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Routine blessings By Sayed Kashua How pleasurable is routine. True, it has yet to reach perfect ripeness, but there is no doubt that I am already beginning to smell its renewed flowering. A clear-cut sign of a return to the good old days is the fact that I have nothing more to write about, or anything urgent to say. Again, as in the old days, I have to work hard to string words together and fill these lines with acceptable sentences. How wonderful. The work that still remains to be done in the new apartment is minuscule - a small leak in the electric boiler, noises in the Shabbat clock we inherited, and a hitch in the air conditioner. By now I know the location of almost everything in the place: the coffee, the sugar, the shoes. I already know where I tend to leave my personal stuff - wallet, keys, telephone. There are those who think I am dealing with trivialities, but this has always been my way, in order to feel that I am in control. Knowing the location of each and every object is a way of marking territory that gives me a large dose of satisfaction. All that remains is to locate the socks, which somehow got lost in the move - every single pair. Nothing is missing except my socks. Which is pretty strange, considering that it's a safe assumption that I did not pack them in a separate box. Anyhow, socks are not what will interfere with my return to the magnificent monotony of the universe, when all is said and done. It's summer now. Advertisement I must admit that in the past two months I was very concerned that I was losing something precious, namely boredom. Two months that began with scurrying between governmental and municipal departments, and in their wake a hardly insignificant number of weeks in which my primary concern was quarrels with the contractor and calculations of expenses and debts. So preoccupied was I that all I remember of my dreams from that period is the faces of tradesmen and reception clerks. There were many moments in which I was afraid that I had embarked on a change that was too big, that was not calculated properly. A change that was liable to divert the life I was familiar with into a new direction consisting entirely of a daily battle and practical confrontation with national events and human figures. However, that concern was quickly laid to rest. My dreams of late have returned to being empty of identifiable content, the tossing and turning at night have no immediate explanation, the mornings have - joyfully - become more than unbearable, and the fears no longer have a clear address. I am also very slowly regaining the ability to pay attention to details. I deliberately blunted that ability lately, in order to avoid heartbreak when I examine the standard of the new home's finish. One has to look at the whole picture, I convinced myself, and truly succeeded. After all, a carpet will cover a defect here and a cupboard will hide an imprecise corner there. A word of forgiveness will be enough to continue life with the wife, and the purchase of a new schoolbag will override the scar in my daughter's heart. Yes, the move has ended in the nick of time. Everything is ready for the start of a new season, a new life. If only you could have seen how excited the children were on the first day of school. They tossed and turned in bed for a long time the night before, and got up at the crack of dawn on the big day. If only you could have witnessed how many times my daughter checked the new knapsack in front of the mirror, how many times she checked her notebooks and pencil case. And my son, who is going to nursery school, scampered back and forth to the closet, checking out his new shoes and whether they fit. Crying because they were tight and then calming down because they are new, an uncontrollable smile on his face. "Come on," he tried to hurry everyone, pacifier in mouth and bag on back, angry because he is being kept from getting to the promised paradise. I could feel the thrilled pounding of his heart in his chest. "Come on, Dad, we're late," he begged, and refused to move away from the front door. I was glad that I could feel the sadness in the laughter of a little boy who is going to nursery school for the first time. I was mindful of how I stood there on that morning with my children, urging on their happiness, making an effort to project the feeling that yes, it is wonderful to go to nursery school, and yes, a new bag and the first day of school are the height of joy. "Look at my shoes, Dad," he repeats once every minute. "Yes," I reply, "very nice." "I can run really fast in them," he says, and I reinforce what he says - "Yes" - and he shows how, running to the kitchen and back, and standing at the entrance, next to the door. "Let's go, we're late." "We're not late... in a bit." Afterward they will sit in the back seat, the boy leaning forward the whole time, trying to make the car go faster, to arrive quickly, to show everyone the knapsack and the shoes. The girl will lean back - she is already old enough and experienced enough to restrain her excitement, she already knows how it is and what it is, old enough to know, almost like me, that there is nothing like routine. "We're late," the boy will shout and nod his head restlessly as we wait at a red light. "We're not," I will reply, and he will smile back, and rotate from looking ahead to spot the nursery school to staring at his shoes. Then, on the way into the nursery school something will fade in him with every step, something in his enthusiasm will begin to wane. I can feel his heartbeat leaving the palm of his hand, which he wraps ever tighter around my hand, and I can feel without the slightest doubt his happiness giving way, with no comprehensible explanation, to true crying, strong and bitter. 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