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.

The Shiva Crashers

Growing up in the United States, Shiva [the seven day period of mourning] was a serious adult deal, quite formal in its rules and code of behavior.  Even when my great-grandfather died, I did not attend the funeral or the Shiva, because it was not a place for children.  And I was old enough to know that he was gone.

This past week, the 92 year old father of one of our neighbors died, and the Shiva is taking place quite literally next door.  Every time we leave the house to go to school or to ballet, the door is open and the sign on the door declares that this is a house of mourning.

The first day of the Shiva, I told Raphaela that we were going there not to entertain, but to sit quietly and take our cue from our neighbor. If he wanted to talk, fine, and if not we would sit there out of respect.  Well, Israel being Israel, Jerusalem being Jerusalem, and this being the Jewish country, apparently the law of One Extended Family applies.

At our first visit, Raphaela spoke less than her normal self, but was still warm and engaging, and as we left, she gave him a big hug.  She also left with a glass of juice and piece of cake, kindly given to Raphaela by the mourner's wife.  And every day since, every time we pass the door, Raphaela insists upon going inside for even a minute, to say hello and to deliver one of her patented hugs;  to show him a shiny rock she has just found, or to perform the dance she has just learned.

My Israeli friends tell me that in this country the process of Shiva is far less formal, and that it is "lovely" that Raphaela has made it her mission to cheer up our mourning neighbor.  They cite many examples where the Shiva evolves into a celebration of life and family, a place where smiles and stories are welcome.  I am still uncomfortable with the behavior to some degree, it is the stiff New England American in me, despite the 18 plus years I have lived here.

Far be it from me, however,  to teach Raphaela that compassion toward another person should be limited, in thought or in deed.

Stories from the Parenting Front

When I became pregnant, I made a vow not to swear in front of my future child, because words have power.
Apparently during the birth (according to my doula) I "swore like a sailor," to the point that it shocked her slightly. I don't really remember, but can you blame me? I didn't get my epidural.

These days, my worst volley of curse words come out when I am driving, because despite the fact that I learned how to drive in Boston, Israeli drivers seem to be even worse.  Last night, while driving Raphaela to ballet in the rain, I substituted the classic Israeli "OOF!" for the F-word, because Raphaela was sitting in the back seat.  She obviously sensed my Code Red level of stress.

RR:  Mommy, Please don't use that word, it hurts my heart.
Me:  So what should I say instead if I am frustrated or nervous?
RR:  Try using "Yesh" [Hebrew for Hooray]. "I love you" also works nicely.

(I have this feeling that my daughter and the Dalai Lama could do good work together.)

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6:30 am this morning, while the two of us stood at the bathroom sink brushing our teeth.

RR:  Mommy, I washed my hands to take away the bacteria and stay healthy.
Me:  You know that there is good bacteria and bad bacteria in your body.
RR:  Why do we have good and bad bacteria?
Me:  The Universe is all about balance.  Good and bad. Light and dark. Yin and Yang.
RR:  Male and Female!  Like we learned when God created the world!
RR:  A boy has a penis, what does a girl have?
Me:  A vagina.
RR: Hey, that rhymes with China.
Me:  Indeed.

Ezra Schwartz Z"L

Yesterday, after school and ballet and bath time.  After I had watched a live stream video of the funeral of Ezra Schwartz Z"L, the 18 year old boy from Sharon, MA who was murdered last Thursday by a Palestinian terrorist spewing bullets from an automatic weapon.  Ezra had been volunteering with Israeli soldiers, and was killed in an instant along with one other Jew and an Arab just standing on the side of the road.

I listened as the Rabbi, Ezra's father and mother and siblings, his grandparents and baseball coach and friends,  all talked about this boy who will not get the chance to become a man. This potential adult who has become a symbol for the growing cost of terror here in Israel and around the world.

I did not know him or his family, despite having attended the same high school as Ezra Schwartz in Boston (some odd 30 years ago).  But as an Israeli and a mother I feel the pain of the loss, and I cannot imagine (nor do I EVER want to imagine) how it feels for a parent to bury their child.

Ezra was apparently a mega sports fan and tonight, the New England Patriots will hold a moment of silence;  to remember a boy, a Jew, a brother and a son and a cousin, an innocent lost.

Good for them and shame on the ineffectual President Barack Hussein Obama.  A man who has insisted that he is "practically Jewish" and Israel's good friend;  a leader who decried the act of terror in Paris as a global call to arms. He has yet to personally acknowledge, in the international forum, that an American died on his watch.  Obama has yet to admit that terror is terror, and that the life of a Jew has the same value as the life of a Parisian, an African, a Syrian or a victim of the Beirut bombings, or the recent tragedy in Mali. The silence in the face of daily senseless death in the Middle East is deafening.

And just one day later, a 21 year old Israeli named Hadar Buchris was stabbed to death in the exact same location.  The New York Times reported "One Israel and three Palestinians killed in Attacks," thus equating the victim with her murderers.

Last night Raphaela wanted to sleep in bed with me and I did not refuse. I wanted to hold her close to me, to feel the warmth of her body, to watch her breathe and to play with her wisps of curly hair.

I needed to hold her tight.

The Universe Speaks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt as if the Universe itself was hugging me.

Ballet Stories

Raphaela, for the second year, has a ballet lesson every Sunday night for 50 minutes, during which time I put in my earphones and listen to music, and/or bring a good book; I rarely have that amount of time to myself just to read.

This week, as I sat trying to read, a little girl was there with her teenage brother. 

She wanted ice cream.

Her brother called their mother and asked if he was allowed to buy her the treat, and the answer was no.

The little girl started screeching at the top of her lungs.  I moved further down the hall, trying to find a slightly quieter place to enjoy my book, but I could not escape the horrendous noise coming out of her mouth.

The screaming went on for five minutes, and her brother thought it was funny.  The screaming went on for another five minutes and despite all my proper New England upbringing, I walked over to this spoiled child and her big brother, I went down to the floor where she was flailing and looked her straight in the eyes and said in a kind and yet forceful tone:  "Sweetheart, you are not getting the ice cream. You are NOT getting what you want just because you are throwing a tantrum."

Then I got up from the floor, looked at this teenage boy and said, "I think it is time to take her home, don't you?"  He had to physically lift her off the floor and carry her out of the doors of the dance school, as she continued to wail.

I have said before that there is a certain level of tolerable rudeness in Israel, the One-Big-Family Approach that says that a stranger feels absolutely free to tell you how to parent your child.  In the past I have resented it, and yet last night I could not help myself.  Several other parents sitting in the area thanked me afterwards.

Post script:  I have also said before that I am giving Raphaela the things that bring her joy and help her fulfill her potential, without the pressure to live up to unreasonable expectations.

At the end of her lesson, they invited the parents into the studio to watch a little dance number, and of the large group, four girls were singled out as having done better/more coordinated/more graceful work.  Raphaela was not one of them, and I must admit that it made me a little sad, though I did not express any disappointment to Raphaela.

The Money Game

When you hear the phrase, "Education in Israel is Free," don't drink the Kool Aid.

Yes, it is most definitely true that compared to equivalent Jewish educational options in the United States, the system here is practically free.  But there is always the fee to cover the extra activities that the city budget does not supply, plus the extra payment for the glorified baby sitting [Tzaharon] to keep your child in school until four pm, and the fees for extra-curricular classes that take place on the school premises or elsewhere during the year.  And school books and uniforms and extra-special class trips...you get the idea.

Since Raphaela has started First Grade, I have had more homework than she;  they send home a new form daily for the parents to fill out, because it would have made no sense to give us all this paperwork at once, in a single package.  In addition, they have included the requisite requests for donations, toward the recent refurbishing of the playground area, or for the scholarship fund for needy families within the school population.

If I had several million dollars at my disposal, I would be happy and eager to sponsor an entire wing of the school.  I can remember from my own elementary and high school experience that the parents who had "real money" and not only built new classrooms but also served on the board, their children got special treatment.  It was obvious to me then that money talks, even when the intention comes solely from a place of good,  and giving purely for the sake of giving.

However, I am a single parent with no trust fund (that I know of), and most months of the year I can stay on budget.  Some months of the year, for example the upcoming period of Jewish holidays at the beginning of the Hebrew calendar, I barely work, and I put much effort into not going into a tailspin of panic.  Myself, and in fact most parents in Israel, married single or otherwise.

I will give when I can, because I actually do want to invest in my child's future, and I am truly impressed with the investment this staff and this school has already made into my daughter.  I hope that it is not held against me that I do not at the moment have as deep pockets as I would like.

Giant Steps

I offer you these small moment of giant steps in Raphaela's journey:

We had a serious conversation yesterday about Superman, my six year old could not understand how simply putting on a pair of glasses made him unrecognizable to those who know him and work with him.

This morning, listening to the radio alarm, Raphaela got confused because they were singing a song about "rice cakes." (First time in her long life that she will get the words wrong to rock music.)

On the way to camp, we got stuck driving behind a learning driver, predictably weaving and terribly slow.  While I vented my frustration with Jerusalem driving, Raphaela said to me, "Mommy, there are learning drivers EVERYWHERE. Get over it."

Her camp is offering a fun option of a camping night sleep-over the last night of camp.  I gave Raphaela the details and she said, "I'm not ready for that yet.  I would miss you too much."  (When I was a life guard at a Jewish day camp in Boston, I always volunteered to be the extra staff person on the sleep overs; there is nothing more amazing than swimming in the lake at the crack of dawn.)

Speaking of swimming at camp, yesterday afternoon when we were trying to relax and escape the insufferable heat wave, Raphaela casually mentioned that she may have learned how to swim and that she had gone alone into the deep end of the pool by herself, for the first time.  I could not have been more excited and proud.

Happy July 4th!

This afternoon, Raphaela and I will be attending a Carnival sponsored by the AACI [The Association for Americans and Canadians in Israel], in honor of July 4th.

When I told Raphaela, she asked, "Is that a holiday where everyone speaks English for a whole day?"
"No," I said, "it's like Yom HaAtzmaut, but for Americans."
"Mangal!" exclaimed my daughter, with pure joy.

Because in Israel, almost every holiday somehow leads to a BBQ.

[Mangal = Hebrew for a BBQ, a cookout, a large gathering on a holiday]
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Of the various families sitting on the grass and listening to the American concert at the event, I spotted a very elderly man wearing a veteran's cap, a walking cane casually tossed next to him.  He was sitting on the grass with his Israeli son and his grandchildren, and I thought to myself, "Someday that will be me, the American-born Bubby sitting with her Israeli-American daughter and possibly a whole slew of purely Israeli grandchildren."

Mardi Gras Oops Purim 2015

 

 

In the Israeli Kindergarten school system, Purim begins two weeks before the actual holiday, with Hat Day, Pajamas Day, King and Queens Day, Inside Out Day etc.  The last day of real school, they have Costume Day, in which children all over the country can be seen walking through the streets in festive dress of sorts, culminating in the kids being sent home earlier than usual because they are too hopped up on sugar to be manageable to their teachers.

 

Then begins vacation, a three day affair which includes, you guessed it, more costumes.  The only real outfit that we bought this year was the bumble bee, which Raphaela wore on Costume Day.  The other costumes were gifts from others, combined with recyclable parts from previous years.  Every year we have a custom of going to the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo in costume, and luckily I found a stash of Purim accessories, so my daughter will not Heaven Forbid wear a repeat costume. 

 

It's like we are on a cruise ship, where you change outfits for every activity and every meal.

 

Not including of course the children's party and reading of the Story of Esther at the synagogue tomorrow night, or the feast at family friends on Friday.

 

As well, I have worn costume hats and make-up for the past two weeks, because seeing this holiday through the joy and wonderment of a little girl's eyes makes it all worth while.  For the zoo, at my daughter's request, I will be a monarch butterfly, and for the feast on Friday, I will transform into the Tardis (Doctor Who), complete with temporary blue hair dye.

 

Because you only as young as you feel inside, and I plan on aging well.

 

Post-script: I will now share my most precious Purim secret IE how to get quality costumes for almost no money.  Every year, the day after Halloween in the States, I go online with Raphaela to several good sites, and she picks out her preferred outfit for Purim. I ship it to my parents in Boston, and then they have three to four months to get it to me, either by sending it as a package or with friends who are visiting Israel. I pay about $10 a year, yesterday a friend told me that she paid $1 on a site, the day after Halloween.

Snowpocalypse, February

First there was the three days of sand storms and mud rain, with the desert and the clouds blotting out the Jerusalem skyline, and the sun...that little white dot in the sky.

 

 

Meanwhile, in Boston where my Bubby and Zaide live, they have thus far gotten close to nine feet of snow.  My grandfather has to climb onto the roof to shovel, so the ceiling doesn't cave in.  That sounds dangerous.



 

 

Then last night, after thunder and lightning, Jerusalem got eight inches of snow, and it is still coming down.  No school today!

 

So we stayed home today and watched Disney's "Frozen." 

Your Royal Highness

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

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

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

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

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

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

Real and Imaginary Friends

My parents had come to visit us for two and a half weeks, and it took two days for Raphaela to truly absorb the fact that they were no longer our neighbors down the street, once again the grandparents who live on Skype or Facetime.  Raphaela and I were in the supermarket last Thursday and in the middle of the fruit aisle, she burst out crying, saying how much she missed my mother and father and asking when they would be returning from America to Jerusalem.

The only way to console her was to whip out my cell phone and on the spot arrange a video call with my father, who spoke to her and calmed her down. (Praise be the iPhone!)

On the way home Raphaela declared that from now on she would only play with family members, real or imagined.  Which leaves my brother and his family, whom we see infrequently, and her two imaginary siblings, a younger brother and an older sister.  I got the sense that since my parents had returned to the their home in Boston, Raphaela had chosen to play by herself with her imaginary brother and sister, rather than with her real classmates during the day.

Concerned, I told her that in order to be happy and have good days, we need both our real and imagined playmates, and that we should treasure the real people around us, even if they are not related by blood.  To encourage her, I told her that when I was little I had an imaginary friend who was a super hero, and while I have not abandoned her (even as a grown up), I truly enjoy the time I spend with my real-live grown up friends.  Then I  asked her to name some of the children in her Gan that she likes, and Raphaela begrudgingly filled our her list. I reminded her as well that there are people who love her everywhere in the world, even if we cannot eat Shabbat dinner with them every week.

I can only hope that the sadness and the social isolation she is imposing on herself will pass.

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.

This morning, while brushing Raphaela's hair and attempting a decent braid.

Raphaela:  I miss America.
Mom:  What do you miss about America?
Raphaela:  I miss the warm summer rains.

Home Again, Home Again

 

 

From New York to Kansas to Boston to London, we have arrived home, to Jerusalem.  I must admit that I did not want to take my daughter into a war zone, when life in America seems so familiar and so comfortable, superficially easy.  Honestly, I know very few of my friends and family in the United States who wake up each morning and think, "Who is trying to kill me today?"  (There is always a little room for paranoia, especially in New York City...)

 

On Friday morning, jet lag be damned, Raphaela and I went to Palmach street; we dropped off clothing at the dry cleaners, got supplies for Shabbat and restocked the fridge from the supermarket.  Everything and everywhere, Raphaela proclaimed with joy, "That's my Gan!"  "That's my bakery!"  "This is the best day ever, I'm home!"  And I was reminded why it was so important for us to come back to Israel, because in her heart, Raphaela is an Israeli and Jerusalem is the place where I found my life.

 

Yet, regardless of my jet lag, I stayed awake all night waiting for the sirens to go off, and wondering where Raphaela and I would be safe from attack, and praying for the safe return of our soldiers involved in the ground operation in Gaza.

Planning Ahead

Today, when picking up Raphaela from school, I could barely get in the door of the building, it was stuffed corner to corner with strollers.  As I went up the stairs, I could hear masses of adults flooding the classroom next to my daughter's, with all the children dressed to the nines and holding large bouquets of flowers.

I clarified, after asking several parents, that the Pre 1A class  were celebrating Grandparents Day. They had invited the entire family to attend this "fancy" nursery event:  parents, grandparents, and siblings of all ages, culminating in the presentation of flowers by the grandchild to the respective grandmother and/or grandfather.

The idea is beautiful, yes, but it immediately put me in a panic, thinking, "Next year Raphaela will  most likely be in this class with this teacher,  and when it comes to Grandparents Day she will have no one. Not grandparents and not a father and not a little brother or sister. Just a Mom who loves her beyond all imagining."

It made me sad.  I know that if my Uncle Bitzi were alive, he would have come to represent.   And it put me in a mood to start thinking about and planning for a year from now;  do I invite my parents if I can give them enough notice, assuming they can travel from Boston at that time?  Do I recruit family friends to appear as surrogate grandparents?

 How do I approach this topic with the teacher, without singling out Raphaela unnecessarily?

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.

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* "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.

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.

Gilligan's Island, Jerusalem

Around noon on Friday, our street lost power, along with most of Central Jerusalem.  Usually cold and unbearable in the house, Raphaela and I put on several layers of clothing and jackets, since we could not turn on any heaters.

Nor did I have hot water for a shower; my hands felt frostbitten after washing a few dishes.  I could not even boil up water for a cup of hot cocoa, which would have provided great comfort for both of us.

The lack of electricity also meant that my television, land line phone, computer and wi-fi were non-existent, so I had no way of communicating with the outside virtual world, not to mention  having to find creative ways to entertain Raphaela, by candle light.  Ye olde fashioned newspaper was not delivered, so nothing to hold in my hands and read anyway.

Along with all my concerns for us, thank G-d at least inside a house, I kept wandering over to the window and wondering how our street cats were faring in this storm, having not been properly fed since Thursday and living in the thick of almost one foot of snow. On Friday I managed to find one brave cat and feed him, and today on Shabbat I found three others.

Apparently, in consideration for the Ultra-Orthodox, the city took care of  their needs for basic power before Shabbat, since they are "real Jews."

We pagans went into Shabbat with no electricity, so practically speaking we had no cooked food, and could not eat any food that required heating.  Dinner was yogurts, chumus and vegetables rescued from the fridge, with potato chips for dessert.  When power returned briefly during the evening, Raphaela's first response was, "Oh good Mommy, now you can cook me something."

Having spent most of the day today inside, I ventured outside after Shabbat to clear the snow off the car, start up the engine and attempt to move it a little, before the whole street frosts over tonight and turns into black ice.  My former life in New England has served me well this weekend.

Now for the great question:  Raphaela has been on Snow vacation since Thursday, and given the fact that the streets have barely been plowed and the situation of fallen trees, it will probably be dangerous Winter Wonderland for at least the next few days, will she have school tomorrow or Monday?

(Or will I have to cancel patients again? Ah, who needs to make a living anyway, right?)