Giant Steps

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy July 4th!

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

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

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

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

This is a Test of the Emergency Broadcast System

This week, the army held a country-wide test of their capability, and that of us citizens, to deal with an attack on our soil.  The first siren went off at 11 am; Raphaela was at school ("We didn't do anything, Mommy.") and I was working.  Together with a client and a few neighbors, we went downstairs to the bomb shelter.

Which was locked tight, and as far as we knew, no one in the building holds the key.  Luckily, a little sticker on the door informed us that the shelter had been inspected at noon, an hour after the siren that had just occurred in that moment.  We marveled at Israel's apparent ability to use time travel to dodge beaurocracy.

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The second siren took place at seven pm, while Raphaela was in the bath.  Calmly, she asked me if "this was where we stand like a statue out of respect, or run and hide."

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As the kindergarten school year comes to an end, the frequency of multi-child birthday parties has increased as well.  Raphaela asked if there was another party today, and when I answered in the negative, she sighed in relief.  "Mommy, I just can't eat any more birthday cake."

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With time to spare before Shabbat, Raphaela and I took a walk to the park down the street from our house.  At some point, I and another father happened to notice a little boy, no more than four years old, frozen with fear and clinging for dear life on a ledge about ten feet off the ground on the playground equipment.  Lord knows how he managed to climb there by himself.

I asked him where his parents were, and he pointed to a BBQ picnic on the grassy area nearby.  I told the parents that they needed to rescue their son, and the boy's father immediately ran over and tried to get to his son, but was unable to reach him.  Another father, a young Israeli in great shape, immediately ran over and scaled the wall, catching the boy before he fell.  Then, with help from the boy's father, they lowered him down to the ground.

An obviously adventurous child, as soon as his legs hit solid ground, he started crying.

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On the way out of the park, we happened upon a guitar circle, six older Israeli men singing classic songs from the 60's and 70's.  We joined them for a bit, and after a great version of some Beatle's hits, we head home to start Shabbat.

Now that's a nice way to transition into the weekend.

Hakunah Matata

Today I pulled Raphaela out of Kindergarten in the middle of the day, to take her to her First Grade interview.  Raphaela had fun with it, I was a nervous wreck; unable to eat anything this morning because of the nausea, it was like the SATs  and my Chiropractic boards all over again.  (I stop eating when I am under stress.)

How did the interview and testing go? I don't know, since I was not sitting in the room with her.  The teacher who administered the meeting was all aglow afterwards, "Your daughter is lovely, it was such a pleasure," though I would hope that she is kind to all parents who go through this process. I have to have faith in my daughter that she represented herself well and honestly, and I have to trust the Universe that this will play out as it is meant to, for the best benefit of my child in the short and long run.

Raphaela seemed to quite enjoy exploring the school premises and peeking in on the classes and the music rooms and the art activities.

Or to quote my wise aunt, "When she is 20, she will be sitting in some therapist's office blaming you for everything that went wrong and right in her life anyway."

Apparently in approximately one and a half months I will hear from the school, whether or not Raphaela made the cut.  Then I have until April/May to make a final decision regarding repeating Kindergarten for "one more year of play," or moving onto the big leagues.

When I got home, I wrote a brief thank you note to the school, because politeness cannot be counted against you;  a habit learned from my grandmother, after whom Raphaela is named.

Raphaela has lately become obsessed with the Disney movie, The Lion King, and I have taken it upon myself - so I don't go insane and so I can start sleeping again - the philosophy of "Hakunah Matata."  When I start feeling anxious or start worrying about a process that for now is completely out of my hands, "Hakunah Matata!" Or to quote another Disney movie, "Let it go..."

Super Woman

A (not married, no children) friend of mine complemented me this week, saying that I had the "Super Woman and Super Mom thing down pat."  I replied, "Thank you, I think."  Because being on and capable and organized and strong all the time gets tiring, and I secretly pray that one day I can collapse, and know that there is someone there to be my safety net and pick up some of the day-to-day responsibilities of my life.

Here's how today, Thursday was supposed to play out:

5:30 am:  Wake up, after the previous night in which I went to a late concert, leaving Raphaela at home with our baby sitter
7:30 am:  Take Raphaela to kindergarten
8:30-10:30 am:  Work in Chiropractic clinic
10:45 am:  Pick up Raphaela from Kindergarten to go to Shaarei Zedek Hosptial, to remove the stitches and get examined by the plastic surgeon
11:30-12:30:  Shaarei Zedek Hospital
12:45 pm:  Pick up Raphaela's new eyeglasses.  (Mercifully, because we had to pay privately, the optician gave me a nice price, saying that at this age, glasses are like "that toy that keeps breaking.")
1:15 pm: Return Raphaela to school
1:45-3:30 pm:  Work in Chiropractic clinic
4:00 pm:  Pick up Raphaela, come home for a quick snack
5:15 pm:  Leave house for Chanukah play
6:30-8:30 pm:  Chanukah play
9:00 pm:  Collapse in utter exhaustion

Here's how today, Thursday, actually played out:

5:30 am:  Raphaela wakes up, I tell her I need a half hour more of sleep
7:15 am:  Take Raphaela to Kindergarten
8:30-10:15 am:  Work in Chiropractic clinic
10:25 am:  Pick up Raphaela from Kindergarten
10:30-40 am:  Pick up Raphaela's new glasses, they look beautiful on her and open up her whole face
10:45 am:  Drive to Shaarei Zedek Hospital, the long way (I missed the proper exit)
11-12:30:  Wait for Raphaela's appointment with the plastic surgeon (they are running late...)
12:30-40 pm:  Removal of stitches, no anesthesia and it seems to hurt Raphaela even more than the original injury.  Such a trooper!
12:45 pm:  Drive Raphaela back to school, where she declares that she is worn out from her ordeal and just needs to rest
1:15 pm: Arrive home and eat a small quick lunch
1:45-3:30 pm: Work in Chiropractic clinic
4:00 pm: Pick up Raphaela from Gan
5:15 pm:  Amazingly, the bus comes right away and it takes less than ten minutes to arrive at the theatre with 45 minutes before the show starts
6:30-8:15 pm:  Raphaela, my good friend and her daughter, and 3,000 other Israeli children from across all walks of life and all religious levels watch a loud sparkly version of "101 Arabian Nights," featuring some A-list Israeli actors and the absolutely stunning Ethiopian Miss Israel.  Too bad we can't hear parts of the songs because of the din of all the children echoing along the fabulous acoustics of the hall.
8:15-8:30 pm:   The MC announces that in honor of their final performance and the recent holiday of Chanukah, all children exiting the theatre will receive a special candy box full of treats.  Raphaela and I almost get trampled just trying to get out of our seats, and I cover her face, worried that some jostling child or parent will rip open the not-yet-healed wound on Raphaela's chin.
8:45 pm:  A taxi gets us home, Raphaela is juiced up from the adrenaline of the show and the gift, I have a throbbing headache.
9:00 pm:  Raphaela collapses into bed.
9:15 pm:  I collapse into bed and vow that now that I have given my daughter the Israeli Chanukah "Festigal" experience, I will never do it again. 

Happy Holidays

This morning, with terrific excitement, I reminded Raphaela that today we celebrate Thanksgiving, a holiday left over from my American experience and yet shall be cherished every year, no matter where I live.  Raphaela asked if she was allowed to join in the Turkey Day festivities, as she was born in Israel and not the United States.  I told her that as she has an American passport and a mother born in the US, she is also a dual citizen and should enjoy all rights as such.

Later in the day, an Israeli patient asked me if I had commemorated Christmas in my house, as a child growing up in America.  After all, it has even become accepted among some observant American Jews to take their child Trick-or-Treating;  forgetting all historical background to the holiday IE pogroms and the slaughtering of Jews, kids get to wear costumes and collect free candy.  Harmless, right?

I laughed and pointed out that since my father is an ordained Orthodox Rabbi, it was never an option  to visit Santa at the mall or have a "Chanukah Bush" in our house.  Christmas is all about Saint Nick and Jesus and trampling a stranger to get a cheap X-Box, clearly religious in nature, as opposed to Thanksgiving.  My parents actually did a good job of giving the Jewish holidays throughout the year beauty and significance, without envy or wistfulness for the more Christian and pagan holidays.

That being said, I do have a secret indulgence:  Christmas carols.  They bring me some joy as it reminds me of the warm atmosphere of New York City that month before the holiday, where New Yorkers seemed less cut-throat and more friendly, "Happy Holidays!" wherever you went, skating at Rockefeller Center, the MET tree and the window decorations.

Ahh, nostalgia!

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.

Happy Thanksgivvukah 2013

Particularly because it happens once every 70,000 years...

I have always felt that it is most important to be thankful, on a daily basis, and I welcome the opportunity of Thanksgiving to teach Raphaela that we should express gratitude for the people who influenced us and the places that gave us context for our lives.

Each Thanksgiving we are in Jerusalem, we join 40 or so expats at the Inbal Hotel and feast upon the traditional holiday foods and listen to music.  Between the turkey overload and the lateness of the evening, Raphaela and I crash as soon as we get home, regretfully knowing that we must wake up on time the next morning for Gan, and Israeli normal life.

This year, bonus, we can pig out Thursday night and sleep in Friday morning, because Chanukah and Thanksgiving overlap, almost as if we were celebrating with our family in the States!

With a talented jazz band playing in the background, we enjoyed our meal surrounded by friends.  Among the varied meats and side dishes, there appeared latkes, and for dessert, along with the usual fare, the table featured jelly doughnuts, in the spirit of Thanksgivukkah. 

Caught up in the atmosphere, Raphaela disappeared on and off to explore the hotel, and would then come running back into the room, curls bouncing, grabbing the hands of strangers so they could dance with her.

I think this is the first time since her birth that she has basically amused herself, allowing me to have a truly grown-up social experience. I didn't want to leave.

In the car on the way home, Raphaela and I reminisced, replaying our favorite moments of the evening.  Raphaela's recollection of the meal?  "Man, those cucumbers were mighty tasty!"

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Thanksgivukkah Cucumbers (Family Recipe)

Peel cucumber, cut into round slices (thin or thick, as per preference)
Place in serving bowl, serve.

Miles To Go

In anticipation of the annual Gan Chanukah party, Raphaela spent almost two weeks singing the songs and showing me the elaborate dance moves her teacher had choreographed.  As she got dressed in her festive outfit for the party, she could not contain her enthusiasm, Raphaela was literally bouncing off the walls.

When we arrived, the large room filled up quickly, stuffed end to end with teachers and parents and grandparents and siblings and the children, the stars of the show.  That's when Raphaela went into performance anxiety/stage fright mode, and for most of the planned program sat on the side while her classmates gave their parents photo opportunities.

Toward the end of the Chanukah play, Raphaela made an attempt to join the group, but one of her teachers pushed her to the side, telling her that it was too late.

Needless to say, I felt confused and disappointed, despite my too clear recollection of the Purim costume melt-down last year.  And the reason that we stopped swimming lessons, and didn't even attempt ballet this year.

(I made excuses for it, maybe she was tired or maybe that is just her independent spirit.)

When we got home, Raphaela asked me if I was angry at her because she didn't participate, and I tried to not invest too much negative emotion in my reply.  I answered her that I was not angry, rather disappointed and sad for her;  that she did not participate, considering that I knew that she knew all the moves and knowing that she was looking forward to the event, and that it would have been fun and rewarding for her.

Raphaela reaffirmed that if she doesn't want to do something, she "will not do it."

I could not fall asleep last night, feeling like a bit of a failure as a parent, thinking about other parents talking about the debacle behind our back, and the worst feeling, that her teachers would somehow think less of Raphaela and treat her differently because of her adamant refusal.  As well, I felt frustrated because I had no spouse or partner, or even family with whom I could flesh out the issue.

This afternoon, Raphaela told me that several of her teachers had confronted her today about her behavior, and that it made her feel "icky from the icky words."

Having adopted the life philosophy that I am not going to allow lousy feelings to build up inside me, I left a message for her head teacher today, that I would like to speak to her when she had free time and the opportunity to brainstorm.  We spoke for almost 20 minutes, and I expressed my concern that while I admire Raphaela's determination and single minded-ness, I am afraid that she will not learn the benefits of being part of a group, that sometimes the rules of society are not objectionable.

I explained to her teacher that I too live "outside the box," in the sense that I generally do not care what others think of me, and that I will question the rules rather than following blindly.  However, having 45 years or so experience of doing things The Hard Way, I have come to appreciate that receiving help and dipping into the pool of the groupthink every once in a while moves things along nicely.

Hila, her teacher, admitted that she was quite surprised at Raphaela's behavior, that in rehearsals my daughter had shone and had been expected to be the star of the play.  Hila also suggested that rather than shyness, Raphaela seemed confused and overwhelmed by the large crowd.  We agreed together to meet and to discuss a long term educational plan suited for my daughter, to teach her how to straddle Raphaela World along with the rest of reality.

Yet, I am still having trouble letting go of the sadness and that sense of failure.

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.

Gan Birthday 2013

Today, my daughter along with two other children, jumped her way officially into the Land of Four, with her birthday party at Gan.  The most touching moment for me?  When the teacher scattered flowers on the floor, and then to the tune of Vivaldi, each of the girls 'picked' a bouquet and presented them to their parents, as a way of saying thank you for having raised them well until now.

Funniest moment? When Raphaela performed The Chicken Dance, and man, can she swing her hips!

Most meaningful? That my parents from Boston were there to see the ceremony and enjoy this piece of our lives.

Summer Vacation II

With our planned play date at the Jerusalem Botanical Gardens canceled at the last minute, I needed to find a stimulating activity for Raphaela this afternoon.  After reading one of our favorite books about musical instruments, Raphaela and I turned every possible item in our kitchen and the rest of the house into an orchestra. 

Pots and pans and boxes and jars joined the few instruments we have in our music box, and I wish I had filmed the result.  Both of us started banging and shaking our makeshift instruments, singing and dancing, in between the deep-throated laughter that comes with connecting to something primal and joyous.

I have always known that my daughter exhibits huge potential in the area of music, though I can't particularly attest to our rhythm or harmony today.  Luckily, the closest neighbors downstairs left Jerusalem on vacation this morning.

Rock On, Mom!

Last night, for the first time in at least four years, I stayed out past midnight, leaving Raphaela with our Summer sitter and attending the annual Jerusalem arts fair and an Ivri Leeder concert with friends.  I walked into the house close to midnight, charged up and totally awake after an amazing triple encore, and so watched a little television until after one am.

Perhaps I got four hours of sleep last night, and as a result, forgot several minor events this morning while preparing to take Raphaela to camp:  we both did not brush our teeth, Raphaela did not apply her lip gloss, and I neglected to saturate any of my daughter's exposed skin with sun screen.

This would be almost acceptable.

Around nine am, in the middle of work, the camp teacher called me at the clinic and explained that apparently Raphaela's underwear had gone missing, though she was fully dressed in every other way.  Too embarrassed to explain that I was suffering from rock concert jet lag, I asked her to perhaps find a suitable substitute until I could get there.

The teacher assured me that this happens all the time, and that she keeps a supply of clean underwear and leggings just in case.

In between the enjoyment of having had an adults night out and the feeling of being a terrible mother, I was able to laugh at myself.

Later, I asked Raphaela why she had refused to put on leggings, and she reminded me of the iron-clad rules of her universe:

1.  When she is not a magical Baby Unicorn, she is a princess
2.  Only princesses have the true gift of dance
3.  Neither a princess nor a commoner can dance properly if they are wearing pants or leggings

Prelude to Pessach IV

Raphaela has been enthusiastically helping me clean the house and do last minute errands all day.  Her Gan trained her well, Raphaela has embraced a clean house as her mission.

We'll see how long that lasts, and how many more years I have of eager help.  Meanwhile I am enjoying spending the time with her and appreciating that she wants to be around me, as we wipe counters and vacuum and  sing together to her new favorite recording artist, Peter Gabriel.

Prelude to Pessach II

Every morning as we walk to Gan, Raphaela and I pass by our neighbors beautifully manicured garden, and we look at the colorful array of flowers:  snap dragons, pansies and daisies.  Particularly on Friday, when the Shabbat flower seller sets up at the corner of our house, Raphaela marvels at all the choice of flowers, and carefully chooses what shall adorn our house for the week.

Usually it is lilies or roses, last week it was violets and today she chose daisies.  It was my grandmother who carefully tended her garden, her bird feeders and her squirrel feeders, she taught me the name of all those flowers while I helped her pull weeds and trim the rose bushes.

I don't know what moved me today, watching Raphaela embrace her life with such joy and simplicity, preparing for Pessach, or simply enjoying a cup of coffee and a piece of cake at the bakery on Palmach on a sunny Jerusalem morning.  I think maybe it was me, taking stock of my life and realizing how lucky I am, how blessed.  I think it also started with memories of childhood Pessach seder at my grandparents' house, the whole family (almost 25 people and one bathroom!) crowding into their New England colonial to celebrate together;  the boy grandchildren in the basement, arranged like a dormitory, the girls in the den upstairs, all our family and guests at the seder.  My grandmother's fantastic cooking, with baked goods so delicious that you could not imagine it was allowed on the holiday.

I know that it is me remembering my grandmother, my surrogate mother during many difficult periods in my life, and me missing my grandmother that made me all of a sudden start crying as I carried my groceries home.  Her presence has been overwhelming me all day.

I miss my Bubby, I am sad that Raphaela will never have the chance to know her and read with her the way I did. I think they would have gotten along like long lost sisters, cooking together in the kitchen or gardening or discussing art and music;  my Bubby even managed to make banal errands like the post office or the supermarket an adventure.  I am sad that Raphaela will not have the opportunity to bond with her family in cramped quarters over the Pessach seder.

I wonder what she would think of my life, and the child who amazes me and brings me joy every day.

 I regret that I never fulfilled a secret dream, to send my grandmother tickets to Italy and to take her on vacation; she worked so hard in life, barely slept, and suffered so much as a child, and she deserved to be treated like a princess if only for a short while.

Chag Sameach Bubby, I know that you are happy where ever your soul may be, and I know that you are free.

The Family Section

I have become that person that no one wants to sit next to or even nearby.

On the plane, as well behaved as Raphaela could have been, she continually kicked the seat of the business man in front of her.  I noted that he and his colleague imbibed inordinate amounts of beer during the 11 hour flight, and I certainly understand them.

Yesterday, after a long day at the Children's Museum in Baltimore, Raphaela and I, and my brother and his family (three children under the age of six) arrived at the Chinese restaurant for dinner.  They immediately directed us toward the corner and behind a screen, separate from the decent folk who came to the establishment for a relaxing meal.  And the crew of cousins did not disappoint, so much so that half way through the meal - albeit after a long day of trips and physical effort - we adults asked them to package the food that remained and made a quick escape.  They gave us extra fortune cookies on the way out as a "thank you" for our leaving.

Despite the hectic environment, I found myself smiling and enjoying the stress of the day's adventure.  I have no close family in Israel, and have never had the experience of a stressful day trip with aunts and uncles and cousins, the "noise" of people who love each other, and not simply because they are related by blood.   What amazes me more is the sudden realization that now I am the adult in the family, the aunt who tells stories and brings presents;  somehow in my brain I still see myself as the small child entertained by my mother's and father's generation of relatives.

Raphaela has been thriving since we arrived in Washington, following around her older cousin as if she is a goddess, whatever Neshama does Raphaela will be right behind.  Whereas Raphaela barely wishes to go down the small-ish slide at our local park in Jerusalem, she followed her cousin onto an elaborate three-story suspended climbing structure, and then barreled down a two story windy and enclosed slide.  I stood there with my jaw dropped in shock and pride that my daughter would exhibit such boldness of spirit.

Her other cousin Lev, a four year old piano prodigy, has started to teach Raphaela to read notes, and they sit together and play what almost sounds like a classical music duet.

There is something to be said for peer pressure...

(On the way home in the car, my niece asked me if the war was close to my house in Jerusalem.  I honestly did not know how to answer, how much detail to provide, when I myself am having a difficult time dealing with the onslaught of information and mis-information.)

Through a Child's Eyes

We went away to Tekoa, to Savta Shira's family, for the final days of Succot.  I had no intention of attending the dancing Sunday night;  I thought that I would dress Raphaela, send her off with friends and get in that nap I so desperately needed.

Instead, Savta Shira insisted that I join them, and thus found myself in their synagogue, on Simchat Torah.  As the Universe would have it, I was also the first women to get the Torah from the men's side and dance at the center of the circle, one hand on the precious symbol of Judaism, the other hand holding Raphaela's.  The choice baffled many of the women in the room, and several of them came over to me during the event and introduced themselves, with the implicit question "Who the hell are you and how did you get to be the first one?", behind the niceties and the curiosity.  But I actually became emotional at that honor, and got caught up in the singing and the dancing, more than I have in years.

I also completely underestimated Raphaela's response to the evening.  A child who generally dislikes large crowds and noise, she sobbed in grief (with a stream of 'real tears') when I suggested at a certain point that we had to leave the dancing and go home for dinner.  In all her three years of life, I have never seen her so adamantly insist upon anything, and the thought of breaking her heart made me change my mind.

(Her resistance to leaving, crossing the threshold of the doorway, reminded me of one my favorite scenes from the movie, "Field of Dreams," with Doc and the hot dog and the white line on the base ball field...if you don't get my reference it's OK, it means something to me.)

The Jewish communal experience only got sweeter today, when she braved the men's section all by herself and discovered The Candy Man, who gave her a lollipop, a treat she never gets from me at home.  "I'm happy now, Mommy."  After the joyous aliyah to the Torah for the mass of children in the community, the synagogue had arranged for each child to receive a goody bag, similar and perhaps even nicer than one she might anticipate from a friend's birthday party.  Bamba, soft drink, chocolate wafers, hard candy; as a parent and as a Chiropractor, I can't say that I was thrilled with her 'lunch,' but as another woman said to me, "It's the holidays, just let it go."

After two friend birthday parties during Succot, her own mini birthday celebration at Savta Shira's house, and her upcoming party at Gan,  I have reached my tolerance for junk food, and had a hard time accepting that our primary protein the last few days has been chocolate cake.  (What?!  It has eggs, grains, possibly healthy oil and chocolate, which has been credited with many curative properties...)

Most of all, I learned from this weekend that Raphaela craves a warm and welcoming sense of community, and that I as the adult in the house must seek out that place that will grant her that gift.

Women, Slaves and Farm Animals

As a teenager at the Orthodox Maimonides High School in Boston, I felt barraged and  insulted by the dominant language in Talmudic and other halachic texts, when referring to those who had less responsibility in performing "time based" rituals.  Women, slaves and farm animals were usually grouped together, and when it came down to an explanation, I was told that we women had more of a "natural spiritual connection" to G-d - because we got our period each month - and that men needed more structure in order to forge that bond.  That in the natural and practical order of things, women had less time because we were meant to fulfill our purpose in the home, transmitting the key values of Judaism to the next generation.

OK, so men say a prayer every morning that essentially translates as "Whew, thank the Lord that I am not a woman."  Women are considered unreliable witnesses in a Jewish court and don't count for an Orthodox minyan because we are more emotional. But hey, biology has given us the most important job in the Universe, that of ensuring the physical continuation of civilization, and apparently we get very little credit for the artistry of pregnancy and birth.

For years I pursued the Judeo-feminist agenda, until it became too tiring to swim against the stream.

This year, for the first time in my life, I understand the concept.  I took care of Raphaela the entire Yom Kippur, and it was physically exhausting.  While fasting, I served meals almost constantly to a three year old whose patience for sitting quietly lasts no more than ten minutes.  At ten in the morning, I could not keep my eyes open and begged Raphaela to take a nap with me, thus gaining one hour of rest for both of us, but no more than one hour.  When the fast was over, I found myself famished, and literally counting down the seconds on the clock until I could put food in my mouth, fuel in my body.

On Tuesday evening, Raphaela and I joined friends and casually strolled down the empty roads of Jerusalem, an exclusively surreal Israeli field trip that gives a totally new perspective on our neighborhood, and on co-existence.  Religious and secular, bike riders and tricycle riders and pedestrians, we all enjoyed the crisp air and the silence of the night of Yom Kippur. I even heard crickets and birds, without the noise of traffic.

Raphaela and I had a repeating conversation throughout the next day:

RR:  Where did all the cars go?
Mommy:  They are sleeping, it is Yom Kippur.
RR:  Can I put on some music?
Mommy:  Not today, it is Yom Kippur.
RR:  I want to watch Dora and Diego.
Mommy:  Dora and Diego are at home, the television doesn't work today. It is Yom Kippur.
RR:  Mommy, do you want some of my lunch?
Mommy:  I am fasting, that means that I am not eating all day, it is Yom Kippur.
RR:  I don't want this Yom Kippur!

Needless to say, I set aside one hour during the day for a Yom Kippur activity, my attempt to pray for the health and success of me and my daughter, while providing entertainment for an easily bored toddler.  I opened the pages and chose any passage that could be sung, and together Raphaela and I danced and celebrated the day with song.  At certain key phrases of blessing, I instructed Raphaela to say "Amen," (in Hebrew) which she did with gusto and enthusiasm.

At the end of this hour, Raphaela did the most extraordinary thing:  in pantomime, she placed an imaginary crown on my head, and fastened a robe of royalty on my chest, because that is what she saw for me.

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.

Lucid Dreaming

Last night I had a dream, in which my parents decided to go on sabbatical, and took all of us children with them.  At this point in the dream, I was in college, and the decision was very sudden with no real warning or preparation time before we left.

My parents and siblings, and many other guests are sitting around the table of meal, and the host has decided that each person at the table must explain their secret desires and hopes for their life, in a creative and entertaining way.  Each person at the table then proceeded with elaborate performances, I stood up and sang an aria from some opera.

At a certain point, several others and I left the main table, and were talking in the kitchen.  We observed that the host's wife, an artsy sort of individual, refused her husband's demands, saying that she did not have to perform for anyone and that she would not demean herself for his pleasure.  I confided quietly that in fact her strength of character and individuality represents my secret desire and hope, that I wished I could be more like her.  I wished that I did not acquiesce to the demands of others, only because I had been trained to be a "good girl" and to fit into society.

As I stood in the kitchen washing some dishes from the meal, I burst out crying, uncontrollable tears on the verge of wailing.  I had been thinking about the life I had left behind to join my parents on sabbatical, friends and classes;  how we had traveled so quickly that I had not finished settling bills or packing up my apartment.  How I felt at a loss because I did not have any time to plan what I would be doing for myself, this year of my parents' choosing.

The host heard my crying from the next room and asked impatiently, "what is that noise all about?"  As I stood, still crying, one of the others took a microphone and explained my feelings and my needs to the group.

(I have had the skill of lucid dreaming since childhood, and I tend to remember all my dreams, each night, but I tend to hold onto those that clearly send me a message from my subconscious.)