The peoples of Israel have all seen me in my pajamas

The peoples of Israel have all seen me in my pajamas.

I’ll explain: My son is on the autism spectrum.
This wasn’t exactly on my parenting bingo card when he was born, but we are leaning into the everyday whimsy of what it means.
More screen time some days. (And for those who kvetch that screen time causes autism: TOO LATE!)
Lots of hugs and squeezing and holding because he’s hypotonic and needs the extra sensory input.
And then there’s the bonus: a free taxi to school, complete with his own escort.

We take our wins where we can get them.

She’s supposed to let me know when they’re a few minutes away so I have time to pry him off his games, find his shoes, grab his bag, carry him downstairs and have him ready to go.

Sometimes a piece of chocolate is involved.

This morning she texted:
Two minutes.
Excellent. I pried him off the screen.
Shoes on. Bag ready. Chocolate deployed.
Downstairs we went.
Two minutes.

Then five.

Then ten.

And there I am, standing in our little alley holding all 18 kilos of an extremely energetic four-year-old who has now realized that the taxi is not, in fact, here and would very much like to go back inside.

Did I mention I am wearing a blue silk camisole pajama set?

Our alley is, in theory, tucked away and quiet.

But with construction all over Emek Refaim, it has somehow become a thoroughfare.

And this morning it was thoroughly fared.

First came a Haredi man in a black hat, walking briskly past us. He glanced at me, glanced at the child in my arms, glanced at the blue silk pajamas, and continued on with the particular dignity of a man who has decided that whatever is happening here is between me and God.

Then two teenage girls with backpacks, deep in conversation, who looked over and giggled.

A delivery guy on an electric bike squeezed past.

An elderly woman with a shopping trolley stopped to tell my son good morning.

A man walking a tiny dog went by.

Then another Haredi man.

Then a construction worker.

Then somebody’s grandmother.

Then a woman jogging. Then a father with a stroller.

At this point I am basically receiving the morning population of Jerusalem in my blue silk pajamas while holding a squirming 18-kilo child and periodically murmuring, “The taxi is coming. The taxi is coming. THE TAXI IS COMING,” with the diminishing conviction of a minor biblical prophet whose signs and wonders have failed to materialize.

My son, meanwhile, is pointing urgently toward the house.

“Inside.”

No, sweetheart. Two minutes.

Except we have now been living inside those two minutes for approximately half of Jewish history.

Another neighbor passes.

Good morning!
Boker tov!
Sabah Al kheir!

Yes, these are pajamas.

Yes, this is my child.

Yes, he is enormous.

No, I do not know where the taxi is.

Eventually, mercifully, it appears.

His escort opens the door.

I hand over my child, his backpack and the remnants of the chocolate bribe.

He climbs in happily, utterly unbothered by the ordeal.

The taxi drives away.

And I stand there for one final moment in the middle of the alley, in my blue silk camisole and pajama pants, having apparently hosted an informal meet-and-greet for the Peoples of Israel before 8:30 in the morning.

Then I go back inside.
Tomorrow, I’m wearing a robe.
Either Moshiach will show up first or the damn ride.

Either way, it’s a win.