Banning Dr. Phil

With about five minutes to spare before I had to pick up Raphaela from kindergarten, I turned on the television and literally, out of approximately 400 channels, there was nothing on worth watching.  And so I was stuck with Dr. Phil, whom I have boycotted since I watched one of his programs in which he made a mockery of modern Judaism, with the help of the self-promoting sex Rabbi, Shmuly Boteach.

On this particular program today, a married couple sat with the doctor, explaining that recently their two older children had begun torturing the family cat on a regular basis.  The mother, with a stone face that betrayed little human emotion, admitted that she felt slightly concerned at this development, since historically speaking, animal mutilation represents the first step toward a successful career in the psycho serial killer industry.

The father shrugged his shoulders, saying that he was not particularly concerned since "Kids will be kids...and besides, at least they are not running around the house breaking things."

Because apparently in 2014 in the United States, breaking stuff would be more worrisome to parents than the mistreatment of  vulnerable living beings.

The ban on Dr. Phil has just been reinstated.

Life of Bitzi

Over this past Shabbat, I would remember my uncle and get sad, once or twice bursting into tears.  Raphaela at first found the phenomenon confusing or funny, and so I explained to her that people cry when they are happy or sad, and that it is perfectly OK to express emotion that way.  I explained to her that I am very sad that my uncle is "very sick," and that's why I am crying.

Raphaela listened, and then sat on the kitchen floor for ten minutes, trying to evoke the emotion of grief and making similar crying sounds that I had made, but it was play acting.  When I asked her why she was crying, she replied logically, "Because Uncle Bitzi is very sick."

When that experience didn't quite satisfy her need to empathize with me, she instead threw me a big birthday party, using all the toys in the house, "so that you will be happy, Mommy."

Which brought me to the larger questions of life and death, mainly, how do you explain death to a four and a half year old?  Especially living in Israel,  where the daily news consists of reports about terror and fatalities, I assume that at some point Raphaela will get the idea, and it will become part of her understood lexicon.  As her mother, I feel a need (perhaps misplaced) to protect her from the fear and the ugliness of facing death.

Not that I personally believe that death is ugly:  when Ronald Reagan was President, a television movie called "The Day After" aired, and we sat as a family to watch it together.  It was the first time that any program had specifically dealt with the Russian-American hostilities, and it showed in graphic detail the gruesome deaths of humans across the globe, pre and post-nuclear winter.  I could not fall asleep that night, seeing in my head myself and everyone I loved dying because someone on the planet pushed the red button.  The television show burned itself into my brain.

My father sat with me and explained:  "The path of your life has already been determined by G-d. You could die from choking on a hot dog, you could drown in the bath tub, or you could get fried by nuclear war.  The trick is to live every life to its fullest, make every day count, because you never really know if it will be your last."

That message has accompanied me and given me comfort all my life, and when I was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper in 2001, and survived, it only renewed my sense of purpose, I embraced my second chance at life.  Since I also believe in reincarnation, I know that death represents the end on this physical plane, but there is so much more, and that comforts me as well.

Raphaela on the other hand, has no real understanding of the finality of death.  When she saw a cat flattened (and clearly dead) on the road, she said to me, "Mommy, that cat is very broken. You are a doctor, you can fix it."  So telling her that her uncle is dead, that she will never see him again, it didn't seem to penetrate.

Unless I can get a useful solution from someone like Mister Rogers or Dr. Phil, I will continue to shield Raphaela from the absolute grief and sadness.  I know in my heart that her first real encounter with death will probably be vis a vis our cat Harry, who is going on 12 years now.  Israeli cats who go outside expose themselves to danger and do not live to be 18 or 20, and at some point her best friend in the house and feline companion will leave this Earthly plane, and then we will deal with it together.

Public Apology to my Mother

I was watching an episode of Dr. Phil yesterday, in which he discussed the positive and negative consequences of the Big Brother manifestation and complete lack of privacy in this internet age.

There is also a principle of Pessach cleaning, which states that you make an item usable for this particularly finiky food holiday using the methods it normally requires for the rest of year.  Fire with fire etc.

And so I am using this public forum to apologize to the woman who brought me into the world, a person who exemplifies compassion and irreproachable service in her community.  I have slandered her good name in this blog, and have shattered my parents' trust, a situation which will never be repaired between us.

Relationships between mothers and daughters are complicated, and in anticipation of the mis-steps that I will make with Raphaela, I also hereby apologize to her, in advance.

Rewriting the Books

Yesterday, while flipping channels, I came upon a Dr. Phil show which centered on the effects of a bad (read: neglectful and/or overbearing and/or abusive) father on their daughters, and the implications for these girls as they themselves start engaging men as adults.

I wonder if they will have to rewrite the psychology text books, to accommodate the next generation of children who will grow up with happy and loving mothers, the positive picture of a strong, accomplished and compassionate woman, and with no particular frame of reference of a central male role model in the home.

The question becomes: better a lousy father, or none at all?

Baby Book Club

Last book read (not finished) before giving birth: Hitchhikers Guide Series (Douglas Adams)

Pile of books waiting to be studied and said theories utilized: What to Expect, The Sears Baby Book, The Baby Whisperer, Well Adjusted Babies (the Chiropractic version), Mother and Baby, Your Baby and Child (Penelope Leach), Mister Rogers' Guide to Parenting, Family First (Dr. Phil)

The point of most of these books is to make you feel like an incompetent parent.

Pleasure book, very large and at the bottom of the pile: The Gathering Storm (the most recent book from Robert Jordan)

Probability of most of these books getting read is low, given that Raphaela actively fights sleeping during the day because she is afraid of missing something exciting, and given that at night I am going to take every opportunity to close my eyes in between feedings.