First Vaccine

Today Raphaela received her first vaccination ever. After deciding against the "Quintuple threat" [DPT plus Hepatitis and Oral Polio], I instructed the nurse that I wanted only Tetanus, which happens to be coupled with Diphtheria in Israel. With Raphaela crawling everywhere and eating dirt at the park, I want her to be protected.

The nurse agreed ("Whatever you say, you are the parent.") and then right before Raphaela was injected, I re-read the box and saw that it was in fact DPT; Pertussis is optional even in America these days. She didn't believe me but I finally got the correct vaccine.

Raphaela cried, a little. About two seconds later I gave my daughter a Chiropractic treatment, in front of the nurse and doctor, and explained that it would help avoid side effects like fever and irritability.

"Whatever you say, you're the parent."
Damn straight.

How to Ruin a Perfectly Nice Day

One of the reasons I look forward to the weekend is because I have the time to sleep in a little, and to take Raphaela to the park without worrying about patient phone calls or specific dead lines. This afternoon, we took advantage of a warm Shabbat and went to the park down the street; we played on the swings and the slide, and I set up an activity blanket on the grass where we blew bubbles and hung out. I had dressed her in a blue outfit, one of the few that was appropriate for this heat, and so every parent kept asking me about my son, and after a certain point I stopped correcting them. My child will wear colors other than pink, and it doesn't change her anatomy.

The fun and relaxation of the day was tainted, however, by the looming fears about the week ahead. No matter how hard I try, I cannot stop myself from worrying (some might argue, obsessing) about the "what ifs." Even when I am enjoying the moment, the stress bubbles inside me, and I know that Raphaela can pick up on it.

For example, tomorrow Raphaela has a scheduled vaccination, the first since she was born, and I keep playing out scenarios of reported complications.

And every time I check my email, I am afraid that a mildly disturbed colleague will continue to bombard my inbox with border line verbally abusive messages.

My actual week could be more full, ever since I returned from the States I feel like I have to remind people that I am working. It is almost like the period of time after my maternity leave ended, my schedule is sluggish to say the least, and apart from the basic financial needs, I dislike having holes in the middle of my day, it shuts down my energy and my inertia.

I am especially aware of financial issues, now that I have begun the process of moving. Though only in the very initial stages, I would like to be in a new (more modern) home by September/October, when Raphaela turns one year old. I am still keen on moving to Efrat, where I have friends and a stronger sense of community, but apparently there is a housing shortage caused by the temporary building freeze. Rentals have become more expensive, and houses seem way past my budget, no matter how many tax breaks I get for being a single mother and buying over the Green Line.

I envision a good life for me and my daughter, filled with the joy we have now and more comfortable physical conditions, and I must keep my inner eye on the goal. It would be easier if I had a consistent and stable support system.

My Talented Daughter

Not only did my daughter enjoy her first swimming lesson, but she waited until she got out of the pool to pee. I am so proud!

The Fright of My Life

The little boy who plays with Raphaela (the son of the care taker) has apparently come down with Strep. I don't know if it is viral or bacterial, and I can assume that Raphaela was exposed at least yesterday and the day before, before the symptoms came to light.

In taking her home today, I was distracted, thinking about the possibility of Raphaela getting ill in the next few days, and thinking about a work related problem. I stopped close to our house, on a steep street which used to have heavy traffic until it was closed down due to a property dispute with the Jerusalem Municipality. I put the breaks on the stroller in order to examine the boysenberry tree which has just started producing fruits. I know I put the break on, and the next thing I know, the stroller is barreling down the hill and gaining speed, and heading straight into a road which actually does have cars. Cars that are moving.

I dropped my cell phone and ran, the adrenaline pushing me to catch up with the stroller. I thought one hundred thoughts about what kind of damage might happen to my daughter. I didn't care what kind of damage would happen to me. I managed to catch the stroller with one hand, and then was afraid that the stroller would flip over and hurt Raphaela. I managed to get the stroller to the side, right before it arrived at the larger and busier road.

Meanwhile, Raphaela had a smile on her face. She had enjoyed the ride and seemed to be oblivious to the threat to her life that she had just avoided.

I know she is fine, and I know I locked the stroller, and I know that it will be very hard for me to sleep tonight.

The Kid on the Bike

Today, after picking Raphaela up from the care taker, we walked to the park to meet my friends Michal and Yael and their son Daniel. One of the reasons I moved to Israel was because of the weather, I thrive in the dry heat of the Jerusalem Summer, and I am hoping that we can make a regular habit of an afternoon playdate in the sun. The socializing provides benefits for both of us, I get to hang out with the Mommies and Raphaela learns how to share with other children. (And how to eat dirt and grass and sticks.)

At one point there were four babies on the blanket, at various stages of movement and crawling and all of them keen to play with Michal's dog, Milky. Then the drama started.

Apparently a Lubavitch boy had run over a girl with his bike. She was scuffed and in shock mostly, and several of the parents made an effort to help her find her mother, and to find the parent of the boy on the bike. The mother of the boy came over and opened her interaction with, "I know I don't belong here."

We all looked at each other, none of us had judged her because she was dressed in a long skirt and a wig, and none of us had judged her as a poor parent. But before we could respond and explain to her that accidents happen, that this could become a learning experience for the boy, she started literally ranting:

"I know I don't belong here, and I know you are all laughing at me and talking about me, and thinking how could such a terrible mother take her children to the same playground as my child."

Then she paused for a moment and looked at her son, and said, "Look at what you did to her, you are never riding your bike again, as long as you live."

Then she turned to the mother of the girl, who was trying to provide some comfort and sanity, and said, "My son has maimed your daughter, she will never be the same. You should get her to a doctor. There can be no penance and no forgiveness for what he has done."

The group of mothers sitting there looked at each other, debating whether we should say something to down play the situation, feeling sorry for the boy. We decided that nothing we could say would change the mindset of this woman, who felt imagined persecution because of her level of religiosity and her perception of her parenting skills.

Even as we tried to ignore her, she continued to rush over and spout her cries of "Why are you all attacking me?", "I don't belong," and "I am so sorry my son is bad."

I am sorry that this boy and his siblings must grow up in a house of dysfunction and paranoia, with a mother who clearly needs a support system.

Sleep Training, Night Two

Last night she fell asleep exhausted around 6:15 pm and slept eight uninterrupted hours, waking up around 2:30 am to have a nursing snack. My milk production has stabilized for the first time in two weeks, since returning from the Boston, and so the activity benefited both of us.

She then slept until 5:30 am and played in her crib for 15 minutes until I took her out, smile on her face.

So far, phtoo phtoo, none of that hysterical crying that I was promised by the books and by the doctor and by the care taker. Raphaela has never been a crying baby.

Harry has a secret method of getting into the building at night, which I discovered and closed off, so once he went outside, there was none of that in-out game on an hourly basis. I think, although I still feel cumulatively tired, that I slept six hours straight last night.

Now I must push myself to the next level, of not feeling guilty when I don't feed her in the middle of the night, and to teach her that she does not and should not eat out of habit.

Sleep Training, Seriously

I gave Raphaela two weeks after our return from the extended stay in the United States to sort out her sleeping patterns, because she is at an age where habits start purposely and intentionally. She was falling asleep in her own room and in her crib, but after several hours would wake up, and would refuse to fall back asleep unless she were in my bedroom and my bed, right beside me.

Both my pediatrician and my care taker warned me that this phenomenon would be much harder to break once she got older, and actively encouraged me to gird myself for several nights of crying, after which Raphaela would "get it" and start sleeping through the night.

Last night, determined to not become one of the case studies on one of the Super Nanny shows I watch on the BBC, we went through the normal bedtime routine. She fell asleep on her own - as she normally does - and around 10:30 pm woke up. Without interacting per se, I gave her a quick nursing snack and put her straight back into bed, and waited nervously outside her door for the cry-fest to begin.

It didn't, really. There was minimal crying and then she slept straight through until about 5:30 am, a wake-up which falls within her normal parameters, though I would have preferred it be an hour later. I am feeling pretty good about phase one of this social experiment, and am ready to try again tonight, this time without feeding her, because she is clearly well fed and healthy and the eating has become a comfort mechanism. Upon the advice of several other friends who are mothers, a la the Furber method, I will substitute emotional comfort for the breast, and see how that works.

I want Raphaela to grow into an independent and secure child, and her learning to pacify herself at night is a skill way overdue.

The other problem I now must work through is Harry, who meowed loudly every hour on the hour after three am, and prevented me from getting proper sleep, something I should have been able to achieve last night. He has his own version of jet lag, testing me since we returned from our trip, pushing the limits and then checking if I have abandoned him again and locked him in the house. If he continues this behaviour, I will consider locking him out of the house instead.