My son’s first words to me when he woke up this morning were: “Mom, I want to sleep in our real house.” He uttered this sentiment while sitting amidst blankets on the floor of my parents’ living room, his toys strewn on the couch in front of him and upwards of 10 suitcases framing the room around him. We are five days away from moving from Brookline, MA to a town just north of Tel Aviv in Israel, and my son wants stability.
In the last three weeks, we have moved out of our apartment (AKA our “real house”), spent a few nights with my parents, and then flew west to not only escape the nine feet of snow in Boston, but to say goodbye to friends before we make this move. Aviv and Maya, my 3.5-year-old son and newly 2-year-old daughter, slept on planes, in cars, in cribs, in trundle beds, on hotel floors, in bed with us, and even midway through meals.
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