Lunchtime During Wartime

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It’s sometime after my children have gone to sleep. Tomorrow is the first day of school, again – we hope. A quasi-fake but weirdly surreal and very (very) vulnerable return to normalcy is what we need, right?

At least, I think.

I think about that momentarily. Trying to avoid the “just in case.”

I pull the bread out of the freezer, take the various accoutrements out of the fridge and get to work. I find myself in the rhythm of spreading and then zipping up sandwich number one.

Bam! I say to my pretend studio audience, just like Chef Emeril.

Boom!

The blast of the iron dome echoes my sandwich sentiment.

I jump.

Check my phone. Okay – that wasn’t the loudest boom we’ve heard this evening, but it was louder than usual. When booms are your background, it’s hard to remember which one made you jump highest.

The rockets must be in the city next to mine. Quick mental check of where everyone is. My husband is back from a walk, my kids are asleep. My oven is off – just in case. I wonder if I should load the dishwasher. Get a head start on the evening. Just in case. Buzz, goes my phone. One of the news alert WhatsApp groups I’m in confirms the most recent barrage of rockets. I open up Facebook – and Facebook confirms the most recent death of another soldier fallen, another victim of the massacre last week, another innocent child, brutally murdered. Another shiva call, another family torn apart. And another reminder of my family here, who I am fiercely praying for. I have to kind of close one eye and cover my iPhone screen while I’m engaged in doom-scrolling on social media, which apparently I’m doing now. Cover the images, just in case.

The world needs to see what’s happening, what happened. But I need to sleep tonight because I live in a country that has gone to war. And I need energy for my children, myself, and our country tomorrow. And yesterday, and hopefully not, but probably the day after as well. Wait, what’s that sticky stuff on my hand? Peanut Butter? What’s that doing there?

Oh, right. Lunch. Child number one’s sandwich feels like the ever-elusive pair of glasses hidden in plain sight on top of your head. Where did I put you, you sneaky little lunch? Oh, here – perfectly tossed on the stovetop. Can’t remember putting it there.

Okay, back to spreading, chopping, packing, scrolling, boom.