About a week ago, I got a call from a casting director for Warner Brothers, they were looking for:
A girl aged 6-9
Brown hair, brown eyes
English speaker, specifically with an Israeli accent
No particular acting experience required.
The casting director wanted to know if Raphaela would audition for them at their office in Tel Aviv, as she fit the bill, perfectly. I answered a tentative yes, but told them that if she was quite determined not to participate, I would cancel our meeting, so as not to waste their time.
Warner Brothers sent me a page of script for Raphaela to memorize, as well as certain requests, including that the child not wear make-up for the audition. ("Make-up?!" I thought, "At age six?") They specifically set the audition for the Chanukah holiday, during school vacation.
When I told Raphaela about the opportunity, she couldn't have cared less. When I told her it was about a brave girl, a heroine who is good at a bow and arrow and protects her family, she was worried because she does not know how to shoot a bow and arrow. When I did a read-through on the script and it mentioned a bear, Raphaela decided that she did not want to come face-to-face with a bear. Explaining modern movie-making and CGI technology did not help.
So I let it go. Over the week I read the script to her/with her and she remained completely ambivalent. Today, the day of our appointment, a cold and rainy day in Jerusalem, Raphaela made her resistance clear, she was not leaving the house for anything, and I canceled the audition.
I have learned (since she was 20 weeks old in the womb) that Raphaela does what she wants when she wants, and when the answer is "No," it is not worth the fight and the trauma. Walking, toilet training, ballet lessons, reading, selective vegetarianism, it all came when it came, when she decided that she could commit fully.
She does not want to be in the movies right now, and fame does not motivate her in the least. And I have no intention of becoming that reality star monster, Kris Kardashian. Even if my daughter is the next Gal Gadot or Natalie Portman.
I would have liked to go, just for the experience of it, but as the mother of this child- this warm, dramatic, stubborn, opinionated and social child -I have to know what is best for her. I trust the Universe that if this is indeed Raphaela's path, another opportunity will arise, when she is ready.
Showing posts with label Tel Aviv. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tel Aviv. Show all posts
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Friday, April 17, 2015
Kardashian Syndrome
Internet goddess Kim Kardashian, her husband Kanye West, their two old daughter North and the 'fragile' Kardashian sister, Khloe, landed their private plane in Ben Gurion earlier this week for a brief visit, along with their support staff and their massive marketing machine. Immediately, a group was set up on Facebook to follow their every move, with abundant tweets begging Kanye to arrange a free concert. The magical duo were featured on the covers of every major Israeli newspaper, and the info-tainment industry will probably air a special program on the outfits they all wore to little North's baptism. Rabid hordes of fans began to stake out hotels and high-end restaurants in Jerusalem, with the hopes of spotting, and maybe even, yes, touching the sparkly celebrity couple. As if simply being near their assets (pun intended) would rub off on the common folk in some small way.
Who cares, really. This is a woman who comes from a family more than eager to prostitute themselves for fame and fortune. We have suffered through daily updates about Kim's gynecological issues and her frequency of love making, her sister's painful divorce, her other sister's dysfunctional non-marriage, her step-father's transgender evolution, and her brother's spiral into mental illness.
I feel dirty just reading that last sentence.
Kimberly even used the Armenian Genocide to manipulate a photo opportunity. Her husband, Kanye West, is at the very least a thug and an anti-Semite, a rapper who felt it appropriate to humiliate a disabled man at one of his concerts; one of the human beings least qualified for public admiration.
You could argue that I am reacting out of jealousy. After all, I don't have a full make-up and wardrobe team, my apartment could fit inside one of their walk-in closets, and Kimye's clothing budged rivals the GNP of our small country of Israel. Whereas I can only dream of actually being able to afford a home of my own, something modest in Jerusalem, the Kardashians flew in for two days to purchase a multi-million dollar penthouse in Tel Aviv, on a whim.
This is not about envy, I pity this family for having strayed so far from the norms of basic decency. I do not aspire to my own reality program, I have enough to deal with on a daily basis in my real life, between single parenting and living in a country surrounded by our genetic cousins who want to wipe us off the map.
This rant is about the Kardashians, the Honey Boo Boos and the Toddlers with Tiaras. The parents who find it praise-worthy to exploit their offspring and actively place their children in harm's way, in order to make a buck. It is not a far leap from the 21rst century mental illness called "Kardashian Syndrome" to the ongoing tragic news story coming out of Maryland.
It is this same set of skewed and twisted values that allows two Jewish parents to purposely send their ten year old Rafi and his younger sister Devorah alone to the park, so they can be picked up by local police and held hostage for several hours by CPS. After, all, when the authorities in Maryland have already threatened to remove their children from the home forever, why take that seriously? And now that the parents are suing the local police, they can expose their children to even more trauma, forcing them to testify in court and relive the nightmare.
The more drama, the better the reality show...
All to make a point about Free Range Parenting and American Constitution, whatever that point may be; and more importantly, to stand in front of the camera while the mother weeps crocodile tears and the father grins with giddy excitement, soaking in the attention from the media.
Let's end the 15 minutes of fame of these parents, the Kardashians and their ilk. If we really care about our own children and their future, let's stop elevating pond scum into false gods.
Who cares, really. This is a woman who comes from a family more than eager to prostitute themselves for fame and fortune. We have suffered through daily updates about Kim's gynecological issues and her frequency of love making, her sister's painful divorce, her other sister's dysfunctional non-marriage, her step-father's transgender evolution, and her brother's spiral into mental illness.
I feel dirty just reading that last sentence.
Kimberly even used the Armenian Genocide to manipulate a photo opportunity. Her husband, Kanye West, is at the very least a thug and an anti-Semite, a rapper who felt it appropriate to humiliate a disabled man at one of his concerts; one of the human beings least qualified for public admiration.
You could argue that I am reacting out of jealousy. After all, I don't have a full make-up and wardrobe team, my apartment could fit inside one of their walk-in closets, and Kimye's clothing budged rivals the GNP of our small country of Israel. Whereas I can only dream of actually being able to afford a home of my own, something modest in Jerusalem, the Kardashians flew in for two days to purchase a multi-million dollar penthouse in Tel Aviv, on a whim.
This is not about envy, I pity this family for having strayed so far from the norms of basic decency. I do not aspire to my own reality program, I have enough to deal with on a daily basis in my real life, between single parenting and living in a country surrounded by our genetic cousins who want to wipe us off the map.
This rant is about the Kardashians, the Honey Boo Boos and the Toddlers with Tiaras. The parents who find it praise-worthy to exploit their offspring and actively place their children in harm's way, in order to make a buck. It is not a far leap from the 21rst century mental illness called "Kardashian Syndrome" to the ongoing tragic news story coming out of Maryland.
It is this same set of skewed and twisted values that allows two Jewish parents to purposely send their ten year old Rafi and his younger sister Devorah alone to the park, so they can be picked up by local police and held hostage for several hours by CPS. After, all, when the authorities in Maryland have already threatened to remove their children from the home forever, why take that seriously? And now that the parents are suing the local police, they can expose their children to even more trauma, forcing them to testify in court and relive the nightmare.
The more drama, the better the reality show...
All to make a point about Free Range Parenting and American Constitution, whatever that point may be; and more importantly, to stand in front of the camera while the mother weeps crocodile tears and the father grins with giddy excitement, soaking in the attention from the media.
Let's end the 15 minutes of fame of these parents, the Kardashians and their ilk. If we really care about our own children and their future, let's stop elevating pond scum into false gods.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Anglo Saxon? Duh!
One would think that after living in a country for almost 18 years, the blatantly American mannerisms would become dull and fade. Despite the American tinge to my Hebrew accent that will never vanish, I know that my approach to politics and life and child-rearing are Israeli to the core.
A prime example: even after I made aliyah and before I gave birth, the idea of hitting back was abhorrent to me. I spent many an occasion berating the Israeli educational system for allowing such active physical bullying, accepting it as the norm. Today, if Raphaela tells me that a child in her class was bothering her and hitting her, I instruct my daughter to defend herself first, and then tell the teacher. For better or for worse, and especially in these days of terrible escalating violence all over the country, a child growing up here must have superlative awareness to their surroundings and not become a victim.
And yet, yesterday as I walked around the whole city of Jerusalem doing errands, several people addressed me in English, from the start. As if it was obvious that English was my mother tongue and that I am an Israeli wanna-be.
It bothered me, and so I started taking a poll among my Israeli friends, asking what subtle signs gave away my land of birth. No one could exactly put their finger on it, one person suggesting it was the way I wore running shoes all the time, many others saying that it was just "obvious." Even Raphaela, born here in Jerusalem and possessing the most authentic Hebrew accent, along with the Israeli chutzpah, apparently shows some anglo markers, inherited and observed over time in her mother.
One of my Israeli friends assured me that my mixed past made me a more interesting person, and that all the elements of my upbringing gave me certain advantages. "Take it as a compliment that you don't come off as an obnoxious Israeli. Besides, you are more Tel Aviv than Jerusalem."
Who knew?
A prime example: even after I made aliyah and before I gave birth, the idea of hitting back was abhorrent to me. I spent many an occasion berating the Israeli educational system for allowing such active physical bullying, accepting it as the norm. Today, if Raphaela tells me that a child in her class was bothering her and hitting her, I instruct my daughter to defend herself first, and then tell the teacher. For better or for worse, and especially in these days of terrible escalating violence all over the country, a child growing up here must have superlative awareness to their surroundings and not become a victim.
And yet, yesterday as I walked around the whole city of Jerusalem doing errands, several people addressed me in English, from the start. As if it was obvious that English was my mother tongue and that I am an Israeli wanna-be.
It bothered me, and so I started taking a poll among my Israeli friends, asking what subtle signs gave away my land of birth. No one could exactly put their finger on it, one person suggesting it was the way I wore running shoes all the time, many others saying that it was just "obvious." Even Raphaela, born here in Jerusalem and possessing the most authentic Hebrew accent, along with the Israeli chutzpah, apparently shows some anglo markers, inherited and observed over time in her mother.
One of my Israeli friends assured me that my mixed past made me a more interesting person, and that all the elements of my upbringing gave me certain advantages. "Take it as a compliment that you don't come off as an obnoxious Israeli. Besides, you are more Tel Aviv than Jerusalem."
Who knew?
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Bring Back our Boys
A friend of mine used to live in Efrat, in Gush Etzion, a boring place according to her son who during high school, would occasionally skip school with some of his friends and hitchhike into Jerusalem, to hang out at the mall.
This boy is now a 'man' in his 20's, and yet this story keeps running in a loop in my head, and I keep thinking how lucky my friend should feel that nothing ever happened to her son on one of his excursions.
Israel is a funny place, there are terrible things happening - like the kidnapping of three boys studying in Gush Etzion, by Hamas - and although we manage to function normally, the news updates and the thoughts of anger and horror dominate. What's more, many of the Israelis who stand politically against the so-called occupation of the West Bank, joined in prayer with 30,000 Jews last night at the Kotel [The Wailing Wall] to pray for their return and their safety. In fact Jews all over the country, in small synagogues and in Tel Aviv's Rabin Square united in prayer last night; unfortunately, it takes tragedy to pull us together.
Gal-Galatz, the popular music army radio station, has switched into sad-song mode. (Meanwhile, the Palestinian supporters of Hamas appear in the international media, handing out candies and dancing in celebration.)
Yesterday I treated patients in the clinic, bought medicine for our cat Harry, made phone calls and checked emails, folded laundry and washed dishes, and continued my preparations for our trip to the United States in two weeks. In the afternoon, Raphaela attended a birthday party of one of her girl friends from Gan, and came home with an art project (not yet dried) that made everything in the house shimmer with glue glitter, and I was annoyed.
But not so annoyed, because my daughter is home with me, safe within my arms, and there are three families who cannot say the same.
When I scanned Facebook last night, after Raphaela had fallen asleep, I would estimate that half the posts concerned these three high school students; the prayers on their behalf, the posturing of politicians within Israel and abroad, the collection of money and supplies for the soldiers who are currently combing every inch of the West Bank, 24 hours per day.
The other half of the Facebook posts featured things like: a person selling their television and bedroom furniture, college students looking for apartments for the Fall semester at Hebrew University, a woman selling spare tickets to a concert next week, Fathers' Day memes, a mother asking for advice about summer camps, a bit of news about a stash of medicine that had been looted from a warehouse, the latest scores in the World Cup.
You know, normal life events. Israel is a funny place.
This boy is now a 'man' in his 20's, and yet this story keeps running in a loop in my head, and I keep thinking how lucky my friend should feel that nothing ever happened to her son on one of his excursions.
Israel is a funny place, there are terrible things happening - like the kidnapping of three boys studying in Gush Etzion, by Hamas - and although we manage to function normally, the news updates and the thoughts of anger and horror dominate. What's more, many of the Israelis who stand politically against the so-called occupation of the West Bank, joined in prayer with 30,000 Jews last night at the Kotel [The Wailing Wall] to pray for their return and their safety. In fact Jews all over the country, in small synagogues and in Tel Aviv's Rabin Square united in prayer last night; unfortunately, it takes tragedy to pull us together.
Gal-Galatz, the popular music army radio station, has switched into sad-song mode. (Meanwhile, the Palestinian supporters of Hamas appear in the international media, handing out candies and dancing in celebration.)
Yesterday I treated patients in the clinic, bought medicine for our cat Harry, made phone calls and checked emails, folded laundry and washed dishes, and continued my preparations for our trip to the United States in two weeks. In the afternoon, Raphaela attended a birthday party of one of her girl friends from Gan, and came home with an art project (not yet dried) that made everything in the house shimmer with glue glitter, and I was annoyed.
But not so annoyed, because my daughter is home with me, safe within my arms, and there are three families who cannot say the same.
When I scanned Facebook last night, after Raphaela had fallen asleep, I would estimate that half the posts concerned these three high school students; the prayers on their behalf, the posturing of politicians within Israel and abroad, the collection of money and supplies for the soldiers who are currently combing every inch of the West Bank, 24 hours per day.
The other half of the Facebook posts featured things like: a person selling their television and bedroom furniture, college students looking for apartments for the Fall semester at Hebrew University, a woman selling spare tickets to a concert next week, Fathers' Day memes, a mother asking for advice about summer camps, a bit of news about a stash of medicine that had been looted from a warehouse, the latest scores in the World Cup.
You know, normal life events. Israel is a funny place.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Brave
Today, after dropping off Raphaela at Gan, I had a few hours free before work.
I got into my car and sat in Route One traffic, got to IKEA without getting lost and was one of the first customers in the store.
For a change, I had brought a shopping list, basically stuck to the list and did not exceed my planned budget.
I ate Swedish meatballs, had no near miss driving experiences on the way home on the highway, and got home in time to pick up Raphaela.
These are all big things for me, each step along the way, marred only by the fact that I did not have a friend to accompany me and enjoy the day trip to Sweden. It's the little touches, a new throw pillow or bathmat or laundry basket, that freshens up the house.
Now someone has to help me together all this stuff...
I got into my car and sat in Route One traffic, got to IKEA without getting lost and was one of the first customers in the store.
For a change, I had brought a shopping list, basically stuck to the list and did not exceed my planned budget.
I ate Swedish meatballs, had no near miss driving experiences on the way home on the highway, and got home in time to pick up Raphaela.
These are all big things for me, each step along the way, marred only by the fact that I did not have a friend to accompany me and enjoy the day trip to Sweden. It's the little touches, a new throw pillow or bathmat or laundry basket, that freshens up the house.
Now someone has to help me together all this stuff...
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Crazy Neighbor Lady
The elderly woman who lives below us and 'adopted' me and Raphaela, the former opera singer with severe dementia, has been hospitalized for the last two weeks. I have been in contact with her daughter who lives in Tel Aviv, and they asked me for my personal and medical opinion regarding the steps that should be taken once she returns home.
I gently described my own observations and the degradation of her health over the last six months, and suggested that she not live alone anymore. Her family thanked me, and another neighbor who watches over their mother as well, and told me that she speaks of Raphaela often, as if she were her own grandchild.
I do not fear death, but rather traumatic aging. What is the point of breaking records and living "until 120" (as per the classic Jewish blessing) if it entails suffering?
I gently described my own observations and the degradation of her health over the last six months, and suggested that she not live alone anymore. Her family thanked me, and another neighbor who watches over their mother as well, and told me that she speaks of Raphaela often, as if she were her own grandchild.
I do not fear death, but rather traumatic aging. What is the point of breaking records and living "until 120" (as per the classic Jewish blessing) if it entails suffering?
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Man in the House
My (newly engaged) youngest brother came to Israel for the last three weeks on a business trip. We have always been very close despite the age difference, and though he spent the work weeks in Tel Aviv, he came to us in Jerusalem for the Shabbat weekends.
Raphaela connected to him immediately, and now that he has neared the end of his stay with us, I realize that my daughter learned certain things for the first time in her life, having a non-girl human being live with us.
At first, when my brother would expect privacy while on the toilet or while getting dressed, Raphaela became distressed and took the closed door as a personal insult. I explained to her that just because she follows me everywhere (shower, bathroom, supermarket, garbage runs, nap time) does not mean that other people enjoy the same level of intimacy. Trying to teach her the value of respecting other's wishes, I pointed out that if her uncle did not want her watching, he had every right, and she must wait with patience until he comes out of the guest room.
She gets it now, at least for people other than Mommy.
Then, this morning, she observed my brother placing Tefillin (phylacteries) while he prayed and seemed intrigued. It hit me that she had never seen them before, and the three of us - my brother and I and Raphaela - had a lengthy discussion about Tefillin, what they represent and who wears them. I explained that although I know certain very dedicated women who wear Tefillin on a regular basis, the practice is reserved mostly for Orthodox boys and men, over the age of 13. Raphaela then made sure that she could still pray as she always does in Gan, and I reassured her that G-d listens to us wherever we are, whether it be synagogue or with Tefillin in the morning, or at home.
She asked me if I pray on a regular basis, and I told her that I talk to G-d all day, throughout the day; when I am working I ask G-d to help heal my patients, when I am driving I ask G-d to help me find a decent parking spot, and when I watch her sleep at night I ask G-d to keep Raphaela safe and healthy and happy.
Perhaps the most important lesson of my brother's visit is this: Raphaela became so attached so quickly to my brother, and exhibited so much curiosity about the ways of men. She could not stop talking to him at home, and about him in school, and was overjoyed when he took her to Gan one morning. When I start dating, not just having fun but when it becomes serious with possible signs of long-term commitment, I will be very careful as to when Raphaela meets this man who could become a new and key element of our lives. For her sake, I cannot bring someone into the house, watch her connect and have him disappear.
Raphaela connected to him immediately, and now that he has neared the end of his stay with us, I realize that my daughter learned certain things for the first time in her life, having a non-girl human being live with us.
At first, when my brother would expect privacy while on the toilet or while getting dressed, Raphaela became distressed and took the closed door as a personal insult. I explained to her that just because she follows me everywhere (shower, bathroom, supermarket, garbage runs, nap time) does not mean that other people enjoy the same level of intimacy. Trying to teach her the value of respecting other's wishes, I pointed out that if her uncle did not want her watching, he had every right, and she must wait with patience until he comes out of the guest room.
She gets it now, at least for people other than Mommy.
Then, this morning, she observed my brother placing Tefillin (phylacteries) while he prayed and seemed intrigued. It hit me that she had never seen them before, and the three of us - my brother and I and Raphaela - had a lengthy discussion about Tefillin, what they represent and who wears them. I explained that although I know certain very dedicated women who wear Tefillin on a regular basis, the practice is reserved mostly for Orthodox boys and men, over the age of 13. Raphaela then made sure that she could still pray as she always does in Gan, and I reassured her that G-d listens to us wherever we are, whether it be synagogue or with Tefillin in the morning, or at home.
She asked me if I pray on a regular basis, and I told her that I talk to G-d all day, throughout the day; when I am working I ask G-d to help heal my patients, when I am driving I ask G-d to help me find a decent parking spot, and when I watch her sleep at night I ask G-d to keep Raphaela safe and healthy and happy.
Perhaps the most important lesson of my brother's visit is this: Raphaela became so attached so quickly to my brother, and exhibited so much curiosity about the ways of men. She could not stop talking to him at home, and about him in school, and was overjoyed when he took her to Gan one morning. When I start dating, not just having fun but when it becomes serious with possible signs of long-term commitment, I will be very careful as to when Raphaela meets this man who could become a new and key element of our lives. For her sake, I cannot bring someone into the house, watch her connect and have him disappear.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Gilligan's Island, Day Seven
With Gan back in the routine, and the water and electricity staying stable so far (pthoo pthoo pthoo), and with no scheduled patients, I took the day to catch up on our home life. Truth be told, I was supposed to attend a Chiropractic conference in Tel Aviv today, but the car is still a little stuck in ice, and the Jerusalem roads are far from safe.
I went to the bank and supermarket, so now we have actual healthy food to cook and eat. I bought more litter sand from the pet store, because Harry has been inside with us for the last week; he suffers from depression when he gets stuck in the house for too long. Several desperate loads of laundry will need to be folded at some point today.
While getting dressed this morning, I found a set of silk undershirts, perfect for this weather, some of them still in their original packaging. I smiled, remembering that these had arrived at my grandparent's house for my grandmother, during her shiva. One of my aunts told me that I should take them back to Israel, that they will keep me warm someday, "She doesn't need silk undershirts anymore," they said.
All these years later, and my grandmother is still taking care of me.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Good Fences
For the past 14.5 years, I have lived on the same street in Jerusalem, a dead end with three buildings, and I have jumped from one to the other to the other.
Approximately seven years ago, a drunk boy (now a "reformed" Ultra Orthodox man) driving back from a party hit my parked car and severely dented in its side. What resulted was a series of accusations and a lack of cooperation from the offender, which led us to court, which led to several dirty acts of retaliation by the hands of the family members of this boy.
As it happens, the boy and his family are now my downstairs neighbors. Awkward.
Awkward when I moved across the street and started parking in the new lot, only to find verbally abusive anonymous notes on my car, demanding that I park where I live and not in "their private spaces." I responded by posting a note on the door of my new building saying,
"For the general information of the residents: the blue Scenic and its owner now live here and we are your neighbors. We have as much right to use a parking space as you do. And by the way, the blue Scenic and its owners also have a cat named Harry. He is not a street cat and he has a collar, so if you see him sitting next to the door waiting for me to let him in, do not chase him away. Thank you."
More awkward when this week I went to my car, an automobile that stays parked for most of the time, except for a few excursions to the supermarket or the very occasional drive to Tel Aviv for a Chiropractic Board meeting. I noted that for no reasonable explanation, my car, Cher*, which had previously been the color navy blue, was now spotted with a sparkly white paint, everywhere. On the roof, on the windows and the sides of the car.
After several inquiries around the building, I discovered that my neighbors, the same French neighbors who years ago behaved badly as far as my car and I were concerned, had in fact been painting this week, and that the paint job of several of the other neighbor's cars had been destroyed in the process.
DEJA VU...
I girded myself for battle, trying to figure out the best way to approach the situation:
"You ruined my car and you must compensate me!" (Nope, too direct and immediately belligerent, even for Israelis.)
"I know you were painting this week, and I know that you are aware of the damage your painter caused!" ( Nope, still a touch on the belligerent side, leaving very little room for kindness and negotiation.)
"Tell me, do you know if any of the neighbors were painting inside their house this week?" (Nope, I cannot pull off the Stupid naïve thing, and I need to start with a certain position of strength.)
Finally, I knocked on the door and started with, "Hi, I need to ask you a question."
Before I could proceed, the woman of the house said, "And I already know the answer to your question." She continued, explaining that her painter ("who is a very trustworthy and honest man...") tried a new machine for spraying the paint, and that he was unaware of the damage he had caused until after it happened; and that they had been so busy this week that they hadn't had the time to come to me before I came to them; and that they are already looking into estimates to get the cars of all the neighbors fixed and polished.
Then she suggested, with kindness of course, that they would be willing to buy me a tarp to cover my car until it was repaired, since it now looked so hideous.
OK then. Much less traumatic than I had anticipated, and that is a good thing. Now begins the waiting game, but with several families breathing down their neck, here's hoping these people don't take too long to take care of the problem.
* My car's name is Cher because the first song that came on the radio when she was new and shiny was "I got you Babe" by Sonny and Cher. Figuring that I did not want to name my baby after a former Congressman who smashed into a tree and died while skiing, I went with his partner's name instead.
Approximately seven years ago, a drunk boy (now a "reformed" Ultra Orthodox man) driving back from a party hit my parked car and severely dented in its side. What resulted was a series of accusations and a lack of cooperation from the offender, which led us to court, which led to several dirty acts of retaliation by the hands of the family members of this boy.
As it happens, the boy and his family are now my downstairs neighbors. Awkward.
Awkward when I moved across the street and started parking in the new lot, only to find verbally abusive anonymous notes on my car, demanding that I park where I live and not in "their private spaces." I responded by posting a note on the door of my new building saying,
"For the general information of the residents: the blue Scenic and its owner now live here and we are your neighbors. We have as much right to use a parking space as you do. And by the way, the blue Scenic and its owners also have a cat named Harry. He is not a street cat and he has a collar, so if you see him sitting next to the door waiting for me to let him in, do not chase him away. Thank you."
More awkward when this week I went to my car, an automobile that stays parked for most of the time, except for a few excursions to the supermarket or the very occasional drive to Tel Aviv for a Chiropractic Board meeting. I noted that for no reasonable explanation, my car, Cher*, which had previously been the color navy blue, was now spotted with a sparkly white paint, everywhere. On the roof, on the windows and the sides of the car.
After several inquiries around the building, I discovered that my neighbors, the same French neighbors who years ago behaved badly as far as my car and I were concerned, had in fact been painting this week, and that the paint job of several of the other neighbor's cars had been destroyed in the process.
DEJA VU...
I girded myself for battle, trying to figure out the best way to approach the situation:
"You ruined my car and you must compensate me!" (Nope, too direct and immediately belligerent, even for Israelis.)
"I know you were painting this week, and I know that you are aware of the damage your painter caused!" ( Nope, still a touch on the belligerent side, leaving very little room for kindness and negotiation.)
"Tell me, do you know if any of the neighbors were painting inside their house this week?" (Nope, I cannot pull off the Stupid naïve thing, and I need to start with a certain position of strength.)
Finally, I knocked on the door and started with, "Hi, I need to ask you a question."
Before I could proceed, the woman of the house said, "And I already know the answer to your question." She continued, explaining that her painter ("who is a very trustworthy and honest man...") tried a new machine for spraying the paint, and that he was unaware of the damage he had caused until after it happened; and that they had been so busy this week that they hadn't had the time to come to me before I came to them; and that they are already looking into estimates to get the cars of all the neighbors fixed and polished.
Then she suggested, with kindness of course, that they would be willing to buy me a tarp to cover my car until it was repaired, since it now looked so hideous.
OK then. Much less traumatic than I had anticipated, and that is a good thing. Now begins the waiting game, but with several families breathing down their neck, here's hoping these people don't take too long to take care of the problem.
* My car's name is Cher because the first song that came on the radio when she was new and shiny was "I got you Babe" by Sonny and Cher. Figuring that I did not want to name my baby after a former Congressman who smashed into a tree and died while skiing, I went with his partner's name instead.
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.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Marathon Blues
This week I attended an all-class reunion for my high school in Boston, 15% of their alumni have moved to Israel since the institution opened its doors 75 years ago, and the turnout of close to 200 people of several generations was quite impressive and unexpected, even for those who planned the event.
Having not particularly enjoyed high school, because I felt that they continually stifled my individuality in favor of the "Box A" or "Box B" approach, I was hesitant at first, and enjoyed myself more than I had anticipated. I quite concur with my friend Sarah, perhaps the most moving moment was one in which the entire room of native Bostonians stood up and sang Hatikva together, in Jerusalem at the Menachem Begin Heritage Center.
One of my classmates who attended has created quite a successful life portfolio for himself, considering he spent most of high school getting suspended. A married man with three children, an independent business person who has recently moved his office to Modiin Illit, so that he may employ Ultra-Orthodox women. A speaker of three languages - Hebrew, English and Russian- he frequently appears on Russian television as a political analyst, and he in fact served as the MC for the evening.
Besides all that, he has recently become the Chairman and organizer of the Alyn annual Charity Bike Ride, which this year took place in the wake of the bombing of the North of Israel.
OK, so he has the house/wife/kids thing going on, and he manages to stay in shape so he can bike ride across the country.
I am jealous of his ability to work out on a regular basis despite the many demands of his daily routine.
Last year, I trained sufficiently and ran the 10K in the Jerusalem Marathon. Persevering in the hail and the shrieking wind, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience and was on a high for weeks afterwards, having accomplished this particular personal goal.
This year I tried training, but my knees complained bitterly, awaking an old injury from the age of 18. My Chiropractor and I tried to create a program that would ease my knees and the rest of my body into a comfort zone, but as a single mother I didn't have the time to enact our plan in an ideal manner.
The mature me and the doctor in me has accepted that this year it is not meant to be, and I have renewed my commitment to run next year once again.
Yesterday a patient told me that he had run from Herzelia to Tel Aviv and back, a total of approximately 20 kilometers, and that it was "easy and fun," that he "almost didn't notice the distance." I genuinely congratulated him, and inside felt a little piece of my own heart sink. Every time I see a sign for the Marathon, whose finish line is located right near my house in Gan Saccher, my hearts sinks just a little bit more. It is starting to eat away at my confidence, as I reconsider what I have achieved in my life toward true excellence.
Maybe I should take the day off and go to the beach in Tel Aviv...
Having not particularly enjoyed high school, because I felt that they continually stifled my individuality in favor of the "Box A" or "Box B" approach, I was hesitant at first, and enjoyed myself more than I had anticipated. I quite concur with my friend Sarah, perhaps the most moving moment was one in which the entire room of native Bostonians stood up and sang Hatikva together, in Jerusalem at the Menachem Begin Heritage Center.
One of my classmates who attended has created quite a successful life portfolio for himself, considering he spent most of high school getting suspended. A married man with three children, an independent business person who has recently moved his office to Modiin Illit, so that he may employ Ultra-Orthodox women. A speaker of three languages - Hebrew, English and Russian- he frequently appears on Russian television as a political analyst, and he in fact served as the MC for the evening.
Besides all that, he has recently become the Chairman and organizer of the Alyn annual Charity Bike Ride, which this year took place in the wake of the bombing of the North of Israel.
OK, so he has the house/wife/kids thing going on, and he manages to stay in shape so he can bike ride across the country.
I am jealous of his ability to work out on a regular basis despite the many demands of his daily routine.
Last year, I trained sufficiently and ran the 10K in the Jerusalem Marathon. Persevering in the hail and the shrieking wind, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience and was on a high for weeks afterwards, having accomplished this particular personal goal.
This year I tried training, but my knees complained bitterly, awaking an old injury from the age of 18. My Chiropractor and I tried to create a program that would ease my knees and the rest of my body into a comfort zone, but as a single mother I didn't have the time to enact our plan in an ideal manner.
The mature me and the doctor in me has accepted that this year it is not meant to be, and I have renewed my commitment to run next year once again.
Yesterday a patient told me that he had run from Herzelia to Tel Aviv and back, a total of approximately 20 kilometers, and that it was "easy and fun," that he "almost didn't notice the distance." I genuinely congratulated him, and inside felt a little piece of my own heart sink. Every time I see a sign for the Marathon, whose finish line is located right near my house in Gan Saccher, my hearts sinks just a little bit more. It is starting to eat away at my confidence, as I reconsider what I have achieved in my life toward true excellence.
Maybe I should take the day off and go to the beach in Tel Aviv...
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
It's Raining, It's Pouring
Growing up in the States, I took water for granted; my parents house in Boston has a small forest, a lake and waterfall practically in their back yard. Living in Israel these past 16 years, my attitude and awareness has shifted, because each citizen acutely feels the lack of water and regular rain fall, except for certain periods in the Winter.
This past week has already broken all sorts of rainfall records, and the Kinneret Lake which has suffered with various "Red Lines" in the last ten years stands at an all-time high. My Chiropractic conference in Tel Aviv was canceled today, because of the flooding of the major Ayalon highway and the threat of country-wide snow.
On the way to Gan this morning, Raphaela and I sat in the car for ten minutes, waiting for a break in the hail stones; all educational institutions in Jerusalem will close today at noon, so everyone can get home and get tucked into a nice warm house. My daughter can't wait to play in the snow with her new pink boots that we bought last week, just in time for the storm.
Even funnier, and somehow the game has become comforting to me, the Israeli radio stations have attuned their programs to the weather outside, and so most songs this morning contained the words "rain," "storm," and "snow."
The Israeli experience is by no means easy, but it is home, a wet and cold and happy one at the moment. Come join us and jump in the abundant puddles.
This past week has already broken all sorts of rainfall records, and the Kinneret Lake which has suffered with various "Red Lines" in the last ten years stands at an all-time high. My Chiropractic conference in Tel Aviv was canceled today, because of the flooding of the major Ayalon highway and the threat of country-wide snow.
On the way to Gan this morning, Raphaela and I sat in the car for ten minutes, waiting for a break in the hail stones; all educational institutions in Jerusalem will close today at noon, so everyone can get home and get tucked into a nice warm house. My daughter can't wait to play in the snow with her new pink boots that we bought last week, just in time for the storm.
Even funnier, and somehow the game has become comforting to me, the Israeli radio stations have attuned their programs to the weather outside, and so most songs this morning contained the words "rain," "storm," and "snow."
The Israeli experience is by no means easy, but it is home, a wet and cold and happy one at the moment. Come join us and jump in the abundant puddles.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Jiggedy Jig
Home again, home again, jiggedy jig!
I first of all complement Swiss Air, on the best leg of the flight either way this trip. Their planes were clean and the seating decent even for a long-legged person like me. The personal entertainment system worked without a hitch, and I managed to watch two movies that had been on my list. It was a night flight, so Raphaela slept most of the way, blessed be. The level of professionalism and courtesy was high, and they arrived exactly on time, according to the itinerary.
The airport in Zurich even had a Gymboree play area.
I wish I could unequivocally praise El Al in the same way, though I must admit that when I saw the large bold Israeli flag on the tail of the plane, I actually started bawling. It felt good to see the symbol of a place that brings me comfort and joy, that feeling of home and family. Dorothy said it best, I think.
As we landed in Tel Aviv, we were greeted by a beautiful sunset outside our window, and as we climbed through the hills of Jerusalem and reached our building, I received the most classic Israeli welcome: one of the crazy old people who lives on the first floor saw me carrying luggage and herding an over-exhausted three year old, and felt that this was the perfect time to discuss with me - as a Chiropractor and as a neighbor - whether my cat Harry was causing her allergies. I looked at her and said, "Really?! I've just returned after a two week vacation, shlepping suitcases and a crying child and you want to accuse my cat of causing you problems because he walks down the stairwell?!"
She stopped her ranting, wished me a hearty "Welcome Home" and hastily closed her door.
I first of all complement Swiss Air, on the best leg of the flight either way this trip. Their planes were clean and the seating decent even for a long-legged person like me. The personal entertainment system worked without a hitch, and I managed to watch two movies that had been on my list. It was a night flight, so Raphaela slept most of the way, blessed be. The level of professionalism and courtesy was high, and they arrived exactly on time, according to the itinerary.
The airport in Zurich even had a Gymboree play area.
I wish I could unequivocally praise El Al in the same way, though I must admit that when I saw the large bold Israeli flag on the tail of the plane, I actually started bawling. It felt good to see the symbol of a place that brings me comfort and joy, that feeling of home and family. Dorothy said it best, I think.
As we landed in Tel Aviv, we were greeted by a beautiful sunset outside our window, and as we climbed through the hills of Jerusalem and reached our building, I received the most classic Israeli welcome: one of the crazy old people who lives on the first floor saw me carrying luggage and herding an over-exhausted three year old, and felt that this was the perfect time to discuss with me - as a Chiropractor and as a neighbor - whether my cat Harry was causing her allergies. I looked at her and said, "Really?! I've just returned after a two week vacation, shlepping suitcases and a crying child and you want to accuse my cat of causing you problems because he walks down the stairwell?!"
She stopped her ranting, wished me a hearty "Welcome Home" and hastily closed her door.
Monday, September 10, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Assutah III/Tel Aviv
I woke up in the Assutah Hospital Sleep Clinic at my regular time, ie around five am, and Raphaela woke up within twenty minutes after I did. Her mood was not stellar, nor did I expect it to be, and even the bribe of Bamba did very little to improve her disposition.
I briefly washed my face and brushed my teeth, and after six am I called my Uncle to pick us up and bring us back to their apartment; after my own appendectomy last month, and this round of tests for Raphaela, I have come to value family even more. While we were waiting, Raphaela helped feed the fish in the Japanese pond outside the hospital, amazing how they swarmed around a few pieces of bread.
I did not feel awake enough or emotionally ready to immediately return to Jerusalem, and so after a brief breakfast, I took Raphaela to the private nearby beach. At 7:30 in the morning, the beach is empty except for a group of serious surfer dudes, the sand is clean and soft, and the sun feels just right. Raphaela immediately settled in and started digging and building sand castles. With very little convincing, she agreed to stand near the water's edge, and her bravey increased exponentially. By the time we left we were both soaked, and in fact it was my daughter who pushed me to go deeper into the ocean.
That's three "firsts" for Raphaela: first time in Tel Aviv, first time (and hopefully the last) spending overnight in a medical facility, and first time at the beach rather than a chlorinated pool.
We spent all morning at the beach, and when I knew it was time to leave I started tearing up, I could not imagine leaving such a tranquil and happy place to return to my "real life" of preparing for Shabbat, checking emails and making office calls. The ocean has always made me feel whole, and I think that if I lived near the sea, I would never get any work done.
The drive back to Jerusalem was so much smoother and quicker than the ride the previous day, the highways remained clear except for one minor accident. Raphaela slept all the way home. Of course, between our clothing and our shoes and our beach bag, Raphaela and I brought home practically enough sand to set up a small beach on our living room floor.
I briefly washed my face and brushed my teeth, and after six am I called my Uncle to pick us up and bring us back to their apartment; after my own appendectomy last month, and this round of tests for Raphaela, I have come to value family even more. While we were waiting, Raphaela helped feed the fish in the Japanese pond outside the hospital, amazing how they swarmed around a few pieces of bread.
I did not feel awake enough or emotionally ready to immediately return to Jerusalem, and so after a brief breakfast, I took Raphaela to the private nearby beach. At 7:30 in the morning, the beach is empty except for a group of serious surfer dudes, the sand is clean and soft, and the sun feels just right. Raphaela immediately settled in and started digging and building sand castles. With very little convincing, she agreed to stand near the water's edge, and her bravey increased exponentially. By the time we left we were both soaked, and in fact it was my daughter who pushed me to go deeper into the ocean.
That's three "firsts" for Raphaela: first time in Tel Aviv, first time (and hopefully the last) spending overnight in a medical facility, and first time at the beach rather than a chlorinated pool.
We spent all morning at the beach, and when I knew it was time to leave I started tearing up, I could not imagine leaving such a tranquil and happy place to return to my "real life" of preparing for Shabbat, checking emails and making office calls. The ocean has always made me feel whole, and I think that if I lived near the sea, I would never get any work done.
The drive back to Jerusalem was so much smoother and quicker than the ride the previous day, the highways remained clear except for one minor accident. Raphaela slept all the way home. Of course, between our clothing and our shoes and our beach bag, Raphaela and I brought home practically enough sand to set up a small beach on our living room floor.
Assutah II
On Thursday afternoon, Raphaela and I battled traffic on the Ayalon highway, and after one and a half hours, arrived at my Great Aunt and Uncle, who live in Ramat Aviv. We spent several lovely hours there catching up, eating dinner and giving Raphaela a very unsuccessful bath, before we had to leave to the Assutah Sleep Clinic. It felt wonderful to have family around me, to disperse some of the accumulating stress about this exam and its implications.
It also became quite clear to me that unless I live in Tel Aviv, I will not work there no matter how high the demand; the commute would kill any positive energy I have toward my work as a Chiropractor.
For some reason, based upon the glowing descriptions I had heard, I expected the Assutach Hospital Sleep Clinic to resemble the Ein Karem Baby Hotel we stayed in right after the birth. The facility was fine, but hardly a place of luxury; the staff was pleasant and helpful, our room had a twin bed for the parent, a crib for the child and a small sink.
In fact, Raphaela was one of three children her age spending the night, and I again realized how blessed I am, because my daughter was the only child who went into bed and fell asleep quickly and without a fuss. As well, the other parents told me that their children were being monitored because they have been ill "all the time," whereas Raphaela thank G-d has only really been sick twice since her birth. (Not counting the perpetual low-grade runny nose...)
Neither of us had a decent night, in fact I cannot imagine how any child or adult rests when they are attached to electrodes and boxes and USB cables. In the morning, the technician commented to me, "Boy, she snores!" and then told me that in his non-medical professional opinion, Raphaela experienced Sleep Apnea many times during the night. In any case, the results come back within three weeks, at which point my family doctor and the ENT can figure out which surgery Raphaela requires to give her the gift of normal breathing.
It also became quite clear to me that unless I live in Tel Aviv, I will not work there no matter how high the demand; the commute would kill any positive energy I have toward my work as a Chiropractor.
For some reason, based upon the glowing descriptions I had heard, I expected the Assutach Hospital Sleep Clinic to resemble the Ein Karem Baby Hotel we stayed in right after the birth. The facility was fine, but hardly a place of luxury; the staff was pleasant and helpful, our room had a twin bed for the parent, a crib for the child and a small sink.
In fact, Raphaela was one of three children her age spending the night, and I again realized how blessed I am, because my daughter was the only child who went into bed and fell asleep quickly and without a fuss. As well, the other parents told me that their children were being monitored because they have been ill "all the time," whereas Raphaela thank G-d has only really been sick twice since her birth. (Not counting the perpetual low-grade runny nose...)
Neither of us had a decent night, in fact I cannot imagine how any child or adult rests when they are attached to electrodes and boxes and USB cables. In the morning, the technician commented to me, "Boy, she snores!" and then told me that in his non-medical professional opinion, Raphaela experienced Sleep Apnea many times during the night. In any case, the results come back within three weeks, at which point my family doctor and the ENT can figure out which surgery Raphaela requires to give her the gift of normal breathing.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Losing my Identity (Assutah)
Funny how when you become a parent, you lose your identity for a while. I myself am guilty of the crime: out of laziness more than anything else, I have not learned the name of every single parent of every single child at the Gan. Often, I will say, "Hello, Mother/Father of _____!" and then smile, to assuage some of the guilt of not knowing their grown-up name.
Today, Assutah Hospital called to remind me of Raphaela's appointment at their sleep clinic. This exam brings the ENT and my family doctor one step closer toward understanding when/if Raphaela will require surgery. The phone conversation started with, "Am I speaking to Raphaela's mother?" I am of course proud and happy to be my daughter's mother, though it entails only a part of the entire package that is me.
Right now I am most concerned about getting to Tel Aviv safely and finding the hospital. Because I do not have a GPS or Smart Phone, I have written the driving directions on Post-its; I will stick them on my steering wheel and peel each set of directions off as we achieve it.
Today, Assutah Hospital called to remind me of Raphaela's appointment at their sleep clinic. This exam brings the ENT and my family doctor one step closer toward understanding when/if Raphaela will require surgery. The phone conversation started with, "Am I speaking to Raphaela's mother?" I am of course proud and happy to be my daughter's mother, though it entails only a part of the entire package that is me.
Right now I am most concerned about getting to Tel Aviv safely and finding the hospital. Because I do not have a GPS or Smart Phone, I have written the driving directions on Post-its; I will stick them on my steering wheel and peel each set of directions off as we achieve it.
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