My Son’s Whatsapp Group
My almost-7th grader, Yaakov, has a whatsapp group on my phone with 6 of his classmates called “The Best Friends.”
In preparation for the final game of the Euro soccer championship tomorrow night, which they’ll be watching together at our home, the group has been exploding with dozens of messages that sound like what they are: messages written by little boys on the cusp of becoming big boys, teenagers, young men.
“Hey bro, for sure England’s gonna tear Spain apart!”
“Let’s everyone bring some eats for the game so we can stuff our faces at half time!”
“Right on, bro! It’s gonna be sick!”
The funny thing is that none of these boys have their own phones, so their big-boy macho chat takes place between “Yehuda’s mother,” “Benaya’s Mother,” and “Yinon’s mother,” etc.
I find myself contrasting the sweetness of Yaakov’s “Mother of…” chat with the horror of seeing big boys, barely young men, often just 7 years older than Yaakov and his friends getting killed on the battlefield. So many of them. The loss of so much potential, so much sweetness, so much greatness, so much. Too much.
I wish Yaakov and his friends, these incredibly sweet boys, these future soldiers, could remain in the safety of us mothers’ arms forever.
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