On the fragile silence of a morning we have already forgotten about, on a basic civil right to sleep in the bed we have long since lost and on a night walk with the children • Dad's voice
1.
I woke up around 7:30 in the morning.
as usual.
Usually, by this point one of the kids has already hung up on me on the way to the bathroom, the partner yells out of bed "make coffee", and I get into the new day like a boxer trying mostly to protect his face.
Suddenly, quiet.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, make myself a cup of coffee, relax in front of the computer, and there is no chirping around.
Could it be that my quiet method of closing the doors is finally starting to show results?
I drink my coffee, but instead of enjoying this rare and fragile moment, my ears straighten from any slight noise coming from one of the rooms, and my eyes close pleading that the movement of the blanket does not mark the beginning of the day.
I put on the headphones so I can watch yesterday's sports summaries without risking waking up one of the house doors.
In the meantime my little tricks are working, but I estimate that eventually one of them will wake up.
This is usually what happens.
The truth is that this stupid virus made us dig deep to find more strength within us, and every time we thought it was over, we found a little more there.
But nothing lasts forever, and the moment will come when we dive in to fish another small drop of power, and the only new thing found there will be the excess fat of the second closure.
It's just a matter of time.
In the meantime all the days are similar to each other, and the holiday eves planted in the middle of us also look a bit like Mondays.
The TV commentator says that the police's request to enter houses in order to enforce the guidelines effectively violates the civil right to privacy, and I grin to myself.
He does not have a quarter of a child at home if he thinks something is left of the civil right to privacy.
My child is in such a vulnerable position after a closure that he feels like an eternity, that he goes into a tantrum attack if I just lock the toilet.
At this point I no longer have a problem with cops entering my house.
On the contrary, maybe they can help me a little with the anesthesia.
For two weeks now the bed in the bedroom has been expropriated from me and my partner, and if the threat of "a policeman coming" comes back to be relevant to our lives, maybe we can convince them to stay in their beds.
Only the cops will not come with a bucket.
In general, anesthesia has become a symbol of everything screwed up in this closure.
In the first place this is one of the most stressful parenting chores, and now, after another day of the kids running around at home and before another day like this, you really start to wonder how much they are even needed.
In fact, the only reason I still cling to them is to maintain some hope during the day.
I glance at the clock (on my cell phone, come on) and do not see the time there at 15:00, but there are another six hours for anesthesia.
While this is an illusion, it is likely that around 22:00 one of the children will come to me and claim that the other looked him in the eye, but such a thing can give you hope, and at the moment it is difficult to ask for much more than that.
Remind me what day is today?
2.
One evening,
instead of putting the kids to bed at 9:30 p.m., I went for a walk with them.
Do not worry, we did not drive a distance of 150 kilometers or anything like that.
We didn't break the kilometer limit either, we just went for a night walk on our street.
It was after (another) intense day that we passed between four walls, and the kids needed some air.
We put on formal clothes (pants, shirt and slippers) and went out into the street.
It was quiet outside.
There are usually quite a few fitness people walking / running along the street, but this time it was just us and the crickets.
Outside, on a night outing with the kids, the monotonous sound of the crickets adds to the atmosphere.
The kids were interested in the names of the trees we passed (I had to lie of course, what about me and that), and basically, everything we saw, even though nothing there was bordered on the screen.
I think they were in complete euphoria from the very fact that they are out.
Suddenly a police patrol car entered the street and approached us slowly.
She stopped next to us.
"Hello, what are you doing with the kids outside at a time like this?"
"Just, we went for a walk."
"At such a late hour?"
"Only nine-thirty now, and it's not that they have to get up tomorrow morning."
"And why don't you have a mask?"
"It's just me and my kids here. There's no one else within a mile radius."
The policeman nodded and started saying something, but immediately stopped himself.
"Well, okay," he finally said, "just don't get too far from home."
He waited to see that I had received the message, and continued his journey.
"Dad, was that a real cop?"
Oded asked me.
"Yes".
"So why did he ask you? He thought you were the bad guys?"
"It's not exactly like that. He just wanted to make sure we took care of ourselves."
I kind of identified with this cop.
He did not seem to want to stop next to us, nor did he seem comfortable asking all those pointless questions, but he probably had a hard time not stopping next to some moron walking with two kids at night, in the middle of nowhere.
The euphoria of the children from the trip was also dragged into the house, and even the pre-sleep tasks they performed with a certain sense of cheerfulness.
It seeped into me too.
Probably only after you do something right, do you realize how wrong everything you did before was, and how expensive it is every second is right.
But of course in such a period nothing can end without problems.
Just before they fell asleep, having exhausted everything they had to say about the trees and the police, I took out a chocolate popsicle that I had removed for myself in the freezer.
It goes well with reflections.
The children, equipped with the senses of skilled candy monsters, recognized the sound of the opening nylon and got up from the beds to see what it was all about.
Like a rookie, I fell a moment before signing the perfect crime.
"Dad, we want to too."
"This is the last one."
"Well, too."
"But you brushed your teeth. You must not eat after brushing."
"also".
Well, against that I no longer had anything to answer.
I let them share the loot.
I watched them fight for every bite of the popsicle, like two hungry puppies, and then it hit me: to bring another child into the world is basically to bring one more creature from which I have to silence my chocolate.
I will not stand it.
shishabat@israelhayom.co.il
