Special education opened again in Israel today.

It’s always the first part of the school system to start again during a war.

And after two and a half weeks of this latest round, for the first time ever, I found myself actually grateful for my son’s autism diagnosis.

Why? Because he gets to go back to escuela.

Before you judge me, let’s be real: Any parent who isn’t losing their everloving minds at this point juggling work and kids and existential war is either lying or enjoyed a lobotomy.

The parents are tired.

This parent is tired.

And yes, obviously I’m also anxious. Yes, I’ll be checking the preschool WhatsApp group 37 times before pickup — more times than I’ve checked it since the start of the school year to be honest. Yes, I am already a little weepy.

But here’s the thing:

Our shelter is a Byzantine well that is literally 1500 years old, and is guarded by a three-headed dog named Baku with an attitude issue, and the Buena Vista Social Club all smoking cigars.

This is — by any stretch of the imagination — emphatically not ideal.

The school, on the other hand, has an actual shelter.

And essential therapies.

And an afternoon that does not involve Peppa Pig on a psychotic loop.

Look: Having any toddler home during a war is hard. Period.

Having one on the spectrum, who........

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