Bismillah
It was a hard night. Although my husband was encouraged, I was so saddened to find out that the school my boss had suggested for the boys was private, not public. He did say that there might be a bit of governmental support to pay for part of their tuition, but even so with two boys, it would be 10 000 DA. Ya Rabb! How do I do this? Wa Allahi, only if Allah completely takes care of this. It’s beyond me.
So now I am at the Academy, with my boys and big girl home sick – almost soaked to the skin after having pushed water which threatened to flood the preschool off the marble tiled courtyard. We have a new student – a sweet little 10 year old boy named Hamza. And it breaks my heart as he reminds me of my almost 10 year old. He’s chubby, with glasses and the sweetest smile and he only highlights what my boys cannot yet do.
I shouldn’t care and shouldn’t compare, but the ache is the same that I felt long ago when I would watch kids running around and my boy couldn’t, or when I would hear kids talking and my other son wasn’t able to. Now, my boys can run and they can talk and I need to have faith that someday they will be able to do the work that this little boy can do, too. It’s just that only a parent can feel this pain, this loss, this sad trip through Holland.
I don’t hate Holland. It’s just that I would have liked to visit Italy with a little boy, too.
