“Remember? We’re moving. That means a new school, too”
I bring him myself, leaving my newborn behind. I need to time the trip perfectly in the two-and-a-half-hour space between feeds, but I’m not going to give it up.
It’s his first day — in ganon (nursery), in school, in a fully Hebrew-speaking environment. He’s my oldest, so it’s my first day, too.
I can’t breathe.
Other mothers come, drop off their sons, meet the morahs, leave. I come and stay, and stay, and stay. I speak to the three morahs, the principal, the preschool director. I remind them that my son doesn’t speak Hebrew. They assure me they’ve done this before.
It doesn’t help.
I am postpartum, emotional, a ball of nerves. What if he needs the bathroom? A drink? Will he be put on the right bus home? What if the driver misses his stop? What if he gets lost and can’t communicate?
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