I told my husband on Motzaei Simchas Torah not to come home until the soldiers do

H

e’s home.

He’s home, and as of tonight, he’s going to be sleeping in his bed in his room at my parents’ home.

That’s a good thing.

That means that when I wake up in the dead of night to feed my baby, I won’t have to wonder if he’s at his outpost in the Judean Hills, alone, in the deep darkness and cold wind, one lone soldier with just a gun.

It means he’s not eating army rations in the dining room, or asking friends to save him a portion if he’s on duty during mealtime — now he’ll be eating Mommy’s cooking again.

It means he’s not spending his days and nights in uniform anymore. It means he’s given in his gun for a different soldier to use, while his unit goes home to rest.

It means that after four full months, his reserve duty has ended.

But the war’s not over. Is it? Everything’s so normal. There are no sirens here anymore. In my circles, no one listens to or reads or talks about the news.

But no, it’s not over.