A Visit to the Vet

I dedicate this post today to my first born, Harry The Highlander.  At the honorable age of 14 and a half (that's almost 80 in human years), this cat has taught me patience, and how to love without expecting anything in return.

At home, he is almost human:  needy for attention from people, extremely verbal, easy to purr even with strangers, and always placing himself at the center of any action.  When we go to the vet (thank goodness infrequently) he has been red-flagged by the doctor as a vicious, uncooperative, scratching tiger.  Even if he has to get a simple procedure, he must either be sedated or put in the Squeeze Cage.

Yesterday he had an appointment, and needed to get two injections.  As Harry gets older, the doctor has advised less shots and less intervention, so it was three years since our last visit.  It was a new vet, and I advised him that unless he didn't value his hands, it would be best to use the Squeeze Cage.

"But he looks so sweet and friendly," the vet said.
"Trust me." I replied.

Once caged, Harry allowed the vet and his assistant to do their work, not acting out at all, though  certainly complaining loudly the entire time. No humans were harmed in the attempt.

The vet thought that I had overestimated Harry's resistance to the doctor's office.
I know I didn't.  Because I heard about it all the way home, from Harry.

And finally, to show his displeasure, he ran into the garden and hid from me for the rest of the day, refusing to come inside as it got dark.

(Raphaela, who aspires to be a Veterinarian and Zoo Keeper when she gets older, found the whole experience hilarious.)

A Double Celebration

Today is a special day, and not because it happens to be International Women's Day.

First of all, today is Harry The Highlander's 14th birthday, that would be 72 years old in human terms.  Since Harry goes outside, where there is a constant danger of cars and other animals, I had assumed that he would live to be about ten, and that Raphaela would have the chance to choose the next kitten and raise it more as her own.

And yet here he is, thank G-d active and healthy, still chasing birds and lizards, and leading a generally fulfilling life, for a cat in Jerusalem.

To celebrate, Raphaela took a bag of treats to school, to share with all her classmates, as is the custom in elementary schools in Israel.

Today is also the second day in which Raphaela officially feels that her wiggly wobbly tooth may be falling out, sometime in the next two months...Her excitement grows as she imagines what it would be like to get a visit from the Tooth Fairy, and she wrote a note to her teacher expressing this anticipation and joy.

So it's a good day all around to be a six year old, and to be her Mommy.

36 Grown-Up Hours

For the first time since Raphaela was born, she stayed with my parents (who were visiting from the US) over Shabbat, and I stayed home, alone, with no one to care for other than myself and marginally, our cat Harry.

Friday

On the way to school, half way down the block, a man called to me.  I turned around and did not recognize him, he had just dropped his little boy off at a nursery near our house.  He said to us, "I see you and your daughter walking to school every morning. I am headed in that direction, to that school, do you want a ride?"

"No thank you," I said. Because I know that Raphaela is very possessive of our time together in the morning, and because it is a beautiful sunny day, atypical for Jerusalem in February.

After we came home from school in the afternoon, I asked for Raphaela's help in packing the overnight bag, and showed her all her clothing and her toothbrush and hair accessories. "And WHY," she asked with suspicion, "will you not be able to take care of these things yourself?"

I had put off telling her that I would not be joining the rest of the family on this sleepover party, and could not avoid it any longer. I explained that she would have special bonding time with her cousin and her grandparents, and that I would pick her up after Shabbat.

Holding back tears, Raphaela and I chose a special doll that she would take with her, to remind her that I am always with her and always love her, no matter where I am.  That seemed to do the trick.

Friday Afternoon

After dropping Raphaela off at my parents and driving home, I could actually feel my stomach drop a little. It felt odd, it felt wrong for the house to be so quiet, for me to have not much of anything to do for anyone.  For the first time in six years I had free time without responsibility, and I had no idea what to do with myself.

Apparently, motherhood has altered my identity and my essential state of being, and there's no going back.

Friday Night

Dinner with friends, with good food and a very good bottle of red wine to share.  I would estimate that half of the conversation that I contributed to the evening somehow involved my daughter, not counting the people who said, "Too bad Raphaela is not here, I haven't seen her in a while."

I call that the "Mother of" Phenomenon:  since I gave birth, my name (and that of all mothers to children in Israel) became "Raphaela's Mother," even amongst the parents of her classmates. In Israel, where family values take precedence above all, you are defined by your relatives and most especially your children.

Shabbat Morning

I can do it!  And more miraculously, Harry can do it!  My cat (whom I have had longer than Raphaela) who usually wakes me up at the crack of dawn, let me sleep in until 8:30 am.   I have not slept past six am in years, and I did not think my body remembered how.  Of course, it meant that I missed the party at my friend's house for International Ice Cream for Breakfast Day.

Shabbat Day

I finally got into the groove, stopped feeling guilty, and of all the activities I did today, perhaps the most inspiring was the five kilometer plus hike around Jerusalem. I didn't have to pack a picnic lunch (Raphaela needs snacks when we go on trips), just myself and my sneakers and my bottle of water.  I walked through the park, felt the sun on my face, smiled at random people and generally remembered why it feels so good to get some exercise into my life.

I had been waiting for that push to return to an intensive training program for the Jerusalem Marathon in March, and now I have it.  That adrenaline also reminded me that I must take care of myself and my body, if I want to stick around for a long and healthy life, and watch Raphaela grow into her full potential.

Saturday Night

I needed time away from Raphaela in order to miss her, in order to understand how we fit into each other, even when we are apart.  The closer it got to the end of Shabbat, the more I started going back into Mom mode, thinking about how she has school tomorrow, and hoping that the weekend passed without incident.

I feel truly grateful that my parents were able to take Raphaela for her first ever sleep over, she enjoyed the time with her family, and I was able to have this time to myself.

As soon as she saw me she started crying and fell into my arms, saying that she missed me; my father said that she had been 100% until I walked in the door. It's nice to be missed.

My Two Teenagers

This morning, between the rain and the jet lag from the weekend, both Raphaela and I were moving slowly.  Raphaela more so, it took her ten minutes to find her jacket and put on her boots.  Nudging her along became impatience and shouting, whereupon Raphaela looked at me calmly and said, "Mommy, the more you yell and try to push me to get moving, the slower I will actually be."

Then the cat decided that I must be wrong about the weather, and insisted upon going outside with us.  Even at it rained upon him, and I gave Harry the option to come back inside, he looked at me and defiantly decided that he would stay outside in the cold, in the rain and in the mud.  Because, I surmise, by agreeing to come back inside, he would be admitting that he was wrong.

Later in the middle of my work day, I geared up and went outside, found Harry cowering under a car nearby, wrapped him in a towel and took him upstairs.  All the way up, he sat in my arms complaining, I imagine saying something like, "Mommy, it's disgusting outside!  How could you let me stay out there?"

The Universe Speaks

Every morning for many years now, I have been feeding the street cats that gather near our building.  When they see me coming in the morning, they race to a wall within the garden and they know the drill; I set out little piles of food for each of them, and very rarely do they fight, as they know there is enough for everyone.

Over the years there have been a few regulars, I have seen them grow from kittens to adult cats, and they know they can trust me.  Rarely however do they allow me to pick them up, they will tolerate a quick petting.

Isabella - a beautiful soft long-hair calico-will demand her food and even a little bit of personal attention, but she has never let me hold her.

This morning I was on my way home from doing errands.  I was holding several bags, my mind full of heavy thoughts.  About an 18 year old boy who attended the same high school as me in Boston, a boy who was murdered yesterday while doing volunteer work with Israeli soldiers.  About my work, and the fact that I could be busier next week, and all the concerns about my finances that go along with it.

As I neared the wall near our building, I saw Isabella. She came over to me and before I knew it, she had stood up on her back legs and was hugging me.  After a minute of an incredible hug, she carefully climbed over my arms and my bags and my pocket book and settled in on my shoulder, purring loudly and resting her head.  A woman passed by and stood there transfixed, because Isabella looked like a baby, perfectly relaxed and happy to be nestled in my arms.

I don't know if I was comforting her, or if she had felt the need to comfort me.

Isabella would not let me put her down or return home for ten minutes, and I was not complaining.  

I felt as if the Universe itself was hugging me.

For the past few days, Raphaela and I have been trying to save a new black and white kitten in our garden, obviously abandoned by the mother.  We have been largely unsuccessful in teaching this kitten to do anything that would insure survival, like eating or drinking or bathing itself.

But we keep going, hoping the situation will change, and I know that this exercise is teaching Raphaela compassion.

Until this morning that is, when I went outside and found the kitten dead.  I don't know what I am going to tell Raphaela when she gets home from school today.  I am seriously waffling between sugar coating the whole story - "He went home to his Mommy." - or telling her the truth.

At some point in the relatively near future, we will have to deal with the death of a pet head on, as our cat Harry "The Highlander" is 13 and a half years old.

If I decide to tell her the truth, it will be a good lesson I suppose, though a harsh one.

Don't Go to Bed Angry

Yesterday was one of THOSE days.

After dropping Raphaela off at school, I worked straight through the next eight hours, with no break for lunch.  Some of my clients were charming as usual, and some were...difficult.  My final patient said she wanted to give me "constructive advice," explaining that she felt she would better get her money's worth if she paid me by the minute instead of my standard fee.  After admitting that in fact I had helped her tremendously and that my services were worthwhile, she could not understand why I would take some offence at her suggestion.  I told her that if she wanted to try out another practitioner that was more "frugal," she was more than welcome, and I showed her the door; she finally understood the implications, and lay quietly on the table while I treated her, and paid the full price.

But I was not happy.

Straight from school, Raphaela and I drove to the supermarket, sitting in the traffic of the Thursday afternoon shoppers, only to find that we did not have a parking space once we got to the store, and that the supplies had been ravaged by the holiday shoppers for Rosh HaShanah.

In Raphaela's enthusiasm to press the elevator button, she practically trampled a little old lady.  Startled, this woman started shrieking at my daughter; I instructed Raphaela to apologize, explaining that even if it was an accident, she needed to help this elderly woman calm down.  As soon as the elevator opened, Raphaela dashed into the parking lot and almost got run over by a car.

I was not happy.

When we got home, we went to the library and then looked at her homework assignments.  Which she didn't take seriously at all, scribbling on the pages and covering over the words.  I tried my best to explain that she needed to sit down and focus.  More stress between us and meanwhile, I had not eaten breakfast or lunch, and had reached my limit.

I was not happy.

The evening only degenerated from there, to the point that Raphaela went to bed angry at me, because I was angry at the world.  I had a small glass of red wine, and instead of helping me rest, it somehow woke up my brain and all those hostilities that had accumulated from the day.  So I started cleaning the house for Shabbat, watched a terrible movie on cable and finally fell asleep at midnight.

This morning, at six am, some random person yelled at me for feeding the street cats.

Then the great search for the weekend newspaper began. On a hunch, I knocked on the door of the neighbor with severe dementia, and indeed, she had scooped up all the papers for every resident in the building ( five in all) and was reading them happily.  Having sorted out the pile of crumpled sheets, I delivered each paper to its rightful owner in the building.

Of course, because Raphaela wanted to show me that we had not resolved the issues from the day before, she said to me, "I don't like your kisses and I will never snuggle with you again. Ever again."  She will say much worse as she gets older, I know.

On a normal day, I would deal with this rationally, understanding where the intentions originated.  Today it struck deep, and I told her that she had hurt my feelings and made me sad, and that I needed alone time.  Raphaela brought me a tissue but did not apologize.

Neither of us were happy, and that mood lasted all the way on our walk to school; whereupon I felt guilty because this fight would affect her focus in her classes.

I had planned on exercising today, but instead did the ten or so errands that I did not manage to finish yesterday.  All before school pick-up at 11:50.    I saw a friend on the street, she told me with admiration  that it must be challenging to be  be a single mother;  that every day is what she called a Zero Sum Game.

I replied that I wish it were Zero Sum, I am way in the Negative End Zone at the moment.

I  am not happy and would also like to cry, and get this out of my body and out of my system, but my schedule will not allow it.

And So It Came To Be

Monday Night

8:00 pm,  Raphaela goes to sleep, leaving her back pack right next to her pillow
11:45 pm, After watching a movie, reading a few chapters of my book and drinking a small glass of wine, I fall asleep.

Tuesday, First Day of School

2:00 am,  Raphaela comes into my bedroom, wide awake, and asks, "What are you doing?" I answer, "I am sleeping."
5:30 am, Raphaela wakes me up, gets dressed by herself, and puts on her back pack.  The back pack does not come off.
6:00 am, Rapheala informs me that her sport shoes are too small for her, and indeed she is correct; her toes can be felt at the tip of the sneakers. Because of my background in the Jewish Girl Scouts, I have a pair for her that is the next size up, and some lucky person will basically be getting a new pair of girl's shoes.
7:30 am, We feed the street cats and I throw out the garbage, and we head out for the first day of First Grade.  I show Raphaela various markers along the route (a big rock, twin trees, a small forest, a tunnel) so that when she is older, she will have no problem walking to school with her friends.
7:45 am, We are greeted by the principal at the front gate, and see lots of different families we know from the neighborhood and from previous incarnations of Gan.  Raphaela goes to her classroom and sits in the front row.
Then another little girl comes and sits next to her, and her parents explain that she is an English speaker, and that her name is Elsa.  This is starting out well, thank you G-d for small and large miracles.  Of note, there are three angel-like names in the class - Raphaela, Michaela and Gabriella - so there will lots of divine energy in the room.
8:00 am, Raphaela's teacher arrives and my daughter kicks me out the door. I join a group of parents staying right outside the classroom and all of lamenting, "I am so emotional.  I don't want to go."
8:20 am, I drop off all the charitable donation items at Raphaela's Gan from last year. Several of the parents look at me funny and say, "Didn't your daughter move on?" Yes she did.
Walking home to get ready for work, I realize that I am exceptionally sweaty and it is not all that hot in Jerusalem.  It must be the nervous excitement.
12:45, Early pick up from school as it is the first day.  The teacher is running a little late, which causes the next cascade of homework issues.
13:15 pm, We get home and Raphaela takes out her folder, with one page for the parents to fill out, and a letter for the parents from the principal.  When I ask Raphaela if she has any other homework, she says that she has forgotten, and then gets impatient with me for asking. 
We are going to have to come up with a system for this.
So I call the mother of one of the girls in her class, who was also in her Gan class last year.  She laughs and explains that this teacher purposely does not tell the parents about assignments, because she wants the girls to take responsibility for themselves.  The teacher is fully cognizant that it means that some homework will be forgotten at the beginning of the year.  But apparently tonight there is no problem, nothing more to do.
As soon as I hung up, the phone rang and it was another mother who had the exact same discussion /argument with her daughter, and was unclear as to whether there was more homework.  We laughed at our situation as newbies, and decided that we need to set up a whatsapp group to support each other and ask stupid questions.

With the last little bit of vacation remaining, Raphaela and I ate a quick lunch and went to the pool.
Tomorrow it's really real.

Final Countdown to First Grade

Last night, Raphaela and I went to Evelyna to meet her teachers and her classmates, making this transition all the more real. I was pleased with her Head Teacher (a woman who has a stellar reputation) and the fact that Raphaela knows 7/31 girls in her class,  from her previous years in Gan and from her English sessions.

Raphaela came home jazzed and motivated, and woke up at five am this morning because she wanted to "watch the sun rise."

[Trumpets and fanfare]  Today is officially Raphaela Day, a day during which I will not work, a day of preparation and celebration toward First Grade.

We started with a special breakfast at the Jerusalem Botanical Gardens of pancakes and French toast with all the fixins, followed by the Farewell Tour of the Dinosaurs who have lived there all summer.  At the café, I asked them privately to make Raphaela's breakfast "festive" and they slightly misunderstood;  they brought out her plate with a candle and started singing "Happy Birthday."

On the way home, we noticed that a new pet store had very recently replaced the video store on Herzog Street.  Animal lovers that we are, we had to check out this new business, and it turned into a full blown petting zoo experience.  The green parrot named Mitzi sat on our hand; we pet the rabbits; and observed the gerbil with her new babies,  these small red things the size of Bamba.  Then Raphaela and I had our intermittent discussion about when our 13 year old cat Harry might die, where we might get a new kitten and what kind of kitten toys we might buy for him/her.

Onto home, where we spent about 20 minutes organizing her backpack and school supplies, and covering her school workbooks with plastic covers.  We spent about an hour switching over her clothing dresser to school mode, adding in her uniform and weeding out clothing to be given to charity.  On the one hand, I am relieved that the routine of dressing in the morning has been infinitely simplified; on the other hand, she has some beautiful dresses and shirts that may never be worn again.

Then, almost inexplicably, my mind switched to Spring Cleaning mania.  Almost every drawer in the house was opened and emptied, the pile of charity donations grew, as well as several garbage runs.  I discovered in the process that I am more of a pack rat than I remembered, finding way many more bags, pillows, bathrobes and baseball caps than a normal human needs.

Though we had planned to go the pool this afternoon, instead we took a walk locally, running various small errands.  With everything packed and ready to go, other than her lunch which I will make in the morning, Raphaela eagerly took her bath and went to sleep on time.

Every time she said, "I am so excited for tomorrow," I simply smiled.

That sweet moment in the early morning when my daughter (curly hair all over the place) has decided to use my stomach as a pillow, with our cat Harry wedged exactly in that small gap between Raphaela's body and mine, purring all the while because he is surrounded by his family.

Mollie

It is rare, professionally or personally, for someone to touch you so deeply.  Mollie was one of those women, a true Lady, who showed me that you can age beautifully and gracefully, with energy and health and joy.

Mollie would have celebrated her 96th birthday this coming June, she was both a client and a neighbor, and she became a friend.  Every time the temperatures dropped in Jerusalem, Mollie called without fail and insisted that Raphaela and I sleep in her apartment, so we could be warm at night.  She knew that we do not have any normal heating, and according to her daughter, she worried about us all the time.

Mollie also loved our cat, Harry, brought him treats and always asked about his welfare.  She had always thought about getting a pet, but as she got older, it became harder and harder to think about having to walk the dog three times a day.

She fell ill only in the last few months of her life, and she passed away on Tuesday.  Until the end she was surrounded by her children and grandchildren, and her friends.   I had the honor of being her Chiropractor, but more importantly, having such an inspirational woman a part of my life.

I will miss her.

Marvelous Monday

The morning started with a bang.  While I was in the shower, our cat Harry caught a baby bird in mid-air, brought it back to the windowsill and ate it.  Raphaela watched the whole thing with a combination of horror and enthusiasm, and was most impressed that he did not "waste his food";  though I heard her chastising Harry afterwards, saying to him, "Now don't eat any more birds, OK?"  Harry has been staking out that birds nest since February, waiting for his chance; I give him credit for his patience and his alacrity, not bad for a 13 year old feline.


Once I dropped Raphaela off at school, for time since before the extra-long Pessach vacation, I did a real run in Gan Sacher, with real sweating and fat burning aerobic activity.  With no specific motivation for staying in shape IE no family event or marathon, I must remember the feeling of elation and commit again to continuing the workouts.


Meanwhile, in Gan, Raphaela had a show-and-tell gig.  Until now, children in her class had brought in their sea shell collection, or a favorite doll, or a soccer ball.  Raphaela decided she wanted to talk about her ballet class.  Which led into (naturally) including selections of paintings of Degas's ballet dancers, her favorite artist.  Which meant that she also felt the need to create her own pastel drawing and add that into the presentation.  Sounds more like a small art history thesis to me, I am proud of Raphaela for making these connections and creating an ambitious presentation.


Raphaela's Nature class finished off the day.  I cannot remember my childhood feeling this busy.

Your Royal Highness

As Purim approaches, Raphaela's kindergarten has started teaching the topic of  "Kings, Queens and Castles." The resulting conversation last night was more than revealing to me:

Raphaela:  Am I the Queen?
Mommy:  No, I am the Queen in the house and you are the Princess, because you are my girl and I am in charge.
Raphaela:  When I have a baby, you will become the Grandma and I will be the Queen.
Mommy:  Yes.
Raphaela:  But where is your King?
Mommy:  Believe me, sweet girl, I am still looking for the right man.
Raphaela:  Well, it's never too late.  Even when you are a Grandma you should be able to find yourself a Grandpa.

(Moving onto the subject of castles...)
Raphaela:  Do we have a big house?
Mommy:  It is more than enough for the two of us, but your grandparents' house in America is bigger, and has a big back yard.  That's how Mommy grew up when she was little.
Raphaela:  But our house is big.
Mommy:  Not as big as a castle, no, but a good home for us.

I gave up a lot to move to Israel, and I do not regret the decision, even when things feel like a struggle, because I doubt that I would have become a mother to Raphaela if I had stayed single in the United States. 

The one dream that eludes me - mostly for financial reasons and the ridiculous real estate market - the one element of American life that I lust after each day, is owning a home here in Jerusalem. Not an apartment where I fight about central heating and parking spaces and whether the crazy old lady downstairs is afraid of my cat Harry;  rather, a living space that has more than one floor, relative privacy and a patch of grass to set up a hammock or a climbing toy.  A yard to host  a picnic or birthday party, or build a snowman or sunbathe.  A house where I can decorate and build as I like, make repairs immediately without getting permission, and where no owner (no matter how kind and accommodating) can decide to make the rent exorbitantly higher or decide to kick us out on a whim.

A mortgage, but with the stability of knowing that I live in my own castle.

Hell, No! Please No Snow!

It may start snowing in the whole of Israel, including Jerusalem, starting Tuesday night, and continuing (depending upon which app you have on your iPhone) through Friday.  Last year we did not have water or electricity for three days, in an already typically frigid non-insulated Jerusalem apartment.

This week Raphaela is supposed to have a ballet recital, I am meant to meet with my accountant across town, and on Friday Raphaela's potential elementary school scheduled a parents' day/Open House.  Among other things in our regularly programmed week, including me making a living and Raphaela and my first born feline, Harry "The Highlander," not being stuck at home for several days.

Last night I told Raphaela that it might snow this week, and she started crying.  First, she told me she was crying because of the trauma we suffered last year. "I want to be able to flush a toilet," she wailed.  Then she told me that she was crying JUST thinking about the street cats that we feed;  what will they eat if it snows, where will they be warm if it snows, etc. 

It did not comfort her that weather men and woman can often be wrong or at the very least off base.  I assured her that we would have food, that there was plenty I could cook on a gas-powered stove top, even without electricity, God Forbid. (That is, assuming of course, we have running water.)

We can in fact live without phones, television, Wi-Fi and the computer for a few days, if we have to. (Right?)

Raphaela did smile for a moment when she remembered that one of our street cats is named "Frosty...like the frost!" she said.  "She will be OK in the snow."

Speech Therapy

After wading through the beaurocracy of the Ministry of Health, Raphaela has finally begun speech therapy to correct a minor case of Elmer Fudd Syndrome, which seems to appear only with the Hebrew spoken "R" and not its parallel in English.  The plan is to deal with small problems of pronunciation now, before first grade next Fall.

Contrary to the admonitions I have received since before Raphaela's birth, the speech therapist was wholly supportive of my daughter's frequent transitions between English and Hebrew, and suggested that I "go with the flow of the conversation," rather than enforcing an English-only rule in the house.  She also gave me helpful suggestions how to phrase my grammar corrections as a cooperative rather than a critical process.

In order to master the Hebrew "R" the speech therapist devised a fun and slightly messy game of gargling water, and Raphaela participated with gusto, laughing when more of the water ended up on her shirt instead of inside her mouth.  Raphaela's purred loudly, practically roaring, and when the speech therapist asked her why she needed so much force, my Israeli daughter (the one experiencing a war) said, "That way I scare away the bad guys!"

Our First Siren

Because you never forget your first time.

Last night I hired our favorite baby sitter to come over, so I could meet a friend for dinner and celebrate my birthday, belatedly.  Unusual for Raphaela, she grabbed at my leg and begged me not to leave her, and I could hear her crying even as I drove away from the building.

As a joke during the meal, I speculated that perhaps my daughter is spiritually connected to the Universe, that she knows something we don't know and that we should expect terror attacks and bombing in Jerusalem again.  Then I considered calling the sitter and explain to her vis a vis the location of our bomb shelter, because I didn't want Raphaela to feel that her care-taker IE NOT Mommy could not handle the stress of the situation.

I came home around ten pm, sent the sitter home, stripped down to almost nothing because of the sticky humidity of Jerusalem, and crawled into bed.  At 11:45 pm, the sound of  sirens filled the streets of Jerusalem and in fact most of the country, and it was the first time that I and Raphaela has been in Israel for such an event.

Mostly naked, I searched frantically for some version of a shirt, grabbed Raphaela and a set of keys, and together in pajamas and shoe-less we ran downstairs to the bomb shelter, leaving our cat Harry upstairs crying and having to fend for himself.  For ten minutes all the neighbors ignored the obvious, like the Crazy Old Lady wearing a great pair of blue silk pajamas;  a French man in his 20's wearing just a towel; me without pants etc.  Much of the laughter and conversation took place in French, and then we all trudged back upstairs, each to our own houses.

I immediately pulled out my iPhone to reactivate the Red Alert app, and emailed my family to let them know that the bombing passed without incident.

Raphaela, still half groggy, made some incoherent statements about her "brain working," and then slept the rest of the night in my bed, never letting go of my arm for even an instant.

Happy Birthday to Me

How does a single mother in Jerusalem celebrate her birthday with jet lag and the background stress of a war?

I spent most of the day not working (the present), so I could wear a dress today instead of clinic clothing, and invested a little extra time with make up and jewelry.  After dropping Raphaela off at camp, onward to errands all over town:  post office, bank, supermarket, dry cleaners and electrolysis (sort of a present).

Grabbed a quick bite to eat, and then I picked up my daughter from camp;  together we made my birthday cake and had it for dessert.

Wild times, I tell you.

Tomorrow I get to clean the house for Shabbat and take Harry to the vet for his yearly shots.

Mostly, I am grateful to live in a country where despite a war, I can have a "normal" day and I can see signs of community all around me:  Raphaela's class made pictures for injured soldiers and delivered them to the hospital, and they also assembled a care package to be sent to soldiers on the front lines.  30,000 Israelis, most of whom did not know the American-born soldier who died this week, attended his funeral on Mount Herzl, and continue to stream over to the hotel where his family is in mourning, sitting Shiva.  All over the social media, posted information regarding the support of soldiers and their families, and the people living under constant bombardment, especially in the South of the country.

Maybe when this phase of the war is over, we will remember that we must remain united, and not just during those times when our enemies actively attempt to wipe the State of Israel off the map.

War Report from Jerusalem

Upon arriving home, I noted that the two eggs in the pigeon's nest in our window had hatched, and there sat two somewhat large chicks, being tended by their parents.  Since then, one of the two chicks has lifted its wings and learned to fly;  his sibling adamantly refuses to budge from the window sill.

It has been almost amusing, the perpetual "conversation" between the adult pigeon and this baby, which probably translates to, "Come on already, your brother/sister figured it out, it's not scary.  Get out of the house and get a job..."  And yet in the last week there has been no progress, the chick is staying put.

Watching Dora last night on cable television, the show was regularly interrupted with notifications of bombings taking place in real time throughout the south, a free service courtesy of the government.

I get it, it is scary out there, and now more than ever for those of us living in Israel during a war.  Last night we both went to sleep early in an attempt to finish off our jet lag, and I woke up with a terrified start in the early hours of the morning, having just dreamt that I got separated from Raphaela during a missile attack, playing out the horrible possibilities as a parent.  I never really fell back asleep after that, my heart was racing too fast and I did not want to close my eyes and replay that scene in my head.

Then, while walking Raphaela to camp today, we stopped at the usual spot to feed the street cats for whom we have taken responsibility.  An Israeli soldier sat on the wall, he could not have been more than 22 or 23 years old, unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers.  I told Raphaela to thank him, to acknowledge that he is putting his life in jeopardy to keep us secure.  I asked the soldier where he was stationed, and he told us that he was waiting for his ride to the army base, and after that he would be placed on the border of Gaza in the South of Israel.

With tears in my eyes, I wished him well and told him to "stay safe," as if he or I have any control over the matter.

Bring Back our Boys

A friend of mine used to live in Efrat, in Gush Etzion, a boring place according to her son who during high school, would occasionally skip school with some of his friends and hitchhike into Jerusalem, to hang out at the mall.

This boy is now a 'man' in his 20's, and yet this story keeps running in a loop in my head, and I keep thinking how lucky my friend should feel that nothing ever happened to her son on one of his excursions.

Israel is a funny place, there are terrible things happening - like the kidnapping of three boys studying in Gush Etzion, by Hamas - and although we manage to function normally, the news updates and the thoughts of anger and horror dominate.  What's more, many of the Israelis who stand politically against the so-called occupation of the West Bank, joined in prayer with 30,000 Jews last night at the Kotel [The Wailing Wall] to pray for their return and their safety.  In fact Jews all over the country, in small synagogues and in Tel Aviv's Rabin Square united in prayer last night; unfortunately,  it takes tragedy to pull us together.

Gal-Galatz, the popular music army radio station, has switched into sad-song mode. (Meanwhile, the Palestinian supporters of Hamas appear in the international media, handing out candies and dancing in celebration.)

Yesterday I treated patients in the clinic, bought medicine for our cat Harry, made phone calls and checked emails, folded laundry and washed dishes, and continued my preparations for our trip to the United States in two weeks.  In the afternoon, Raphaela attended a birthday party of one of her girl friends from Gan, and came home with an art project (not yet dried) that made everything in the house shimmer with glue glitter, and I was annoyed.

But not so annoyed, because my daughter is home with me, safe within my arms, and there are three families who cannot say the same.

When I scanned Facebook last night, after Raphaela had fallen asleep, I would estimate that half the posts concerned these three high school students;  the prayers on their behalf, the posturing of politicians within Israel and abroad, the collection of money and supplies for the soldiers who are currently combing every inch of the West Bank, 24 hours per day.

The other half of the Facebook posts featured things like:  a person selling their television and bedroom furniture, college students looking for apartments for the Fall semester at Hebrew University, a woman selling spare tickets to a concert next week, Fathers' Day memes, a mother asking for advice about summer camps, a bit of news about a stash of medicine that had been looted from a warehouse, the latest scores in the World Cup.

You know, normal life events.  Israel is a funny place.

A Day in the Life

Day three of the completely superfluous five-day Shavuot vacation from school.

3:30 am, Harry decides that we need to talk. I remind him that I do not have to take Raphaela to Gan today, and that I am planning on sleeping in.

5:30 am, Raphaela decides that we need to wake up. I remind her (and Harry, again) that I do not have to get out of the house on a regular schedule, and would really LOVE to sleep in.

6 am, I understand that I am not going to be sleeping in.

6-8:30 am, Feed Harry breakfast, feed the fish, take Harry outside and feed his friends.  Play with Raphaela, eat breakfast, take a shower, get dressed, help Raphaela get dressed.  Start one load of laundry, darks.

8:30-11 am, Hadassah Hospital (Ein Kerem) at the Mother and Baby wing, where Raphaela's eyes are examined by an expert pediatric ophthalmologist, who reports that Raphaela should start wearing glasses now, today, in order to get a decent resolution before she starts First Grade, almost two years from now.  The Polish heritage in me starts to feel guilty for having passed on lousy genes.

11:15 am, Arrive home, start Raphaela's lunch, put washer into dryer, attempt to set up Raphaela's follow up appointment through the hospital, only to be told that their first available spot seems to be eight months from now.  At least I have a half hour before my baby sitter arrives, and 45 minutes before my first patient arrives.

11:20 am, My first patient arrives super duper [G-d damnit!] early, along with her daughter-in-law and three children.  I want to scream but I hold myself back; all children do not have school today, not just my daughter.

11:45 am, The baby sitter arrives, exactly on time.  She asks me if she is expected to take care of the four children seated in the living room and playing together, in which case she is charging me extra.

12-3:30 pm, In which I work as a Chiropractor, fold laundry as a Mom, make phone calls and snarf in lunch in my five free minutes.

3:30-5 pm, Raphaela and I take the bus into the center of town, to order her eye glasses.  She tries on about thirty pairs, looks fabulously chic in all of them, and we settle on the reddish frames that do not seem to fall off her "small nose." (According to the optometrist.)  I then explain that genetically speaking,  while Raphaela received my ears and my lips and my eyes, the shape of her face and her cute little button nose come from her father.

5-5:30 pm, We take our weekly pre-weekend trip to the library, to refresh the reading material in the house for Shabbat.

6 pm, Raphaela takes a bath and I practically fall asleep watching her. 

7:30 pm, Raphaela falls asleep in the first line of [the bed time prayer] Shema Yisrael.  Actively snoring...

Good thing we have another day of vacation tomorrow.