Packing up the portacrib in our Room of Requirement

Perpetual tidying and decluttering is an inevitable part of life with a young family, so it’s not surprising that I find myself, yet again, cleaning up our mamad (safe room).

But living in Israel and dealing with the realities of ever-looming war definitely introduces another dimension.

I look around the small room – part-playroom, part-storage room, part-guest room. And, of course, part-reinforced concrete bunker, ready and waiting in the event that missiles happen to rain down on our tiny strip of paradise in this chaotic world.

Our own little room of requirement, shaped not by magic, but by necessity.

A portacrib sits inconveniently in the corner next to the door, in front of our unusually deep cupboards. We assembled it in April 2024, when the first Iranian missile attack was launched and expected to arrive overnight. We put all three children to bed in the mamad that evening, and my husband and I snuggled in uncomfortably with the 4- and 6-year-old on their two single beds, hearts hammering, awaiting the possible (and likely) impact of missiles, which finally arrived at some 3 a.m. with bangs louder than I could ever have imagined, together with the open miracle of zero fatalities.

That night (thank G-d) ended a little anticlimactically, with the children returning to school the next day.

But we decided to leave the portacrib assembled. Nighttime sirens were still a frequent occurrence, and although we preferred to move my toddler daughter in the event of a siren, rather than settle her (fitfully) in the mamad for the night, it was better to have it there, just in case.

I survey the room further. Embarrassingly, there’s still a laundry basket on the floor, filled with the top-up of supplies I grabbed in the wake of our second (third?) foray with Iran. Extra clothes for us all, spare sheets, tissues, infant-sized nappies. The good snacks that topped the basket have long since been devoured. The clothes in the basket are now too small for my children’s bodies, which have already grown so much since then.

I think back to October 7, 2023, when we were first confined to our mamad for any lengthy period. Still blessedly oblivious to anything going on outside, then, too, we took the opportunity to tidy up the books stored inside.

I draw my mind to the days that followed, when I would wheel my 2-month-old daughter, tucked up in the bassinet attachment of her stroller, in and out of the mamad between sirens, which, incredibly, she would sleep through.

So now, the decision to finally pack up the portacrib feels momentous. And also heartbreaking.

Because it’s not that we no longer need to be prepared. The threat of war is still ever-present.

But the threat has continued for so long that my daughter has grown from newborn to toddler to young child, no longer in need of a crib.

We, like all the children of our country, have grown as well. Older, damaged, scarred. Hopefully wiser.

And, like my mamad, still always (somewhat) ready for the next round, until, G-d willing, the final bell.