Stories from the Parenting Front

Among the various Jerusalem superstitions about pregnancy and childbirth, I had heard many times that if you do not make some sort of official celebration for a daughter, she will not get married in the future.  Sounds to me like an excuse for a catered party.

Last night Raphaela and I attended the Simchat Bat [Hebrew for The Celebration of a Girl] of a new cousin, Baby Rachel.  Between the family gathering, the loot bag for children and the giant table of candy AKA Raphaela's dinner, my daughter declared it to be "the best day ever."

I asked her if she really meant it, that this day and this party held the number one spot on her Best Day Ever List. I reminded her about our beach vacation, my brother's glamorous wedding, starting First Grade, and other events in our lives that could just as easily top the list.

Raphaela agreed and said, "I have a lot of best days ever."

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This morning on the way to school, Raphaela asked me, "Which nation does God love best?"

Me:  God loves all his creations and all his people.  Like our friends in Singapore, they are not Jewish and God loves them too.
Raphaela:  And what about the Arabs?
Me:  God created all people, including the Arabs.  God loves them, though sometimes he wishes that they would behave a bit better.
Raphaela:  And what would happen if the Arabs behaved better and everyone was nice to each other?
Me:  Planet Earth would be a great place to live.

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.

My Future Astronaut

Because I will never get to fulfill my desire to become an astronaut, I remain a proud space geek.  When signs of water were recently discovered on Mars, I excitedly explained this scientific news to Raphaela; where there is water, there is life, and it makes the place practically suitable for humans.

RR:  Why would we want to live on Mars?
Mom:  At the rate that we are going, we are going to need to move to another planet.
RR:  [basically unfazed] Why?
Mom:  We pollute the water we drink, the air we breathe, and the earth in which we grow our food.   Lots of Israelis throw litter on the street. We inject our meat with hormones and then we wonder why we have to work harder to stay healthy.  Al Gore says the planet will be uninhabitable in the year 2050.
RR:  But I love Israel and planet Earth!
Mom:  So do I, but human beings are not treating it so nicely.
RR:  Very well then, we will have to use the water on Mars, and build a house there, and bring a lulav and etrog.  And maybe some of our books and toys.  We need to build a synagogue as well, even though we can talk to God anywhere we like.
Mom:  Sounds like a plan.
RR:  But wait [here comes the panic], does Mars have volcanoes like Earth?
Mom:  I am sure there are some, as Mars is a rock and soil planet like Earth, just with lesser gravity and less access to sunlight.
RR:  Oh, that's not good at all...they are going to have clear out those volcanoes before we go to live there.  Not good at all!
Mom:  Volcanoes are somewhat unpredictable, they don't know exactly when it will erupt.
RR:  Well then, we should invent a cap that we can put on top of all the volcanoes, so the magma will stay inside and not become lava and destroy our colony.

A Time to Cry

Standing on line at the post office this morning, I started to cry.  Heaving sobs burst out of me, the first time I have "given in" to the daily stress here in Israel since we returned from the United States almost two weeks ago.

The guy at the counter didn't seem concerned at all, several other people came over to me, offered me tissues and tried to reassure me that "soon this will end. It will be OK."

One person asked me, "Why are you crying?"  And I answered with that characteristic Israeli shrug of the shoulder, "For no real reason, just like that."  And another woman said to me, "No one cries for no reason these days."

It was easier to dismiss my tears in front of these kind strangers than to explain:
I am crying because our soldiers are dying every day to keep us safe, while literally the rest of the political world on planet Earth tries to convince us that we are the criminals and that we ought to cease defending our lives, our very right to exist.

I am crying because I am physically exhausted, having not slept decently in the last two weeks because of night terrors and nasty thoughts and concerns for the security of my daughter and my extended family.

I am crying because some guy (yes, a dating thing in the middle of all this) treated me like garbage in a time that I am more vulnerable, and I lament the unfairness of my doing all that I do, alone. (On the heels of my brother's wedding, and the start of his beautiful life in marriage...)

I am crying because if it had not been for my birthday several days after we returned, a day in which luckily people pay attention to you,  I think that many people would have not noticed that we had been away at all.

I am crying because after not working for two and a half weeks, and having the expenses of the trip, something in my car went "pop" and now the windows are opening and closing by themselves.  Of course my issues - physical, emotional or financial - are nothing compared to the experiences of the soldiers and their families, and the parents of the three boys murdered one month ago, the trigger for this military incursion. I should just be content, it could be argued, that my family is thank G-d healthy and that we live in Jerusalem, where there has been relative quiet.

I am crying because I am still emotionally jet-lagged from my trip, a large part of me wishing I had extended my visit in the United States where I did not have to face the struggle of this current Israeli reality.

After the post office, I walked home while attempting to avoid contact with people, ashamed of my feelings and my blotchy eyes and my running nose.  Went to work and shut off my feelings, because that is what I must do;  if my schedule allows it, I will cry some more later, before I have to pick up Raphaela from her last day of camp, and put on a brave face again.

June Heat Wave

Jerusalem has hit record high temperatures the last few days of June, which does not reflect well for the rest of the Summer, if the trend continues.  Yesterday, Raphaela and I took our Shabbat naps on the floor, mostly unclothed, because the tiles on the floor were only slightly less boiling than the rest of the house.

When I first moved to Jerusalem 17 years ago, we could boast that in our part of the country we did not need air conditioning; that is no longer the case, and Jerusalem joins the rest of Israel in the global sweat lodge.

Yes, Virginia, climate change is real, despite the denial of Congress.

Today, after picking up Raphaela from Gan, I treated us to Italian  ice cream, and after we finished, Raphaela said, "Mommy, now you won't melt into a puddle."

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.

Evolving Friendships

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fasting and Remembering

What to do on the Jewish fast day of Tisha B'Av, the most somber of the memorial days in which we mourn for the Temple in Jerusalem and for the destruction of the Jewish community in ancient Israel.

Personally I could have taken the day to stay in bed and rest, but with a four year old who has a day off from Gan, that is hardly possible.  In between preparing food for Raphaela while fasting, she and I found ourselves with very little structure and lots of time.

I pulled out the photo albums, all of them,  and I told my daughter stories; about my life as a single person, about our extended family, about being pregnant with her and about the adventures we have had together since she came on the scene. Perhaps this represents the meaningful interpretation for this sad day, reminding ourselves that we are loved and that we must care for each other, as Jews and as fellow human beings.

Afterwards, Raphaela asked if we could go to the local bakery, where she intended on ordering "the usual" IE a passion fruit slushie and two chocolate chip cookies.  I reminded her that today is a sad day and that Mommy is fasting.  Raphaela understood and said that tomorrow would be a happier day for the Temple and Jerusalem, and we could both eat cookies at the bakery.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Spam is everywhere, on our computers and our smart phones, and in our mailbox.  I have become accustomed to the expectation that almost every day my mailbox will be full of very little useful actual letters, and mostly fliers for some course or some restaurant or some fix-it professional.

Yesterday when Raphaela and I returned from Gan, the floor of the lobby of our building was littered, like snow, with the day's supply of spam fliers.  Israelis in general tend to pay less attention to garbage lying on the ground, because "someone else will pick it up" and eventually someone else will clean up the planet when we are long gone.

I recycle what I can and what Jerusalem allows at the moment, mostly paper and plastic, and if you can find a recycling center, batteries and old tech.  For some reason - the blistering heat, my lack of sleep, my becoming more Israeli after 16 years - on this day I walked right past the junk on the floor and toward the elevator.

My daughter stopped me and said, "Mommy, who made this mess?"  When I didn't immediately respond, she said, "Mommy, someone has to pick it up!"  And when I didn't immediately react, Raphaela pulled me over to the papers and the fliers, handed them to me and said, "Mommy, WE have to clean it up and recycle.  We can't walk by and just leave it here."

Day Dreaming

Today, in between patients, my mind drifted to a place where I imagined that somehow for no particular reason I got ripped out the present and returned to the beginning of 1997, toward the end of my internship in Chiropractic school, and a half a year before I moved to Israel. Serves me right for reading and watching too much science fiction.

It felt very real to me, so much so that I went into a panic because I could not remember the combination to my locker, or how to get to school from my apartment in Toronto.  Then I wondered what I would do if I had a test that day and hadn't studied, and decided that I would have to call in sick for the entire day, in order to avoid these problems.

Then I wondered in whom I would confide and seek help, who of my friends would take me seriously if I told them that I was a time traveler from 2013; ultimately I chose my best friend Shalymar and my cousin Susie.  How would I prove my claim?  Would they believe me if I warned them about the stock market crash under the Bush Administration, the various natural disasters that struck the States and Asia, the tragedy of 9/11, or the election (twice!) of the first black President?  I would not be able to hold myself back, and would need to tell my cousin that her husband was having an affair and was planning to divorce her, or that my friend Shalymar would meet the man of her dreams but have to move to a different state to marry him.

Given Chaos Theory and following the first law of Star Trek, perhaps I should avoid saying anything of the sort, the smallest inappropriately- placed knowledge could alter the entire Universe;  butterfly flapping wings, war in China etc.

Here was the greater challenge: if I could accept time travel and the sharing of very limited information, what kind of note would I leave myself before I returned to my own time?  If I could only leave a message of several cryptic words, what would my future self tell my past self?

How about, "Invest in iPhone."  But that would make no sense to me at the time.

I actually agonized over this decision for much of the afternoon, and despite all the dramatic and global stories to which I could have alluded, I decided that I would write the following:  "Raphaela is coming :-)  Get ready!"

Land of the Luddites

For the past two weeks my desk top computer has been non-functional, a reflection of its age, almost eight years old;  when I tell those better versed in modern tech that I just replaced it now, they are gobsmacked, and can't believe that I trusted my clinic data to a machine that by all rights died along with the dinosaurs.

During this last two weeks, before I finally broke and ordered a new super-speedy super-quiet and all around pleasure-to-work-with new computer, I recorded my office data by hand, and checked email on my iPad only  when absolutely necessary.  Turns out, I wasn't missing much in terms of information, and in fact it freed up much of my evening and gave the time and attention back to me and Raphaela, because I wasn't sitting in front of the screen.  Much to my surprise, I survived this lack of access to the Internet, and even went to bed earlier than usual.

In college at Barnard, computers and automated systems were so simple and mostly unguarded by passwords and sophisticated programs, and so it was easy enough to hack, an activity in which my friends and I dabbled.  Today the technology has evolved faster than the blink of an eye, and I can barely use my phone without knowing that my three year old understands it and utilizes it better than I, me with my generational genetic flaw.

I have felt this way about Internet dating for a while now and my brief computer-less experience only reinforces my belief:  technology, while it may contribute to the overall efficiency of the business of globalization , it is not so slowly corrupting the essential experience of the human race. 

We have forgotten how to sit in a room with people we don't know, introduce ourselves and over the long term become friends, and maybe even lovers. 

We have forgotten that people deserve time and space to consider a contract, even if you just sent it by fax or email. 

Classic grammar and spelling is shot to hell.

We have let ourselves become accessible to anyone from anywhere in the world, 24 hours per day, and created an illness for the 21rst century called "Adrenal Overload Syndrome"; our body physically and emotionally does not have enough hours of sleep in order to repair and recover, causing an increase in all sorts of cancers and the eventual collapse of entire organ systems.

Families sit in the same house, separated and isolated, this one texting on the phone, this one checking email, this one watching television.  The concept of going outside to take a walk together or ride a bike down the street has vanished, to be replaced by childhood obesity, increases in ADHD and spectrum Autism and horrific posture.

I appeal to you, my readers and all inhabitants of Gaea:  shut off your phone and your computer, go play outside with someone you love.

Red Hot Chili Peppers

Despite all sorts of international pressure to boycott Israel, the Red Hot Chili Peppers came to our little country, visited the Western Wall before their concert, and then performed last night in Tel Aviv.

I did not go to the concert, because it would have meant figuring out a place for Raphaela for the approximately 12 hours she would have needed care;  it would have meant arranging for someone to pick her up from Gan and take her home until this morning, in order to arrive in time for the concert  by 6:30 pm. While we have many good friends, at this point Raphaela will not stay with them alone for more than several hours.

The pre-Mommy adult went to movies and concerts, and listened to the RHCP; that person I was before I had a child had the freedom to take the weekend and travel, or just sit on the beach and read a good book;  the woman I was before I had Raphaela could get involved in either frivolous relationships, or try out a more serious connection and experiment without worrying too much about the consequences.  The Me that I was before Raphaela could sleep past five in the morning, and could get in a nap on Shabbat without having an interruption every five minutes, "Are you sleeping Mommy?"

I know that today is September 11, and I should be saying something deep about the import of the day.  I know that Rosh HaShanah fast approaches, and I will state for the record that I am eternally grateful that both I and my daughter are healthy, and that I have the privilege of watching her grow into an amazing human being every day.

So, G-d, Universe and Everything, thank you, and please keep us safe and well this next year and beyond.

But I am also a woman who has no instant family as baby sitters, no secret account or trust fund that allows me to work part-time or take even the brief Sabbatical I need after almost 17 years of working in the field of Chiropractic.  I run  and react and serve others from the moment I wake up until the moment I collapse in bed at night, worrying if I have done enough to take care of us as a family,  and to make a difference on the planet.  I am also the woman who has not been intimate with a man for way too long, has not taken a vacation for close to five years; I miss the days when I would choose a random European country and wander around, meeting the citizens, observing natural wonders and learning a new language.  I am the adult who has had way too many conversations with a three year old about bodily functions and Dora the Explorer and Bob the Builder.

Our planned trip to the States in November for Thanksgiving, it is my gift to Raphaela so she can get to know her cousins and extended family.  I am paying for the entire trip myself, and I am under no illusions that this family affair will qualify as my vacation.

I wanted to go to that concert last night, I really really did, for me this day and the person who used to inhabit this body.  I am burning out, and this morning I am feeling tired and resentful, instead of appreciating the blessings I have in my life.

Lost Impact

Raphaela was playing rough and kicking me, and I told that she does not kick Mommy, and that she will get a Time Out.  She said, "OK," and then walked herself to her room, closed the door and played in there for about a half hour.

Raphaela spilled about 50 very small and inconvenient beads all over the floor in the house, and I told her that she needed to help me clean it up, or else I would put them away myself and they would not reappear for a very long time.  She said, "OK," and didn't seem to be at all phased when I stuck it in the highest shelf of the highest closet.

I wish I knew what I was doing wrong here.  I have followed the guidance of my parenting consultant: I speak in a firm voice, I make eye contact and follow through consistently on my warning. Raphaela has no reason to think that I don't mean what I say, both in words and in actions.

There is a theory that the generation of children born after 1988 are "Indigo" kids, and that they have within their programming a completely different approach to Life, the Universe and Everything.  (Thanks, Douglas Adams...)  According to this theory, the standard rules and systems of child rearing don't work, and parents must adjust to a new reality.  These little humans are meant to be the peace makers, to fix the collosal problems we have created for ourselves and the planet.

Or maybe I am having a less than stellar day as a mother.

I admit it, I am a Cryer.  I react with tears even at the most corny commercial in which two lovers unite, or a father holds his baby.  I have been on the verge of crying watching the Olympics, when an American lip syncs the National Anthem as he or she receives their gold medal.

But this made sad and angry, the story I heard in the morning news about South Sudanese migrant workers here in Israel, who have begged Israeli social services to take their children, because they cannot properly feed and house their family.  The parents making these requests cannot work in Israel on a legal basis, and say that they are afraid to be seen on the streets, lest they be deported.

They want their children to be safe, safe from poverty and starvation, and safe from the violence in their home country, if they are forced to return to Africa.

I am not a politician, and I am not a millionaire;  I don't know how to solve the illegal immigration problem in Israel, the United States or anywhere on the planet.  But the idea of a parent having to give away their child, to be raised by the welfare system just to have enough to eat, that is too much.

The Slow Death of Progressive Judaism

Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. June Cleaver.  I suppose you thought those limiting roles for women were passe, both in the general Gaea population and within Judaism.  Guess again.

Rabbi Tzvi Tau, considered in Israel to be a leader within the Ultra-Orthodox/National Zionist community, recently wrote a vile internal pamphlet, whose contents have leaked their way to the Israeli public.  Despite the fact that Rabbi Tau bucks the Ultra-Orthodox trend and opposes refusal to follow orders in the Israeli army, he is unfortunately less kind and quite backward when it comes to the role of the woman in modern Jewish society.

According to his treatise (translated by Haaretz), "women are not meant to occupy themselves with the depths of science and morals, but rather with carrying, giving birth to, feeding and raising children."  Tau continues, claiming that "the worldwide trend of allowing women equal education, and striving for equality, can only guarantee short term profits.  In the long run this trend will harm the quality of life of the nation and society."

I bet you didn't know that "children born to couples including women who devote themselves to their career will be weak and flaccid...Home is the natural habitat for women, without the bustle [of social activity].  At home is where a woman can fully live her life."

(I don't even want to imagine what Rabbi Tau would say about the children of a single mother by choice who works, the horrors!)

Alrightythen, I am packing up my modern life and going back to the caves.  Good thing I have long hair, so I can be dragged around by the menfolk...

Mixed Messages

DISCLAIMER,  to avoid being accused of being judgemental:

I try to avoid global statements about a community of people, because I believe that while various nations have certain personality traits, at the end of the day we are responsible for our individual choices in action and behaviour.

So in this case of this posting, I am not talking about Israelis in general, or French people in general, but rather about the particularly confusing neighbors in my building.  Overall I do not regret my choice to live in Israel, or in this building.

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Since I have moved into this building, most of the neighbors have assiduously avoided speaking to me; the message was clear from the beginning, IE "Mind your own business and we'll all get along."  However, one of the tenants made it her point to call me before I moved in, to demand that my movers not scratch the walls, because they had been recently painted.

Israelis may have the aggressive, in-your-face reputation, people who insist on their rights and get things done, but that seems to have bypassed the people who live in this building.

A few weeks ago, two of the older boys who live here hit the large front window with a soccer ball.  For several days, the window continued to become more and more unstable as the crack grew, and I would see neighbors walk by and mutter to themselves, "I wonder how that happened..."  Finally, after it was clear to me that if Raphaela touched it, it would most probably shatter and seriously damage my daughter, so I demanded that the building Co-op manager get it fixed asap.

Therein lies one of the major problems in this shared living arrangement:  the couple that heads the Co-op board are an elderly French couple who don't speak Hebrew, cannot negotiate the Israeli system even to make a phone call to get a repair man, and quite often neglect their duties out of fear of criticism from the neighbors.

In any case, one of the others in the building stayed home from his hi-tech job in order to arrange and assist the window repair people. He then spent several days bitching to anyone who would listen how he lost a day of work for the "good of the building."

As a side note, he has young children who might have G-d Forbid gotten injured as well.  And furthermore, the family whose children actually broke the window never claimed responsibility for their actions.

Starting last week, the building smelled like s**t, literally.  Either an animal had died, or someone had vomited, but the rank odor penetrated every corner of the building.  For one week, I asked the useless Co-op Board to rectify the situation, and what I gathered from the French and the broken Hebrew was that they didn't know from where the smell was coming, they had no intention of checking it out, and they would call the custodian who cleans the building but they don't have his number; he shows up as he pleases and works when he feels like it.

I mention here for the sake of your imagination that it has been almost 40 degrees Celsius outside here in Jerusalem, and nothing smells better than s**t that has been cooking.  (Hope you haven't eaten before you read this sentence...)

Finally, one neighbor said he spotted a pile of human excrement behind the elevator shaft, and knowing that this was important to me, I should be the one to clean it up or track down the custodian. Lik it was not important to anyone else who lives here and wants to keep their family healthy.

Never mind the essential question:  Who would turn a private residence into a public toilet?!

My point, via the long and winding road of narrative:  We Israelis live under the threat and fear of terrorism every moment of every day.  We Israelis pull together to defend our children and our country.  And yet there is a wave of laziness bordering on indifference when a situation arises which clearly needs immediate care, as long as it does not affect you personally.

It's the same attitude that allows Israeli to be extreme litterbugs, because someone else will pick up your garbage and the planet will magically heal itself for your children and grandchildren.  It's the same attitude that allows Israelis to go into extreme overdraft and debt, because your children and grandchildren will have to pay it off when you are dead. It's the same attitude that says that smoking is still cool, that it is their right to pollute their bodies and the air, and it is your children's right to breathe in second hand smoke.

(So much for not generalizing about an entire nation.)

Why do I have to be that person who will take up the cause and follow through the necessary steps when no one else cares or no one else bothers.  I can't change the essential personality, that passionate and committed woman, but man, do I feel tired.

Going Cold Turkey

Several months ago, before Shavuot, I spoke to the Head Nursery Teacher about starting serious toilet training at home, with the full support and cooperation of the Gan during the daytime hours.  I was told at the time that it was "inconvenient," because at least six other children were in the process of toilet training, and she did not want to spread the resources of the nursery staff too thin.

I felt slightly resentful that my daughter got sidelined, held my breath and figured the appropriate moment would arrive.  Truthfully, diapers represent a certain ease for me as a parent, regardless of their cost to my budget, or to the planet.

Last night, I got a late-night call from the Head Nursery Teacher telling me to bring a whole supply of girl's underwear to Gan today, that it was now "Raphaela's turn," and she practically guaranteed that the whole business would be done by the end of the week.

I am realistic enough to know that there will success and failure, and that I will end up doing lots of laundry, until Raphaela is completely comfortable with her new Big Girl status, and I will joyously support Raphaela for as long as it takes. 

Chanukah 2008/2011

As the holiday gets closer, Raphaela becomes more excited about all aspects of Chanukah, though I have not introduced her specifically to the Israeli jelly doughnut concept.  She found a beautifully decorated dreidel that I had put on a high shelf, and immediately wanted to play, and I felt the completion of the circle that started with my fertility treatments.

On Chanukah in 2008, I attended the Bat Mitzvah of a freind's daughter, in the Old City of Jerusalem.  I knew that in a few days I would have my final IUI treatment, before Hadassah Hospital would force me to switch me over into the IVF route.  I wanted and needed this IUI procedure to work, after a year of hits and misses and several miscarriages.  Taking the opportunity, I went to the Western Wall after the Bat Mitzvah, and had a serious conversation with G-d and the Universe.  I informed all beings present -supernatural and otherwise -that this would be The One, this would be the IUI that not only got me pregnant, but stuck around for nine months and delivered a healthy baby.

On the way home, I bought the dreidel, in honor of the holiday and as the first present for my future daughter.

The IUI took place on January 1, 2009, and on October 2, 2009, Raphaela came into the world, bringing with her more joy and light and happiness than I ever could have imagined.

May we all be blessed with joy and light, friends and family, in this holiday season.  Chag Sameach!

Expressive Kavannah

When I first moved to Israel, I took an art class called Expressive Kavannah, which combined meditation, movement, lessons from Judaism and philosophy, and culminating in expression through art (sculpture, drawing, painting etc.).  I enjoyed the class, but got busy with 'stuff', and it has been too many years since I granted free reign to my creative side;  note that taking photos of Raphaela does not count, as much as I love her.

Happily, the teacher re-activated the class and I attended the first lesson today;  my ability to allow the creative impulse to flow, to let go of the contraints of my reality worked out better than I expected.  The theme of the meditation was Genesis, the concept of creation vs creating, and the idea that the Universe can respond to our needs in an infinite number of ways.

And my Christmas list is long, my friends.  One of the reasons I can take a class in the middle of the afternoon is because work remains slower than I would like, I worry about paying the bills and having enough left over to take care of mine and Raphaela's basic needs.  At least three "older women" from my neighborhood (ie women my age, without children) have gotten engaged or married in the last week, and I wonder when I will meet the my soulmate, and a loving father for Raphaela.  I thank G-d every day that I have not yet ruined my daughter, and hope that I can continue to figure out what I may be doing wrong, before it negatively affects her.

For me, this painting started as a representation of the Big Bang and space, infinite possibility and a far greater perspective on the stressors of our life, when we realize that we are but a speck on planet Earth, and that Gaea is but a speck in the Andromeda Galaxay, and that our galaxy is one of many expanding millions of stars. (With thanks to Douglas Adams...)  At some point in the process of the image, I stopped thinking rationally and realized that my Earth was tapping into the energy of the Universe with a psuedo umbilical cord , and that I was actually grabbing to hold onto the Sun as as source of power and strength.  The movement of space became a wave form, crashing over my fears and frustrations, and the empty space an invitation for abundance in every aspect of my life.

Without noticing, my brush went on thick and intense, in van Gogh like strokes, as I layered color on top of color.

The existential creation question is asked:  how could we fallible and finite humans exist in the place where the Higher Power lives, in his/her perfection and infinite-ness?  The Zohar answers that G-d receeded, that he/she took a small step back to allow for us puzzling creatures to live and grow and make mistakes.  That is the white area of my painting, the unknown future and the faith I need to tell myself that it will all work out.

I present this piece, entitled "From Chaos, Order"

Full Circle

This afternoon, Raphaela and I joined Olga and Mika, and Yael and Michal and Daniel at Gymboree; we played right downstairs from the very class rooms where I studied in Ulpan almost 14 years ago, when I made aliyah.

Between myself (a single parent), Olga (in a traditional marriage) and Yael and Michal (a committed religious Gay couple), it was remarkable to me how our concerns and observations converged.  We spoke about the price of child care, methods for getting our children to sleep past five in the morning, our disappointment with a lack of grandparent assistance, and our inability to watch more than a 45 minute television program without nodding off on the couch.  I caught up with Olga, whose mother was recently cleared from a diagnosis of cancer; and with Yael, she and Michal continue to have issues with both their families accepting the permanence of their relationship.

All four of us women expressed the desire to add a sibling into the mix, and all four of us wondered where we would find the physical stamina to do so.

Each of the three children - born within a month of each other - expressed their own personalities within this bright and adventure-filled room.  Mika was the most independent by far, Daniel played with the "boy stuff" like cars and balls, and Raphaela threw herself off anything that vaguely resembled a slide.   And all of us mothers marveled at how much these three had grown, considering we all know each other since pregnancy. I would say this was an appropriate venue the week that Women are celebrated throughout the globe.

Once again, for the second time within the last week, I felt like I belonged to a wonderful and loving group of people.  My Ulpan teachers would be very proud to see me sitting comfortably in the same place, 14 years later, conversing in Hebrew, English and Russian, a member of the Israeli landscape.