Taxman’s in Israel. He left six days ago. He’s coming back in three days–two and a half, really, because his flight gets in so early on Friday he’ll be home at about the time we’re all rallying from bed. (Hopefully.)
The toughest part of the sojourn, from my perspective, was Shabbat morning. It was about 22 degrees; I was not going to shul or taking the kids to groups. I wanted, selfishly, to drink my tea and read my book. Because that is what I like about Shabbat (as the song goes). I read a little, played with the kids some, and ultimately removed some of their favorite toys because they could not share to save their rotten little lives.
A lot of people have been taking care of us. Friday night we had a nice dinner-slash-playdate with our upstairs neighbor, whose husband was on overnight call. Shabbat lunch we were invited to other friends in the building, who graciously allowed us to stay and wallow in all the never-before-seen toys until after 4pm. Sunday we trundled off to Taxman’s aunt, who spoils my children more than their own grandparents. Really, we were greeted with freshly baked cake. She shooed me upstairs to take a nap, fed them lunch, and packed us a bag with leftovers for dinner. (She spoils me too.)
But thankfully, in this age of technology and cheap international phone calls, Taxman and I have been in touch. We instant message and leave Facebook notes for each other every day, and we’ve spoken on the phone most days too. The time difference hasn’t been an issue, since I’m home a lot, and his CrackBerry works there.
People, however, keep asking if I’m ok. Which is nice. I get that. But they look or sound so stricken when the ask, as if they are waiting for me to fall apart. My dad called me today at 7:06 pm, as the kids were doing their wind-down into oblivion. It involves physical torture of each other, stepping on books, and general disaster-making. “Are you ok, with Taxman gone?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped. “AM, we don’t stand on books. Miss M, leave him alone. Really, Dad, I’m ok. The hard part of my day is 3:30 to 7, like it’s always been. Even if Taxman were here in the country, he wouldn’t be here in this house. So, no difference.”
Of course would be nice to have a hug or someone bring me a cup of tea after the daily grind. A little grown up conversation (downside: Taxman does not consider a baked potato to be a complete dinner). But overall, it’s really so much better than this. Just because people sleep. Mostly.