Yesterday was the usual too-long Shabbat, with Raphaela's hyperactivity at maximum, with lots of energy and not enough outlets.
At one point during the day I said in frustration, "You are acting like a crazy person!"
Raphaela answered, "Does that mean I have to move to America and vote for Donald Trump?"
===================================================================
The first US Presidential election that I remember was Carter, at the age of eight. I distinctly recall walking around the house all day and doing impressions of Carter, with his Southern Drawl. Among my other successful celebrity impressions was Dr. Ruth Westheimer, to whom I used to listen secretly on her radio show "Sexually Speaking."
A political science major at Barnard College, I continue to be politically active and aware, even though I now work in medicine. I suppose Raphaela's response was indicative of the ranting I have been doing lately about the insanity in the Presidential election.
Showing posts with label Barnard College. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barnard College. Show all posts
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
A Time of Memory Making
Pessach in Israel feels very much like Christmas or Thanksgiving did in the United States: it is impossible to find parking at any store or mall, there is way too much preoccupation with food; and people need extra sessions with their therapists, because of the emotional trauma of the Seder and the week long vacation IE lots of family time.
This time of the year I find myself becoming nostalgic, thinking about my grandparents who not only led Seder for many years, but also hosted the whole family (25 people, one shower, two toilets) in their New England home. The boy cousins slept in army beds in the basement, the adults got actual bedrooms, and the few girl grandchildren were scattered on various floors. Along with the usual dysfunctional family dynamics, it allowed me to know my cousins well, well enough that we are still in contact and still friends.
So many small things bring back the memories of those relatives, some now passed on and most of us scattered around the globe.
Yesterday was the last day of English Camp, and Raphaela came home tired and sad, already missing her teacher and the other children, including her "boyfriend." Raphaela started crying, and as I comforted her, I couldn't help but think about my grandmother, for whom my daughter is named. My Bubby hated saying good-bye, and I have this image in my head of boarding a train some time in college; as the train pulled away I could see my grandmother waving and crying, as if we would never see each other again.
Later in the evening, I had a dentist appointment at the mall to repair a cracked tooth; no Matza for me this year, yay! Since Raphaela was officially on vacation, she came with me. It took 20 minutes to find a parking spot, we stalked shoppers leaving the building and practically ran them over, staking our claim. I never like to arrive late, so we rushed straight to the doctor's office, but on the way out, we had to walk through the mall and the bustle of the pre-Pessach customers.
I have never liked shopping, especially during the holiday season, and wanted to just get to the car and leave. My daughter the Fashionista was fascinated by every store window, and insisted several times that we go into the store and find me a new dress for Pessach. We failed in our mission, but her enthusiasm was running at a high, and let me tell you, she has very good (read: expensive) taste.
"My mother would love to shop with Raphaela, " I thought. "Too bad we live on different continents." Because I spent most of my childhood and high school years moaning and groaning while my mother made me window shop with her.
Today, after I finished working, Raphaela and I went shopping, again. (Have I mentioned that I dislike shopping?) Our first stop was the shoe store, toward the purpose of getting Raphaela new socks for Spring/Summer. Well, Raphaela saw a pair of the coolest, most fashionable sandals in the store and had to have them. And yes, they look great on her and she has excellent taste.
Then we went to find me a new outfit for the holiday, and Raphaela became my style consultant. "No, Mommy, that dress makes your tush look big." "Mommy, that dress is so boring, you need something with color, something light and fun." "How about this shirt, Mommy, it would look beautiful on you!" Today I did find something to spruce up my wardrobe and my mood.
It hit me that I have a real person with me, someone I love because she is my girl, but also because she is genuinely fun to have around.
Our last stop was the supermarket, the final food run before Pessach starts on Friday. Once again we waited 20 minutes for parking, and another 15 minutes to nab an available shopping cart. We went through our list, adding extras only slightly, and when we came home, Raphaela helped me unpack the groceries.
I do feel truly blessed.
This time of the year I find myself becoming nostalgic, thinking about my grandparents who not only led Seder for many years, but also hosted the whole family (25 people, one shower, two toilets) in their New England home. The boy cousins slept in army beds in the basement, the adults got actual bedrooms, and the few girl grandchildren were scattered on various floors. Along with the usual dysfunctional family dynamics, it allowed me to know my cousins well, well enough that we are still in contact and still friends.
So many small things bring back the memories of those relatives, some now passed on and most of us scattered around the globe.
Yesterday was the last day of English Camp, and Raphaela came home tired and sad, already missing her teacher and the other children, including her "boyfriend." Raphaela started crying, and as I comforted her, I couldn't help but think about my grandmother, for whom my daughter is named. My Bubby hated saying good-bye, and I have this image in my head of boarding a train some time in college; as the train pulled away I could see my grandmother waving and crying, as if we would never see each other again.
Later in the evening, I had a dentist appointment at the mall to repair a cracked tooth; no Matza for me this year, yay! Since Raphaela was officially on vacation, she came with me. It took 20 minutes to find a parking spot, we stalked shoppers leaving the building and practically ran them over, staking our claim. I never like to arrive late, so we rushed straight to the doctor's office, but on the way out, we had to walk through the mall and the bustle of the pre-Pessach customers.
I have never liked shopping, especially during the holiday season, and wanted to just get to the car and leave. My daughter the Fashionista was fascinated by every store window, and insisted several times that we go into the store and find me a new dress for Pessach. We failed in our mission, but her enthusiasm was running at a high, and let me tell you, she has very good (read: expensive) taste.
"My mother would love to shop with Raphaela, " I thought. "Too bad we live on different continents." Because I spent most of my childhood and high school years moaning and groaning while my mother made me window shop with her.
Today, after I finished working, Raphaela and I went shopping, again. (Have I mentioned that I dislike shopping?) Our first stop was the shoe store, toward the purpose of getting Raphaela new socks for Spring/Summer. Well, Raphaela saw a pair of the coolest, most fashionable sandals in the store and had to have them. And yes, they look great on her and she has excellent taste.
Then we went to find me a new outfit for the holiday, and Raphaela became my style consultant. "No, Mommy, that dress makes your tush look big." "Mommy, that dress is so boring, you need something with color, something light and fun." "How about this shirt, Mommy, it would look beautiful on you!" Today I did find something to spruce up my wardrobe and my mood.
It hit me that I have a real person with me, someone I love because she is my girl, but also because she is genuinely fun to have around.
Our last stop was the supermarket, the final food run before Pessach starts on Friday. Once again we waited 20 minutes for parking, and another 15 minutes to nab an available shopping cart. We went through our list, adding extras only slightly, and when we came home, Raphaela helped me unpack the groceries.
I do feel truly blessed.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
A Brave New World in Children's Literature
Some of my best ideas and inspirations happened in college, except that I didn't know how to develop them into something real and long-term. For example, I started taking black and white photographs of the homeless people who lived on the sidewalk near Barnard/Columbia. In exchange for them telling me their life story and allowing me to take their picture, I would give them a hearty lunch (sandwich, fruits, drink etc) and my full attention during the interview.
"Someday," I thought, "this could become a fascinating best-selling book." Well, HONY [Humans of New York] has pretty much taken care of that niche in the market. I follow the site and own the books, and in between loving the content and the impact this project has had, I wonder how I could have done it first.
In college I also took a creative writing course, and one of my favorite (award-winning) stories was the story of The Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In my short story, the wolf was a rapper on MTV, with asthma; no apologies from me vis a vis the back story, it was the 80's.
This past Friday, at the library with Raphaela to get our weekend reading, we took out a children's book called The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In it, the wolf explains how he was framed because all he had was a powerful sneeze, and that he was visiting his neighbors the pigs to borrow a cup of sugar, to bake a cake for his grandmother; a reference presumably to the wolf who eats Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother in another gruesome fairy tale. The premise of the book, which is less for children than for their cynical and hip parents, is that the media had to hype the story and make him look like the Big Bad, because the birthday cake angle doesn't sell papers.
We have a similar children's book, a gift from a cousin, called Click Clack Moo, Cows that Type, which I feel is written as much for the parents as well as the kids. The book describes, using animals as a substitute for humans (how very George Orwell), how effective blackmail works if used intelligently. My mother hates this story and will not read it to my daughter, because she feels it teaches children how to be manipulative and be rewarded for it.
I can see her point, children these days are more savvy, and their books are written accordingly. On the other hand, it is a funny book and the illustrations work well, and while my daughter may be bright, I don't know how much she reads into the subtext beyond the slapstick.
On Sesame Street, Cookie Monster is enrolled in a 12-step program for his impulse control issues, Elmo may as well be taking Ritalin, and Telly is probably on anti-depressants. Snuffy was revealed to the rest of the street over fear that children may not tell their parents that they are being abused, because no one would believe them. Katy Perry appeared on the children's educational program half-naked, and I don't remember there being any outcry from parents. We're not in Kansas anymore...
Raphaela and I recently finished reading The Little Prince together, and as I was bawling and feeling my entire understanding of the Universe deepen, she did not venture beyond the basic story IE plane gets fixed, Little Prince goes home to his flower, man is sad.
As a person who was quite naïve until I left for college, I wonder if we are raising this 21rst Century of children better, or if we are denying them some aspect of that idyllic youth, by exposing them to reality too early.
"Someday," I thought, "this could become a fascinating best-selling book." Well, HONY [Humans of New York] has pretty much taken care of that niche in the market. I follow the site and own the books, and in between loving the content and the impact this project has had, I wonder how I could have done it first.
In college I also took a creative writing course, and one of my favorite (award-winning) stories was the story of The Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In my short story, the wolf was a rapper on MTV, with asthma; no apologies from me vis a vis the back story, it was the 80's.
This past Friday, at the library with Raphaela to get our weekend reading, we took out a children's book called The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In it, the wolf explains how he was framed because all he had was a powerful sneeze, and that he was visiting his neighbors the pigs to borrow a cup of sugar, to bake a cake for his grandmother; a reference presumably to the wolf who eats Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother in another gruesome fairy tale. The premise of the book, which is less for children than for their cynical and hip parents, is that the media had to hype the story and make him look like the Big Bad, because the birthday cake angle doesn't sell papers.
We have a similar children's book, a gift from a cousin, called Click Clack Moo, Cows that Type, which I feel is written as much for the parents as well as the kids. The book describes, using animals as a substitute for humans (how very George Orwell), how effective blackmail works if used intelligently. My mother hates this story and will not read it to my daughter, because she feels it teaches children how to be manipulative and be rewarded for it.
I can see her point, children these days are more savvy, and their books are written accordingly. On the other hand, it is a funny book and the illustrations work well, and while my daughter may be bright, I don't know how much she reads into the subtext beyond the slapstick.
On Sesame Street, Cookie Monster is enrolled in a 12-step program for his impulse control issues, Elmo may as well be taking Ritalin, and Telly is probably on anti-depressants. Snuffy was revealed to the rest of the street over fear that children may not tell their parents that they are being abused, because no one would believe them. Katy Perry appeared on the children's educational program half-naked, and I don't remember there being any outcry from parents. We're not in Kansas anymore...
Raphaela and I recently finished reading The Little Prince together, and as I was bawling and feeling my entire understanding of the Universe deepen, she did not venture beyond the basic story IE plane gets fixed, Little Prince goes home to his flower, man is sad.
As a person who was quite naïve until I left for college, I wonder if we are raising this 21rst Century of children better, or if we are denying them some aspect of that idyllic youth, by exposing them to reality too early.
Friday, September 25, 2015
Silly Rabbit, Trix are for Kids
When I was in the supermarket this week, I was hungry. Never go food shopping when you are hungry.
As a result, I brought home a sugar cereal instead of the healthier option of corn flakes. Just looking at the box brought back all sorts of lovely childhood memories, as well as memories of Sunday morning breakfasts in college, one of the best periods in my life.
When I offered it to Raphaela this morning, her eyes went wide, her smile went even wider, and she said, "I must have been very good to deserve this!"
As a result, I brought home a sugar cereal instead of the healthier option of corn flakes. Just looking at the box brought back all sorts of lovely childhood memories, as well as memories of Sunday morning breakfasts in college, one of the best periods in my life.
When I offered it to Raphaela this morning, her eyes went wide, her smile went even wider, and she said, "I must have been very good to deserve this!"
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Oh, How I Wish...
"Oh, how I wish you would give me a little brother or sister!"
That has been a common refrain the last two weeks, though I keep explaining that one does not simply order a baby from the store or wish it into existence.
We were walking home from Gan one day with Raphaela's friend and her very pregnant mother, and Raphaela asked her, "Are you pregnant or are you just getting fat?"
Yesterday Raphaela and I walked to the new Gazelle Nature Reserve near our house and spent a lovely Shabbat morning there, so comfortable we were in the puffy beanbag sofas that we could have stayed there all day. Every time a woman walked by, Raphaela would jump up and ask them, "Do you have a baby inside your stomach?" Israel being Israel, it so happened that every woman she asked answered yes.
But I was most pleased when my daughter told one of these women, "You know, once you have a baby, you can do and be anything that you want, even when you are a Mommy. Like, my Mommy is a doctor and a Mom, and she can even be a doctor when she will be a Grandma."
Score one for the home team, someone is listening to my feminist ramblings.
That has been a common refrain the last two weeks, though I keep explaining that one does not simply order a baby from the store or wish it into existence.
We were walking home from Gan one day with Raphaela's friend and her very pregnant mother, and Raphaela asked her, "Are you pregnant or are you just getting fat?"
Yesterday Raphaela and I walked to the new Gazelle Nature Reserve near our house and spent a lovely Shabbat morning there, so comfortable we were in the puffy beanbag sofas that we could have stayed there all day. Every time a woman walked by, Raphaela would jump up and ask them, "Do you have a baby inside your stomach?" Israel being Israel, it so happened that every woman she asked answered yes.
But I was most pleased when my daughter told one of these women, "You know, once you have a baby, you can do and be anything that you want, even when you are a Mommy. Like, my Mommy is a doctor and a Mom, and she can even be a doctor when she will be a Grandma."
Score one for the home team, someone is listening to my feminist ramblings.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Girl Power
Raphaela's stance on feminism is apparently based upon an event-by-event analysis, rather than a unified philosophy. After previously asserting that Jewish ritual is man's work, an example reinforced in her classroom, she had a problem with the celebration of Simchat Torah in our local synagogue.
Before the last day of the holiday of Succot, I had spoken to friends of ours who attend our synagogue and have a boy in Raphaela's class. I asked that my daughter be allowed to join their family in the men's section during the dancing, because at the end of the day, the men seem to have most of the fun. When I encouraged Raphaela to find her friend, she refused, stating that if I couldn't go into the men's section, than neither would she. Despite my explaining that I was fine with the arrangement, an indignant Raphaela would not budge.
Not wanting to deprive my daughter of the Simchat Torah experience, I and another Israeli woman convinced the men to give one of the scrolls - full size and quite heavy - to the women's section upstairs. It was with pride that I was the first to stand in the middle of the circle, my daughter beside me, dancing with a Torah scroll. It brought me back to my most fond memories of this particular holiday, spent in the beautiful Jewish community on the Columbia/Barnard campus.
The tsk-tsk and sideways looks of the much older Orthodox women did not stop me or our small group of dancers today. One woman came up to me and said, "You know, there is a reform synagogue in Jerusalem." Another woman came over, or rather snuck over afterwards, kissed the Torah scroll I was holding and quietly thanked me for my initiative.
Once Raphaela was in the groove, she eagerly went downstairs into the men's section during the special blessing of the children, squished between almost 100 local kids of the synagogue, with the promise afterwards of a Simchat Torah goodie bag, loaded with toys and diabetes inducing treats.
If a child is meant to feel a sense of joy and community within the synagogue, this was a great place to start, with candy. Lots of candy.
Before the last day of the holiday of Succot, I had spoken to friends of ours who attend our synagogue and have a boy in Raphaela's class. I asked that my daughter be allowed to join their family in the men's section during the dancing, because at the end of the day, the men seem to have most of the fun. When I encouraged Raphaela to find her friend, she refused, stating that if I couldn't go into the men's section, than neither would she. Despite my explaining that I was fine with the arrangement, an indignant Raphaela would not budge.
Not wanting to deprive my daughter of the Simchat Torah experience, I and another Israeli woman convinced the men to give one of the scrolls - full size and quite heavy - to the women's section upstairs. It was with pride that I was the first to stand in the middle of the circle, my daughter beside me, dancing with a Torah scroll. It brought me back to my most fond memories of this particular holiday, spent in the beautiful Jewish community on the Columbia/Barnard campus.
The tsk-tsk and sideways looks of the much older Orthodox women did not stop me or our small group of dancers today. One woman came up to me and said, "You know, there is a reform synagogue in Jerusalem." Another woman came over, or rather snuck over afterwards, kissed the Torah scroll I was holding and quietly thanked me for my initiative.
Once Raphaela was in the groove, she eagerly went downstairs into the men's section during the special blessing of the children, squished between almost 100 local kids of the synagogue, with the promise afterwards of a Simchat Torah goodie bag, loaded with toys and diabetes inducing treats.
If a child is meant to feel a sense of joy and community within the synagogue, this was a great place to start, with candy. Lots of candy.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Cease Fire
Yesterday I had a belated birthday lunch with one of my oldest friends from college, a woman who now lives in Efrat, Israel. (Yes, over the Green Line, 20 minutes away from my house, by car.) We were discussing the collective stress of the last month of war on this country, and the particular agony to parents; especially those whose sons or daughters were called up to serve in the South and in Aza.
My friend, originally American, has a 19-year old daughter currently serving in the National Service Program of the army, and she put much of this violence into a new perspective, at least for me. She said, "Every one of those young men who go into Aza and get killed, or wounded physically and emotionally, that is one less potential boyfriend or husband for my daughter."
Because 64 Israeli soldiers died in the last month and they will never come home to their families. And countless numbers rest in hospitals across the country, even if they recover physically they have been irreparably scarred by the war and the bloodshed.
It is quiet, today, for now, though I in no way trust Hamas, Hezbollah, and the other random terrorist groups and anti-Semitic nations who actively plan for the day that Israel will be wiped off the map, and for all Jews to be wiped off the planet.
Raphaela has told me that she plans on serving in the army when she turns 18, and will be proud to do so. I told her that we have another 13 years to think about this, and privately I pray that there will be no need for my daughter and her generation to continue to fight for our daily safety and existence, in a world that seems to have gone mad.
Today former President Jimmy Carter appealed to the United States and the international community to recognize Hamas as a valid political partner. Like I said, a world gone mad.
My friend, originally American, has a 19-year old daughter currently serving in the National Service Program of the army, and she put much of this violence into a new perspective, at least for me. She said, "Every one of those young men who go into Aza and get killed, or wounded physically and emotionally, that is one less potential boyfriend or husband for my daughter."
Because 64 Israeli soldiers died in the last month and they will never come home to their families. And countless numbers rest in hospitals across the country, even if they recover physically they have been irreparably scarred by the war and the bloodshed.
It is quiet, today, for now, though I in no way trust Hamas, Hezbollah, and the other random terrorist groups and anti-Semitic nations who actively plan for the day that Israel will be wiped off the map, and for all Jews to be wiped off the planet.
Raphaela has told me that she plans on serving in the army when she turns 18, and will be proud to do so. I told her that we have another 13 years to think about this, and privately I pray that there will be no need for my daughter and her generation to continue to fight for our daily safety and existence, in a world that seems to have gone mad.
Today former President Jimmy Carter appealed to the United States and the international community to recognize Hamas as a valid political partner. Like I said, a world gone mad.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Willy Wonka Fantasy
With friends and family visiting from the United States this week, Raphaela and I have truly enjoyed reconnecting with my former life in America, and eating out in restaurants that we would normally not frequent. I admit that I like the food I cook at home, and honestly, I could pass on the dining experience with an active curious can't-sit-still-for-more-than-five-minutes four and a half year old.
Last night I met up with my best friend from college and her husband at the Waffle Factory on Emek Rephaim, the cool street in Jerusalem. Raphaela ordered a waffle bathed in chocolate cream, with a scoop of chocolate ice cream on the side, and decorated with bits of white and milk chocolate.
Yes, she is her mother's daughter, but even I could not imagine finishing that whole plate.
Last night I met up with my best friend from college and her husband at the Waffle Factory on Emek Rephaim, the cool street in Jerusalem. Raphaela ordered a waffle bathed in chocolate cream, with a scoop of chocolate ice cream on the side, and decorated with bits of white and milk chocolate.
Yes, she is her mother's daughter, but even I could not imagine finishing that whole plate.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Connecting to my Past
Yesterday at work, during an initial visit for a client, we both got very excited when we realized that we had started life on a similar route; same high school and same college. Then I asked her for her birthday (for my records) and guess when she was born? In 1991, the same year that I actually graduated from college. I felt mighty ancient and was hit with the scary realization that I am, in fact, a grown-up. When the hell did that happen?!
Until Raphaela was born, if you had asked me what part of my life I would gladly repeat, I would have answered my college years, without hesitation. 18 years old, living on my own in a dormitory in the middle of Manhattan rather than under the supervision of my parents in boring Boston, choosing my class schedule and making new friends. Essentially, figuring out for the first time who I wanted to be, and loving myself inside and out for the first time in my life.
Now that I am a mother to a beautiful, intelligent and stubborn four year old, I would answer that question differently; I would not miss a moment of the time I have with my daughter, though the joy and the happiness represent a completely different animal than my loveliest memories from my Barnard College years.
Spurred on by these thoughts, I posted a shout-out to my Columbia/Barnard Facebook friends, and was rewarded beyond expectation: one of my contacts answered by posting a photo from our Freshperson* year, all of us bright eyed and oh so young, eating in Kosher Kitchen.
(Photo credit: Cindy Kosowsky Mann, Columbia Class of 1991)
I kept returning to that photo all day in between patients, it was phenomenally distracting and brought so many smiles to my face, I could hardly contain myself.
Later that day at a play date, speaking to the mother of Raphaela's friend while the girls played; Turns out we went to Eagle Day Camp together, THE Jewish Summer Day Camp for anyone who was anyone living in the Tri-State Megalopolis. We sang the song of the head of the pool, Chief Takazees, and yes, he did walk around camp with a full complement of Native American feathers in his head; I can still see myself in that blue and white Eagle Day Camp shirt and blue shorts, and I remember enjoying it from start to finish.
This morning I received a special delivery from my Great Aunt, the youngest and only sister of my Bubby Z"L: my aunt Ida sent me a copy of her short stories, a memoir she had written several years ago which includes accounts of my grandmother's difficult childhood spent in British Palestine and later in an orphanage. At 86 years old, this woman so closely resembles my grandmother, she corresponds with me regularly via email, and seems to be living a fulfilling and active life, pthoo pthoo. I nearly cried reading about my grandmother and her three siblings, finding it almost impossible to imagine her as a despondent serious child, because that is not the grandmother I knew and loved as a second mother.
Once an acupuncturist friend of mine told me that I could not fly until I had solid roots in the ground of Gaea, and now I understand her more than ever. After spending two days rediscovering the child in me and learning about my family, I find myself bouncing around the house, smiling with wild abandon, and dreaming of a beautiful future.
===================================================================
* "FreshMAN" is apparently misogynist, and so we called ourselves (in cynicism and mockery of Fascist Feminism) Freshpeople. Someone on our floor crossed out the word "Women" from the bathroom door, and rewrote it as "Womyn," because G-d Forbid we want to imply that Woman is derived from Man, and therefore secondary in the evolutionary chain. Seriously. True Story.
Until Raphaela was born, if you had asked me what part of my life I would gladly repeat, I would have answered my college years, without hesitation. 18 years old, living on my own in a dormitory in the middle of Manhattan rather than under the supervision of my parents in boring Boston, choosing my class schedule and making new friends. Essentially, figuring out for the first time who I wanted to be, and loving myself inside and out for the first time in my life.
Now that I am a mother to a beautiful, intelligent and stubborn four year old, I would answer that question differently; I would not miss a moment of the time I have with my daughter, though the joy and the happiness represent a completely different animal than my loveliest memories from my Barnard College years.
Spurred on by these thoughts, I posted a shout-out to my Columbia/Barnard Facebook friends, and was rewarded beyond expectation: one of my contacts answered by posting a photo from our Freshperson* year, all of us bright eyed and oh so young, eating in Kosher Kitchen.
I kept returning to that photo all day in between patients, it was phenomenally distracting and brought so many smiles to my face, I could hardly contain myself.
Later that day at a play date, speaking to the mother of Raphaela's friend while the girls played; Turns out we went to Eagle Day Camp together, THE Jewish Summer Day Camp for anyone who was anyone living in the Tri-State Megalopolis. We sang the song of the head of the pool, Chief Takazees, and yes, he did walk around camp with a full complement of Native American feathers in his head; I can still see myself in that blue and white Eagle Day Camp shirt and blue shorts, and I remember enjoying it from start to finish.
This morning I received a special delivery from my Great Aunt, the youngest and only sister of my Bubby Z"L: my aunt Ida sent me a copy of her short stories, a memoir she had written several years ago which includes accounts of my grandmother's difficult childhood spent in British Palestine and later in an orphanage. At 86 years old, this woman so closely resembles my grandmother, she corresponds with me regularly via email, and seems to be living a fulfilling and active life, pthoo pthoo. I nearly cried reading about my grandmother and her three siblings, finding it almost impossible to imagine her as a despondent serious child, because that is not the grandmother I knew and loved as a second mother.
Once an acupuncturist friend of mine told me that I could not fly until I had solid roots in the ground of Gaea, and now I understand her more than ever. After spending two days rediscovering the child in me and learning about my family, I find myself bouncing around the house, smiling with wild abandon, and dreaming of a beautiful future.
===================================================================
* "FreshMAN" is apparently misogynist, and so we called ourselves (in cynicism and mockery of Fascist Feminism) Freshpeople. Someone on our floor crossed out the word "Women" from the bathroom door, and rewrote it as "Womyn," because G-d Forbid we want to imply that Woman is derived from Man, and therefore secondary in the evolutionary chain. Seriously. True Story.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
52Frames
As a high school student, if you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have answered without hesitation: a photojournalist. I saw myself traveling the world, taking fantastic photos that would appear on the cover of magazines like National Geographic and newspapers like the Boston Globe and the New York Times. I was going to make a difference in the world by exposing the truth of our existence through the lens of my Minolta camera.
In college I took photography courses to counter-balance the difficulty and the intensity of the pre-med studies, in art I found my joy. I enjoyed the challenge of each week's assignment, and welcomed the critique that helped me grow as an artist. Once a week, usually on a Monday, I would take two rolls of black and white film and walk through Central Park and other parts of The City, and was not allowed to go home until I had 72 photos; if two or three were decent out of the lot, I had had a good afternoon.
Since moving to Israel, the extent to which I have indulged my creative side and the dedication to photography has waned, put on the back burner for starting my career and getting pregnant, raising that child and sleeping every once in a while.
Recently, a friend told me about an online international project called 52Frames, a collaborative effort with both professional and amateur photographers; each week a new mission is posted on the site, to be fulfilled and exhibited and critiqued by the group.
I should have jumped for joy when I heard about this, immediately turned on my computer and applied to be a part of this beautiful initiative. Surprisingly, the only thing I felt was ambivalence, and a pervasive hesitation about even thinking about joining. I felt sad, and it confused me actually.
Am I afraid of the competition, that I am not good enough to show my work? Have I been so focused for so long on other endeavors that I have lost that spark of the Inner Artist and that competitive edge? Is this a fear of commitment masking itself as, "I don't have the time..."
Whatever it is, it concerns me and I must figure it out before it has greater repercussions in my life.
In college I took photography courses to counter-balance the difficulty and the intensity of the pre-med studies, in art I found my joy. I enjoyed the challenge of each week's assignment, and welcomed the critique that helped me grow as an artist. Once a week, usually on a Monday, I would take two rolls of black and white film and walk through Central Park and other parts of The City, and was not allowed to go home until I had 72 photos; if two or three were decent out of the lot, I had had a good afternoon.
Since moving to Israel, the extent to which I have indulged my creative side and the dedication to photography has waned, put on the back burner for starting my career and getting pregnant, raising that child and sleeping every once in a while.
Recently, a friend told me about an online international project called 52Frames, a collaborative effort with both professional and amateur photographers; each week a new mission is posted on the site, to be fulfilled and exhibited and critiqued by the group.
I should have jumped for joy when I heard about this, immediately turned on my computer and applied to be a part of this beautiful initiative. Surprisingly, the only thing I felt was ambivalence, and a pervasive hesitation about even thinking about joining. I felt sad, and it confused me actually.
Am I afraid of the competition, that I am not good enough to show my work? Have I been so focused for so long on other endeavors that I have lost that spark of the Inner Artist and that competitive edge? Is this a fear of commitment masking itself as, "I don't have the time..."
Whatever it is, it concerns me and I must figure it out before it has greater repercussions in my life.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
The Conclusion to the Car Story
The painter, whose lack of expertise caused the initial damage to the car, did not allow me to take the car to my garage for repairs, since he was footing the bill. Instead, he recommended his people IE he wanted a place in Jerusalem that was owned by and only employed religious Jews, rather than our Arab cousins.
Last week I dropped off the car, and two days later they called me to report that they had worked "very hard" and that it was clean and ready to come home. When I went to pick it up, I inspected their work, and it quickly became obvious that not only had they not done any work at all, but also that areas of the paint that had been previously undamaged were now worse than before.
When I confronted them, I got the run around, "Well, you would have to talk to the owner of the garage, who is my father, but he is not here now and I have no idea when he would be available to speak to you." "We are very busy now anyway and it would have to wait a few weeks, no harm, no foul." And it went on like that, so I called the painter and made my position clear: I would be taking the car to my people whom I trust and have used for the last 13 years, and that he would be paying for it.
The painter agreed, and this morning we all met at my garage, where we came to a settlement regarding the damage done and the cost of the repair. This afternoon I received a call from my guys, saying that they didn't know what products the other garage had used, and beyond the obvious damage of the paint splatter, the acidic material had eaten through the paint job on the entire car, and that if I truly wanted to get the job done well, I would have pay another 5000 NIS for a complete reconstruction.
I considered the hassle and the cost, and asked the most real question, "Is the car terribly ugly?" They replied that unless you really looked at the paint in bright sunlight, it could pass without serious notice.
As a single mother with far more important life concerns than the aesthetics of my car, I passed on their offer, instructing them to do what they could with the monies already paid. I have neither the inclination nor the strength to consider a law suit.
As my mother would say, "It's a kaparah!"*
I still intend to call the painter and his "trusty garage," and let them know that just because someone is wearing a skullcap and has a larger than life picture of the Lubavitcher Rebbe hanging in their space, does not mean that they do better work than the Arabs, who actually have shown me more professionalism in this field in the last 16 years that I have lived in Israel.
That's enormous coming from me, a woman who was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper during the Second Intifada, as an artist who appreciates beauty, and a Jew who has great respect for the person who was the Lubavitcher Rebbe; I met him in person in New York while studying at Barnard College, and regardless of the misdirection his movement has taken, he was truly a man connected to himself and to the Higher Power.
My Inner Voice and that Higher Power are telling me to move on.
====================================================================
* kaparah = a Hebrew term for a situation where you are suffering a little in order to avoid a Divine decree to suffer a hell of a lot more than you could ever imagine; Some superstitious version of the Jewish guilt/martyrdom complex.
Last week I dropped off the car, and two days later they called me to report that they had worked "very hard" and that it was clean and ready to come home. When I went to pick it up, I inspected their work, and it quickly became obvious that not only had they not done any work at all, but also that areas of the paint that had been previously undamaged were now worse than before.
When I confronted them, I got the run around, "Well, you would have to talk to the owner of the garage, who is my father, but he is not here now and I have no idea when he would be available to speak to you." "We are very busy now anyway and it would have to wait a few weeks, no harm, no foul." And it went on like that, so I called the painter and made my position clear: I would be taking the car to my people whom I trust and have used for the last 13 years, and that he would be paying for it.
The painter agreed, and this morning we all met at my garage, where we came to a settlement regarding the damage done and the cost of the repair. This afternoon I received a call from my guys, saying that they didn't know what products the other garage had used, and beyond the obvious damage of the paint splatter, the acidic material had eaten through the paint job on the entire car, and that if I truly wanted to get the job done well, I would have pay another 5000 NIS for a complete reconstruction.
I considered the hassle and the cost, and asked the most real question, "Is the car terribly ugly?" They replied that unless you really looked at the paint in bright sunlight, it could pass without serious notice.
As a single mother with far more important life concerns than the aesthetics of my car, I passed on their offer, instructing them to do what they could with the monies already paid. I have neither the inclination nor the strength to consider a law suit.
As my mother would say, "It's a kaparah!"*
I still intend to call the painter and his "trusty garage," and let them know that just because someone is wearing a skullcap and has a larger than life picture of the Lubavitcher Rebbe hanging in their space, does not mean that they do better work than the Arabs, who actually have shown me more professionalism in this field in the last 16 years that I have lived in Israel.
That's enormous coming from me, a woman who was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper during the Second Intifada, as an artist who appreciates beauty, and a Jew who has great respect for the person who was the Lubavitcher Rebbe; I met him in person in New York while studying at Barnard College, and regardless of the misdirection his movement has taken, he was truly a man connected to himself and to the Higher Power.
My Inner Voice and that Higher Power are telling me to move on.
====================================================================
* kaparah = a Hebrew term for a situation where you are suffering a little in order to avoid a Divine decree to suffer a hell of a lot more than you could ever imagine; Some superstitious version of the Jewish guilt/martyrdom complex.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Journey to the Gan Birthday 2013
Beginning of October
Knowing that my parents are coming in from Boston for a visit to Israel within two weeks, and hearing every day from Raphaela about her Gan birthday party, I asked her teacher to finalize a date for the party, asking that it coincide with my parent's visit.
One Week Later
I (and three other parents) receive an email describing what we must bring for the celebration, and that we should "work it out amongst yourselves" as to who brings what. Acknowledging that Raphaela's teacher must have a reason for having four children share the day, I inquire as to whether two or three might be a more optimal number than four, which I believe robs each individual birthday prince and princess of their time to enjoy the attention and bask in the spotlight.
I am told, "Don't worry, it will all work out." The teacher then reminded the group that we must make a special cake for one of the girls in the class, "M" who is "deathly allergic to everything."
The email starts a flurry of correspondences and phone calls back and forth, in which one parent (not me, and I thought I was a control freak) decides that she is going to take care of "mostly everything."
Six Days Before Party (BP)
Having received a recipe for a cake "M", it occurs to us that there are two children in the class who have gluten sensitivity, and that they cannot eat anything with flour. Now we are making both a hypo-allergenic and gluten-free dessert. (Yum?)
Four Days BP
Apparently one of the mothers really wants to be the boss of everyone, make all the decisions and take on most of the work by herself. I have been given the job of making individual salads for the individual picnic baskets, almost 40 in total. That's a lot of chopping vegetables.
I suddenly realize that on Wednesday night I have a Chiropractic Board Meeting in Tel Aviv. Somewhere between Wednesday and Thursday I must do a major shop, including our regular weekly list, stocking up food for my parents' arrival, and the birthday party. My parents arrive some time Thursday, and on Friday morning we celebrate in Gan. Then, sometime before Shabbat, I must cook for Shabbat as well. With no wiggle room for breathing or sleeping those three days, I am getting dizzy just thinking about it.
Two Days BP
After two separate trips to the supermarket, I have still forgotten certain items for the party on Friday, d'oh! And in honor of the occasion of me being stuck in Tel Aviv for a late night meeting, Raphaela will have her first ever, in her whole life sleepover at a friend's house this evening. (I am not counting as a sleepover the several days that Raphaela stayed with friends when I was in the hospital recuperating from my emergency appendectomy.)
Somehow, between my very specific instructions to the teacher in the morning - "Here is a special bag for today, please make sure that Raphaela takes it with her when she gets picked up and taken home with her friend." - and my specific instructions to the baby sitter -"I have left a large blue Barnard College tote bag with a B at Gan. Please make sure you pick it up, it contains her pajamas, her toothbrush and hair brush, and a favorite toy."- you guessed it. The bag is no where, lost somewhere in Jerusalem between my house, the Gan and the baby sitter. I will have to search for it tomorrow, because I have so much time while I am getting ready for my parents arrival.
One Day BP
The overnight bag? Exactly where I left it in the Gan the morning before.
Spent the afternoon creating individual salads for the birthday party tomorrow, and only started getting bored toward the end. So I pumped up the volume on my motivational music CD, with classics like "Eye of the Tiger" and "We Are the Champions", and finished the job. Then I started the chicken soup for Shabbat, and felt very house frau, tired, but happy.
Knowing that my parents are coming in from Boston for a visit to Israel within two weeks, and hearing every day from Raphaela about her Gan birthday party, I asked her teacher to finalize a date for the party, asking that it coincide with my parent's visit.
One Week Later
I (and three other parents) receive an email describing what we must bring for the celebration, and that we should "work it out amongst yourselves" as to who brings what. Acknowledging that Raphaela's teacher must have a reason for having four children share the day, I inquire as to whether two or three might be a more optimal number than four, which I believe robs each individual birthday prince and princess of their time to enjoy the attention and bask in the spotlight.
I am told, "Don't worry, it will all work out." The teacher then reminded the group that we must make a special cake for one of the girls in the class, "M" who is "deathly allergic to everything."
The email starts a flurry of correspondences and phone calls back and forth, in which one parent (not me, and I thought I was a control freak) decides that she is going to take care of "mostly everything."
Six Days Before Party (BP)
Having received a recipe for a cake "M", it occurs to us that there are two children in the class who have gluten sensitivity, and that they cannot eat anything with flour. Now we are making both a hypo-allergenic and gluten-free dessert. (Yum?)
Four Days BP
Apparently one of the mothers really wants to be the boss of everyone, make all the decisions and take on most of the work by herself. I have been given the job of making individual salads for the individual picnic baskets, almost 40 in total. That's a lot of chopping vegetables.
I suddenly realize that on Wednesday night I have a Chiropractic Board Meeting in Tel Aviv. Somewhere between Wednesday and Thursday I must do a major shop, including our regular weekly list, stocking up food for my parents' arrival, and the birthday party. My parents arrive some time Thursday, and on Friday morning we celebrate in Gan. Then, sometime before Shabbat, I must cook for Shabbat as well. With no wiggle room for breathing or sleeping those three days, I am getting dizzy just thinking about it.
Two Days BP
After two separate trips to the supermarket, I have still forgotten certain items for the party on Friday, d'oh! And in honor of the occasion of me being stuck in Tel Aviv for a late night meeting, Raphaela will have her first ever, in her whole life sleepover at a friend's house this evening. (I am not counting as a sleepover the several days that Raphaela stayed with friends when I was in the hospital recuperating from my emergency appendectomy.)
Somehow, between my very specific instructions to the teacher in the morning - "Here is a special bag for today, please make sure that Raphaela takes it with her when she gets picked up and taken home with her friend." - and my specific instructions to the baby sitter -"I have left a large blue Barnard College tote bag with a B at Gan. Please make sure you pick it up, it contains her pajamas, her toothbrush and hair brush, and a favorite toy."- you guessed it. The bag is no where, lost somewhere in Jerusalem between my house, the Gan and the baby sitter. I will have to search for it tomorrow, because I have so much time while I am getting ready for my parents arrival.
One Day BP
The overnight bag? Exactly where I left it in the Gan the morning before.
Spent the afternoon creating individual salads for the birthday party tomorrow, and only started getting bored toward the end. So I pumped up the volume on my motivational music CD, with classics like "Eye of the Tiger" and "We Are the Champions", and finished the job. Then I started the chicken soup for Shabbat, and felt very house frau, tired, but happy.
Monday, July 22, 2013
New Royal Baby
370,000 infants were born yesterday, July 22, 2013, on the same day as the new royal baby boy, third in line for the throne as the son of Kate and William. Bravo to Kate for choosing a natural birth; and kudos to her husband for being in the room with her the entire time, just like "normal" people with lesser bloodlines, and for taking his two weeks of paternity leave.
I almost hoped for a girl, if only to force the UK to officially acknowledge that a girl/future woman would become Queen, and not simply because her parents didn't give birth to any younger brothers. Plus, little girls are much more fun to dress; the Brits do love their fancy hats!
Boo to the overwhelming press presence, stalking the royal family and standing in front of the hospital for several weeks in anticipation of hearing some small tidbit of news about the birth of the future heir. At the end of the day, Kate is a human being, a woman who had a baby, let her accomplish this surrounded by peace and quiet and privacy.
Several recent studies have proven that fetuses start learning the most important lessons in the womb, from the sound of the mother's voice to the food they will eat, early language acquisition , and regarding the stress levels and emotional atmosphere of the 'other side.' What did this child learn, with his parents and his mother's pregnancy constantly under scrutiny?
I certainly did not have a group of reporters following my pregnancy and the birth of Raphaela. But I went through 12 hours of a natural birth and it was not "royal" or pretty or press worthy; though it was a bona fide miracle, as I am sure every new mother feels when they hold their child for the first time.
According to the reports, an inordinate amount of swearing came out of my mouth during those 12 hours.
When I look at pictures of myself right after the birth, I look happy but tired, I am wearing my glasses and my hair is a mess and I have monitors and IV threads attached all over the place. Not quite the photo opportunity I might have wished, and I would imagine that Kate, after approximately 14 hours of labour, felt the same way. (That being said, my cousin who is now pregnant with her third, manages to look like a super-model right after her births, and the new baby right-out-of-the-womb pictures they send out to the family are enviable.)
Welcome to the world to a little boy who will never experience privacy, who will be born into a home of tradition and wealth, status and culture and responsibility. Mostly the responsibility to prove that a figure-head monarchy can be justified in the 21rst century.
The other 369,999 children born yesterday will not have the resources and the opportunity of this little Prince.
I almost hoped for a girl, if only to force the UK to officially acknowledge that a girl/future woman would become Queen, and not simply because her parents didn't give birth to any younger brothers. Plus, little girls are much more fun to dress; the Brits do love their fancy hats!
Boo to the overwhelming press presence, stalking the royal family and standing in front of the hospital for several weeks in anticipation of hearing some small tidbit of news about the birth of the future heir. At the end of the day, Kate is a human being, a woman who had a baby, let her accomplish this surrounded by peace and quiet and privacy.
Several recent studies have proven that fetuses start learning the most important lessons in the womb, from the sound of the mother's voice to the food they will eat, early language acquisition , and regarding the stress levels and emotional atmosphere of the 'other side.' What did this child learn, with his parents and his mother's pregnancy constantly under scrutiny?
I certainly did not have a group of reporters following my pregnancy and the birth of Raphaela. But I went through 12 hours of a natural birth and it was not "royal" or pretty or press worthy; though it was a bona fide miracle, as I am sure every new mother feels when they hold their child for the first time.
According to the reports, an inordinate amount of swearing came out of my mouth during those 12 hours.
When I look at pictures of myself right after the birth, I look happy but tired, I am wearing my glasses and my hair is a mess and I have monitors and IV threads attached all over the place. Not quite the photo opportunity I might have wished, and I would imagine that Kate, after approximately 14 hours of labour, felt the same way. (That being said, my cousin who is now pregnant with her third, manages to look like a super-model right after her births, and the new baby right-out-of-the-womb pictures they send out to the family are enviable.)
Welcome to the world to a little boy who will never experience privacy, who will be born into a home of tradition and wealth, status and culture and responsibility. Mostly the responsibility to prove that a figure-head monarchy can be justified in the 21rst century.
The other 369,999 children born yesterday will not have the resources and the opportunity of this little Prince.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
One Step Forward, Five Steps Back
My house cleaner happens to be an Israeli male, a person with a wife and children. He comes to my house once a week, because I don't know where I would find the time to do it myself, with my 24 hours already fully scheduled. It is a gift to myself, those two and a half hours that he makes my floors clean and shiny, and helps me feel a little human.
This man likes to practice his English with me, and brags that he can even slog through "real" English mystery novels. When he arrived last week, I told him about the lecture I had attended about Feminism and the Post-Feminism Era. He responded, "Feminism, that's old news! Didn't that pass us by already?"
I explained that this attitude typifies the problems for women today, that Feminism achieved exactly the opposite of its intentions: instead of freeing us to pursue our goals without the traditional stereotypes, we now do double the work in order to conform to the new attitudes, while maintaining the role of the 1950's housewife.
My cleaner then launched into a diatribe, clarifying first that he loves women and respects them, and thinks that we are not appreciated enough for who we are, who we can become and what we do for our families.
Great start, you would think, especially for an Israeli, where the macho generally overpowers the potential levels of equality that could be achieved in this country.
And then: "Feminism is a terrible thing, it changed women for the worse! It changed the way women talk and walk and dress, Feminism created women who are too strong and that makes them unattractive."
He continued, "Women should be soft and take care of their men and their family, and let the men take care of things, like it should be."
We have a long way to go, baby...
This man likes to practice his English with me, and brags that he can even slog through "real" English mystery novels. When he arrived last week, I told him about the lecture I had attended about Feminism and the Post-Feminism Era. He responded, "Feminism, that's old news! Didn't that pass us by already?"
I explained that this attitude typifies the problems for women today, that Feminism achieved exactly the opposite of its intentions: instead of freeing us to pursue our goals without the traditional stereotypes, we now do double the work in order to conform to the new attitudes, while maintaining the role of the 1950's housewife.
My cleaner then launched into a diatribe, clarifying first that he loves women and respects them, and thinks that we are not appreciated enough for who we are, who we can become and what we do for our families.
Great start, you would think, especially for an Israeli, where the macho generally overpowers the potential levels of equality that could be achieved in this country.
And then: "Feminism is a terrible thing, it changed women for the worse! It changed the way women talk and walk and dress, Feminism created women who are too strong and that makes them unattractive."
He continued, "Women should be soft and take care of their men and their family, and let the men take care of things, like it should be."
We have a long way to go, baby...
Monday, July 8, 2013
Magical Radar
Tonight I attended a meeting of the Israel Barnard Alumnae Club, which featured the highly accomplished President of Barnard College, Debora Spar, with a fantastic view of the Old City of Jerusalem. She addressed the core issue of the modern woman, the need to be all things to everyone; and the fact that the Feminist movement, rather than freeing women to pursue the life of their choosing, has further imprisoned them with heightened expectations of perfection, and the continued traditional responsibility for the family.
Spar reported that in the United States, mothers spend an average of 38 hours per week on housework, over and above "real jobs" either part time or full time. The participation of husbands/fathers in housework has increased from seven minutes to two hours per week, still a drop in the bucket, however appreciated.
I always enjoy being surrounded by the company of like-minded women, and college is easily the one time in my life that I would gladly repeat.
I left Raphaela with a new baby sitter, and managed to avoid the urge to call and check in on their activities throughout the evening. Of course, when I walked through the door (way past Raphaela's bedtime) she had magically woken up only minutes before, she somehow knew that I was on my way home.
Spar reported that in the United States, mothers spend an average of 38 hours per week on housework, over and above "real jobs" either part time or full time. The participation of husbands/fathers in housework has increased from seven minutes to two hours per week, still a drop in the bucket, however appreciated.
I always enjoy being surrounded by the company of like-minded women, and college is easily the one time in my life that I would gladly repeat.
I left Raphaela with a new baby sitter, and managed to avoid the urge to call and check in on their activities throughout the evening. Of course, when I walked through the door (way past Raphaela's bedtime) she had magically woken up only minutes before, she somehow knew that I was on my way home.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Your Wish is My Command
Now that the streak of Jewish holidays has ended until the Fall more or less, the teachers at Raphaela's Gan have introduced a unit on expressing feelings. First they dealt with fear and now have moved onto happiness. According to a TED lecture that I watched recently, our perception of happiness depends upon our memory of an event, rather than the actual experience at the time; and while money cannot buy happiness, lack of funds will most definitely decrease life satisfaction. The TED lesson concluded that the most important factor determining happiness is social interactions with loving and supportive people.
(I have become a TED.com addict, it expands my mind and challenges me intellectually for the first time since I attended Barnard College.)
They took a Nursery Gallup Poll, asking each of the children what made them happy, and Raphaela answered, "I love when my Mommy takes me to the zoo."
The zoo makes me happy as well! Inspired, after Gan we spontaneously drove to the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo, despite the fact that I had not done my usual preparations of snacks and a picnic dinner. We even got a kick ass parking spot right at the entrance.
When we returned home, a stimulated Raphaela had a hard time falling asleep; she sat in bed and talked to herself, occasionally shouting to ask if I could come and keep her company. I finally convinced Raphaela to close her eyes, and before I got into bed, crept into her room and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Practically snoring one minute, my magical kiss woke the princess out of her sleep. With a huge smile and sparkling eyes, her curls bouncing, she said, "Mommy, you took a long time coming to bed! I was waiting for you for such a long time so I took a small nap. But now I am all rested and we can talk and play!"
Groan...not what I wanted to hear, and yet so hard to resist her joyfulness. It took another hour for Raphaela to settle in for the evening.
As a side note, I was particularly amused by some of the responses of the other children in Raphaela's class, my favorite? The little girl who said it would make her happy if her parents took her to the doctor's office.
(I have become a TED.com addict, it expands my mind and challenges me intellectually for the first time since I attended Barnard College.)
They took a Nursery Gallup Poll, asking each of the children what made them happy, and Raphaela answered, "I love when my Mommy takes me to the zoo."
The zoo makes me happy as well! Inspired, after Gan we spontaneously drove to the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo, despite the fact that I had not done my usual preparations of snacks and a picnic dinner. We even got a kick ass parking spot right at the entrance.
When we returned home, a stimulated Raphaela had a hard time falling asleep; she sat in bed and talked to herself, occasionally shouting to ask if I could come and keep her company. I finally convinced Raphaela to close her eyes, and before I got into bed, crept into her room and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Practically snoring one minute, my magical kiss woke the princess out of her sleep. With a huge smile and sparkling eyes, her curls bouncing, she said, "Mommy, you took a long time coming to bed! I was waiting for you for such a long time so I took a small nap. But now I am all rested and we can talk and play!"
Groan...not what I wanted to hear, and yet so hard to resist her joyfulness. It took another hour for Raphaela to settle in for the evening.
As a side note, I was particularly amused by some of the responses of the other children in Raphaela's class, my favorite? The little girl who said it would make her happy if her parents took her to the doctor's office.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Raging Against the Machine
I rarely actively discuss politics in this blog, but for everything there is a season. MK Yair Lapid recently garnered a surprisingly huge amount of mandates by promising to ease the burden the poor and the so-called middle class within Israeli society; "Together we can make a difference," blah blah blah. Notoriously good looking and vapid, Lapid received the portfolio of the Ministry of Finance, despite the fact that he has never received his BA, has no background in economics and has never successfully run a company.
From my Barnard College background in political science, it was fairly easy to predict how this dilettante would solve the budget crisis: he would raise taxes, because he lacks the education and sophistication to come up with a more thought out solution. In today's paper, Lapid announced that he would raise the VAT (again) to 18%, institute across-the-board tax increases for all elements of the population, give parents less money for the children's subsidy, increase school fees and eliminate nursery school discounts instituted only this February 2013, and cancel all sorts of tax exemptions for tourists, the bread and butter of the Israeli economy. As well, housewives, those women who have the gall to stay home and take care of their babies, would be levied a special extra tax.
Let's think this through: if you raise VAT, stores and businesses must all raise their prices to compensate. So a family that can barely afford to pay their rent or put food on the table can now buy even less. Currently, over 1.5 million Israeli children live below the poverty line, let's see how much that increases after this boneheaded move, one which takes away the basic human right to dignity.
As an independent business woman in Jerusalem (one of the poorest cities in the country), I have resisted raising my prices over the last few years even with the increase in taxes; if this tax bill passes, I will have no choice but to do so and will in fact lose clients as a result. Because I run my own clinic, I also pay into my government-required pension and savings plans, leaving me with even less by the end of the month.
And as one of the articles I read today pointed out, a 1.5% increase in income tax means a lot more to the poor who make 3500 NIS per month than those in the 35,000 NIS tax bracket.
Over the weekend I saw a heartbreaking story about several Jerusalem families who cannot afford to pay for their children's afternoon nursery school program. During lunch time, these four children sit in the corner isolated from their classmates as most of them eat a warm meal, while this small group are literally given bread (with the oh so healthy chocolate spread) and water, and told that there are not even leftovers that can be passed their way. I watched this report and cried, as a four year old sitting next to her mother explained that they "don't get to eat." I have never been able to handle the suffering of children.
Here's a crazy idea, within Israel exists a known sophisticated "Grey Market," IE Arabs and the Ultra-Orthodox who claim they don't work and not only collect government benefits, but also do not pay taxes on their earnings, or municipal taxes. Tapping into that market alone would solve the budget crisis. Here's another crazy idea, how about putting someone in charge of the Finance Ministry who can actually pull us struggling Israelis out of the quicksand, and send Lapid overseas as Foreign Minister, where he can harmlessly continue his former job in show business.
This coming June, I will celebrate 16 years of my move to Israel. I pray to G-d that I can afford to stay here and raise my daughter as an Israeli.
From my Barnard College background in political science, it was fairly easy to predict how this dilettante would solve the budget crisis: he would raise taxes, because he lacks the education and sophistication to come up with a more thought out solution. In today's paper, Lapid announced that he would raise the VAT (again) to 18%, institute across-the-board tax increases for all elements of the population, give parents less money for the children's subsidy, increase school fees and eliminate nursery school discounts instituted only this February 2013, and cancel all sorts of tax exemptions for tourists, the bread and butter of the Israeli economy. As well, housewives, those women who have the gall to stay home and take care of their babies, would be levied a special extra tax.
Let's think this through: if you raise VAT, stores and businesses must all raise their prices to compensate. So a family that can barely afford to pay their rent or put food on the table can now buy even less. Currently, over 1.5 million Israeli children live below the poverty line, let's see how much that increases after this boneheaded move, one which takes away the basic human right to dignity.
As an independent business woman in Jerusalem (one of the poorest cities in the country), I have resisted raising my prices over the last few years even with the increase in taxes; if this tax bill passes, I will have no choice but to do so and will in fact lose clients as a result. Because I run my own clinic, I also pay into my government-required pension and savings plans, leaving me with even less by the end of the month.
And as one of the articles I read today pointed out, a 1.5% increase in income tax means a lot more to the poor who make 3500 NIS per month than those in the 35,000 NIS tax bracket.
Over the weekend I saw a heartbreaking story about several Jerusalem families who cannot afford to pay for their children's afternoon nursery school program. During lunch time, these four children sit in the corner isolated from their classmates as most of them eat a warm meal, while this small group are literally given bread (with the oh so healthy chocolate spread) and water, and told that there are not even leftovers that can be passed their way. I watched this report and cried, as a four year old sitting next to her mother explained that they "don't get to eat." I have never been able to handle the suffering of children.
Here's a crazy idea, within Israel exists a known sophisticated "Grey Market," IE Arabs and the Ultra-Orthodox who claim they don't work and not only collect government benefits, but also do not pay taxes on their earnings, or municipal taxes. Tapping into that market alone would solve the budget crisis. Here's another crazy idea, how about putting someone in charge of the Finance Ministry who can actually pull us struggling Israelis out of the quicksand, and send Lapid overseas as Foreign Minister, where he can harmlessly continue his former job in show business.
This coming June, I will celebrate 16 years of my move to Israel. I pray to G-d that I can afford to stay here and raise my daughter as an Israeli.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Trials at Wounding with Words
Having gone to a religious all-girls school until high school, I can attest to the fact that kids are mean, and girls are meaner. They were especially mean to a child who was viewed as different because her parents got divorced when you didn't have rates of marriage dissolution at 60% of the population. I was that person who was taller than the rest, more shy than the rest and more intelligent than most, and I had trouble developing a thick skin until later in life, at Barnard College, when I realized that I was actually one of the cool kids.
I just don't remember it starting so early...
When I have said "no" to Raphaela or she doesn't agree with a statement I have made, she will pucker up her lips, squint her eyes and say, "I am not your friend anymore." To which I reply calmly, "OK, I am still your Mommy and I will always love you."
This morning, running late and Raphaela refused to get dressed and I started to lose my temper, Raphaela said, "I want a new Mommy." And then she clarified, "I want Thea's Mommy [her current BFF] to be my Mommy instead." Again, I ignored the statement and said, "OK, time to get dressed and go to Gan."
When we arrived at Gan, several of the children were sitting at a table and sharing the various snacks their parents had sent with them in the morning. They chanted at another girl, "You don't get any snacks from us and you don't get any candies." For some reason there was no teacher in the room at that moment, and the girl who had been left out and taunted started welling up with tears; at that point out of pity perhaps, or compassion, one of the children at the table got up and gave her a corn flake.
Yes, kids are mean, and I hope that Raphaela learns to deal with it sooner than I did.
I just don't remember it starting so early...
When I have said "no" to Raphaela or she doesn't agree with a statement I have made, she will pucker up her lips, squint her eyes and say, "I am not your friend anymore." To which I reply calmly, "OK, I am still your Mommy and I will always love you."
This morning, running late and Raphaela refused to get dressed and I started to lose my temper, Raphaela said, "I want a new Mommy." And then she clarified, "I want Thea's Mommy [her current BFF] to be my Mommy instead." Again, I ignored the statement and said, "OK, time to get dressed and go to Gan."
When we arrived at Gan, several of the children were sitting at a table and sharing the various snacks their parents had sent with them in the morning. They chanted at another girl, "You don't get any snacks from us and you don't get any candies." For some reason there was no teacher in the room at that moment, and the girl who had been left out and taunted started welling up with tears; at that point out of pity perhaps, or compassion, one of the children at the table got up and gave her a corn flake.
Yes, kids are mean, and I hope that Raphaela learns to deal with it sooner than I did.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Toward Independence
On this, International Women's Day, I am proud to report that this morning Raphaela put on her own socks, her jacket (using the "Flip" method) and finished off her achievements by applying her own lip gloss.
A set of life skills and a feeling of accomplishment are the best gifts I can give Raphaela as a child and as a woman. Today it's socks, tomorrow, The World!
A set of life skills and a feeling of accomplishment are the best gifts I can give Raphaela as a child and as a woman. Today it's socks, tomorrow, The World!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Israeli Election Day 2013
Because of the Knesset elections, all public institutions - Gan, the post office, banks, government offices - are closed and the day has become a middle-of-the-week holiday. Many people went traveling up North, and based upon the news report I saw on television last night, a large number of these citizens don't particularly care to end their vacation early in order to vote.
As a political science major at Barnard College and as a human being who generally throws herself gladly into the arena of Democracy, I think this voter apathy is a shame and an embarrassment. These same families who choose a hike over the gift of choosing the next Prime Minister will be the first to complain once the election ends.
The Israeli system can seem baffling if you have grown up with the American version of voting. First off, it is considered most impolite and practically a violation of your personal rights if you ask a person whether he voted for Obama or Romney; but on the streets of Jerusalem this morning, every conversation in which I was involved or overheard started with the sentence, "So, who got your ballot today?" With a 15% Undecided coming into the elections, that question became much more interesting than usual.
Secondly, America pretends at direct elections, but then starts with the bullshit of the Electoral College, compounded by Blue and Red states. So for example, when I voted this past November, it didn't really matter because I am registered in Massachusetts, Seriously Blue territory, and it was obvious that Obama would take the state and its delegates even if no one showed up at the polls.
In Israel they have direct elections in the sense that you vote for a party list. You cannot choose the list per se, though as a registered member of a party you can vote in the primaries. A designated price per seat is assigned, and literally each vote is counted toward that goal; private deals have been negotiated for the 'spare change' so to speak. In order to sit in the Knesset, your party must receive enough votes to account for at least two mandates out of 120; if you fail to pass the threshold, your party disappears into oblivion.
The party with the most seats almost automatically gets the nod for forming the government, which then deteriorates into an ugly and expensive series of back room meetings, until the sitting government can claim a majority of at least 61 out of the total 120 seats.
The procedure itself dates back to the Byzantine Era, you stand behind a flimsy piece of card board, you choose a little piece of paper that represents your list and put it in a blue envelope. The blue envelope goes into a blue box, and at the end of voting at ten pm, a bunch of really dedicated and really tired people count them by hand.
Based upon recent polls, Netanyahu's sitting Likud-Russian Mafia party will most surely receive the most seats, although less than they had anticipated. They will then most likely form their majority government with other similar leaning parties (The Jewish Home), at least one despicable Ultra Orthodox party (Shas), and maybe, if they have the balls, one Center-Left party (Yair Lapid, Labour). In other words, silly business as usual.
For myself, I quite enjoyed the day off with Raphaela, we walked in the spectacular Summer-like weather to the voting station; sat at our favorite bakery and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast; Mommy got a haircut while Raphaela cooperated more than I ever imagined; and then we went to the mall and bought our weekly groceries. We spent the afternoon playing together and taking walks around the neighborhood, grabbing the sun shine wherever we could find it.
Raphaela has become such an active and real person, she has a brilliant sense of humor (for a three year old) and a calm happy disposition. I feel like I won the biggest lottery in the Universe, and I am thankful for the time we had today to spend with each other.
As a political science major at Barnard College and as a human being who generally throws herself gladly into the arena of Democracy, I think this voter apathy is a shame and an embarrassment. These same families who choose a hike over the gift of choosing the next Prime Minister will be the first to complain once the election ends.
The Israeli system can seem baffling if you have grown up with the American version of voting. First off, it is considered most impolite and practically a violation of your personal rights if you ask a person whether he voted for Obama or Romney; but on the streets of Jerusalem this morning, every conversation in which I was involved or overheard started with the sentence, "So, who got your ballot today?" With a 15% Undecided coming into the elections, that question became much more interesting than usual.
Secondly, America pretends at direct elections, but then starts with the bullshit of the Electoral College, compounded by Blue and Red states. So for example, when I voted this past November, it didn't really matter because I am registered in Massachusetts, Seriously Blue territory, and it was obvious that Obama would take the state and its delegates even if no one showed up at the polls.
In Israel they have direct elections in the sense that you vote for a party list. You cannot choose the list per se, though as a registered member of a party you can vote in the primaries. A designated price per seat is assigned, and literally each vote is counted toward that goal; private deals have been negotiated for the 'spare change' so to speak. In order to sit in the Knesset, your party must receive enough votes to account for at least two mandates out of 120; if you fail to pass the threshold, your party disappears into oblivion.
The party with the most seats almost automatically gets the nod for forming the government, which then deteriorates into an ugly and expensive series of back room meetings, until the sitting government can claim a majority of at least 61 out of the total 120 seats.
The procedure itself dates back to the Byzantine Era, you stand behind a flimsy piece of card board, you choose a little piece of paper that represents your list and put it in a blue envelope. The blue envelope goes into a blue box, and at the end of voting at ten pm, a bunch of really dedicated and really tired people count them by hand.
Based upon recent polls, Netanyahu's sitting Likud-Russian Mafia party will most surely receive the most seats, although less than they had anticipated. They will then most likely form their majority government with other similar leaning parties (The Jewish Home), at least one despicable Ultra Orthodox party (Shas), and maybe, if they have the balls, one Center-Left party (Yair Lapid, Labour). In other words, silly business as usual.
For myself, I quite enjoyed the day off with Raphaela, we walked in the spectacular Summer-like weather to the voting station; sat at our favorite bakery and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast; Mommy got a haircut while Raphaela cooperated more than I ever imagined; and then we went to the mall and bought our weekly groceries. We spent the afternoon playing together and taking walks around the neighborhood, grabbing the sun shine wherever we could find it.
Raphaela has become such an active and real person, she has a brilliant sense of humor (for a three year old) and a calm happy disposition. I feel like I won the biggest lottery in the Universe, and I am thankful for the time we had today to spend with each other.
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