In the car ride home, we’re mostly silent. Later, we talk to our rav, who tells us to check again after Shabbos before proceeding.

“I guess this means we’ll be canceling our Shabbos plans?” my husband asks. We’d been planning to spend Shabbos in Neve Yaakov, and my friend had worked hard finding us a place to sleep and three separate meals.

“Let’s just go anyway,” I say. “Who said we have to spend Shabbos feeling miserable?” He agrees, and we start packing.

You know how Israelis have this tendency to give away their apartment for Shabbos to perfect strangers for free? I’m not like them. But there’s a part of me that wishes I was. And there’s also a part of me that wants to let go of my own pain and get busy with helping someone else. So when we hear there’s a family desperate for an apartment for their Shabbos sheva brachos, I offer ours.

Israelis leave guests a spotless apartment; I get busy hiding my mess. We find out that the couple who will be using our home is from Neve Yaakov, and we laugh at the irony.

We arrive in Neve Yaakov to a spotless apartment. Our hostess, friend of a friend, has left a homemade banana cake covered with melted chocolate for us. We let the love wash over us. We happen to know that this couple had given birth to a stillborn just a few months ago, and we take strength not just from their chocolate, but from their very walls. We look at the photos on the walls of the smiling family, and we tell ourselves we’ll somehow find a way to keep smiling, too.

We spend Shabbos with some wonderful people, and we marvel how one knows so little about the person sitting next to them and the secrets they carry.

Back home after Shabbos, we’re unpacking when I hear my husband ask, “Where’s my Croc?” We unlock the room with our hidden mess and do a Croc-scan. No Croc. We walk through the rest of our (deceptively) spotless apartment. No Croc.

A short while later, I hear my son ask, “Where’s my Croc?” It’s also missing. Two men, one big and one little, go to sleep grumpy.

In the morning, and lots of detective work later, I discover that each of their Crocs currently reside in Neve Yaakov at two separate addresses. The adult one that we left at home somehow made its way into the visiting family’s suitcase. And the child-size one that we brought with us for Shabbos somehow never made it back into our suitcase.

I break the news to the Croc owners. Neither of them is happy. I know I’m supposed to be showing empathy. I try the doc’s approach: “You win some, you lose some.”

Bad bad bad. Angry stares.

I try again. “You must feel so off-balance?”

Blank stares.

“So Croc-less?” No good. Then I lose patience.

“I’m so sorry for your Croc loss,” I whisper to my husband, so my son won’t hear, “but, um, have you noticed that I lost a… baby? I’m going to need a little empathy from you. Aren’t you hurting over the baby?”

I remember the saying, “The best way to forget all your troubles is to wear a pair of shoes that doesn’t fit.” Apparently, there’s another way to forget all your troubles and it’s called losing your Croc. Well, I’m more than eager to get those Crocs back.

As the week progresses and I watch my men struggling to function, I commend myself on my Croc-policy. My Croc-free life means I’m not vulnerable to Croc-theft or Croc-loss. I look at my son kvetching, and I muse darkly about the irony. It’s worse than that, honey. You actually lost a would-be sibling.

My week is filled with pain, but also laughter. I’m in and out of the clinic, dealing with ultrasounds, treatments, and checkups. I’m also heavily involved in Croc shidduchim. With my friend’s help, we manage to arrange a Croc drop-off point and finally Croc-car pools to our home. For the most part, world peace is restored.

This past week, 13 months after the Croc saga, we went away for Shabbos. The wannabe-Israeli-apartment-lender side of me got the better of me again, and I agreed to lend my apartment to a friend for her Shabbos sheva brachos.  We returned after Shabbos, unpacked, and all was well. Until today. I’m sweeping under my bed and my broom hits something hard. I lift the dust ruffle and jump back as if bitten.

I remind myself that I’m armed with a broomstick, but I’m still shaking. “Breathe,” I tell myself, “it’s not an actual crocodile,” (although I might be less shaken up if it was!).

I make eye contact with the offender. “Please, just please tell me that you’re not from Neve Yaakov,” I entreat, but I think I already know the answer. (Did I mention the couple who stayed here this time was also from that neighborhood?) Oh, couldn’t you at least be from Pisgat Ze’ev or Ramat Eshkol?

I quickly check for my husband’s Crocs and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that they’re safe and sound. A few phone calls and emails later, I confirm that the Croc is indeed from Neve Yaakov.

There’s so much we don’t know in this life. But I think I can guess what Hashem’s message is: Don’t forget that I love to make you laugh and I love to make you happy.

And how do I know? Because right next to the dust ruffle lies a little bassinet. And inside lies a little man. All of two months old. He’s completely Croc-less and so far has no complaints.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 782)