Yes, but what if? I pull on my apron, tie the strings, swish and wash and rinse

S

imchi pulls out a chair for his friend. As Yitzchok shyly dips his spoon into the pea soup, I ask him about his family and how it feels to live so far from yeshivah.  There’s friendly chatter, two boys squirming with discomfort, and one mother who’s doing the not-too-much-not-too-little balancing act. There are no little ones to be busy with anymore, no big ones home yet to carry the supper conversation.

I listen in as I slice pickles. They’ll be rushing off to mishmar soon. It’s a distance. Simchi will take his electric scooter and Yitzchok, Simchi’s bike.

I perk up. “Uh, Sim, we don’t have an extra helmet.”

His eyebrow flutters as if in warning, “We’re big boys.”

“Yeah,” Yitzchok says on cue.

I nod because I know the drift: I don’t let him do this and that because I think he’s still a baby. Just because he’s the youngest yada, yada, yada.  And he’s right. I don’t let him do half the things I let the older ones do. Because experience taught me what could happen if. And there’s something about my youngest that makes my breath slow and heart speed. But Simchi doesn’t have to know that.

“Yitzchok needs a helmet.” My tone is firm. “Adults need one, too.”