We look out the window which faces south and see trails of the Iron Dome, followed by puffs of smoke at the point of impact. And that's it, we're in the zone called war

(Photo: Flash90)

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s soon as we hear about things heating up down South, a funny thing happens to us dwellers of Ashdod. It's as though we enter an alternate stream of consciousness. It’s automatic. When you leave the house, you think twice — should you? shouldn’t you? Maybe you should wait till next week to return that dress? You debate whether Moishy should go to play with his friend after cheder, if you should take your kids down to the park. Is this going to last a while or is it a small hiccup in routine?

On Sunday night I was about to go on my daily walk when we heard that two missiles had been fired in the direction of Ashkelon. Ashdod is generally the next stop for Gazan “gifts.” (Random piece of useless info: Gift in German means poison.) My husband and I debated the wisdom of me going out, news sources weren’t reporting any unusual activity, so I went.

On Monday afternoon, we heard that the restlessness was gaining traction. We had been hearing distant rumbles all day — one Iron Dome battery is situated not far away from us.

At five forty p.m., my teenaged daughter Faigy called to say that Hamas were threatening action at six. That’s when we moved into action. In this heightened state of awareness all you’re doing is endless accounting for your kids — and scanning for the nearest building. Faigy — pick up five-year-old Suri from her playdate. Husband — call ten-year-old Moishy and tell him to come home, umm, should we say quickly? No panic, please, the last thing we need is hysterics. Baby is here, special needs teen Tova is getting off her school ride at five fifty. That should give us all time.

All the while you’re wondering if you’re maybe overreacting, and all this is some psychological warfare?

This time, though, it was two minutes to six and it was REAL. And even when you know it might happen, even when you're expecting it to happen, that loud undulating wooooo-OOOOO-oooo makes you jump.

Keeping cool and calm, we shepherd everyone into the safe room which is the bedroom belonging to Suri and Moishy. We have about 40 seconds to get into shelter, which is enough when we’re all home. It’s hot in there once you drag the metal plates over the window closed. We should have had the air conditioning on but no one had time to think about seven people in one room in this weather. Silence once the siren peters out, then breathless waiting for the explosion. One boom, two. Three? One made the window rattle, must have been close.

Baruch Hashem, everyone is calm besides Suri, whose face drains of color. I sit on a bed hugging her and ask if she wants to say Tehillim or should we sing a song? She wants to wear her Hello Kitty earmuffs. Why not,  if that makes her calmer (if not hot)?

We wait a few more minutes to make sure there’s silence, and leave the room. The kids prefer to stay there and play and I allow it. It’s time to relax all rules even though it should be supper and bath time.

We look out the window which faces south and see trails of the Iron Dome, followed by puffs of smoke at the point of impact. And that's it, we're in the zone called war.

My heart sinks lower and lower with each call from school hotlines…due to the security situation your son/daughter will not have school tomorrow…with blessings for safety and health for everyone.

I can’t do this. We can’t do this. It’s not fair to the kids. It’s not fair all round.

But have we got a choice? We’re discovering how strong we really are…

Bored, more like. Endless, endless hours of bored. We’ve used up every last drop of creativity in the bucket over the last year, with everyone home and home and home some more because of COVID. The kids kvetch and bicker and we run out of patience pulling those metal plates over the windows open and closed. Eventually we choose airless over losing precious seconds and leave them closed.

Tuesday evening. The sirens wail endlessly, my son is trying to shower (Frank Gailbraith, anyone?), and keeps running out while trailing suds all over the floor. The explosions should calm us; it means the Iron Dome is working, but the sound is terrifying. And it doesn’t work 100% of the time.

Wooooo-OOOOO-oooo. Back into the room.

The kids seem to be getting used to it, which is sad. But good.

We hear shrapnel clanging to the ground, reminding us how dangerous it is to go outside until at least ten minutes have passed. My husband brings a piece home from outside our building. Is it dangerous? Who knows.

Wooooo-OOOOO-oooo.

We see firework-like trails in the night sky. We spend all night going in and out of the safe room until everyone gives up and stays squashed into any available space. We parents have lost taste for sleep. Smoke thickens and we feel battle fatigue although it’s only been one day. No school tomorrow, that’s for sure. I may be petty, but right now that seems worse than anything else.

We pray for everyone’s safety, soldiers and civilians. We also pray for our kids and sanity and hope this doesn’t drag out too long.

I've had to leave wooooo-OOOOO-oooo my computer for at least seven wooooo-OOOOO-oooo (uh, nine) while typing this...I think it's time to stop.

Stay safe!

Missile Missives