“Remember? We’re moving. That means a new school, too”

I

t’s the first day of school.

I bring him myself, leaving my newborn behind. I need to time the trip perfectly in the two-and-a-half-hour space between feeds, but I’m not going to give it up.

It’s his first day — in ganon (nursery), in school, in a fully Hebrew-speaking environment. He’s my oldest, so it’s my first day, too.

I can’t breathe.

Other mothers come, drop off their sons, meet the morahs, leave. I come and stay, and stay, and stay. I speak to the three morahs, the principal, the preschool director. I remind them that my son doesn’t speak Hebrew. They assure me they’ve done this before.

It doesn’t help.

I am postpartum, emotional, a ball of nerves. What if he needs the bathroom? A drink? Will he be put on the right bus home? What if the driver misses his stop? What if he gets lost and can’t communicate?

“We’ll take care of him,” the morahs assure me in their broken English. “He’ll be okay.”

I cry all the way home.