Opening the Floodgates

Over the course of my life, I have done various sessions of therapy and personal coaching, to help me work out both latent and active issues that I felt were sabotaging my success and happiness.  It was after a year of directed coaching with an amazing psychologist in Jerusalem that I could commit to bringing the person who was eventually Raphaela into the world.


The one problem I have always had with therapy is that even under the best circumstances, this digging and re-evaluation opens up wounds that then sit and fester, until the work to heal them is done.


This past week, I posted a spot-on article on my Facebook feed, which explained seven (out of the many) least helpful statements to say to an actual single mother, no matter how thoughtful the intentions.  To my surprise, it spurred a string of honest and often heart rending comments from several of my Jerusalem friends, also single mothers by choice.  I have always known any parent - and certainly a woman who has no family in the region and has chosen to parent alone - suffers through bouts of doubt, loneliness, anger and frustration.  In fact, in between the amazing and fulfilling moments, being a mother is hard and involves a tremendous amount of personal sacrifice.


But for the first time since Raphaela was born, I was hearing concrete and intense personal vulnerabilities from women whom I consider the bravest heroines I know; women whom you almost never hear complain about who we are and what we do every day for our children.  Their courage and openness gave me the strength to talk about events I have never spoken about to anyone, for fear of being accused of "having gotten myself into something that I cannot handle," and for fear of asking for help when I most truly needed it.


Here's the unfortunate outcome of this blessed event:  now, for the past few days, I am carrying around all these open wounds and real traumas that I have borne in silence for the last seven years, ever since I began fertility treatments. I find myself with much less patience for my life and my daughter, feeling trapped and somehow cheated,  and trying very hard not to take it out on Raphaela.  Because none of this is her fault and because we both deserve a life of positivity and joy.

Every Day Heroes

As we move onto the next Jewish holiday, Chanukah, Raphaela's teacher asked the parents to prepare a project about family history, and about heroism.  The teacher explained that heroes come in small and large packages, and that each story would be read to open their mind to the idea that you don't have to lead an army against the Greeks to be considered brave.

A bit at a loss, because I don't see anything in particular that I have done in my life as especially heroic,  and I can't fall back on the Israeli soldier stories.  So I asked Raphaela if she thought that I was brave.  She responded with a resounding "Yes!"  When I asked Raphaela to elaborate on what actions in particular she admired, she answered, "Well, you dance and sing, you ran in the Marathon, and you eat and you read me stories."

Then it hit me, that the one thing I have done in my 46 years for which I can say I am proud and I feel quite brave...is in fact, Raphaela!  I made a choice to bring an amazing little girl into the world, to be pregnant and give birth and raise her every day, for the rest of my days.

Of course, I cannot write about being a single mother and about my fertility treatments to a group of five year olds; I have pledged to never allow Raphaela to feel from me that she and our family are too unusual,  and I will certainly not allow it to become a topic of general discussion among her friends.

A Year Older

The physical therapist had suggested a group physical activity, in order to increase Raphaela's self-confidence in a group setting.  The Talmud states that it is the parent's supreme responsibility to teach a child how to swim, literally a matter of life and death.  I figured that we had taken a break from swimming lessons, and I love the water:  I had worked for many years as a lifeguard at a lake near our house in Boston.  Since  Raphaela has shown so much maturity this Summer, why not try again.

I found a class down the block from our house, and the director of the swim program seemed quite efficient and understanding of the psyche of young children.  We arrived at the pool this evening, Raphaela spent ten to fifteen minutes rolling around the floor, explaining that she refused to go into the pool because she did not like the ladder;  it was one of those ladders that perhaps seems scary because it is carved in the side of the wall.  Then when she finally agreed to go into the water, she held onto the instructor Anna for dear life, practically choking the poor woman; after screaming, "This is too hard, too hard!, she was eventually asked to leave the pool.

The director of the pool swimming classes suggested that (a) perhaps Raphaela is too young for lessons or (b) perhaps we need to start with a series of private one-on-one classes to help overcome the fear or (c) I should randomly take Raphaela to the pool with me and "play around" and blow bubbles until she increases her comfort zone.  In any case, I await his call.

On the way home, Raphaela asked me if I was angry at her, if she was going to get a punishment. I assured her that I cannot be angry at her if something scares her, but that I would be quite disappointed if she doesn't even give new experiences a try.  I told her that very often, things do not go your way the very first time, and you must push through failure in order to get better and have that satisfaction of knowing that you overcame your fears.

"But I want my life to be easy.  Easy EASY.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy!"

I reminded Raphaela that for example, when she was a baby, she didn't know how to walk.  And that when she decided to start walking, there was lots of falling and mis-steps.  And that if she had given up on walking, she would not be a big girl today, a girl in Kindergarten who can walk and run and jump and skip and hop and climb ladders and dance.

Then I asked Raphaela if she had any ideas about what she wanted to be when grew up.  She immediately answered, "A soldier and a doctor, and a doctor for soldiers and animals."

Mommy:  Those are wonderful goals.  Do you think it is hard or easy to learn to be a doctor?
Raphaela:  Easy.
Mommy:  Nope!  Mommy had to work very hard and learn a lot of things and take a lot of tests to become a doctor.  I work hard every day too.   If you want to be a doctor some day, and I am sure you will make an excellent grown-up, you will have to work hard.
Raphaela:  Why?
Mommy:  Because if you give up and don't try, you will never know what you are truly capable of.

Raphaela was quiet on the way home, and when I tucked her in tonight, I looked her straight in the eyes and told her this story:  "Mommy really wanted to be your Mommy, and I went to the hospital and ate healthy and exercised and prayed to G-d, asking for the most special and wonderful baby Raphaela.  It didn't work right away, it certainly wasn't easy, and I kept asking G-d to help me and I cried a lot, but I kept trying, I never gave up.  Because if I had said, 'This hurts too much, this is too hard,' if I had stopped trying, I wouldn't be the luckiest Mommy in the world right now.  And I am so glad that I kept trying and finally got my dream."

Post-script:  Tomorrow afternoon we are scheduled to scope out a pre-ballet class. Oy.

Daniel Tragerman Z"L

This past Friday, a four year old boy named Daniel Tragerman was killed by a Hamas bomb, fired from the premises of an UNWRA school.  He died because there was only 15 seconds between the launch and the impact, and his parents did not have enough time to bring all three of their children to safety.

A few things need to be said here:

1.  Shame on the United Nations for keeping uncharacteristically silent when a child was killed in the Middle East by the other side. Oh, that's right, sorry, they only accuse Israel of murder when Hamas uses their own children as human shields.

2.  Israel is fighting a war with a group of people, a made-up nation, that does not believe in the sanctity of life;  they eagerly sacrifice those they love, their husbands and brothers and their innocent children.  It pains me no end for the Palestinian civilians, the ones who just want to get out of Aza now, alive.  As a reminder for the international lobotomized community, Hamas started this, and they will not be satisfied until all Jews, all over the globe, are dead, and if it means trampling over the corpses of their own people, so be it.

3.  I cannot wrap my head around a religion and/or culture that somehow manages to delete that basic maternal instinct that puts the LIFE and safety of a child over all else.

A video going around Facebook features a happy smiley Palestinian mother who told the following story:  her young daughter expressed an interest in becoming a suicide bomber, a desire to kill as many Israelis along the way.  The mother responded that she would support her daughter, and that she would only be pleased if her daughter came home in a "body bag," because otherwise it would indicate that she failed in her "holy mission."

3.  To paraphrase a bumper sticker I saw on a car last week, I will always choose and defend my child over my enemies, the enemies of my child's future.  F**k the moral high ground.

Years ago, the New York Times Magazine featured an editorial piece by a woman (who remained anonymous) who wrote about her dilemma, she was pregnant with triplets and had been told by doctors that if she carried all three fetuses to term, at least one of the babies would be born dead or would have to live with debilitating and limiting health issues.  This potential mother went on to describe her internal deliberations, and surprisingly, revealed her decision to the readership of the newspaper.  She and her husband chose to "terminate" the two fetuses who were identical twins, because she couldn't bear the idea that some day one of the twins would ask why he/she was spared over her identical sibling.

This mother had to make an awful choice, and subsequently came under fire by most who read the article.  Daniel Tragerman's parents didn't willfully choose two of their children over the other,  Hamas murdered their son, and they will never get to see him grow up.

Pessach Camp

This morning on the way to camp, we saw several of our local street cats waddling with a full belly, and I explained to Raphaela that soon we would be seeing lots of kittens in the area.  About five minutes later, in the middle of a completely different conversation, Raphaela asked, "Do Corn Flakes have babies?"

When we got to the park, the meeting place for her English camp, we waited until several other children and their mothers arrived.  When the group was large enough, my four and a half year old offered her cheek for a quick kiss and insisted, "Mommy, it's time for you to leave now."

Evolving Friendships

From the age of one to thirteen, I had a BFF named Beth.  We did everything together, and confided everything in each other.  When my parents were going through a divorce I practically lived in her house, and when her parents were having issues with Beth's older brother, issues that completely disrupted their family life, she practically lived in mine. 

We swore that we would never lose touch and that we would be, literally, best friends FOREVER.

Then we moved from New York to Boston, and Beth became Ultra-Orthodox. Our lives and our belief systems diverged, and after attempts to stay in contact via snail mail - remember that this was the pre-internet and social media generation - we drifted and she became a pleasant memory for me.

It took me until post college to understand that if a friendship changes or fades, it does not reflect badly on me as a person.  We as human beings evolve individually and as a peer group over time, and some connections that once made sense lose their focus and their purpose.  And that's OK, perfectly normal for most of the population of Gaea.

It's the reason couples get divorced, they become different people and if they don't work at it, they fall out of love.

I met one of my current closest friends at the pregnancy and birth preparation class at Hadassah Hospital.  Our daughters were conceived on the same day through fertility treatments, and they were born a week apart.  For the first several years of their lives, we four girls hung out together, and I imagined that these friendships would last FOREVER.

In the last year or so, because the girls attend different school program and because we see each other less, that aspect of our connection has fallen apart, and for a while it made me sad.  I resolved however that it should not affect my adult friendship, and last night the two Mommies got sitters and met for dinner; the first time in a long time.

The food was yummy, the restaurant warm and cozy, and the conversations wonderful.  It is the kind of relationship that is quite simply familiar and comfortable, where you immediately slip into patterns of trust; my own little Field of Dreams.

We even joked at one point that we will still be friends at the age of 90...

The First Question

For years I have read the psychology books, consulted with SMBC friends and memorized a child-friendly version of the IUI story, ready to be told when Raphaela began asking questions about her origins and her family.

Until recently the topic, "Who/Where is my father?", it had never come up, and my daughter has proven herself more than capable of expressing all of her curiosity and concerns. 

Having reached the age of four, that question still has not been asked directly.  One evening over the Succot holiday, where she and I basically spent 24/7 together and where there was no structure of Gan, I saw Raphaela sink into a chair, and she seemed...sad.  I asked her what was wrong and she said, "I want a father.  I want a father that is just mine."

After all my mental preparation for this moment and all my skill at empathy and communication, I failed at the task. I tried to tell her "story" in a positive way, ending with the promise that she is loved and will always have loving and supportive people around her.  It felt hollow to me, because inside I wanted to cry;  I should never have assumed that the lack of a father was a non-issue just because it had never came up in conversation.

I wanted to hold her and rock her and assure her, "It's OK my love, I will find you a father."  But that would have been unfair to both of us, to create expectations far beyond my ability or control.

The next day, Raphaela said to me, "Mommy, it's OK that I don't have a father because you don't have one either, right?"  Again, I was at a loss for words, how to explain that in fact I don't have one father, but rather two, that I am part of the typical divorce phenomenon that now plagues modern life and far too many families.

Later that day, after I had given her some stickers, she came over to me and said, "Look Mommy, I got these wonderful stickers from my father!"

 I know that Raphaela knows that she is loved:  I observed her playing with her Barbie dolls and saying, "I love my Mommy, she gives me lots of food and lots of hugs and she loves me as big as Space."

And yet, here I stand, speechless in the face of the First Question.

Yom Kippur 2013

From "Selling the Fantasy of Fertility" by Miriam Zoll and Pamela Tsigdinos (New York Times 13/9/13)

"When it comes to assisted reproductive technologies, science fails far more often than is generally believed...Behind those failed cycles are millions of women and men who have engaged in a debilitating, Sisyphus-like battle with themselves and their infertility, involving daily injections, drugs, hormones, countless blood tests and other procedures...and leaves more scars than we are led to believe."

On the eve of Yom Kippur 2008, I suffered a serious miscarriage and understood that fertility treatment number six had failed. It sent me into a tailspin of anger and depression.  One year later almost to the day, my amazing and loving daughter was born, a true "tikkun" [Kabbalah term for cosmic repair] for the experience of the year before, bringing me a joy I could never have imagined.

And I want to say thank you.

On this day, before Yom Kippur 2013, I wish you all tikkun for the upcoming year, may we be inscribed in the Book of Life.

Journey to the Old City

On the actual Jerusalem Day I had planned to go to the Old City but did not, opting to perform vital house errands (post office, bank, supermarket) instead.  This morning I took off two hours and walked - rather limped, because of my sprained calf muscle - from my house to the Old City, following a path so ingrained in my mind that I could do it with my eyes closed.

I went to the Western Wall and had a very serious chat with G-d.  With my recent rising level of stress, and feeling somewhat abandoned by those who should be supportive of me, to whom else can I turn other than the Ultimate Being, the "Man (or Woman) with the Plan" so to speak.  It can be argued that the concept of a powerful all-knowing Deity is a man-made construct, imagined to help us feel better when our world goes to Hell. 

I personally believe in a greater pattern to the Universe, I know that I and my daughter must have some role and purpose, and I am sure that I am not privy to the larger picture.  I have a much better relationship with G-d than I do with organized religion, and I admit, it felt comforting to touch the stones of the wall and insert my little note in the cracks between the rocks. 

Once I start thinking that no one is listening and nothing can help, I will lose hold of my hope.  As Bruce Lee said, "No one is ever defeated until defeat has been accepted as a reality."

The last time I had such an intense spiritual experience at the Western Wall was the week before the fertility treatment that resulted in the birth of Raphaela.

As long as I had the time blocked off in my schedule, I also took the opportunity to revisit the spots I had not seen in years.  Wading through the extreme tourist groups, so much had changed, so many revitalized buildings and yet I felt like the Old City exists out of time and space, a patch of country unrelated to any other neighborhood in Jerusalem, or in Israel for that matter.

I stood in my hallowed spot, an area in which four or five stones dating back to the Second Temple sit undisturbed in the newer sidewalk, among the modernity of the cafes, pizza shops, tourist traps and money changing stores.  A place where ancient meets modern, where history meets The Now.  I recalled my naive enthusiasm and unfiltered Zionism, all the motivation I had to move to Israel 16 years ago and build my life here.

What did I pray for today?  Some of that is personal, but mostly I asked for Love and Abundance and Health, and for a sign that I will have that chance to fulfill my dreams of being happy and raising my daughter here in Israel.

Thoughts for a Wednesday

Last night I had a most disturbing dream:  Raphaela and I were crossing an intersection in Teaneck, New Jersey, when she let go of my hand and started running ahead of me, in a way that clearly endangered her life.  She made it to the other side, but a white car hit another little boy and broke his leg, trying to avoid hitting my daughter.  As I stood and watched, I felt tremendous guilt, because somehow my child had led to this other boy's injury.

This morning, channeling my anxiety, I reviewed with Raphaela the entire pedestrian procedure IE how to cross the street, that she must hold Mommy's hand and that we only walk on the white lines.  I leave the interpretation to Freud.

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From the New York Times this morning, an article entitled, "Unmarried, over 30 and proud of it," by Didi Kirsten Tatlow:  "...single Chinese women in their mid to late 20's have endured being called 'shengu,' or 'leftover women,' by relatives, by the state-run media and by society."  Apparently, the variation of the meaning of the word in Chinese is "victorious" or "successful."

There are 20 million more men under 30 than women in China, because of the ability to choose the gender of a fetus, and in most cases, to abort if parents are 'disappointed' that they have conceived a girl.

Sounds like a eugenics policy out of a science fiction movie.  And if 25 is past its shelf life in China, then I am ancient.

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A woman called me at work today, explaining that her 13 year old daughter suffered from scoliosis, and asked if Chiropractic could help.  I answered that at this age and until the end of puberty, a lot of good could be accomplished, with a combination of Chiropractic adjustments, stretches and exercises at home, and monitoring.

Then the woman hesitated, before she added the information that her daughter was not like "other kids," but rather Special Needs, and did that affect her prognosis.  I assured the mother that I have worked successfully with both children and adults with special needs, and that in the long term it would not make a difference in my treatment.

The woman then hesitated again, and asked,

Mother:  Are you a religious woman?
Doc:  Why would you ask that?  What does that have to do with my professional credentials?
Mother:  My special needs daughter feels more comfortable around people who are religious.
Doc:  My personal observances are none of your business.  Whether or not I am religious, and whether or not that is relevant, I can tell you that I wear pants at work, if that offends you.  You can tell your daughter anything you want, if you think it will make the treatment more effective, but I am not going to dignify the question.

The woman than said she would get back to me, which means I will probably not hear from her ever again.

I have in fact helped children with Downs Syndrome and other special needs, and one thing I have consistently observed is that fact that these amazing human beings, no matter what their chronological age, behave in a way that is more open and more loving that most adults or kids.  In fact, they generally do not employ the selfish and misguided filters that roam through most of so-called civilized society.

If this 13 year old girl harbours a prejudice against the secular within Israel, it is only because her parents and environment have wrongfully instilled it, and to that I say, "Shame on you!  Shame on you!"

Baby Steps

Haaretz reported today that the court ruled in favor of a single woman who in 2009 was fired from her job as a teacher in a national-religious school because she became pregnant through IVF.  During the hearings, the school argued that this teacher set a negative example to the students by representing a non-traditional family life, though the halacha and several prominent Israeli Orthodox Rabbis supported her choice.

The courageous legal decision, the first of its kind within Israel, stated that "the right to be a parent...human dignity and freedom" superseded the rights of the religious program.

Bravo!  May we continue to see acceptance of all types of families within the mosaic of Israeli society.

Fertility in the News

Israel has long been hailed as a country on the cutting edge of fertility technology, and two recent articles throw some of that reputation into question.

The first piece that appeared this week stated that Israeli hospital institutions were in fact going beyond the fertility protocol in terms of frequency of treatment, as a result there has been a recent drop in the success rate.

The second article (in today's Haartez) reported that professional committees will be set up in all hospitals to asses the fitness of a potential parent, and states that doctors will now have the right to refuse the procedure, "only if it is clear that the child's quality of life will be so poor that it's possible to say it would be better had never been born."  Of course this new ethical inquiry would affect only those women who are attempting a so-called unnatural birth, a standard couple  having sex will not be scrutinized even if they would make lousy parents.

The criteria include physically disabled applicants, those with a clear history of psychological disorders, and patients with a background of drug or alcohol abuse, sex offenses or child abuse.

The fertility panel estimates that out of the 20-30,000 women who receive fertility treatments, only 50 to 100 will be referred onward to the committee.

I certainly don't see myself as a risk to my child or society, though I wonder if I would have passed their standards as a single mother by choice.  That's a lot of power to give to one group of people, literally the power of life.

Eighth Night, Eighth Light

[MY THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS GO OUT TO THE FAMILIES AND THE COMMUNITY IN NEWTOWN WHO ARE SUFFERING.  I CAN'T IMAGINE IT, THE PAIN, EVEN LIVING IN ISRAEL WHERE WE AND OUR CHILDREN ARE FUNDAMENTALLY THREATENED EVERY DAY BY HOSTILE NEIGHBORS.]

Last night, in honor of both the last night of Chanukah and a birthday, my friend invited us to his and his wife's house down the street for a casual Saturday evening celebration.  Having been unable to find a baby sitter, I decided that rather than pass up this social opportunity, I would break routine for Raphaela, bring her with me to the party (in her pajamas), and let her stay up later than usual.

When we arrived, we were the only mother-toddler in the room, and for the most part, most of the guests were female, younger and my age range, married and single, pregnant and not pregnant.  Inevitably - and not by my initiation by any means - the discussion turned to the pressure in Israel on women to have children, and the stress for "older" women in terms of fertility, which in this country means over the age of 35.

Several of the women asked me, "How do you do it, a single working mother with no real family as a back-up system on this continent?"  My answer, "I have become an amazingly efficient multi-tasker and I don't get much sleep."  I imagine that description fits most mothers of a three year old.

Several of the woman around my age asked me if Raphaela feels less-than by the other children around her because she does not have a father active in her life, and I replied that as far as I know, it has not come up in conversation for her.  In fact, several of the children in her Gan are the product of a single mother by choice, and "as long as the check clears," the Gan staff treat my daughter no differently than any other kid.

As far as insensitivity, based upon the reactions of most of the women in the room, tactlessness abounds, and it doesn't matter whether or not you are attached to a man.  I still think that my story wins ie the matchmaker who recently called me to suggest a first date, and without blinking said, "He wants children, I assume you froze your eggs, right? Unless that information is too personal..."

Raphaela has only recently begun to ask me on a consistent basis, "Where is my father," and before I have a chance to answer her, she has moved onto another topic, usually Diego the Animal Rescuer, her current crush.

As the only person under the age of 30 in the room, Raphaela received lots of attention and ate way too many snacks, and around ten pm I tried to put her down for a nap in my friend's guest room.  My daughter, however, gets super-stimulated by social situations, and so I regrettably put on our jackets and went home.  I could have stayed several hours more, surrounded by a fun and adult environment.

One woman my age, a person whom I admire for planning the most amazing single parties which I cannot usually attend, asked me privately as we were on our way to the door, "Really, how are you doing?"  I told her that in times like this, when I must choose between putting Raphaela to bed and playing with my friends, I tend to get a little sad and resentful, because I know that I need the company to maintain my own sanity.  But do I regret the fertility treatments and the birth of my child? "Not for a moment."

Double Take

Yesterday afternoon at the park, as Raphaela was swinging from the monkey bars, I saw a father with his son and my jaw dropped open.  This one year old was the male version, a clone, of one of Raphaela's close friends, whose mother conceived via fertility treatments as an Israeli single mother by choice.  This woman always jokes that her daughter- dark straight hair, deep olive skin and petite - looks nothing like her, with her seriously Ashkenazi freckles, light skin and curly strawberry blond hair.

Yes, they say that each person has a doppelganger somewhere on the planet or in an alternative Universe, but this felt entirely different.  Obviously I did not go over to the man and ask him if he had at one time been a donor, but the question continues to haunt me:  Would I recognize Raphaela's biological donor if I ever met him on the street?  And what would I say to him if I dared to approach?

Women, Slaves and Farm Animals

As a teenager at the Orthodox Maimonides High School in Boston, I felt barraged and  insulted by the dominant language in Talmudic and other halachic texts, when referring to those who had less responsibility in performing "time based" rituals.  Women, slaves and farm animals were usually grouped together, and when it came down to an explanation, I was told that we women had more of a "natural spiritual connection" to G-d - because we got our period each month - and that men needed more structure in order to forge that bond.  That in the natural and practical order of things, women had less time because we were meant to fulfill our purpose in the home, transmitting the key values of Judaism to the next generation.

OK, so men say a prayer every morning that essentially translates as "Whew, thank the Lord that I am not a woman."  Women are considered unreliable witnesses in a Jewish court and don't count for an Orthodox minyan because we are more emotional. But hey, biology has given us the most important job in the Universe, that of ensuring the physical continuation of civilization, and apparently we get very little credit for the artistry of pregnancy and birth.

For years I pursued the Judeo-feminist agenda, until it became too tiring to swim against the stream.

This year, for the first time in my life, I understand the concept.  I took care of Raphaela the entire Yom Kippur, and it was physically exhausting.  While fasting, I served meals almost constantly to a three year old whose patience for sitting quietly lasts no more than ten minutes.  At ten in the morning, I could not keep my eyes open and begged Raphaela to take a nap with me, thus gaining one hour of rest for both of us, but no more than one hour.  When the fast was over, I found myself famished, and literally counting down the seconds on the clock until I could put food in my mouth, fuel in my body.

On Tuesday evening, Raphaela and I joined friends and casually strolled down the empty roads of Jerusalem, an exclusively surreal Israeli field trip that gives a totally new perspective on our neighborhood, and on co-existence.  Religious and secular, bike riders and tricycle riders and pedestrians, we all enjoyed the crisp air and the silence of the night of Yom Kippur. I even heard crickets and birds, without the noise of traffic.

Raphaela and I had a repeating conversation throughout the next day:

RR:  Where did all the cars go?
Mommy:  They are sleeping, it is Yom Kippur.
RR:  Can I put on some music?
Mommy:  Not today, it is Yom Kippur.
RR:  I want to watch Dora and Diego.
Mommy:  Dora and Diego are at home, the television doesn't work today. It is Yom Kippur.
RR:  Mommy, do you want some of my lunch?
Mommy:  I am fasting, that means that I am not eating all day, it is Yom Kippur.
RR:  I don't want this Yom Kippur!

Needless to say, I set aside one hour during the day for a Yom Kippur activity, my attempt to pray for the health and success of me and my daughter, while providing entertainment for an easily bored toddler.  I opened the pages and chose any passage that could be sung, and together Raphaela and I danced and celebrated the day with song.  At certain key phrases of blessing, I instructed Raphaela to say "Amen," (in Hebrew) which she did with gusto and enthusiasm.

At the end of this hour, Raphaela did the most extraordinary thing:  in pantomime, she placed an imaginary crown on my head, and fastened a robe of royalty on my chest, because that is what she saw for me.

Relative Age-ism

I distinctly remember the phrase, "You know you are old..." floating around during the entire process of my fertility treatments, because in Israel - considered planetary experts on bringing children into the world - any woman over the age of 35 should have decreased expectations regarding a healthy and normal pregnancy.

Now, a joint committee of the Israeli Fertility Association and the Maternal Fetal Medicine has issued a report in which they recommend that any woman over 45 be considered "high-risk" to the extreme, and that these women undergo a whole slew of extra monitoring throughout the pregnancy.  This gamut of testing would specifically target any woman undergoing IVF, but views all such females over the age of 45 as having a higher risk for blood pressure, diabetes and obesity issues, not to mention a statistical increase in multiple births and children with disabilities.  Women over 50 would be further subjected to heart function tests and screening for cancer.

The oldest woman to ever give birth in Israel was a 64 year old, who utilized both egg donation and IVF in 2004, and acted against both Israeli and international policy.

There is a fine line in medicine between facilitation and Big Brother tactics, and the larger question must be debated regarding the role of the hospitals and the government in deciding which women are "allowed" to enter into pregnancy, regardless of potential health risks.

Towards the New Year

Twice a year, before Rosh HaShanah and before Pessach, I clean out mine and Raphaela's closet and donate the clothing to a worthy organization here in Jerusalem.  Until now, I have held onto certain items of baby clothing, because they have sentimental value and because the option of another child in the future lurks at the back of my brain. The bags of saved outfits have taken over my entire storage area.

I have given myself until the age of 45 to become pregnant, for both health and personal reasons.  I have also accepted with love the blessing of one thank G-d healthy and vibrant daughter, and could feel most satisfied with that lot for the rest of my days.  There is no shame in finding a partner in the future and enjoying each other's company while building a blended family; giving time and attention to me as a woman and as an adult to enjoy a relationship, without reintroducing the complications of fatigue from pregnancy, 24-hour nursing and several more years of sleep deprivation.  The man who comes into our lives might also not want to expand the family anymore at our stage in life, and assuming I love him, I would accept that situation.

This morning, apropos of nothing in particular, I thought about donating all those bags of clothing this year, thus creating physical and emotional space as we head toward the new Jewish year.  I thought to myself, "Worse case scenario, LOL, I fall madly in love within the next year and enter into another pregnancy with a healthy baby, and we have to buy new clothing..."

Clean Slate

Since we have moved into this new apartment, a pigeon couple has chosen the safety and refuge of a small window sill in the bathroom, where they have raised many pigeon babies, from egg to full-sized flying birds.  Their last two eggs were less successful, one of the hatchlings died at birth and one of them died after two days.

The mother pigeon simply abandoned the nest, leaving a small rotting corpse behind.

Today I vacated the nest and scrubbed down the window sill.  For whatever reason, this place became toxic to the young birds, and this gives them the opportunity to try again with a clean slate, literally and figuratively.

Last night my best friend told me that her almost 12 week old fetus was not going to survive the pregnancy, and that her doctors had already initiated the procedure for a "natural miscarriage."  Her first child, a daughter the same age as Raphaela and one of Raphaela's closest friends, was conceived via IVF, as was this second baby.  My friend had been told by many doctors that as unlikely as it was for a first successful pregnancy, a second was even less likely.

I understand their sadness and their anger and their frustration, and I admire their commitment to trying again, once her body has recovered.  I can remember my own feelings when I had a particularly nasty natural miscarriage right before Yom Kippur, during my year of fertility treatments; something I would not wish upon any woman.

Here's the scariest part:  apparently 17 other woman who all received IVF treatments around the same time, they all experienced a sudden and unexplained end to their pregnancy.

My friend and her family will be moving down the street into our neighborhood next week, into a new clean apartment and with a clean slate, ready to try again.

The Rights of the Non Father

Very often, people will ask me questions about the process at Hadassah Hospital and their affiliation with the sperm bank, run by the very capable and discrete Ruth.  Inevitably, the follow up question is some version of, "Do you want another child, and can you use the same donor, so that Raphaela and her sibling will be related?'

The Israeli High Court of Justice may soon make a ruling that will define that critical issue in fertility treatments;  since Israel is on the cutting of fertility technology, they also tend to deal with cases that will set precedent for all the globe.

An Israeli woman currently living in the States bought all the 'product' of a particular donor, so that her daughter may have a sibling who is biologically related.  The donor, having become more religious since making the deposit, has decided that he does not want to father any other children anonymously, and has demanded that the sperm bank destroy whatever is left, despite the fact that the woman paid for it and technically owns it.

The reasoning behind the donor, and the State of Israel's legal position, is that the donor's right not to be a father against his will is stronger than the recipient's wish to have children who are biological siblings.  The donor has the right to change his mind.

The woman challenged the initial ruling, stating that the decision was unreasonable and "damaged her rights 'as a woman, an individual, a mother and a signatory of an agreement.' "  (Haaretz, Ronny Linder-Ganz, "Court to rule if sperm donor can renege" July 13, 2012)  She argues further that her case has repercussions for both married and single women who are considering using fertility treatments, and may feel the pressure to act sooner, before the donor flips his decision.

To quote Stan Lee, with great power comes great responsibility, and the medical world will surely be looking at this Israeli case for guidance.

First Meeting

One of Raphaela's closer friends at Gan is also the result of the choice of her mother ("A"), to become a single mother via fertility procedures.  We happen to be friends, though as a rule I do not specifically seek out the friendships of other single parents.

A recently sent me an email, an invitation to a meeting of SMBCs from the Jerusalem area;  Raphaela and I attended that first encounter yesterday afternoon in the park, along with A and her daughter, and five other women with their families.  I went out of curiosity, and with some skepticism, because I have found in the past that these groups tend to attract women who want validation for their choice, even after the children have been born and represent "facts on the ground." I find it tiresome and troubling when I hear many attendees of these groups express the following sentiment:  "I am here so my children don't feel like they are freaks and outcasts in society.  I want them to see that there are other families like ours."

I totally agree that it is advantageous and healthy for Raphaela to know that there are all different types of family units, and that many children have at least one parent who does not live at home; and that it does not negate the deep and unconditional love that I feel for her as her mother, and the self-love and confidence that Raphaela should cultivate within herself for the rest of her existence.

On the other hand, I have fully committed to my choice, love Raphaela beyond imagining, and think that it could become less healthy for her to be around children whose mothers are afraid of society and who feel the need to constantly remind their children that they are different, as occurred as well at the gathering yesterday.  Penelope Leach, the author of the essential guide Your Baby and Child, wrote the following:  as long as a child has one person in their life who they know loves them to the Moon and back, that one person they know they can always count on to protect them and care for them, from that small wound on their finger to the bigger emotional trials, that child will grow up to be a loving and confident human, a person who connects with others in a healthy and mutually supportive way.

As with all behaviours, our children take their cue from us, the adults around them, and especially the unspoken messages we broadcast.

For most kids, that one constant is the mother, and for Raphaela, that is me, supplemented thank G-d by a network of friends and adopted family here in Israel.  Leach's statement does not make a husband/father unnecessary by any means, but more so a bonus in a child's experience.   I remain open to finding that other half who will enhance me as a woman, and love Raphaela, wherever he may be and whenever we are destined to meet.

The meeting ended with a discussion of the next event for the group, at which point the organizer suggested a "Mommies Only" Day.  I'm glad that they have extended family who will watch their offspring at a moments notice, good for them that they don't need to work.  As much as I greatly desire the friendships of like-minded people, and would appreciate expanding my network of support, I don't have that luxury at the moment.