It has been a few years since Raphaela has watched Dora the Explorer, she outgrew the fascination with a magical back pack and talking animals who live in the Amazon Rain Forest. Dora never seemed to go to school, as she was too busy on her fantastical adventures, and her parents didn't seem to mind.
Recently, we discovered a new show called Dora in The Big City, in which Dora is a teenager, her family has moved out of their colorful isolated cabin in the Amazon and into a posh beachfront town. Dora has one friend who is a boy (Pablo) and a group of girls who of course represent all the politically correct skin tones and ethnicities. Dora has also traded in her magical back pack for a magical bracelet; at the end of each show, she and her friends hang out at a juice bar on the pier, and talk about how great it feels to help others.
Dora still does not seem to attend high school.
Well, yesterday we were channel hopping, and delighted in the teenage Dora show, because it was a reunion/cross-over with her old Explorer self. Her best friend, the monkey Boots, needed help, because the Swiper the Thieving Fox stole Back Pack and Talking Map. Which of course led to Dora and her troupe to travel by train plane and automobile, and boat, to the Amazon Rain Forest, her former home.
And of course we got to see all of her old friends: Benny the Strong Dumb Ox , Isa the Lizard Gardener, Tiko the Gay English speaking squirrel, Big Red Chicken, Roberto the Robot, etc. They hadn't changed a bit, and I found myself getting choked up as well.
What impressed me most was that the fox not only acknowledged his stealing ways, but he also showed genuine remorse and helped locate the items. A redemption of sort for the character, except for that brief moment when he contemplated grabbing Dora's magical bracelet.
At the end of the show, after they did the stupid kid Dora dance and sang of a mash up of the new and old series song, all the new and old characters had a sleepover in Dora's TARDIS-like tree house (bigger on the inside) in her backyard, in the Big City. As Dora said, and as I concurred, "We were all having such a wonderful time together and getting along so well, I didn't want it to end."
As the screen faded to black, Boots the Monkey started to tell the story of how he and Dora accidentally turned Benny into a potato.
That was one of my favorite episodes...
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Monday, May 16, 2016
Sunday, January 3, 2016
A Brave New World in Children's Literature
Some of my best ideas and inspirations happened in college, except that I didn't know how to develop them into something real and long-term. For example, I started taking black and white photographs of the homeless people who lived on the sidewalk near Barnard/Columbia. In exchange for them telling me their life story and allowing me to take their picture, I would give them a hearty lunch (sandwich, fruits, drink etc) and my full attention during the interview.
"Someday," I thought, "this could become a fascinating best-selling book." Well, HONY [Humans of New York] has pretty much taken care of that niche in the market. I follow the site and own the books, and in between loving the content and the impact this project has had, I wonder how I could have done it first.
In college I also took a creative writing course, and one of my favorite (award-winning) stories was the story of The Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In my short story, the wolf was a rapper on MTV, with asthma; no apologies from me vis a vis the back story, it was the 80's.
This past Friday, at the library with Raphaela to get our weekend reading, we took out a children's book called The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In it, the wolf explains how he was framed because all he had was a powerful sneeze, and that he was visiting his neighbors the pigs to borrow a cup of sugar, to bake a cake for his grandmother; a reference presumably to the wolf who eats Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother in another gruesome fairy tale. The premise of the book, which is less for children than for their cynical and hip parents, is that the media had to hype the story and make him look like the Big Bad, because the birthday cake angle doesn't sell papers.
We have a similar children's book, a gift from a cousin, called Click Clack Moo, Cows that Type, which I feel is written as much for the parents as well as the kids. The book describes, using animals as a substitute for humans (how very George Orwell), how effective blackmail works if used intelligently. My mother hates this story and will not read it to my daughter, because she feels it teaches children how to be manipulative and be rewarded for it.
I can see her point, children these days are more savvy, and their books are written accordingly. On the other hand, it is a funny book and the illustrations work well, and while my daughter may be bright, I don't know how much she reads into the subtext beyond the slapstick.
On Sesame Street, Cookie Monster is enrolled in a 12-step program for his impulse control issues, Elmo may as well be taking Ritalin, and Telly is probably on anti-depressants. Snuffy was revealed to the rest of the street over fear that children may not tell their parents that they are being abused, because no one would believe them. Katy Perry appeared on the children's educational program half-naked, and I don't remember there being any outcry from parents. We're not in Kansas anymore...
Raphaela and I recently finished reading The Little Prince together, and as I was bawling and feeling my entire understanding of the Universe deepen, she did not venture beyond the basic story IE plane gets fixed, Little Prince goes home to his flower, man is sad.
As a person who was quite naïve until I left for college, I wonder if we are raising this 21rst Century of children better, or if we are denying them some aspect of that idyllic youth, by exposing them to reality too early.
"Someday," I thought, "this could become a fascinating best-selling book." Well, HONY [Humans of New York] has pretty much taken care of that niche in the market. I follow the site and own the books, and in between loving the content and the impact this project has had, I wonder how I could have done it first.
In college I also took a creative writing course, and one of my favorite (award-winning) stories was the story of The Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In my short story, the wolf was a rapper on MTV, with asthma; no apologies from me vis a vis the back story, it was the 80's.
This past Friday, at the library with Raphaela to get our weekend reading, we took out a children's book called The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In it, the wolf explains how he was framed because all he had was a powerful sneeze, and that he was visiting his neighbors the pigs to borrow a cup of sugar, to bake a cake for his grandmother; a reference presumably to the wolf who eats Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother in another gruesome fairy tale. The premise of the book, which is less for children than for their cynical and hip parents, is that the media had to hype the story and make him look like the Big Bad, because the birthday cake angle doesn't sell papers.
We have a similar children's book, a gift from a cousin, called Click Clack Moo, Cows that Type, which I feel is written as much for the parents as well as the kids. The book describes, using animals as a substitute for humans (how very George Orwell), how effective blackmail works if used intelligently. My mother hates this story and will not read it to my daughter, because she feels it teaches children how to be manipulative and be rewarded for it.
I can see her point, children these days are more savvy, and their books are written accordingly. On the other hand, it is a funny book and the illustrations work well, and while my daughter may be bright, I don't know how much she reads into the subtext beyond the slapstick.
On Sesame Street, Cookie Monster is enrolled in a 12-step program for his impulse control issues, Elmo may as well be taking Ritalin, and Telly is probably on anti-depressants. Snuffy was revealed to the rest of the street over fear that children may not tell their parents that they are being abused, because no one would believe them. Katy Perry appeared on the children's educational program half-naked, and I don't remember there being any outcry from parents. We're not in Kansas anymore...
Raphaela and I recently finished reading The Little Prince together, and as I was bawling and feeling my entire understanding of the Universe deepen, she did not venture beyond the basic story IE plane gets fixed, Little Prince goes home to his flower, man is sad.
As a person who was quite naïve until I left for college, I wonder if we are raising this 21rst Century of children better, or if we are denying them some aspect of that idyllic youth, by exposing them to reality too early.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Brush with Fame
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.
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.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Casualties of Divorce
In stealth, while her soon to be ex-husband was at work, the mother took her four children, and most of the furniture of the house, and moved away to another city. She registered her children in a new school, told her children that their father was not to be trusted, that they would not see their friends again, and did not allow them to make contact with him once they had resettled. When the father came home from work, he returned to a quiet empty house, totally bewildered as to what the hell had happened to his life.
Sounds like a soap opera, or an appeal for some foundation, right? Well, these are my neighbors, and what makes the story even harder is this: the mother is extremely abusive to her children, and the father has never prevented it, because he has been afraid of his soon to be ex-wife. Anyone who knows the background of this family would agree that the children would still be better off with the father than the mother.
Before I am accused of slander or gossip, let me say that I have seen this abuse with my own eyes on several occasions, and have been this family's neighbor for over 12 years. And the walls between apartments are thinner than one would believe.
The two older children have declared that they do not want to live with their mother, and have begged their father to take them away from her. The only way they speak to their father was by sneaking in a phone call when their mother isn't paying attention. The two younger children do not know their father's cell phone number, nor have they been able to reach their father in any way, though they too have expressed a desire to live with their father rather than their mother.
In Israeli (Draconian) divorce law, the mother always gets custody, and the father has to work very hard and spend lots of money on lawyers to even get partial custody. In recent week, there have been several attempts in the Knesset to change that law, to put some of the responsibility of custody decisions on the social workers as well. An attempt to objectively as possible asses the situation and do what is best for the children.
The amendment to the law was shut down last week, in a disappointing vote.
If I am being truly honest, over the past 12 years I have contemplated many times calling the police and reporting this family, but never did, as I was advised by my Israeli neighbors that it would not help the situation in the end. Now I am wishing that the father's lawyer would start knocking on doors and asking all of us who live in the building to testify on his behalf, Because I would.
Sounds like a soap opera, or an appeal for some foundation, right? Well, these are my neighbors, and what makes the story even harder is this: the mother is extremely abusive to her children, and the father has never prevented it, because he has been afraid of his soon to be ex-wife. Anyone who knows the background of this family would agree that the children would still be better off with the father than the mother.
Before I am accused of slander or gossip, let me say that I have seen this abuse with my own eyes on several occasions, and have been this family's neighbor for over 12 years. And the walls between apartments are thinner than one would believe.
The two older children have declared that they do not want to live with their mother, and have begged their father to take them away from her. The only way they speak to their father was by sneaking in a phone call when their mother isn't paying attention. The two younger children do not know their father's cell phone number, nor have they been able to reach their father in any way, though they too have expressed a desire to live with their father rather than their mother.
In Israeli (Draconian) divorce law, the mother always gets custody, and the father has to work very hard and spend lots of money on lawyers to even get partial custody. In recent week, there have been several attempts in the Knesset to change that law, to put some of the responsibility of custody decisions on the social workers as well. An attempt to objectively as possible asses the situation and do what is best for the children.
The amendment to the law was shut down last week, in a disappointing vote.
If I am being truly honest, over the past 12 years I have contemplated many times calling the police and reporting this family, but never did, as I was advised by my Israeli neighbors that it would not help the situation in the end. Now I am wishing that the father's lawyer would start knocking on doors and asking all of us who live in the building to testify on his behalf, Because I would.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Observing the World At Six
One of the most amazing and more subtle elements of parenting is watching your child understand the world in a deeper, wider and more abstract way.
Raphaela and I had a conversation about Oscar the Grouch, from Sesame Street. She asked me how he can walk if he is stuck in a garbage can, and where does he keep all his things. And most important, how does Oscar go to the bathroom?
I explained that Oscar the Grouch's garbage can utilizes Time Lord technology, IE that it is "bigger on the inside." Just like the Doctor has bedrooms and a swimming pool in his TARDIS, Oscar has all the room he needs in his garbage pail home. The explanation sat perfectly with Raphaela.
Later that day, we were reading the children's classic, "Go Dog Go," a work of literature that talks about Geopolitics, diversity and Dating Protocol underneath its simple exterior. Raphaela asked me why the girl dog always seems to be angry at the boy dog, after he says, "I do not like that hat...Goodbye!"
Raphaela observed, "I mean, it's just a hat. Who cares if he doesn't like it?"
I explained that when the girl dog asks the boy dog if he likes her hat, what she is really asking is, "Do you like me?" And when the boy dog says he does not like the hat, but then takes a souvenir from said hat, the girl dog gets angry because the boy dog does not have enough courage to say he likes her. And it doesn't seem to matter if these dogs meet on the street, at the ski Chalet, or at the Big Dog Party.
I also take the opportunity to point out that it is OK and in fact laudable that the girl dog takes the initiative in talking to (and asking out) the boy dog.
Of course at the end of the book, at the Big Dog Party, the girl dog is wearing the most fancy and beautiful and tempting hat the boy dog has ever seen. Then the boy dog can say with gusto, "Oh yes, I do like that hat. I like that party hat."
When Raphaela asked me why the girl dog got into the boy dog's car and they drove away together after his enthusiastic response, I told her they were having a "hmm...play date."
It's a little early for the sex talk, I think.
Raphaela and I had a conversation about Oscar the Grouch, from Sesame Street. She asked me how he can walk if he is stuck in a garbage can, and where does he keep all his things. And most important, how does Oscar go to the bathroom?
I explained that Oscar the Grouch's garbage can utilizes Time Lord technology, IE that it is "bigger on the inside." Just like the Doctor has bedrooms and a swimming pool in his TARDIS, Oscar has all the room he needs in his garbage pail home. The explanation sat perfectly with Raphaela.
Later that day, we were reading the children's classic, "Go Dog Go," a work of literature that talks about Geopolitics, diversity and Dating Protocol underneath its simple exterior. Raphaela asked me why the girl dog always seems to be angry at the boy dog, after he says, "I do not like that hat...Goodbye!"
Raphaela observed, "I mean, it's just a hat. Who cares if he doesn't like it?"
I explained that when the girl dog asks the boy dog if he likes her hat, what she is really asking is, "Do you like me?" And when the boy dog says he does not like the hat, but then takes a souvenir from said hat, the girl dog gets angry because the boy dog does not have enough courage to say he likes her. And it doesn't seem to matter if these dogs meet on the street, at the ski Chalet, or at the Big Dog Party.
I also take the opportunity to point out that it is OK and in fact laudable that the girl dog takes the initiative in talking to (and asking out) the boy dog.
Of course at the end of the book, at the Big Dog Party, the girl dog is wearing the most fancy and beautiful and tempting hat the boy dog has ever seen. Then the boy dog can say with gusto, "Oh yes, I do like that hat. I like that party hat."
When Raphaela asked me why the girl dog got into the boy dog's car and they drove away together after his enthusiastic response, I told her they were having a "hmm...play date."
It's a little early for the sex talk, I think.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Super Blood Moon Eclipse
This morning, at five am, I woke Raphaela and we went outside for an unobstructed view of the Super Blood Moon Eclipse, an astronomical event that will only repeat in the year 2033. Together we watched the moon transition from full and bright to obscured and grey, with only the faintest hint of light somewhere in the sky.
Succot is one of my favorite of Jewish holidays, because it opens the possibilities of reconnecting with family and friends, and with nature. Raphaela and I certainly had quality time as we watched the eclipse, and I enjoyed her inquisitive mind as we shivered slightly in the chill of early morning Jerusalem air.
We also learned something new and vaguely alarming about wild life in Jerusalem: a large jackal walked around the streets in our area, hunting several street cats as we watched, and completely unafraid of our human presence.
On a completely different note, who thinks that "Super Blood Moon Eclipse" would be a fabulous title for a terrible science fiction movie?
Succot is one of my favorite of Jewish holidays, because it opens the possibilities of reconnecting with family and friends, and with nature. Raphaela and I certainly had quality time as we watched the eclipse, and I enjoyed her inquisitive mind as we shivered slightly in the chill of early morning Jerusalem air.
We also learned something new and vaguely alarming about wild life in Jerusalem: a large jackal walked around the streets in our area, hunting several street cats as we watched, and completely unafraid of our human presence.
On a completely different note, who thinks that "Super Blood Moon Eclipse" would be a fabulous title for a terrible science fiction movie?
Friday, September 18, 2015
Don't Go to Bed Angry
Yesterday was one of THOSE days.
After dropping Raphaela off at school, I worked straight through the next eight hours, with no break for lunch. Some of my clients were charming as usual, and some were...difficult. My final patient said she wanted to give me "constructive advice," explaining that she felt she would better get her money's worth if she paid me by the minute instead of my standard fee. After admitting that in fact I had helped her tremendously and that my services were worthwhile, she could not understand why I would take some offence at her suggestion. I told her that if she wanted to try out another practitioner that was more "frugal," she was more than welcome, and I showed her the door; she finally understood the implications, and lay quietly on the table while I treated her, and paid the full price.
But I was not happy.
Straight from school, Raphaela and I drove to the supermarket, sitting in the traffic of the Thursday afternoon shoppers, only to find that we did not have a parking space once we got to the store, and that the supplies had been ravaged by the holiday shoppers for Rosh HaShanah.
In Raphaela's enthusiasm to press the elevator button, she practically trampled a little old lady. Startled, this woman started shrieking at my daughter; I instructed Raphaela to apologize, explaining that even if it was an accident, she needed to help this elderly woman calm down. As soon as the elevator opened, Raphaela dashed into the parking lot and almost got run over by a car.
I was not happy.
When we got home, we went to the library and then looked at her homework assignments. Which she didn't take seriously at all, scribbling on the pages and covering over the words. I tried my best to explain that she needed to sit down and focus. More stress between us and meanwhile, I had not eaten breakfast or lunch, and had reached my limit.
I was not happy.
The evening only degenerated from there, to the point that Raphaela went to bed angry at me, because I was angry at the world. I had a small glass of red wine, and instead of helping me rest, it somehow woke up my brain and all those hostilities that had accumulated from the day. So I started cleaning the house for Shabbat, watched a terrible movie on cable and finally fell asleep at midnight.
This morning, at six am, some random person yelled at me for feeding the street cats.
Then the great search for the weekend newspaper began. On a hunch, I knocked on the door of the neighbor with severe dementia, and indeed, she had scooped up all the papers for every resident in the building ( five in all) and was reading them happily. Having sorted out the pile of crumpled sheets, I delivered each paper to its rightful owner in the building.
Of course, because Raphaela wanted to show me that we had not resolved the issues from the day before, she said to me, "I don't like your kisses and I will never snuggle with you again. Ever again." She will say much worse as she gets older, I know.
On a normal day, I would deal with this rationally, understanding where the intentions originated. Today it struck deep, and I told her that she had hurt my feelings and made me sad, and that I needed alone time. Raphaela brought me a tissue but did not apologize.
Neither of us were happy, and that mood lasted all the way on our walk to school; whereupon I felt guilty because this fight would affect her focus in her classes.
I had planned on exercising today, but instead did the ten or so errands that I did not manage to finish yesterday. All before school pick-up at 11:50. I saw a friend on the street, she told me with admiration that it must be challenging to be be a single mother; that every day is what she called a Zero Sum Game.
I replied that I wish it were Zero Sum, I am way in the Negative End Zone at the moment.
I am not happy and would also like to cry, and get this out of my body and out of my system, but my schedule will not allow it.
After dropping Raphaela off at school, I worked straight through the next eight hours, with no break for lunch. Some of my clients were charming as usual, and some were...difficult. My final patient said she wanted to give me "constructive advice," explaining that she felt she would better get her money's worth if she paid me by the minute instead of my standard fee. After admitting that in fact I had helped her tremendously and that my services were worthwhile, she could not understand why I would take some offence at her suggestion. I told her that if she wanted to try out another practitioner that was more "frugal," she was more than welcome, and I showed her the door; she finally understood the implications, and lay quietly on the table while I treated her, and paid the full price.
But I was not happy.
Straight from school, Raphaela and I drove to the supermarket, sitting in the traffic of the Thursday afternoon shoppers, only to find that we did not have a parking space once we got to the store, and that the supplies had been ravaged by the holiday shoppers for Rosh HaShanah.
In Raphaela's enthusiasm to press the elevator button, she practically trampled a little old lady. Startled, this woman started shrieking at my daughter; I instructed Raphaela to apologize, explaining that even if it was an accident, she needed to help this elderly woman calm down. As soon as the elevator opened, Raphaela dashed into the parking lot and almost got run over by a car.
I was not happy.
When we got home, we went to the library and then looked at her homework assignments. Which she didn't take seriously at all, scribbling on the pages and covering over the words. I tried my best to explain that she needed to sit down and focus. More stress between us and meanwhile, I had not eaten breakfast or lunch, and had reached my limit.
I was not happy.
The evening only degenerated from there, to the point that Raphaela went to bed angry at me, because I was angry at the world. I had a small glass of red wine, and instead of helping me rest, it somehow woke up my brain and all those hostilities that had accumulated from the day. So I started cleaning the house for Shabbat, watched a terrible movie on cable and finally fell asleep at midnight.
This morning, at six am, some random person yelled at me for feeding the street cats.
Then the great search for the weekend newspaper began. On a hunch, I knocked on the door of the neighbor with severe dementia, and indeed, she had scooped up all the papers for every resident in the building ( five in all) and was reading them happily. Having sorted out the pile of crumpled sheets, I delivered each paper to its rightful owner in the building.
Of course, because Raphaela wanted to show me that we had not resolved the issues from the day before, she said to me, "I don't like your kisses and I will never snuggle with you again. Ever again." She will say much worse as she gets older, I know.
On a normal day, I would deal with this rationally, understanding where the intentions originated. Today it struck deep, and I told her that she had hurt my feelings and made me sad, and that I needed alone time. Raphaela brought me a tissue but did not apologize.
Neither of us were happy, and that mood lasted all the way on our walk to school; whereupon I felt guilty because this fight would affect her focus in her classes.
I had planned on exercising today, but instead did the ten or so errands that I did not manage to finish yesterday. All before school pick-up at 11:50. I saw a friend on the street, she told me with admiration that it must be challenging to be be a single mother; that every day is what she called a Zero Sum Game.
I replied that I wish it were Zero Sum, I am way in the Negative End Zone at the moment.
I am not happy and would also like to cry, and get this out of my body and out of my system, but my schedule will not allow it.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
The Idiot Box Baby Sitter and School Jitters
When I was pregnant, I swore that I would never use the television as a baby sitter, that only irresponsible and lazy parents stuck their kid in front of the Boob Tube instead of investing in one-on-one time with their children.
Most rules are made to be broken, and until now (in Raphaela's almost six years) I have used this tool sparingly. That is until this past Great Summer Vacation.
Often, when we got back from the pool and we were both exhausted, it was easier to give her a snack and let her watch educational videos. Worse, in the past week our baby sitter has canceled at the last minute several times on days when I needed her to keep Raphaela entertained while I worked with patients. (I know, time to get a new sitter.)
Given the ten minutes warning, I could not find a replacement, and so the Idiot Box did the job of keeping her sedated while I worked. This morning, on the last day that the sitter was supposed to arrive, she canceled again. I tried to arrange some version of a play date, but that failed.
So Raphaela came with me to my business meeting. (Yup, that's real professional...) And Raphaela stayed home in front of the television while I worked, with only minor interruptions to change the DVD or feed her. (Feeling so professional and non-distracted now...)
To add to all this stress, I seem to be much more excited and nervous about First Grade than Raphaela. I am manifesting all my classic signs of stress, the same ones that appeared in the past whenever I had a major exam (SATs, Chiropractic boards, pregnancy ultrasounds). I tossed and turned all last night, waking up every few hours. I have lost my appetite because of stomach cramps. I have less serenity and more impatience running through me, not great for taking care of my daughter or my clients.
And I have shifted into major list-making mode.
It is times like this when I wish I had a spouse, or siblings, or parents with whom I could share this momentous occasion, someone who could perform some of the errands that need doing, someone who could tell me that it will all work out in the end.
Or at least a responsible adult who could watch Raphaela while I worked. But as I have learned, even when others say they will help lessen my burden as a single parent, no matter how good their intentions, I am alone in the good, the bad and the ugly.
Most rules are made to be broken, and until now (in Raphaela's almost six years) I have used this tool sparingly. That is until this past Great Summer Vacation.
Often, when we got back from the pool and we were both exhausted, it was easier to give her a snack and let her watch educational videos. Worse, in the past week our baby sitter has canceled at the last minute several times on days when I needed her to keep Raphaela entertained while I worked with patients. (I know, time to get a new sitter.)
Given the ten minutes warning, I could not find a replacement, and so the Idiot Box did the job of keeping her sedated while I worked. This morning, on the last day that the sitter was supposed to arrive, she canceled again. I tried to arrange some version of a play date, but that failed.
So Raphaela came with me to my business meeting. (Yup, that's real professional...) And Raphaela stayed home in front of the television while I worked, with only minor interruptions to change the DVD or feed her. (Feeling so professional and non-distracted now...)
To add to all this stress, I seem to be much more excited and nervous about First Grade than Raphaela. I am manifesting all my classic signs of stress, the same ones that appeared in the past whenever I had a major exam (SATs, Chiropractic boards, pregnancy ultrasounds). I tossed and turned all last night, waking up every few hours. I have lost my appetite because of stomach cramps. I have less serenity and more impatience running through me, not great for taking care of my daughter or my clients.
And I have shifted into major list-making mode.
It is times like this when I wish I had a spouse, or siblings, or parents with whom I could share this momentous occasion, someone who could perform some of the errands that need doing, someone who could tell me that it will all work out in the end.
Or at least a responsible adult who could watch Raphaela while I worked. But as I have learned, even when others say they will help lessen my burden as a single parent, no matter how good their intentions, I am alone in the good, the bad and the ugly.
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.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Twas the Week Before Pessach
When I showed Raphaela some of the goodies (relatively speaking, for this holiday) that I had bought for Pessach, she spontaneously exclaimed, "You are the great greatest Mommy!"
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The weather continues to vacillate between full-on Summer and the threats of the return of rain and Winter. Raphaela suggested, "We should carry our umbrella with us, that way it won't rain." She laughed and continued, "We will have played a big joke on the clouds!"
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I was describing to Raphaela the mob scene that we would face at the supermarket before the holiday, and she came up with this insight: "Why, that sounds like the plague of Locust."
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The weather continues to vacillate between full-on Summer and the threats of the return of rain and Winter. Raphaela suggested, "We should carry our umbrella with us, that way it won't rain." She laughed and continued, "We will have played a big joke on the clouds!"
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I was describing to Raphaela the mob scene that we would face at the supermarket before the holiday, and she came up with this insight: "Why, that sounds like the plague of Locust."
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We attended the grand opening of the Gazelle Nature Reserve, an oasis less than ten minutes from our house (walking distance), across the street from Raphaela's ballet class. Raphaela was so busy examining a pair of lady bugs under her nature magnifying glass that we both barely registered the Mayor of Jerusalem, Nir "Batman" Barkat, walking right past us.
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After work and errands, we end up at the local bakery almost every day for a quick cookie and cup of something warm and comforting. As the week goes on, the display window gets more and more empty, just as our own shelves at home become less and less populated with chametz. He really does make the best coffee in town, and I will sorely miss it for the next week and a half.
At home, having run out of breakfast cereal, Raphaela is eating things like canned corn and fruit salad for breakfast.
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Raphaela announced with pride, "We almost finished all the junk food we got on Purim from the Mishloach Manot! I didn't think we could do it..."
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Just as every child awaits the annual Purim costume catalog, today we received the annual Pessach toy catalog, toward the ritual of Afikoman presents after the night of Seder. Of course my daughter picked out everything Elsa and Anna (from Disney's Frozen), unaware that I have already ordered a special gift; with the hopes that this activity will get us well through the week of vacation next week. I bought her a play house that one must first color and then construct,.
Assuming it is no more complicated than a piece of furniture from IKEA, we should be OK.
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In cleaning the house, I have come across puzzles and toys that Raphaela has outgrown and probably not even played with for the last few years. Normally (to avoid potential debate and trauma) I donate these toys to an organization during the day, when Raphaela is not home to catch me in the act. As we will be having Seder with my brother and his family this year, and as my daughter seems to have matured, I asked her if she would agree to give these items to her younger cousin, who is not even two years old. Raphaela immediately agreed, and even went around the house with me to find things I may have missed.
She's a great kid, she's a keeper.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
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..."
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..."
Thursday, January 8, 2015
The SuperStorm that Wasn't
Tuesday night
Raphaela's ballet recital has not been canceled, so we brave the dust storm to get to the studio, and I take tons of pictures and video.
"In anticipation of..." the upcoming snow storm, school has been canceled for Wednesday and the mayor of Jerusalem announces that as of 9 am the following morning, the two main roads going in and out of Jerusalem - Route 443 and Route 1 - will be shut off to traffic.
I heat up the water and give Raphaela a bath, wondering if it will be her last bath for the next few days.
Wednesday
The weather report says that the snow will only start around two in the afternoon, so we celebrate a snow day without snow. I heat up the water and take a shower, and cook a bunch of cold-weather appropriate foods, and check email, thinking that it may be the last opportunity for the next few days.
Around one pm, Raphaela and I go into bed for a nap, and I promise her that when we wake up, there will be a white landscape. Thunder and lightning threaten as we close our eyes. As soon as Raphaela wakes up from her nap, she asks in a frenzy, "Quick check! Do we have water and electricity?!"
The grass outside shows barely a sprinkle of snow, children everywhere are disappointed they cannot make a snow man, and parents everywhere cannot understand why school was canceled.
I heat up the water and give Raphaela a bath, just in case.
Thursday
We wake up to watery icy sludge on the street, and the Jerusalem Municipality announces that classes will begin at 10 am. Raphaela, who has recently split open her chin in a fall at school, decides that she does not want to slip on the ice and she would rather stay home. Besides, if she goes outside she will have to wear pants, and HRH the Princess simply does not wear pants. It is undignified.
I don't care one way or the other, all my patients have canceled through the weekend. Instead, I heat up the water and take a shower, wash the dishes in the sink, back up my iPhone and throw in a load of laundry, religiously following the Girl Scout model IE "Be Prepared."
Slogging through the slush, Raphaela and I arrived at her Gan, with half the parents keeping their children home because of dangerous road conditions, and the teachers shouting and freaking out because of the danger of the streets and sidewalks. I assure Raphaela that her teacher is not shouting at her, they are just all angry at the rain and the snow.
I consider not taking Raphaela to English class today, because there is no way in hell my car is moving out of the driveway. I have parked in a spot that hopefully this year, when the "real snow" arrives tonight and tomorrow, it will not be buried under a fallen tree like last year.
A normal night IE bath and dinner and a little bit of Dora the Explorer and surprise NOT, school has been canceled for tomorrow in anticipation of the "real storm" that thus far has eluded the esteemed weather forecasters.
Friday Morning
The snow was supposed to have begun around four am, at 8:30 am there isn't even rain, never mind the Storm to End All Storms. I haven't worked for three days now, Raphaela has begun to go stir crazy inside the house and away from her friends and her normal routine.
The Municipality damn well better make up these lost days of classes somewhere along the way.
At the very least, these days of bogus vacation have granted me the opportunity to spend time with my daughter, and appreciate the small and yet essential conveniences in life.
(The saddest little snow man in Jerusalem.)
Raphaela's ballet recital has not been canceled, so we brave the dust storm to get to the studio, and I take tons of pictures and video.
"In anticipation of..." the upcoming snow storm, school has been canceled for Wednesday and the mayor of Jerusalem announces that as of 9 am the following morning, the two main roads going in and out of Jerusalem - Route 443 and Route 1 - will be shut off to traffic.
I heat up the water and give Raphaela a bath, wondering if it will be her last bath for the next few days.
Wednesday
The weather report says that the snow will only start around two in the afternoon, so we celebrate a snow day without snow. I heat up the water and take a shower, and cook a bunch of cold-weather appropriate foods, and check email, thinking that it may be the last opportunity for the next few days.
Around one pm, Raphaela and I go into bed for a nap, and I promise her that when we wake up, there will be a white landscape. Thunder and lightning threaten as we close our eyes. As soon as Raphaela wakes up from her nap, she asks in a frenzy, "Quick check! Do we have water and electricity?!"
The grass outside shows barely a sprinkle of snow, children everywhere are disappointed they cannot make a snow man, and parents everywhere cannot understand why school was canceled.
I heat up the water and give Raphaela a bath, just in case.
Thursday
We wake up to watery icy sludge on the street, and the Jerusalem Municipality announces that classes will begin at 10 am. Raphaela, who has recently split open her chin in a fall at school, decides that she does not want to slip on the ice and she would rather stay home. Besides, if she goes outside she will have to wear pants, and HRH the Princess simply does not wear pants. It is undignified.
I don't care one way or the other, all my patients have canceled through the weekend. Instead, I heat up the water and take a shower, wash the dishes in the sink, back up my iPhone and throw in a load of laundry, religiously following the Girl Scout model IE "Be Prepared."
Slogging through the slush, Raphaela and I arrived at her Gan, with half the parents keeping their children home because of dangerous road conditions, and the teachers shouting and freaking out because of the danger of the streets and sidewalks. I assure Raphaela that her teacher is not shouting at her, they are just all angry at the rain and the snow.
I consider not taking Raphaela to English class today, because there is no way in hell my car is moving out of the driveway. I have parked in a spot that hopefully this year, when the "real snow" arrives tonight and tomorrow, it will not be buried under a fallen tree like last year.
A normal night IE bath and dinner and a little bit of Dora the Explorer and surprise NOT, school has been canceled for tomorrow in anticipation of the "real storm" that thus far has eluded the esteemed weather forecasters.
Friday Morning
The snow was supposed to have begun around four am, at 8:30 am there isn't even rain, never mind the Storm to End All Storms. I haven't worked for three days now, Raphaela has begun to go stir crazy inside the house and away from her friends and her normal routine.
The Municipality damn well better make up these lost days of classes somewhere along the way.
At the very least, these days of bogus vacation have granted me the opportunity to spend time with my daughter, and appreciate the small and yet essential conveniences in life.
(The saddest little snow man in Jerusalem.)
Monday, January 5, 2015
Great Revelations
For a while now, Raphaela has spoken of this group of imaginary Kindergarten superheroes, a game that she plays with two of the boys in her class called "Team Alpha." Apparently they wield swords and guns and fight the bad guys, and they have all sorts of secret passwords and equipment.
This morning Raphaela was stomping on the floor quite forcefully, and I asked her what she was doing. She replied that she was killing the "evil cucumber." I responded that it seemed a little cruel, after all, how much harm could a cucumber do?
Raphaela said, very seriously, "Team Alpha is not kind to vegetables. Only to people and animals."
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Normally when I shower in the morning, I set up breakfast for Raphaela to keep her busy and satisfied for that fifteen minutes or so that I need for myself. This morning, after I got out of the shower, Raphaela ran over to me, flush with excitement.
"Mommy, you will never believe what happened! I took some of my corn flakes and my Cheerios and put them inside my cup that had chocolate milk. It was so delicious! Why didn't I think of doing that before today?!"
[An Aha Moment akin to that classic television commercial, "You put you chocolate in my peanut butter!]
Raphaela continued exuberantly , "Mommy, you must taste this! How about you and I have cereal and chocolate milk tomorrow morning for breakfast, together."
This morning Raphaela was stomping on the floor quite forcefully, and I asked her what she was doing. She replied that she was killing the "evil cucumber." I responded that it seemed a little cruel, after all, how much harm could a cucumber do?
Raphaela said, very seriously, "Team Alpha is not kind to vegetables. Only to people and animals."
==================================================================
Normally when I shower in the morning, I set up breakfast for Raphaela to keep her busy and satisfied for that fifteen minutes or so that I need for myself. This morning, after I got out of the shower, Raphaela ran over to me, flush with excitement.
"Mommy, you will never believe what happened! I took some of my corn flakes and my Cheerios and put them inside my cup that had chocolate milk. It was so delicious! Why didn't I think of doing that before today?!"
[An Aha Moment akin to that classic television commercial, "You put you chocolate in my peanut butter!]
Raphaela continued exuberantly , "Mommy, you must taste this! How about you and I have cereal and chocolate milk tomorrow morning for breakfast, together."
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Banning Dr. Phil
With about five minutes to spare before I had to pick up Raphaela from kindergarten, I turned on the television and literally, out of approximately 400 channels, there was nothing on worth watching. And so I was stuck with Dr. Phil, whom I have boycotted since I watched one of his programs in which he made a mockery of modern Judaism, with the help of the self-promoting sex Rabbi, Shmuly Boteach.
On this particular program today, a married couple sat with the doctor, explaining that recently their two older children had begun torturing the family cat on a regular basis. The mother, with a stone face that betrayed little human emotion, admitted that she felt slightly concerned at this development, since historically speaking, animal mutilation represents the first step toward a successful career in the psycho serial killer industry.
The father shrugged his shoulders, saying that he was not particularly concerned since "Kids will be kids...and besides, at least they are not running around the house breaking things."
Because apparently in 2014 in the United States, breaking stuff would be more worrisome to parents than the mistreatment of vulnerable living beings.
The ban on Dr. Phil has just been reinstated.
On this particular program today, a married couple sat with the doctor, explaining that recently their two older children had begun torturing the family cat on a regular basis. The mother, with a stone face that betrayed little human emotion, admitted that she felt slightly concerned at this development, since historically speaking, animal mutilation represents the first step toward a successful career in the psycho serial killer industry.
The father shrugged his shoulders, saying that he was not particularly concerned since "Kids will be kids...and besides, at least they are not running around the house breaking things."
Because apparently in 2014 in the United States, breaking stuff would be more worrisome to parents than the mistreatment of vulnerable living beings.
The ban on Dr. Phil has just been reinstated.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Delicacies and Danger
This morning's random topic on the way to school was: Puffer fish. After explaining to Raphaela that this fish has a special gift to keep it safe under the sea, I mentioned that it was basically poisonous to human beings, and therefore we would not ever eat the puffer fish. I added that the Japanese make this meal as a luxurious version of "truth or dare," that some people trust that the chef has removed all the bits that could kill you.
Raphaela (contemplative): Why would a person purposely choose to eat a food that is dangerous and poisonous, that could kill them if it is not prepared properly?
Mom: Good question. Some people take risks where others don't. And maybe it even tastes yummy...
Raphaela: Snow White ate a bite of the poisonous apple and died, and then the Prince kissed her and saved her.
Mom: Also true, but fortunately only a very small group of random magical apples are poisonous. Most fruits will most definitely not kill us.
Raphaela: That's good, because I like apples.
Raphaela (contemplative): Why would a person purposely choose to eat a food that is dangerous and poisonous, that could kill them if it is not prepared properly?
Mom: Good question. Some people take risks where others don't. And maybe it even tastes yummy...
Raphaela: Snow White ate a bite of the poisonous apple and died, and then the Prince kissed her and saved her.
Mom: Also true, but fortunately only a very small group of random magical apples are poisonous. Most fruits will most definitely not kill us.
Raphaela: That's good, because I like apples.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Speech Therapy
After wading through the beaurocracy of the Ministry of Health, Raphaela has finally begun speech therapy to correct a minor case of Elmer Fudd Syndrome, which seems to appear only with the Hebrew spoken "R" and not its parallel in English. The plan is to deal with small problems of pronunciation now, before first grade next Fall.
Contrary to the admonitions I have received since before Raphaela's birth, the speech therapist was wholly supportive of my daughter's frequent transitions between English and Hebrew, and suggested that I "go with the flow of the conversation," rather than enforcing an English-only rule in the house. She also gave me helpful suggestions how to phrase my grammar corrections as a cooperative rather than a critical process.
In order to master the Hebrew "R" the speech therapist devised a fun and slightly messy game of gargling water, and Raphaela participated with gusto, laughing when more of the water ended up on her shirt instead of inside her mouth. Raphaela's purred loudly, practically roaring, and when the speech therapist asked her why she needed so much force, my Israeli daughter (the one experiencing a war) said, "That way I scare away the bad guys!"
Contrary to the admonitions I have received since before Raphaela's birth, the speech therapist was wholly supportive of my daughter's frequent transitions between English and Hebrew, and suggested that I "go with the flow of the conversation," rather than enforcing an English-only rule in the house. She also gave me helpful suggestions how to phrase my grammar corrections as a cooperative rather than a critical process.
In order to master the Hebrew "R" the speech therapist devised a fun and slightly messy game of gargling water, and Raphaela participated with gusto, laughing when more of the water ended up on her shirt instead of inside her mouth. Raphaela's purred loudly, practically roaring, and when the speech therapist asked her why she needed so much force, my Israeli daughter (the one experiencing a war) said, "That way I scare away the bad guys!"
Monday, July 21, 2014
War Report from Jerusalem
Upon arriving home, I noted that the two eggs in the pigeon's nest in our window had hatched, and there sat two somewhat large chicks, being tended by their parents. Since then, one of the two chicks has lifted its wings and learned to fly; his sibling adamantly refuses to budge from the window sill.
It has been almost amusing, the perpetual "conversation" between the adult pigeon and this baby, which probably translates to, "Come on already, your brother/sister figured it out, it's not scary. Get out of the house and get a job..." And yet in the last week there has been no progress, the chick is staying put.
Watching Dora last night on cable television, the show was regularly interrupted with notifications of bombings taking place in real time throughout the south, a free service courtesy of the government.
I get it, it is scary out there, and now more than ever for those of us living in Israel during a war. Last night we both went to sleep early in an attempt to finish off our jet lag, and I woke up with a terrified start in the early hours of the morning, having just dreamt that I got separated from Raphaela during a missile attack, playing out the horrible possibilities as a parent. I never really fell back asleep after that, my heart was racing too fast and I did not want to close my eyes and replay that scene in my head.
Then, while walking Raphaela to camp today, we stopped at the usual spot to feed the street cats for whom we have taken responsibility. An Israeli soldier sat on the wall, he could not have been more than 22 or 23 years old, unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. I told Raphaela to thank him, to acknowledge that he is putting his life in jeopardy to keep us secure. I asked the soldier where he was stationed, and he told us that he was waiting for his ride to the army base, and after that he would be placed on the border of Gaza in the South of Israel.
With tears in my eyes, I wished him well and told him to "stay safe," as if he or I have any control over the matter.
It has been almost amusing, the perpetual "conversation" between the adult pigeon and this baby, which probably translates to, "Come on already, your brother/sister figured it out, it's not scary. Get out of the house and get a job..." And yet in the last week there has been no progress, the chick is staying put.
Watching Dora last night on cable television, the show was regularly interrupted with notifications of bombings taking place in real time throughout the south, a free service courtesy of the government.
I get it, it is scary out there, and now more than ever for those of us living in Israel during a war. Last night we both went to sleep early in an attempt to finish off our jet lag, and I woke up with a terrified start in the early hours of the morning, having just dreamt that I got separated from Raphaela during a missile attack, playing out the horrible possibilities as a parent. I never really fell back asleep after that, my heart was racing too fast and I did not want to close my eyes and replay that scene in my head.
Then, while walking Raphaela to camp today, we stopped at the usual spot to feed the street cats for whom we have taken responsibility. An Israeli soldier sat on the wall, he could not have been more than 22 or 23 years old, unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. I told Raphaela to thank him, to acknowledge that he is putting his life in jeopardy to keep us secure. I asked the soldier where he was stationed, and he told us that he was waiting for his ride to the army base, and after that he would be placed on the border of Gaza in the South of Israel.
With tears in my eyes, I wished him well and told him to "stay safe," as if he or I have any control over the matter.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Mommy and Raphaela, Live!
The link is as
follows: http://www.i24news.tv/en/tv/replay/bloggers/3409339602001
You can find us at around 2:30; it may not be my full 15 minutes of fame, but it's a great start.
You can find us at around 2:30; it may not be my full 15 minutes of fame, but it's a great start.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Life of Bitzi
Over this past Shabbat, I would remember my uncle and get sad, once or twice bursting into tears. Raphaela at first found the phenomenon confusing or funny, and so I explained to her that people cry when they are happy or sad, and that it is perfectly OK to express emotion that way. I explained to her that I am very sad that my uncle is "very sick," and that's why I am crying.
Raphaela listened, and then sat on the kitchen floor for ten minutes, trying to evoke the emotion of grief and making similar crying sounds that I had made, but it was play acting. When I asked her why she was crying, she replied logically, "Because Uncle Bitzi is very sick."
When that experience didn't quite satisfy her need to empathize with me, she instead threw me a big birthday party, using all the toys in the house, "so that you will be happy, Mommy."
Which brought me to the larger questions of life and death, mainly, how do you explain death to a four and a half year old? Especially living in Israel, where the daily news consists of reports about terror and fatalities, I assume that at some point Raphaela will get the idea, and it will become part of her understood lexicon. As her mother, I feel a need (perhaps misplaced) to protect her from the fear and the ugliness of facing death.
Not that I personally believe that death is ugly: when Ronald Reagan was President, a television movie called "The Day After" aired, and we sat as a family to watch it together. It was the first time that any program had specifically dealt with the Russian-American hostilities, and it showed in graphic detail the gruesome deaths of humans across the globe, pre and post-nuclear winter. I could not fall asleep that night, seeing in my head myself and everyone I loved dying because someone on the planet pushed the red button. The television show burned itself into my brain.
My father sat with me and explained: "The path of your life has already been determined by G-d. You could die from choking on a hot dog, you could drown in the bath tub, or you could get fried by nuclear war. The trick is to live every life to its fullest, make every day count, because you never really know if it will be your last."
That message has accompanied me and given me comfort all my life, and when I was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper in 2001, and survived, it only renewed my sense of purpose, I embraced my second chance at life. Since I also believe in reincarnation, I know that death represents the end on this physical plane, but there is so much more, and that comforts me as well.
Raphaela on the other hand, has no real understanding of the finality of death. When she saw a cat flattened (and clearly dead) on the road, she said to me, "Mommy, that cat is very broken. You are a doctor, you can fix it." So telling her that her uncle is dead, that she will never see him again, it didn't seem to penetrate.
Unless I can get a useful solution from someone like Mister Rogers or Dr. Phil, I will continue to shield Raphaela from the absolute grief and sadness. I know in my heart that her first real encounter with death will probably be vis a vis our cat Harry, who is going on 12 years now. Israeli cats who go outside expose themselves to danger and do not live to be 18 or 20, and at some point her best friend in the house and feline companion will leave this Earthly plane, and then we will deal with it together.
Raphaela listened, and then sat on the kitchen floor for ten minutes, trying to evoke the emotion of grief and making similar crying sounds that I had made, but it was play acting. When I asked her why she was crying, she replied logically, "Because Uncle Bitzi is very sick."
When that experience didn't quite satisfy her need to empathize with me, she instead threw me a big birthday party, using all the toys in the house, "so that you will be happy, Mommy."
Which brought me to the larger questions of life and death, mainly, how do you explain death to a four and a half year old? Especially living in Israel, where the daily news consists of reports about terror and fatalities, I assume that at some point Raphaela will get the idea, and it will become part of her understood lexicon. As her mother, I feel a need (perhaps misplaced) to protect her from the fear and the ugliness of facing death.
Not that I personally believe that death is ugly: when Ronald Reagan was President, a television movie called "The Day After" aired, and we sat as a family to watch it together. It was the first time that any program had specifically dealt with the Russian-American hostilities, and it showed in graphic detail the gruesome deaths of humans across the globe, pre and post-nuclear winter. I could not fall asleep that night, seeing in my head myself and everyone I loved dying because someone on the planet pushed the red button. The television show burned itself into my brain.
My father sat with me and explained: "The path of your life has already been determined by G-d. You could die from choking on a hot dog, you could drown in the bath tub, or you could get fried by nuclear war. The trick is to live every life to its fullest, make every day count, because you never really know if it will be your last."
That message has accompanied me and given me comfort all my life, and when I was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper in 2001, and survived, it only renewed my sense of purpose, I embraced my second chance at life. Since I also believe in reincarnation, I know that death represents the end on this physical plane, but there is so much more, and that comforts me as well.
Raphaela on the other hand, has no real understanding of the finality of death. When she saw a cat flattened (and clearly dead) on the road, she said to me, "Mommy, that cat is very broken. You are a doctor, you can fix it." So telling her that her uncle is dead, that she will never see him again, it didn't seem to penetrate.
Unless I can get a useful solution from someone like Mister Rogers or Dr. Phil, I will continue to shield Raphaela from the absolute grief and sadness. I know in my heart that her first real encounter with death will probably be vis a vis our cat Harry, who is going on 12 years now. Israeli cats who go outside expose themselves to danger and do not live to be 18 or 20, and at some point her best friend in the house and feline companion will leave this Earthly plane, and then we will deal with it together.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Baby Boom
The Israeli television Channel 10 premiered a new reality show last night called "Baby Boom." The premise is simple actually, it follows a woman from the time they enter the hospital until they give birth and hold their son or daughter in their arms for the first time. There are minimal reality type show shots of the people talking directly into the camera, which makes it easier to watch.
I cried last night along with the mothers and the fathers and the mothers-in-law and the midwives and the official birth videographers, and I am fairly sure that most of the viewers did the same. One of my close friends who also watched the program texted me, saying, "I am predicting lots of births nine months from tonight."
It got me thinking: when I was pregnant, I did not get all hormonal or obnoxious and demanding, but I do remember crying every time I saw a commercial on television of some version of a happy family. Father playing with son, mother holding baby, family on vacation etc., they all made me bawl.
But when it came to Raphaela's birth, I don't remember crying at all. Not during labor - although there was lots of "Get me an epidural, for the love of G-d!" - not after I held her for the first time and not for two days afterward. I had had in the end a totally natural birth, and was high from the adrenaline of the event, not to mention flooded with the joy of this beautiful new life.
Three days after the birth I cried for the first time, when I said her name aloud. Hearing "Raphaela" come out of my mouth, the name I had chosen when I was five months pregnant, it made it all real.
I am looking forward to the next installment of Baby Boom, and will have my box of tissues at the ready.
I cried last night along with the mothers and the fathers and the mothers-in-law and the midwives and the official birth videographers, and I am fairly sure that most of the viewers did the same. One of my close friends who also watched the program texted me, saying, "I am predicting lots of births nine months from tonight."
It got me thinking: when I was pregnant, I did not get all hormonal or obnoxious and demanding, but I do remember crying every time I saw a commercial on television of some version of a happy family. Father playing with son, mother holding baby, family on vacation etc., they all made me bawl.
But when it came to Raphaela's birth, I don't remember crying at all. Not during labor - although there was lots of "Get me an epidural, for the love of G-d!" - not after I held her for the first time and not for two days afterward. I had had in the end a totally natural birth, and was high from the adrenaline of the event, not to mention flooded with the joy of this beautiful new life.
Three days after the birth I cried for the first time, when I said her name aloud. Hearing "Raphaela" come out of my mouth, the name I had chosen when I was five months pregnant, it made it all real.
I am looking forward to the next installment of Baby Boom, and will have my box of tissues at the ready.
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