Family Matters

Israel celebrates two separate days in school, a version of Mother's Day and a more general Family Day, two truly lovely ideas.  When I picked up Raphaela from Gan yesterday - early, because she was complaining of pain in the ear - I saw a notice that requested that parents bring personal photos to be displayed during this period that they were exploring the concepts of family.

This always worries, that niggling feeling at the back of my head that says that some day, some child will be needlessly cruel to Raphaela and taunt her, "You don't have a father, nah nah nah nah nah..."  Or that some well meaning teacher in her years of nursery and elementary school will present our unique situation in a confusing way, one that makes Raphaela doubt herself for no reason.

With that in mind, I approached her teachers immediately and told them that they should feel free to consult with me, to understand how I speak to Raphaela about the issue and how I present it to others. I made it clear that Raphaela is thank G-d a happy child who knows that right now there is no male figure who resides in the house, that she knows she is loved and that there are all sorts of families, all valid in their approach.

To my delight, her teachers agreed with me on all counts, that Raphaela has never expressed sadness or confusion, that they see her as a happy and well-adjusted child; furthermore, they added that they had already spoken to the manager of the Gan, who had instructed them to present all family options as normal and loving and real.

Impressive for a religious Gan, though I think it helps that the manager (a Chardal mother of nine) has a sister who has followed the JSMBC route, and is thus well acquainted with the process and the joy that comes from children, no matter where they come from.

Daily Dose of Mister Rogers

I watched too much television as a child, spent hours and hours with the virtual baby sitter, and perhaps as an adult it has helped me to be more careful about how I spend my time, not squandering time in front of the screen. 

There were two shows to which I became particularly attached, the first, The Carol Burnett Show.  The humor was completely adult and flew over my head, but I felt comforted by her presence, she taught me about humor.

The second, more importantly, was Mister Rogers.  An outstanding soul, Fred McFeely Rogers represented warmth and support and a consistent person in my life, more significantly than usual when my parents were divorcing, when I became "that poor sad child" among the whispers of a Jewish community that did not deal well with the then new phenomenon of upheaval in families.

Of course today, with a 60% divorce rate and all sorts of alternative family situations, no one blinks, but at the time, it was a huge stigma and left me socially isolated.

As a single mother raising a child in Israel, where anything goes and no day is predictable, some days turn out better than others;  recently I discovered a one and a half minute clip on youtube which has become part of my daily routine.  If you google "Mister Rogers Farewell," he speaks to my generation, the one that grew up with him as a teacher, role model and friend.  He looks into the camera and I feel like he is actually looking at me and through me, talking to me and no one else.  He says those words that resonate because they have been programmed inside me, words that strengthen my inner voice even I am not aware.

Mister Rogers, long gone from this physical plane, still makes me feel good about myself, and I bless him for it.

If you want to laugh and cry and smile at the same time, if this special man meant something to you as a child, listen to him once again and you will gain more than you can imagine.  Then, just for kicks, search for "Mister Rogers Remix," and your inner child and highest voice will laugh once again.

Good Advice

This morning while doing pre-Shabbat errands, I bumped into a mother whose child had been at the previous Montessori Gan with Raphaela.  We compared notes, and I mentioned that I had made certain decisions for Raphaela, large and small, that in hindsight were so obviously stupid.  I castigated myself because I hadn't seen what should have been immediately true and obvious.

This woman, a mother of three, comforted me, saying, "Your oldest child is like the first pancake in the batch.  You will make mistakes, you will burn the edges, but you learn from it. I guarantee you that the mistakes you may or may not have made with Raphaela will never be repeated, because now you know better."

Thank you, my friend, thank you.  Shabbat Shalom.

Israeli Election Day 2013

Because of the Knesset elections, all public institutions - Gan, the post office, banks, government offices - are closed and the day has become a middle-of-the-week holiday.  Many people went traveling up North, and based upon the news report I saw on television last night, a large number of these citizens don't particularly care to end their vacation early in order to vote.

As a political science major at Barnard College and as a human being who generally throws herself gladly into the arena of Democracy, I think this voter apathy is a shame and an embarrassment.  These same families who choose a hike over the gift of choosing the next Prime Minister will be the first to complain once the election ends.

The Israeli system can seem baffling if you have grown up with the American version of voting.  First off, it is considered most impolite and practically a violation of your personal rights if you ask a person whether he voted for Obama or Romney;  but on the streets of Jerusalem this morning, every conversation in which I was involved or overheard started with the sentence, "So, who got your ballot today?" With a 15% Undecided coming into the elections, that question became much more interesting than usual.

Secondly, America pretends at direct elections, but then starts with the bullshit of the Electoral College, compounded by Blue and Red states.  So for example, when I voted this past November, it didn't really matter because I am registered in Massachusetts, Seriously Blue territory, and it was obvious that Obama would take the state and its delegates even if no one showed up at the polls.

In Israel they have direct elections in the sense that you vote for a party list.  You cannot choose the list per se, though as a registered member of a party you can vote in the primaries.  A designated price per seat is assigned, and literally each vote is counted toward that goal;  private deals have been negotiated for the 'spare change' so to speak.  In order to sit in the Knesset, your party must receive enough votes to account for at least two mandates out of 120;  if you fail to pass the threshold, your party disappears into oblivion.

The party with the most seats almost automatically gets the nod for forming the government, which then deteriorates into an ugly and expensive series of back room meetings, until the sitting government can claim a majority of at least 61 out of the total 120 seats.

The procedure itself dates back to the Byzantine Era, you stand behind a flimsy piece of card board, you choose a little piece of paper that represents your list and put it in a blue envelope.  The blue envelope goes into a blue box, and at the end of voting at ten pm, a bunch of really dedicated and really tired people count them by hand.

Based upon recent polls, Netanyahu's sitting Likud-Russian Mafia party will most surely receive the most seats, although less than they had anticipated.  They will then most likely form their majority government with other similar leaning parties (The Jewish Home), at least one despicable Ultra Orthodox party (Shas), and maybe, if they have the balls, one Center-Left party (Yair Lapid, Labour). In other words, silly business as usual.

For myself, I quite enjoyed the day off with Raphaela, we walked in the spectacular Summer-like weather to the voting station; sat at our favorite bakery and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast; Mommy got a haircut while Raphaela cooperated more than I ever imagined;  and then we went to the mall and bought our weekly groceries.  We spent the afternoon playing together and taking walks around the neighborhood, grabbing the sun shine wherever we could find it.

Raphaela has become such an active and real person, she has a brilliant sense of humor (for a three year old) and a calm happy disposition.  I feel like I won the biggest lottery in the Universe, and I am thankful for the time we had today to spend with each other.

This morning as we walked to Gan,
Raphaela:  Mommy, do you know what the guys at Gan are saying?
Mommy:  What are the guys saying?
Raphaela:  They are saying, "Hooray, Raphaela is on the way to Gan!"

(If I don't say it often enough, thank you G-d for the blessing of this happy self-assured child. Pthoo phtoo phtoo...)

Testing, testing...123!

When Raphaela was all of two days old, she showed a remarkable intelligence and awareness of how to manipulate the system.  I had just fed her and had dropped her off at the nursery in Hadassah Hospital, where she and the other 30 babies were meant to sleep for the night.

Fifteen minutes later, a frenzied call came over the loudspeaker: "Ms. Leeder, Ms. Leeder, come to the nursery immediately, your child is crying very loudly!"  When I arrived, the nurse scolded me, saying, "The child is obviously hungry."

I assured the nurse that I had just fed her, and that besides, two day old babies live off their post-birth fat so she couldn't be all that hungry.  In order to not wake up the other sleeping infants, they asked me to try to nurse.  I sat down in one of the comfy chairs, didn't even have the chance to pull up my shirt, and Raphaela fell asleep on my chest.

Lesson learned, crying gets Mommy, especially when the nurses want the rest of the children to sleep, and when Mommy is so new at the job.

Fast forward to last week, we scheduled a play date with one of Raphaela's friends from her previous Gan.  All was going well, when the other girl's behaviour deteriorated rapidly, she started to cry and complain of the cold, she became clingy and demanded that her mother take her home.

At the time, I thought this event could be filed under Anomaly.

Yesterday, Raphaela and I had plans for lunch with one of our closest friends.  The girls have grown up together literally since birth. On the walk, Raphaela chatted happily about all the thing they would do, all the games they would play and how excited she was to see them.  As soon as we walked in the door, Raphaela started crying, "I want to go home Mommy! Mika is not my friend!  My leg hurts and I want to go home."

At first I thought that she had been hurt somewhere in our seemingly innocuous walk through the sunny streets of Jerusalem.  I asked her, "Raphaela, are you sad? Are you angry?  Show me where it hurts.  Tell me why you want to go home."

She puckered up her lips, much like she looked when she was first born and resting on my stomach after the first major event in her life, and cried out, "I want to go home because I want to go home!"

Could be that I misinterpreted this almost obvious manipulation and power play, but I decided that Raphaela cannot learn that our plans go to Hell in a hand basket whenever she feels like it.  I told her that she was perfectly free to sit in the corner and cry all she wanted, and that I was going to attempt to enjoy the time with our friends.

And cry she did.  And kick and sob, for close to an hour.  My friends whose daughter is the same age understood, though it certainly dampened the atmosphere.  We left after an hour and a half, and I wondered if Raphaela needs counselling for...Fear of Play Dates.

I must admit that I felt some resentment as well, I rarely enjoy grown-up time with friends, and rather than play with her mate, she chose to ruin it for all of us.  At the time that she was throwing the mother of all temper tantrums, I wished someone would just step in and tell me why.

(Post script:  About one minute after we left our friends' house, Raphaela said to me, "Mommy, I don't want to be cry, I want to be happy."  About one and half minutes after we left our friends' house Raphaela announced that she was happy once again.  When we got home, she was singing and playing as if nothing at all had happened.)

The Gold Fish of Doom

There comes a time in every child's life when they learn the hardest lesson of all, gold fish either thrive or float fairly quickly.  I can distinctly remember the aquarium in the bedroom my brother and I shared as small kids;  we once went away for a Shabbat weekend and when we returned, the fish had somehow jumped out of the tank, must have flown gloriously for one brief moment, and then realized that there might be more oxygen outside, but there is NO water.  

Raphaela loves animals and a new pet store just opened near our house and the library.  Today we went to the store, checked out the hamsters and the birds, and took home four sprightly gold fish and a cleaner fish, to slightly increase the chances that they might live more than one month.  In fact, the owner told me quietly that they sell at the price of four fish for ten NIS, and that if one of the original four should be found napping, I am more than welcome to replace it, hopefully before Raphaela notices.

I feel conflicted, a part of me knows that Raphaela can learn the lesson of life and death in a soft way, via the doomed fish experiment. After all, their fates are sealed pretty much from the start.  On the other hand, as her mother I want to protect her from repetitive sadness.

In that case, I probably should not have gotten gold fish...