It was the first time that I stopped to think about how hard it must be to be two

I took my two-year-old to the pediatrician last month after a preschool scuffle over a much-desired empty box. His opponent in the match ended up scratching my son’s eye, and I was at the doctor to find out if we needed to see a specialist or if we could get away with some antibiotic eye cream (baruch Hashem, it was just some cream this time).

I explained the situation to the afternoon secretary (who may, by the way, be one of the lamed-vav tzaddikim), who took one look at my son, and with all the compassion and empathy you can imagine said, “It’s hard to be such a big neshamah in such a small body.”

My son has these big, knowing eyes, and they looked up at her as if to say, in their two-year-old way, “Yes, it is.” My eyes filled with tears because it was so spot-on and so where I was in that moment. I was busy calling babysitters in case I needed to go to the hospital, worried, annoyed, wrapped up in the logistics of how the rest of the day would go.