The daily battles, private prayers, and unexpected growth of raising a child whose struggles play out in public

IT

was in mid-November, when the sky was so laden, it looked like its belly would split any second. Indoors, my mind and nerves were on the verge of giving way. I was on the floor, trying to play with my little ones. But Yitzi kept hurling toys at his brother. When I assembled a tower of stacking blocks, he yanked my headscarf and scratched my face.

I decided to go out.

My phone rang just as I put the boys into the stroller. It was my mother.

“You’re going out?” she shrieked. “Have you seen the sky?”

“I’m going to the local park, there’s a shelter there. We’ll be fine,” I said as I quickly ended the call before Yitzi managed to undo the stroller straps.

We reached the park just before the heavens opened. I was wearing my raincoat and my babies were shielded by the stroller’s rain cover. The pounding of the rain soothed my nerves.

Unsurprisingly, the park was deserted. I took my place under the ornamental bandstand to protect us from the rain. I felt like a sole player in a huge stadium, singing my own song, to an audience of One.

I lifted the plastic from the stroller and together with my twin sons, we watched in awe as the pelting rain flattened the grass and ricocheted straight off the asphalt path. A short distance away, down the hill, a dirty yet peaceful river lined up with dusty barges. We gazed in wonder as the deluge crashed onto the peeling exteriors of the river homes, making patterns and circles in the murky water.

For a precious 20 minutes, Yitzi was silent. Moish had fallen asleep. I felt almost at peace. Almost, because since the twins’ birth two years ago, I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of feeling relaxed. Because of Yitzi, my beautiful, beloved, highly aggressive child.