But when I’d ask her, she’d make a noncommittal sound and say vaguely, “Yes, I mean, there was always trouble, wasn’t there?” And then she’d go on to talk about other domestic matters: how gallantly her brother Desmond would escort her and wait for her outside her friends’ houses when she visited them; how the family joined a Pesach Seder at the King David Hotel; how her favorite dress when she was five was yellow with a light-blue ribbon on the front.

Grandma died a few years ago. I’m glad that she didn’t live to see this war in Israel: She loved the Land. But holing up for an indefinite amount of time in a mamad has taught me to appreciate her lived experience.

When relatives abroad ask me how I am, I whisper: “We’re fine! Just in the safe room. Shimi’s sleeping — Aron! Stop balancing plastic cups on his head! I know that it doesn’t hurt him, but it might wake him up! Stop it! Yes—sorry—you were saying—war—”

When I ask my kids what they think or feel about being home from school, especially when they missed their school Purim parties, they shrug. The responses are various: They love the fact that the mamad floor is covered in mattresses, and we all lie cuddled up together, listening to the booming and shuddering of explosives. My son is excited to go to sleep wearing his astronaut-costume helmet. “That way, when a til comes down, I can jump on it to fly to space!” My baby absolutely loves a good family pileup, happily falling asleep sprawled across everyone, forcing me to urge them all to “Breathe quietly!”

So when people call me and ask, “What’s going on? Are you all right?” I don’t always know what they’re talking about. Do we all have a serious case of cabin fever? Yes. Does this translate into climbing the walls, which are now newly adorned with scribbled artwork (sigh)? Yes. Did we feel the direct hit to Bet Shemesh? Yes. I was in the middle of changing a diaper when that happened, in fact. Have you thought about the difficulties of dirty diaper storage in a sealed room?

But no concerned caller is interested in mamad diaper storage difficulties. No one is interested in the fact that one son has unscrewed the bunk bed’s ladder and is using it to try to reach the top of the wardrobe, from where he intends to slide down on a vertically placed mattress. He will have to learn the hard way (literally) that a vertical slide is also known as a drop. No one has good advice on how to stop your children from using the baby as a horsey. “But I’m Mordechai! I NEED a horse!”

Everyone wants to hear about the bombs. Did they fall near you? Do you know that Bet Shemesh is a target because of the air base nearby? Did you see that cluster bomb that was on the news — the one that split into twenty smaller bombs? Isn’t Trump amazing?

But these questions don’t interest me. The outside-worldwide story is not my lived experience. I’m living in a situation that is entirely minute-to-minute. Even contemplating getting to work is too far ahead — about 15 minutes. I have only this minute. This minute, in which I need to separate two sets of warring children while nursing the baby (do not try this at home). This minute, in which an Alert has sounded from the Home Front Command. This minute, in which I am pouring my children drinks, aware that most of the water will end up on the floor.

This moment, in which I will take the opportunity to have a quick shower, because there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to shower again soon. This moment, in which I will nip into the bathroom and get dressed one-two-three. If I don’t take this moment, I may be in pajamas in the safe room all day. This moment, in which I daven Shemoneh Esreh, impossible or not. Because… no, I don’t want to say it. I daven: baby in one hand, toddler in the other, sadly ladderless son, now down from the wardrobe, trying to climb up my back.

I’ve come to understand Grandma. The whole of civilization is not built on men with bombs. Civilization is built in tiny increments of time, by people meeting every minute, with diaper changes, patience, scribbled walls, and numerous cups of water. The future is built by being as present as possible with our children, moment to moment. What will my children remember?

I hope, if they’re ever asked, they’ll remember my long, rambling bedtime stories. They’ll remember the ill-fated mattress slides and how their principal went from door to door to every girl in the school to be photographed with the girls in their Purim costumes on Sunday.

And when someone impatiently asks, “But what about Khamenei? What about the cluster bombs?” I hope that they’ll frown and say, “Yes, of course there were bombs. Of course. I remember how Aron went to sleep in his astronaut helmet so he could ride a bomb to outer space!”

And I hope, one day, that the recollection will make them smile… vatischak leyom acharon.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 985)