I couldn’t give him a crisp, orderly life — but I could give him crisp sheets

I am ironing sheets. I hear there are women who do that. I am not one of those women.

And yet here I am, ironing sheets. Because my son is going off to yeshivah. And if I have not been able to provide him with a life that’s crisp, neat, and orderly, at least I can give him crisp, neat sheets.

Crisp but not stiff. Those sheets were so sharp when they came all vacuum packed, ready and at attention, uniformly nestled into the comforter. The elusive perfection, the gold standard that never lasts. They fit just so into the plastic bag they came in, and that bag fit so neatly into the packing box from Bed, Bath & Beyond.

My son never fit so neatly into anything. I could never contain him in the confines of the box. Could never vacuum pack the energy out of him. Never wanted to.

But where we’re from, yeshivos only come in a box. That’s why I’m sending him to a new yeshivah far from home. Far earlier than I ever intended to. Far earlier than I ever wanted to.

And there are no guarantees. No one can tell me that it will all be okay. No one can tell me this new experience won’t continue to be colored with old hurts. No one can assure me that the hard stuff that chased him here won’t follow him there. No one can promise me that this won’t just be more of the same.