israel, we are acutely aware of our Jewish past, so I will add that I felt history. I also felt hot. And annoyed. The sunscreen was really starting to sting.

I am a simple person. I like to feel my feelings one at a time, giving happiness my full attention, and sadness a pint of ice cream. The morning’s collection of complex emotions was much too unwieldy to process in real time.

Soon it was time to say goodbye. With final photos, hugs, traditional blessings and loving reminders, the boys walked toward the gates to become soldiers (“Point the sunscreen away from your face. Away!!”).

And just like that, the day was over. But it was also only 10 a.m. We were drained and overheated and looking at a long, trafficky drive home. But in a divine moment of clarity, I suddenly realized that I only felt one thing: hungry. And I knew exactly what to do.

Twenty minutes later we were seated in the brilliant air conditioning of a lovely cafe. The iced coffee quieted my brain as if to say, “I can’t make sense of what you’re feeling, but I taste good.” The breakfast croissant, stuffed with eggs and cheese and avocado, stood stoically by, intimating, “Your emotional complexity does not frighten me. I, too, have layers.”

And thus, to no one’s surprise, I was comforted by brunch.

We got into the car and began heading home. But neither of us was ready to return to a normal schedule.

“There’s an outlet mall up ahead – I could use a pair of shoes,” my husband said. And so we shopped to further soothe our scattered minds. I bought a crocheted sweater and a flowered t-shirt. In the movie version of events, where I am played by Zendaya, the camera shifts poignantly between me buying clothing from the era of peace and love, and my son being fitted for his olive uniform.

By this time, retail therapy had taken the edge off, and I laugh at myself for being melodramatic. My eyes are finally free of sunscreen, and I don’t feel so hot and overwhelmed.

And yet, we are still an hour from home, and I’m not quite ready to start my day at work. My feelings need further unwinding. And I simply must give some thought to what Zendaya will wear when she accepts the Oscar for her transcendent portrayal of me.

“Um, maybe… Do you want to… Could you go for more coffee?” I asked my husband, embarrassed by the mere thought of further indulgences.

He didn’t miss a beat. “This does seem like a day for second brunch.” I have never loved him more. He can play himself in the movie.

So we took our feelings. We took our worry and our pride and our sense of history, and we shoved them into a second croissant full of salmon and cream cheese and other gloriously unidentifiable ingredients. Because emotions, though trickier than sunscreen, are delicious.

I’m fairly certain that no reputable psychological association features the double-brunch/ retail combo on its list of healthy coping mechanisms. I know that it is preferable to process heavy feelings over time with trusted loved ones. But no amount of time can explain that we love our children, and we dream of peace, and this means that we send our sons and daughters off to fight.

And also, in that moment, I trusted that second croissant with my entire being.

I picked it up and whispered to it lovingly, “Today you are the only one.”