A Hut is Still a Home

When I hear “It takes a village to raise a child” I attach the saying as a criticism of modern life and the 21st century tendency to belong to nothing. I think of my own childhood, living on the same block as my aunt, uncle, cousins and grandparents. I think of the dozens of people from my hometown who I could call and would do anything for me in the blink of an eye.

My children are lacking a village, or so I thought. Indeed, after two weeks of social isolation I realized that their village may be more like a hut (Sukkah) than the stone dwelling of the synagogue where I grew up, but it is still a village.

Social isolation (one month, more?) has revealed how many people are involved in my children’s lives and how desolate their universe is without them. It has also made me painfully aware that I am simply not enough for them, and the longer this lasts, the more they will be lacking.

“You are enough,” I hear you replying. No, I’m not. And neither are you. We weren’t meant to raise our kids in isolation. Tonight, before bed, my daughter lamented how much she missed school. “I miss my teachers. I miss my friends. When will we see Saba and Savta again? Will we ever go back to America?” she tearfully asked. Earlier today she accused me of working too much. She’s not wrong. I want my students to learn whatever it is I’m teaching, and I don’t know how to pull back without feeling like I’m letting them down.

But why is it okay to let her down? It’s a question she can’t articulate, but one I know that she is asking

This once in a lifetime Coronavirus event will one day be a distant memory. But I do hope that it reminds me to practice some gratitude. Instead of comparing my childhood to my children’s and lamenting the temporary structure in which they reside, I must be thankful for all of the branches that cover them, and that they aren’t only held up by me.

*The photograph is of my son drawing on his sister’s dolls while I wasn’t paying attention.