Love and Marriage

Mommy, when you get married...

I am not really dating anyone seriously right now.

I know, it's a theoretical questions.

Okay.

So, when you get married, you will have another baby, right?  And I will have a brother or sister.

Not exactly.

But that's what happens: you get married, you have children.  (Patting my belly as she is talking)

First of all, I already had a baby, you!  Second of all, getting married does not determine pregnancy, it only happens if your body agrees.  And I don't think my body will agree to have any more children.

Mommy, I really hope you find a good man to marry. I want a Daddy to play with, and I can help both of you.

Raphaela, your job is not to take care of me, or your father. Your job is to help out a little, because you live in the house.  But more important, your job is to be a girl and experience the world and have a beautiful life.

Mommy, you deserve to have a beautiful life too!

The Big Talk

For most of the six plus years of Raphaela's life, she has very rarely asked about the identity of her biological father/sperm donor, and when she does ask, the subject passes fairly quickly.  In the last two weeks, Raphaela has become almost obsessive about it, and will frequently get this terribly sad look on her face and say, "I miss my Daddy."

Despite the fact that she knows the story of her conception, that I chose to have her and that she does not have a father who will come home, it has obviously become more pressing to her.  Since nothing has changed at home, I can only assume that not only is she more aware now that she is older, but that her classmates have also discussed it with her.

Toward that end, I met today with the School Counsellor/Psychologist, with the intention of gaining some insight and perhaps some tips as to how to deal with this in the best and healthiest way possible. After telling the Counsellor about my approach, she assured me that I am in fact a very good parent and that I am handling it well.

Then she expressed a desire to do more within the realm of the school, because it will undoubtedly come up again in Raphaela's six years at Evelyna.  The Counsellor suggested that she first have a casual sit down with my daughter, to see where her head is at.  Following that discussion, she plans on leading an activity in the classroom to talk about the legitimacy of every type of family;  every family is different, and what matters most is that there is love and a sense of security.  "The girls," she said, "need a common language of respect on the subject."

The Counsellor also told me that there is another girl in the class whose father died over two years ago, during the most recent war in Gaza.  She assured me that both my daughter and this other child show no signs of depression or a "lack thereof" of a father, that Raphaela is warm and well-adjusted, with a deep sense and appreciation of self.

I closed the session by telling the Counsellor that I do tell Raphaela that just because there is no father in the house at the moment, does not mean that someday I will meet a wonderful man who will become both husband and father.

To which the Counsellor applied, in true beautiful and authentic Israeli style, "Tell me what you are looking for, I know people, you know!"

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.

A Turkey-Free Thanksgiving

Normally we get together with three other families to celebrate Thanksgiving in Jerusalem; this year did not work out, and so Raphaela and I had to come up with an alternative plan.

For the past few months, Raphaela has chosen vegetarianism, not out of ideology or philosophy, but rather as an active protest against the Jewish laws of milk and meat.  Raphaela resents that she must wait three hours after eating a meat meal, that an outside authority is preventing her from having, let's say, a piece of milk chocolate as dessert.

Thus her refusal to eat anything but dairy products and fish and salads, and my need to become quite creative when it comes to her school lunches, and our dinners at home.

Thus for Thanksgiving we had sushi instead of turkey and stuffing, leaving plenty of yummy dairy options for dessert.  Then we got into pajamas, settled in front of a video with a big bowl of popcorn, and started our Israeli non-meat version of Thanksgiving festivities.

Despite her having school tomorrow, we will stay up late and enjoy our holiday, because hey, it's Thanksgiving, a day of gratitude and family.

(We will attend in spirit the wedding of Sara Litman, the daughter of a recent terror victim.  She and her fiancé Ariel Beigel have invited the entire country of Israel, actually any Jew from all over the world, to attend the dancing at their wedding celebration, which was postponed when she had to sit shiva for her father and her brother.  The event will take place at one of the largest convention centers in Jerusalem, so that all can join them at this joyous event.  A company in Israel has bought the couple a car as a surprise gift, and people from around the world have contributed to a fund in their name.  Gotta love how Jews come together when it matters.)

Terminology

I post this to the other single parents who may or may not have thought about this question.
In conversation with my mother recently, she objected to the term "single mother by choice," stating that it implied that we women who have chosen this route want to remain single, like the Amazonian island where Wonder Woman was born.  Instead, my mother recommended the term, "single mother by circumstance."
I explained to my mother that first of all, SMC is the internationally recognized term, which focuses on the concept of choice rather than being perpetually single.  IE, a woman does not want to forfeit the right and joys and challenges of being a mother, just because she has not yet found the right life partner, and is aware of the biological clock ticking away.
Besides, the word "circumstance" implies to me that you went to a bar, got drunk, and got knocked up, that you had less than optimal control over your body and your common sense. "Oops, how did that baby get inside me?  Gosh, I might as well keep it."  Or that you happened to be married and for whatever reason (divorce, widow-hood) the father is no longer in the picture.
When I mentioned to my mother that I have no real objection to finding the right man and getting married, she answered, "Well, for that you would have to be dating..."
To which I replied, "Well in order to date properly I would have to have the time to myself, and a reliable baby sitter..."

Sticker Chart

Before my brother's wedding in the Summer, I was VERY motivated to exercise and run, because I had to look good in family photos that would be preserved for posterity.  But when we returned to Israel in the middle of the war, it hit me hard, resulting in an extended break in my workout regimen.  Not because I didn't know that the running was important for my health, but because I could not break out of the emotional jet lag of our trip to the United States, and the trauma of the war.

Now, with less than three weeks before Purim and exactly four weeks before the Jerusalem Marathon, I have kicked it back into full gear.  Not only do I need to look smokin' in my costume, but I need to be able to run 10K without embarrassing myself and/or collapsing on the street.

To motivate myself, I created a sticker chart, in which I record daily the amount I have run, and whether I have also lifted weights and completed a full set of stomach crunches.  Truth be told, after I run I feel quite invigorated, and get a little angry at myself for having avoided this activity for too many months.  As well, when I fill in my chart and give myself a sticker, I smile and it encourages me to continue the trend.  When I can walk up the treacherous hills of Jerusalem, the positive effect is confirmed.

For the past few days, the weather in Jerusalem has been a combination of icy cold winds, sand storms and mud rain.  I have exercised as best I can, but today I barely managed anything because it is also Erev Shabbat, and "miles to go before I sleep." 

When Raphaela came home from Gan today, she asked me (unsolicited) if I had earned my sticker today, and I realized that thanks to the chart, I have a wonderful built in coach in my house;  now my daughter will not let me slack off, and I am grateful for it.

Your Royal Highness

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tell It Like It Is

This weekend, I hosted my parents visiting from overseas, as well as my brother and his family who live in another (more religious) neighborhood in Jerusalem, not within walking distance of our house.  I had the following conversation with my seven year old niece, who went straight for the jugular, as children often do.

Niece:  Raphaela is really lucky, if you get married, she can go to the wedding!
Me:  Uh huh.
N:  Are you even anywhere near finding a husband?
Me:  Not yet.
N:  You know you are the oldest of all your brothers and sisters, and the rest are all married.
Me:  Uh huh.  (Feeling the unintended knife twisting in my back.) So, who wants some more Thanksgiving turkey?

Love and Marriage

"Mommy, I am going to marry E from my kindergarten!"

"What is it that you like about him?"

"Well, he's silly, and he teases the girl in my class who hurts my feelings, and then I feel better."

"Being married is great Raphaela, when you find the right person to be the Daddy, and when you both love each other and treat each other nicely.  A sense of humor is important as well. "

"What if you don't find the right person to marry?  How do you get to have babies?"

"The same way I had you, when I could not find the right person to be the Daddy."

"Oh, right.  You went to the hospital and the doctor helped you."

"That's right, and maybe even some day I will get married to the right person, and you will have a Daddy who loves you and lives in the house."

"Hooray!  That would be wonderful, Mommy."

Tales of Horror Dating

Shortly after I moved to Israel 17 years ago, more Jerusalem-ites than I could count -matchmakers, friends, random humans - would say, "Oh, there's this guy 'M' who would be the perfect match for you, he's your soul mate. You must date him!"  After several years of continually hearing this name, I told these well-meaning people to convert their thoughts into action and actually arrange for us to meet. I gave them permission to give him my cell phone number, so we could talk and start the process rolling.

One afternoon, my cell phone (which serves as the primary contact for my clinic) rang and I answered the phone, professionally, "Hello! You have reached the doctor. How can I help you?"

After a minute of silence and static on the other end, M ripped into me for close to ten minutes;, calling me an arrogant bitch, how dare I use my professional credentials to make him feel lousy about himself and the fact that he is "in between jobs," and how having called me now makes him unwilling to ever meet me in person.  Before hanging up, I calmly explained to him that he had called my work phone during the day, that he had ginormous issues, and that I was grateful that we would never meet in person.

Flash forward to this week, and a matchmaker called me to suggest "a boy" who might be appropriate for me, "in certain respects."  Not more than ten words to describe this boy/man and I asked the match maker if his name was M; the woman seemed surprised that I had guessed at this information, because when she told him about me he didn't know who I was and did not remember having ever spoken to me.

I suggested that it was near impossible, since there are so few female Chiropractors in Jerusalem, and because he had in fact spoken to me rather rudely that last time someone tried to set us up as a potential couple, way before I became a single mother.

"No," the matchmaker woman insisted, "he doesn't know you or remember you.  He seemed very pleased to learn that you are a doctor, because he is looking to get married so he can increase the income in the house, in order to pay his bills and his alimony to his ex-wife, and the child support he owes for his three children."

Yep, that's what she really said, no more and no less.

"Perhaps I misunderstand," I stated carefully, "but are you telling me that the only reason he wants to meet me and the only reason he sees me as a potential wife is so I can contribute my bank account and my earnings toward his unsuccessful life and his unpaid bills?" 

"Oh no, " the matchmaker said, "he thinks it might also be nice to meet you.  But he wanted me to be honest and upfront with you regarding his true intentions."

"OK," I started, counting to ten in my head before continuing, "please let him know that I remember him very well, and that it is most convenient to discount and berate a woman for being a professional when it bruises your ego, and then embrace her success when it works out to pay off his debts.  Please tell him, and please consider this for all your clients, that when a man or a woman says, 'I want to marry for money,' it is a complete turnoff."

I ended the conversation by respectfully requesting that this terrible matchmaker  take me off all of her lists, that I had no interest in working with an insensitive individual who obviously learned the craft at the Kris Kardasian School of Greed and Barely Human Interaction.

Cease Fire

Yesterday I had a belated birthday lunch with one of my oldest friends from college, a woman who now lives in Efrat, Israel.  (Yes, over the Green Line, 20 minutes away from my house, by car.)  We were discussing the collective stress of the last month of war on this country, and the particular agony to parents;  especially those whose sons or daughters were called up to serve in the South and in Aza.

My friend, originally American, has a 19-year old daughter currently serving in the National Service Program of the army,  and she put much of this violence into a new perspective, at least for me.  She said, "Every one of those young men who go into Aza and get killed, or wounded physically and emotionally, that is one less potential boyfriend or husband for my daughter."

Because 64 Israeli soldiers died in the last month and they will never come home to their families.  And countless numbers rest in hospitals across the country, even if they recover physically they have been irreparably scarred by the war and the bloodshed.

It is quiet, today, for now, though I in no way trust Hamas, Hezbollah, and the other random terrorist groups and anti-Semitic nations who actively plan for the day that Israel will be wiped off the map, and for all Jews to be wiped off the planet.

Raphaela has told me that she plans on serving in the army when she turns 18, and will be proud to do so. I told her that we have another 13 years to think about this, and privately I pray that there will be no need for my daughter and her generation to continue to fight for our daily safety and existence, in a world that seems to have gone mad.

Today former President Jimmy Carter appealed to the United States and the international community to recognize Hamas as a valid political partner.  Like I said, a world gone mad.

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.

Home Again, Home Again

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

Tora Dojo, An Apology

I have returned from Kansas from my brother's wedding, a beautiful event for my brother and his new wife, and our joined families , and I now have the time to sit and catch up with my parents.

My father happened to mention a very old post on this blog, in which I referred to his teacher, friend and mentor, "Sifu" Sober of the Tora Dojo karate training, and an event which occurred over 25 years ago.  My comments were taken as a slap in the face to an old and dear family friend, and have been hurtful over the years.

For the sake of my father, and my own conscience, I called Professor Sober this evening;  we spoke candidly about our perceptions of the event, and of our desire to make peace, especially in light of the greater terrible threat to the Jewish Nation.  True friendships and connections always find a way to reconnect and forgive, and I am thankful to report that we have succeeded.

Perhaps the hardest part of being a grown-up is taking responsibility for our actions and being able to admit that our approaches were flawed, and then finding a new way to heal a wound. I am grateful that Professor Sober and I were able to forge this path, and I am grateful to my daughter for teaching me that as a parent and as a human being, we can embrace our imperfections and try to learn from them, if we are just a little brave.

Purim Costume Parade 2014

The Gan Purim Party, Friday

Purim Day One, Sunday

 

 

 

Shushan Purim, Day Two

 

 

 

The beautiful bride received a large dowry of candies and treats.

Back to Gan and routine tomorrow, just in time for the Marathon on Friday.

We are the Champions

I had been putting off the renewal of Raphaela's passport, because who wants to sit in a government office with an active  little girl, when you can procrastinate;  after all, we plan on traveling in July for my brother's wedding and that seems very far away.

Except that once April begins, the requests for passports will fly through the roof, and we would spend hours upon hours waiting our turn in line, and weeks upon weeks to receive the new documents.  So this morning bright and early - actually not so bright, but rather in the cold pouring Jerusalem rain - Raphaela and I drove to the Ministry of the Interior.  I brought along snacks and markers and coloring books and my iPad for entertainment, and prepared for the unpleasantness that is Israeli beaurocracy.

Except that as a Type A personality, we arrived so early that our number in line was "001," and we were in and out within fifteen minutes, with Raphaela arriving at Gan much earlier than I expected, hardly even late by any one's standards.

As we got into the car to go to Gan, Raphaela looked at me with a smile and said, "Now we can get on an airplane to the wedding, see my cousins, and I can wear make up!"

Core Values

Because children grow up so quickly, and because girls in particular become very aware way too soon of the "classic" IE airbrushed concept of beauty, I have taken a very strong stance to remind Raphaela that we must, as women, first and foremost love and respect our own bodies.

Every day I allow Raphaela to put on "lipstick" (actually Vaseline or Chap Stick), but I have agreed in principle that she may wear real make up ( lip gloss, a touch of eye shadow and possibly blush) on special occasions, which include being the Shabbat Ima at Gan, major Jewish holidays or family weddings.

Nail polish goes without saying, even on a regular day.

This morning we were walking to Gan and Raphaela said, to no one in particular, "I am so beautiful!  Of course I would be even more beautiful if I could have put on make up this morning." (Wink wink, nudge nudge...)

I stopped and got down to eye level and told her that no amount of make up could make someone beautiful on the outside if they were ugly on the inside.

"You are beautiful on the inside, you have a kind and loving heart, and that is what makes you beautiful also on the outside.  I will always love you, and I will always be proud of your beautiful soul."

Raphaela understood and I will continue to reinforce this message for her, but I doubt if that will stop the march of  the damaging commercialism aimed at our children.

Play Date Heartbreak

My daughter, Little Miss Social Butterfly, had asked me to arrange a play date with her friend M for this afternoon, after school.  When I picked up the children, both she and her friend were grinning ear to ear and making all sorts of plans for their time together at our house.

As we got closer to our street, the boy started to fret and asked me to take him to his house.  Though he could not be specific about his discomfort, he clearly wanted to abort this play date, which then caused Raphaela to crumple on the side walk and cry in the face of a perceived rejection.

I assured M that I would respect whatever he was feeling, and after dropping him off, Raphaela was inconsolable.  I explained to her that both children and grown ups sometimes get into a situation where they get afraid and plans change;  that M is still her good friend and that he does not think any less of her or their friendship; that her sense of frustration and disappointment is totally normal; and that M can come another day, when he is feeling less anxious.

We then spent a better part of the afternoon on a special project, transforming a large empty IKEA box into an airplane, whereupon we 'flew' to the United States to visit my brother and his family.  I can only assume that Raphaela and I had more leg room in our airplane (Air Susie) than we will in reality when we fly to the United States this summer for my youngest brother's wedding.

Only in Israel

Standing in line at the bakery on Palmach this morning to get supplies for Shabbat, and I found myself almost falling asleep standing.  When someone asked me why I was so tired, I explained that I had started, and finished, an entire novel last night, and went to sleep much later than I had intended.

All of a sudden, from somewhere in the bakery, I hear, "Well, I wouldn't want to be your husband!"

I turned around and asked this gentlemen to explain himself, and he said, "I like my women pretty like you, but much less intelligent."


( I give the man points for honesty.)

Valentine's Day

I normally become the Grinch on this day, which excludes from happiness all those who do not have someone who will buy them flowers or chocolate, or make the day more special than usual.  I think to myself, normally, wouldn't it be nice to have someone (besides me) tell me what a wonderful sexy woman and mother I am, or alternatively, someone who would do the cooking and errands today instead of me.  I'll accept either option.

This year on Valentine's Day I picked up Raphaela from Gan and drove to the zoo.  There we sat and enjoyed a picnic lunch in the beautiful sunshine of an un-rushed Friday in Jerusalem, with a gorgeous view of the flowering of the almond trees; we munched while Raphaela told me of her adventures in Gan today.  Because you must enjoy every joyous moment when it presents itself, and damn the Hallmark holiday.

In the background, the zoo sponsored a free concert of Simon and Garfunkel type musicians, who sang (for the most part) songs old and new about the glory of love.

When they sang "50 Ways to Leave your Lover," they apologized to the audience.