31.12.15 - Lean Left, Choose Life

Another year has gone by, and what a year it has been. Like I said at this exact time last year, this evening will forever be awash with emotion for me because it was right about now, 24 months ago, that I calmly announced during a New Year's Eve party that my water had broken, I'd best be getting a move on. For more on that hilarious episode, click here.

But this year, things are a little different.

As many of you will likely know, my mother Karen passed away in September. As some kind friends and family helped me remember afterwards, at her funeral I pointed out the fact that her passing was not a tragedy; she had in fact been "gone" for many years, and this corporeal exit from the world was in many ways the kindest gift she could have received, for she is now at peace.

Mom was never at peace, I think. That may well have been the biggest tragedy. Somehow, through all of the turmoil she experienced, as the daughter of two Holocaust survivors, as someone who battled with mental illness perhaps her entire life, as a shy, tiny woman who struggled to find true friendship and intimacy with others, she managed to hold together a marriage, work, raise three balanced, (moderately) respectful, loving children and even volunteered for community events.

But she was always in pain. Always fighting. Constantly at war with a world in which she felt she could never have control.

All of these things are easy to say three months after the fact. The truth is, I haven't yet cried over her death. Not properly, whatever the hell that means. I've cried at seeing my brother in pain; I've cried over the inexplicable, cruel losses my friends have suffered recently; I've cried over being exhausted from work and scared I'm not doing a good job on any front in my life - professionally, parentally, as a spouse, a friend, a sister.

Maybe that's all crying over her. But I don't think so, and here's why.

Mom's alzheimer's was already rapidly developed by the time Ella was born. I think she may have had some basic cognition about the fact that I'd given birth, and even to a girl. I think, but I'm not sure, that she understood that Ella was named for her mother (or at least the EL from Helen) at whose stonesetting I'd realized I was pregnant. It was what mom would have wanted, but in my typical fashion, not the way she would have actually wanted it, but she was no longer able to get angry at me about it. In an almost crueller way, she just never acknowledged the existence of this child for whom I'm watching my husband blow up a million balloons for as I write, a fact which is making my eyes well with tears right now.

But that's not quite it either.

Although I know that such things aren't really concrete until the age of three or four, my little about-to-be-two-year-old seems, thus far,  to be distinctly left handed.

Why this is so important to me, despite the fact that at certain angles Ella looks a ridiculous amount like my late mother (and tantrums rather similarly too) is that mom was left handed. Her mother, in the fifties, went to great pains to switch her over to being right handed. Even so, I still remember distinctly that she always held her fork with her left, her coffee cup, her Virginia Slims, tightly with a southpaw. When I began kindergarten in 1987 my mother realized, after cleaning up my crayon murals off the walls, that I too was left handed and started switching my hand over to the right as well. When I took up the guitar at age 11, even though I wrote with my right hand, I still wanted to play on my left and initially started playing upside down. It took my parents and guitar teacher months to get me to switch it.

Oh, I'm also stubborn, btw.

As is, of course, the force of nature that is my daughter, Ella Sasha Zimmer. She's stubborn, determined, luminescent, brave, clever, beautiful and kind. She beats the world every day and then gives it and her beloved koala a giant hug. She'll scream down the house until she gets her way, and cover you in kisses once she does. She runs out the back door after her bath butt naked and shares all of her meals with the dog.

With her left hand.

Baby girl, I am NEVER, EVER going to switch your hand, slow you down or refuse to acknowledge you for exactly who you are. Times have changed, and the chain gets broken here. When I look at you, I see all of the past generations of women in our family who were never given the chance to be who they really were. My sole responsibility, I believe, is to give you and your brother all of those chances and more. Along every step of the journey, I will be right here to hold your hand, whichever one you decide to give me, and together we will move forward and choose life.

When mom died and I had to hop on a plane very suddenly, I used the same metaphor my brother did with his daughter to explain to my kids that grandma had gone to become a star in the sky. She was no longer here with us on Earth, but she would always be with us if we looked up and beyond.

Happy Birthday my beautiful Luli. I love you to the moon and back, and all of the stars in between.

05.01.15 - "And he lived" - VaYechi

As I sit here trying to write my Jewish studies class for tomorrow I'm finding myself overwhelmed.

This week's Torah portion, VaYechi, is the end of the Book of Genesis, and describes in detail the moments before Jacob's death; how he blessed Joseph's sons, the younger receiving the blessing instead of the elder; the way he prophesied the future for each of his twelve sons; the way he insisted on returning home.

It all means so, so much in my world.

January, now, is such an incredible time for me. The month begins with celebrating the birth of my daughter. Tomorrow night, my husband will light a memorial candle for his mother Judy, of blessed memory, who passed away six years ago. Just a few days later, on the tenth, I will light a memorial candle for my father, Al, of blessed memory, who passed away four years ago.

When Judy passed away, it was just a few months after we had moved to Israel. We flew back to Australia and were there almost as long as we had been in Israel. When dad passed away I was five months pregnant with my son, in Tel Aviv, and flew back to Melbourne that very night.

Sons. Blessings. Returning home.
Endings making way for new beginnings.

The world is most certainly a different place than I ever could have imagined it even a year ago. "Home" now has several meanings. So much has changed. So much can never change again.

With every change, with every hurdle we overcome and milestone we achieve, we shape and mould and recreate. We sew together memories with present events to create a patchwork quilt of our current reality, our lives and their meaning. We remind our children of whose names they bear and why, what their legacy to impart on the world was, their influence, their essence. We raise a glass to who they were, and we bless and drink to the future of what our children will be.

That 3000 year old book gets me, every single time.

31.12.14 - A year ago today...

At this time of year, it's not uncommon to cast your mind back to where you were and what you were doing 365 days earlier. It occurred to me that this is a great opportunity to share with you the series of hilarious events that led up to birth of my daughter Ella, whose first birthday we are preparing to celebrate on Thursday, a fact I can barely wrap my head around. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. It's pretty funny.

The birthday girl, on her throne. Woo!

December 31st, 2013 - Tel Aviv, Israel

Another day in the office. Heading into work on foot, like I always did, after dropping my son Judah at daycare, my husband Ilan sent me a text message reminding me I'd had another hard night coughing, and that I needed to sit down with my boss to explain that though my due date was two weeks off, I might need to start my maternity leave early since I simply wasn't shaking this bout of sinusitis/tonsilitis.

I nodded and switched on my music, revelling in my 25 minute walk, the most alone time I was afforded during the day.

Throughout the course of that morning, my friend Einat, the company graphic designer, kept telling me to go home, lest I cough the baby out on the floor, sweetheart that she is. I made a cup of tea, smiled and thought I'd act upon my husband's text message. I popped my head into the marketing managers' door and sat down. Slowly. I was 105 weeks pregnant, after all.

To my luck, pregnancy was the name of the game at that time at work. I, the head of business relations and not that anyone else knew, but Einat the graphic designer were all pregnant, as was the wife of google optimiser in our team. My boss, whom I was about to plead with,  also had a pregnant wife at home. Surely he'd be sympathetic, understanding, at a minimum, fair. But to my disbelief, he basically begged with me to stay at least one more week, since they hadn't yet found an adequate replacement and there were too many sensitive items on my "to do" list. To bolster his argument, he brought in the CEO who gave me a whole "you're very hard to replace" spiel and I eventually just nodded and smiled and started thinking about lunch and how I was going to explain this to Ilan.

Lunchtime came and I went and got hummus with extra spicy pickles with my friend Eli. Mmmmm hummus. As was our office custom at the time, we all ate together, and as of late, everyone laid out their bet of when which baby would arrive first. Einat had been convinced that NYE was my date but lo and behold there I was at the table. She moved me up to Jan 5th, even though my date was the 12th, but she and Ruth, the head of media and mother of two, reminded me that second kids come earlier.

Whatevs. I really enjoyed those pickles. Hummus was a good choice, Eli.

After lunch we took a birthday picture for Anat, our affiliate manager, wishing her a happy birthday and sent it to her on her vacation in Europe. I couldn't even sit down properly on the couch where we gathered to take the picture. My team laughed at me.

The day went by as per usual, and I wished my friends happy new year as I headed out the door to pick up my son. On the way home my husband called to say he wasn't feeling 100%, so would stay home with our son tonight rather than get a babysitter and join me at my best friend Gemma's NYE party. I impressed upon him the fact this might be our last chance to go out together for a while; he said nah, we've got time, relax.

After our usual snack and play at the park with friends, I headed home with my son, fed, bathed and put him to bed and headed off to Gem's party. A workmate of my husband's stopped by just before I left to borrow our baby car seat for a visiting family member. He kept asking "are you sure you guys don't need it?" but we were both confident that there was no rush; I wasn't due for two weeks and was heading out partying anyway.

So off I went to south Tel Aviv, where the cool kids live, far more exciting than where we were living, babytown Old North Tel Aviv. The bus ride is about 25 minutes depending on traffic and the bus was pretty full. I was wearing a heavy cardigan and jacket and was immersed in my phone. There wasn't much room on the bus so I decided to stay towards the front near the driver rather than head into the mess. Maybe two stops from where I needed to alight, the 60-some-year old woman who had been sitting in the front seat (usually reserved for elderly, frail and pregnant folk) starts yelling at me in Hebrew for having stood the whole trip; she couldn't see I was pregnant under the jacket how she supposed to know? Why did I make her do that?

Israelis tend to be hilarious like that.

I got to my friends apartment and was greeted warmly, had my jacket taken and I recounted my bus story. This was appreciated by friends but no one more so than my friend Elana (Lan), who was due just a few weeks after me. We sat on the couch and ate the best party food, discussing how much we were looking forward to going to bed soonish and how stupidly people behave towards pregnant women. I laughed at something she said and excused myself to go to the bathroom, like I did every 20 minutes or so.

Except when I got there I realised I didn't need to pee; my water had broken. It was 9pm.

I think my absolutely clearest memory of that night was sitting there chuckling to myself about how textbook this was. And how I totally hadn't finished packing my hospital bag. And then rifing through Gem's medicine cabinet trying to find a pad. Because that would really help right now.

I walked back into the party to see Gem and Lan deep in discussion, and some odd part of me decided to be super polite and wait patiently until they were done, about three minutes later. From what must have been a silly grin on my face, they both asked me "what's up" and I mentioned hey, my water broke so I should probably go now.

Y'think?

So off we went. I texted Ilan quickly to say my water had broken, could he call his sister (to take Judah for the night), oh and finish packing my bag. Please and thanks.

Lan and her husband, Uri, had parked right outside and helped whisk me out the door. For reasons I think only Uri can explain, we took a relatively scenic route home via Sde Dov airport, and Lan kept impressing upon me that I should take my time, shower, lie down a bit, make a sandwich - labor can take hours. I nodded and smiled, definitely thinking a shower was in order considering the Yarkon river was running down my jeans and apologised repeatedly for ruining their car upholstery. As I got out of the car, she squeezed my hand, smiled and said "you'll be great - keep me updated."

I walked in the front door to find Ilan in a mild state of happy panic, which was probably really minor shock. His sister, Ronit, arrived a few minutes later and we bundled Jude out of bed to start our adventure. There was no time for a shower or even a change of pants, much to my dismay. But you gotta go with the flow, literally. Ronit was grinning and so excited, and mentioned how calm I seemed. Which I was - contractions hadn't really started and I found the water breaking part just so proscribed I giggled. But then I realized I hadn't packed my medical forms, which the labor team needs. So they dropped me at the entrance of the hospital with my bag and raced home to get my folder.

9.45pm and I'm sitting out the front of Lis, Ichilov's maternity hospital, playing on my phone, appreciating the cool night air, knowing I'm going to be stuck inside for a little while. In the yellow shadow of the streetlight, I suddenly notice drops on the ground and realize I should perhaps head inside. I've leaked right through my pants.

Very good.

I sit down at the front desk and explain I'm there because my water broke so you know, admit me. These veteran nurses, who see this every moment of every day, are not moved. I fill out the paperwork quietly and patiently and explain my husband just popped home to get my medical forms, he should be in any minute. I head off to do a few tests, play on my phone a little more, and take a seat in the waiting room, looking like I've rightly pissed myself (serves me right for wearing olive green maternity jeans). Ilan eventually arrives, a little paler than usual, to find me in the waiting room chatting to my friend Tanya who lives in Haifa, who had just called to say happy new year, what are you up to and I mention I'm at the hospital etc.

Keep you posted. Cheers.

For the next hour or so, Ilan and I waited, watched and basically laughed. Maybe out of nerves, maybe out of boredom. Because of his addiction to it at the time, and the fact we weren't totally square on the name, he kept referring to the baby as "candy crush" and I kept threatening divorce. At this point I'm sitting in a puddle and starting to have contractions. It's 11.15 and I still haven't been seen, and it seems like every woman in Tel Aviv is going into labor. The nurses are chatting in a corner and wishing mazal tov to a guy whose wife delivered in seven minutes. Isn't that swell? Ilan suddenly jumps up and gets a nurses attention, drawing attention to the fact that we're up to our ankles in amniotic fluid, little help? And so I was seen.

So I'm finally on a bed and being examined. Two centimetres they tell me, you're ok, and tend to other patients. Ilan and I return to the candy crush debate, and the fact they can't seem to read my paperwork properly, and why is this guy besties with the nurses? We laughed some more, checked in with Ronit to see that Judah was asleep, and then suddenly it began to hurt.

I mean seriously, hurt.

The nurse comes to check me to tell me I'm actually seven centimetres dilated and let's get you upstairs. Ok cool. Off we go. Except something, which I'm yet to find out, happened and I was left in the middle of the lobby by the orderlies taking me to the elevator for about ten minutes. Literally, next to the front desk, about 10 feet from the front door. Covered in a sheet, now soaking wet with all sorts of nasty stuff. And my body splitting in two. And no one doing anything.

By chance, a midwife was walking by and seemed to recognize me, and noticed my predicament. She was in fact the first midwife on shift when my son was born, though she hadn't seen me through to the end, she clearly recognized me in that state. She came over, told me to breathe and managed to get orderlies to get me upstairs. I'm not 100% sure she was on duty but from that moment she was. She stayed by my side and made them open up a new room for me. As the lights and equipment were turned on she started asking me questions and looking at my paperwork. She asked if I wanted an epidural, to which I responded "please God yes now" but then informed me with a chuckle as she checked under the sheet that it's a little late, we can see the baby's head.

That was the moment I got scared.

I wasn't scared for the baby - it was clear to me she knew exactly what she was doing and had plans. Ilan looked at me with a great big smile and said "ok here we go - squeeze my hand if it hurts!" and I thought I'd murder him once I came to because I was clearly about to fall unconscious and what the hell was he smiling about the universe was making its way out of my lady parts. I wasn't prepared for this and really wasn't sure I could maintain consciousness. I was suddenly so dizzy and hot and parched. I barked at Ilan to get me water and drop it on my head, which he did after I noticed he was shaking out the broken bones in his hand. The midwife and another off duty nurse who came by to help were encouraging me to push and I apparently was, though I don't recall having the strength to do so. After what felt like the most painful 30 seconds of anyone's life, ever, they told me to stop pushing, and I was terrified. Why stop? What's happening?

The world went silent and froze.

And then the most gorgeous goo-covered, mop-headed, angry little smurf entered the world, was placed upon my belly, then my chest, and made her own way to the mummy buffet.

12.15am, January 1, 2014.

Ella my love, Daddy, Judah and I haven't stopped smiling since the second you were born. Thank you so much for choosing us. We'll do our best to make sure there are fireworks in your honor every year. Happy first birthday baby girl.

I sent this photo to the marketing department whatsapp group mentioning I wouldn't be in today. 

First whole family photo, even if daddy is merely a reflection

05.12.14 - Some recent realisations

Here's a bunch of things I wish I had never introduced my kids to:
-Goldfish crackers (especially in the car)
-Bananas (kinda anywhere)
-Cheerios
-My bed

And this is why:
1. Goldfish crackers, once they enter you car-sphere, never leave. I'm pretty sure they multiply and cover everything in fine cheese dust. And vote Republican.
2. Bananas become a part of every piece of clothing you own, and you never know when it happened. Sneaky yellow bastards.
3. Cheerios, like goldfish crackers, can be found in every crevice of your house. They lack cheese dust but spread their own dust when you unwittingly step on them in your socks.
4. I deserve to sleep in my bed without you climbing on my face. I just got sleep back. Stop ruining it.

But then this happens:
-I'm just still so incredibly thrilled by every time I see my kids eat I don't care.
-I'm so tired I could fall asleep bent over backwards on a fire hydrant.

And without a shadow of a doubt, I just couldn't imagine my life any other way.

03.9.2014 - Same Same...but different

When you have a baby, there are three general things you get "told" when you interact with others:
-Who they look like
-How much hair they have
-What they seem to want (because you didn't actually know)

I find this amusing simply because how has it not occurred to anyone that you, the primary caregiver would know these things, considering you spend every waking (and unconscious) second with this child? Does the amount of hair they have actually have an impact on their future 401k? Were you entirely unaware of them being tired, hungry or just thrilled to have their toes in their mouth?

I'm not mentioning this because I'm particularly pissy at anyone or anything. It just makes me laugh, s'all. I never know if it's just like talking about the weather, or if people genuinely think I need to hash out these pressing concerns. Either way, what never seems to come up, and is a totally huge recent revelation on my part, is the fact that I just didn't give credit to my second child being nothing like my first.

It's not as stupid as it sounds. I'm realising, or at least feeling, that the reason we have more than one child is because we worked out the first one. No joke. Desires towards big families aside, I think it's safe to generalise that most people, once they've had a kid tend to want a sibling for them. I honestly believe you only consider that notion once you've got the first one "working" - eating, sleeping, teething, crawling, etc. Once they are in verb form, you begin to understand that you might be physically and emotionally capable of doing this all over again with another creature that you can love just as much. That in itself is enormous. And wonderful. And misleading.

You embark on the journey again. You start trying, see how long that lasts, and you get to wave around another pee-covered stick in elation. And then all the pregnancy stuff kicks in so much quicker than last time. Your body already knows what to do, plus you notice less because you're running after a maniacal toddler (that's not knocking my son - that's just calling a spade a spade.) And then, with decidedly less pomp and circumstance and definitively more cartoons and soggy cheerios, a new, beautiful soul comes into the world, and you are so much more confident, so much calmer, so definitely in for the shock of your life. Because this new little person is their own, and no matter how much you think you know what to expect, you just don't.

Now, perhaps my experience is unique because it was a girl this time, because she was born at a different time of year, or because we moved countries and I wasn't as "strict" with routine considering the circumstances. Maybe. But I was convinced that #2 would certainly be a piece of cake because I had #1 in full working order by the time he was four months old - sleeping through the night, eating like an olympic champion, crapping on a schedule I could set my watch to. No worries. Thing is though, my daughter is not my son, nor should I ever have "expected" her to be anything like him. They aren't twins; they're siblings. And even if they had shared the womb at the same time, they would still be two different people, fully deserving of respect, attention and appreciation in their own right, in their own way.

It has, unfortunately, taken me this long to sit down and acknowledge that fully, and realising that whatever parenting failures I have been feeling throughout her infancy aren't necessarily failures but in fact just her rules for how she wants to be treated. I owe it to her to sit up and listen, and I need to give myself a little more credit for simply being human. As well, what I see this time around is completely different than the first time. There are plenty of things that she does better than her older brother, both when he was her age and even now (like, being quiet. Or eating broccoli. Or not stepping on my broken toe) so its incumbent upon me to notice that, to not compare but rather respect and celebrate both of my kids as the individuals they are.

It's a tricky job, this parenting gig, and its nuances are far more complex than her having my nose or the way he walks exactly his father.  Once we begin to respect those differences and those things we don't know, rather than harp on the similarities and what we think we do, I feel like we begin to give everyone the fair chance they deserve.

22.8.14 - Grounded....and grateful

Oh dear. To say its been a while would be an understatement. Here's a few reasons I suppose why I got distracted:

I changed jobs
I travelled overseas
I fell pregnant
I had said baby (and she's just super)
We moved overseas
My son virtually toilet trained himself
I broke my toe yesterday

That's a pretty comprehensive roundup, no? You're welcome.

I often use this time, morning nap time, to run around the house doing things, or to run around some other place doing things (while she naps in the stroller) and after my smooth move yesterday, its become clear to me that perhaps I could benefit from taking a moment to slow down and collect my thoughts. To be honest, I've been meaning to get back into blogging for a while, what with so many different, hilarious adventures under my belt to share and inspiration from one of my best friends, Elana Goldberg, sharing her parenting observations in a manner much more eloquent than mine. But now that I'm hobbling around like a right idiot, I couldn't think of a better way to make myself sit still. At least for a few minutes until I realise I absolutely have to do something on the other side of the room lest I melt into a puddle of frustration.

It was at about this, the eight month mark with my son, that I began blogging. Perhaps it was because my husband was overseas so I had no one to share that night's observation with (showering with my glasses still on), or because it was only at about this point in the game did I remember I could form a sentence in print. Either way, I'm grateful for it.  Taking a moment to reflect is actually hard work. It's not built into our crazy busy lives these days, nor does it offer us the month-long vacation we are actually in desperate need of. Still, the past ten minutes of sitting here thinking of what to write has given me some much needed catharsis that I suppose I didn't even know I needed until I did it.

See, this isn't the first time I've broken my toe. It's the third. And when I stopped to think about it, every time I've done this its been simply because I was too busy doing something else to notice the large mass in front of me that was going to separate my littlest piggy from it's non-roast-beef-eating predecessor. The first time was in a pool when I was fifteen, too busy horsing around to notice I was closer to the shallow end. The second time was late one night at home, my head buried in a work document to notice the fairly large, solid coffee table in front of me. And yesterday's genius moment was between me being in a rush to get the washing on the line while listening to a lecture before I start teaching in a few weeks, after having put the baby down after lunch and not yet having put away the highchair, which I now know is solid enough to make a bone crack when you go barreling into it at top speed. Each time I've done this, its because I've been too engrossed in something else - whether it be my social life, my work life or home life. I didn't see what was in front of me. And we all know how that cautionary tale ends.

With a broken toe, obviously.

So as I sit here, my toe taped and throbbing and my pride aching from the genuine stupidity of how this happened, I'm rather grateful for the chance to stop, reflect  and share the things that have been right in front of me, to put into writing the sea of observations, thoughts, hilarity and eventual clarity I've been swimming in.

Can't wait to catch you up.

13.1.13 - Because this is Israel

It's been a while. I know. But then, nothing really happened for me to need to process it in writing, so I suppose that's a good sign.

Cue dramatic music.

I happen to have a soft spot for The Golden Girls, in particular, Sofia, so in her wise words, picture it: Tel Aviv, 2013. An ideal Saturday. Breakfast with friends and their kids who we hadn't seen in an age; followed by a fun family lunch with the cousins, to be topped off by coming home to catch up with other friends whom we hadn't seen in way too long, expecting their own little one in a few short months. You have friends over, you offer them refreshments. So out came the biscuits and tea and coffee. And then it happened.

My 18 month old pulled a cup of scalding hot tea off the table, spilling it all over his body.

Within half a second I darted over, undressing him to see exactly where he was hurt. Luckily, it missed his face, (although a few spots hit his chin) and some dripped on his neck and chest, but the major burn was on his left bicep. As I watched his skin peel, I had him halfway out the front door, shouting instructions at my husband to grab a jacket and get in the car. Our friends, angels that they are, drove us straight to the local children's hospital, Dana, where he was seen immediately, given pain relief, examined by a plastic surgeon, wound dressed and release form signed within an hour.  We were home by bedtime.

So, first things first, I am eternally grateful to our friends who simply didn't blink; they stayed by our side throughout the entire ordeal and both contacted me today to see how my brave boy was doing (which is excellent by the way, but I'll get to that later.) I am also extremely impressed, but on second thought not that surprised by, the efficiency of the children's hospital. You know why?
Because this is Israel.

In all the hubbub of running between children's emergency and the plastic surgeon, my son's coat got left behind in the waiting room. I called the hospital later that evening to see if anyone had seen it and could put it aside, feeling trivial and rather materialistic for asking an emergency nurse to waste her time doing so, especially on the heels of a nurses' strike in this country. The nurses response? "Of course we'll look for it - your son needs his coat!"

I hopped on my bike later that evening and went down to the hospital to search for it. When I arrived at plastics, a family who had seen us come and go was still in the waiting room. I hadn't really noticed them but they remembered me and asked how my baby boy was doing. I told them fine, but we had forgotten his jacket. Three of them at once shouted, "We know! We were saving it for you in case you came back! But a doctor just came and took it away!" A young girl from the family, perhaps all of seven, led me through the double doors (she knew the code to get through!) and said, "I hope you find the coat. And I hope your son feels better. Poor thing. He's really cute." As she turned on her heels and sped away, a nurse, whom I had no recollection of, shoved the jacket in my face and said, "Here's his jacket. How is he feeling? Poor little guy. Hope he recovers speedily." And then he went back to sorting paddle pop sticks and gauze.

This is Israel.

Another friend of mine who had a baby recently had noticed a slight "deviation" if you will between the generosity of friends from abroad and friends here in Tel Aviv. She asked if I had had the same experience, to which I replied, "Totally. Look - its impossible to get a tradesman here to do good work or use decent materials, or to get a government worker to work a second past closing time, but when it comes to the children, only the best." She smiled and agreed. It's true; most buildings in Tel Aviv are made out of sticky tape and chewing gum and God forbid you arrive a minute past two at the tax office to file a form, but if there's a baby involved, everything is different. Pharmacists let you cut stupidly long lines; everyone moves aside on the bus to help you get the pusher through and they insist you take their seat; the checkout chick at the supermarket who hasn't smiled since the release of Thriller grins at your little menace pulling apart her chewing gum display, "because he's happy, let him be."

When it comes to the children, we all religiously follow the unwritten law that says they should have it better than we did. You give them everything you have because they deserve the best. When you can't do that, or worse, they feel pain or suffering and there's very little you can do about it, you begin to get an insight into why people in this country are so intense and crazy and wonderful, all in the same moment.

Becoming a parent, I knew there would sleepless nights, stretch marks, mess and stains and all sorts of noise. All of that I was prepared for. But this, the soul crushing guilt, this is the stuff Jewish stereotypes are made of and for bloody good reason. It's simply awful. My husband and I played "it was my fault because..." for about 20 minutes after we climbed into bed last night, realizing we had to stop ourselves before one of us just jumped out the window in shame. My husband stayed home with him today to help him recuperate and to, you know, spoil the living crap out of him, which I am only sorry I wasn't there to do myself. They played all morning in pyjamas, watched cartoons, ate cookies, played in the park, went a bought a new bimba (tricycle) and had chocolate milk too. Everyone was smiles and cuddles and laughter until bath time. Until the awful red spots and open wound came back into full view. Carefully bathing, not splashing in bubbles like we usually do, having to gently place a clean, medicated bandage on a wriggly 18 month old who believes running around the house naked is an olympic sport he's training for, was awful. It looked awful. I felt awful.

My son's biggest concern was that we hadn't chosen a book and sung his favorite bedtime song yet. That, to him, was awful.

The doctor said that there won't be any permanent scarring, thank God, and it should all heal in matter of days. Well, my son will.  My husband and I, well, that's a different story altogether.
Because this is, and we are, Israel.

30.7.12 - How's my driving?

As I was navigating my way home the other day with my son's typically huge stroller (and my son, of course) I couldn't help but giggle at a bumper sticker I saw on an awfully parked car saying "How's my driving?" with a number underneath to call. This struck me as particularly funny for a number of reasons:

1. Israeli drivers are generally terrible. AS IF you want other people to comment, more than they are going to anyway.

2. The park was just outrageously bad, so much so I had to get off the pavement and walk on the street because I couldn't get the stroller through. My driving teacher in Australia, who happened to be Israeli, always taught me, as did my dad, that more people will judge your driving on the way that you park and it's just awful driver's etiquette to park badly. Apart from the invitation to judge, I thought about my ISRAELI driving teacher saying that and the whole thing just seemed hilarious.

3. My driving of the stroller seemed pretty awful in direct relation to this ridiculous park. I hoped no one was watching.

But even more than all of this, it made me think, what if there was a bumper sticker that said, "How's my parenting?" with a number to call afterwards. Touche. I wonder how many parents would get reported. I wonder how many tickets I'd have.

With the summer onslaught of guests, all of whom have been outrageously excited to see my son, I have wondered about who may be judging my driving. His personality is really beginning to shine through, and surprise to no one, he's a cheeky little rascal. He's very giggly and smiley but he's also starting to throw temper tantrums, and he's smacking. I have realized he's not actually doing it out of frustration, though that's certainly a part of it - he's doing it for reaction, simply to see what happens and also to connect with things, as is his curious habit at the moment. Okies. So in typical new parent response, we're doing all the textbook things - saying "no" firmly, asking him what he would like rather than what he wants (although "want" certainly slips out often enough) talking and walking him through the issue. That's fine. This morning though, when he reached for an electrical cord, my husband simply smacked his hand and said "no". Something I've thought about doing but refrained from many times because I've read too many scholarly articles that suggest such behavior only reinforces aggression.

But he stopped. He didn't reach for it again. 

My mother has a habit of telling the same story over and over again and there's one she tells often about my aunt not disciplining my cousin, her first child, at a meal when he was throwing food off his highchair. After my aunt's several gentle overtones, my mother, already onto her third child, eventually smacked his hand and said "no" and he stopped. Mind you this was back in the '80s, so who knows between all the shoulder pads and diet drinks what was really going on. Still, it's tried, true and tested and my cousin no longer throws food on the floor (he's 29 years old). 

So what do I do? My husband was right and the articles are right and I feel like I'm not alright. I've not yet ascertained, however, what it is that's bothering me. Is it that I don't want to discipline my child in a certain way, or that I'm afraid of being judged by others? Is my fear related to reinforcing bad behavior, or that my perfect child isn't perfect, or that others will think I'm a bad parent? What is it?

Back down memory lane. My late grandmother, who was a sassy lady to say the least, actually complimented my parenting when we were in the States a few months ago. I mention this because I'm not sure she ever did the same to my mother. She said to me, as she saw me feeding my son fruit and yogurt instead of the cookie she longed to give him, "you know what you're doing. Look how nicely he sits and eats. I won't say anything." For my grandmother, this was a big deal because she had negative running commentary on everything. I'm talking about a fear of judgement and here I was getting a compliment from the matriarch of my family who rarely had compliments for anyone. That's huge, and perhaps more meaningful than I'll ever truly understand. My son, her first great grandchild and "goldene yingele" was turning out ok thanks to me. It's weird; when he's great, I attribute it to him; when he's not, I attribute it to me. So whose judgement am I really afraid of the most?

Perhaps if I stop judging and worrying about who is judging me, this kid might have a solid chance. 

9.7.12 - Mistakes help you grow...poorer

So my little munchkin is well and truly a year old, meaning no longer a "baby" but according to babycenter.com updates, a toddler. I can now dispel a couple of myths I stupidly subscribed to way back when I was the mother of a "baby":

- Never leave your baby to cry. The world isn't actually ending if they cry for longer than a second, even though it sounds like it.

- Babies love everything warm. In a hot weather country, this is just a cruel old wives tale. They like it normal, like everyone else.

- Gently pat your child's back to burp them. Patting doesn't do anything. Rubbing the left side of their back does. The prior motion was guess work and I assume, frustration relief for the parent, like when you knock the TV to get a better picture.

- Rocking your baby to sleep will get them addicted to the motion. Clearly this will lead them into a life of drugs, misery and not law school.

- Pacifiers make your child's teeth come in crooked. Their teeth are predetermined, pacifier or not. Baby boxing, now that's gonna make 'em crooked. 

- Wait a number of months before introducing allergenic foods like kiwi or peanuts. If they have the allergy they have it, whether they try the food now or later. Israeli kids rarely have peanut allergies because they are weaned onto Bamba the second they can chew.

- Crying It Out isn't bad for them. This one is true. However, it's bloody horrible for you. 

- "Extra stretchy sides to prevent leakage" - need I explain this one?

And many, many more. Now that my son is officially a toddler, I feel I've learned a lot, things to avoid/do better next time, things to watch out for. But in truth, I still have a child that requires 100% of my attention at any given moment so really, I'm not quite off the baby hook yet, and I'm still making loads of mistakes.

My most recent one, which I'm yet to entirely determine the severity of, was buying him a first birthday present. This was a poor (literally) move on our part for several reasons. The first one is a) as if he would even know; b) he got so many other presents that we've hidden half of them to be doled out throughout the year and c) he could care less about anything else except the box and other ridiculous items like our empty coffee cups. The last one is the one that gets me the most. His father and I realized after his birthday party and unwrapping all of his gifts that we in fact hadn't gotten on the train. One might argue well hey, we do stuff every day but we chose that. And we never buy him anything, other than food, diapers and the occasional dose of medication. We've been lucky enough to be showered with gifts and hand-me-downs from literally every corner of the planet, necessitating very little additional expenditure on our part. Score, right? Wrong. Our ethnic guilt set in and off we went to buy him what we thought he needed (and wanted) most - a walker. 

My son was born with a mild condition in his neck called torticollis, a shortening of the muscles on one side that came as a result of him being lodged in my pelvis for too long during labor. It took monthly physiotherapy for the first year to correct it, a process he has now "graduated" from. He's looking very fine and asymmetrical now, thanks for asking. During the therapy, I would often get lots of "extra" tips from our talented physio, such as knowing to wait a month after he starts walking to put him in shoes, as well as the fact that all kids eventually start walking with the help of gadgets or not. Still, on our last visit he really enjoyed playing with the walker in her office, so I mentioned that to my husband and the decision was made: we were getting him one. A nice one, not too flashy or complicated, something cute and simple and we even found one that converts into a little scooter for him too. First and second birthdays taken care of in one go! Efficient parenting ho!

Except that he doesn't like it. 

I should have known better, dammit. He's received a few gifts from overseas, including a mega-fun box of goodies from his great aunt in Melbourne, all of which he likes, but not nearly as much as the box they came in. So much so that the box is now an integral part of his play area, and its where he has learned to put away his myriad of other toys, many of which I think need to be packed up and put away for good. I was so, so particular at the beginning about only ever having a few toys out, not overstimulating him, not spoiling him. Well, to hell with that. Between birthday presents, generous gifts from family and friends who say, "but I saw it and he just HAD to have it" and our most recent pointless gesture, this kid can barely crawl around the living room without a bombardment of color and plastic and horrible, horrible toy music that makes my skin crawl and disturbs my dreams. I didn't mean for this to happen. I really didn't. But it does, and I'm pretty sure it happens to everyone, even though we all start out insisting that our child will only play with educational, wooden toys, will only eat organic foods and will never watch television; rather, they will read books and listen to classical music and will beat out all the other babies in the daycare SAT.

Pfft. Ha. Sure. Call me later and tell me how that goes.

In short: Just when you think you have your head around this game, you really don't. You've just passed level one, s'all. 

28.6.12 - My pig in a blanket

Hello, summer, you firey bastard. How are you? Last time we met I was pregnant and gave birth, so I had been hot everywhere before you arrived and spent the majority of your last visit in air conditioned rooms with a tiny human attached to me. Now, you sneaky asshole, now you're here to make my life a misery with my almost-walking one year old. I have a curious little boy who wants to explore everything outdoors and you are making that incredibly tough, and my forehead very shiny, while it happens. You turd. 

I'm an American/Australian/Israeli. I was born in the States, grew up in Oz and moved to Tel Aviv four years ago. I know hot weather. I actually love hot weather and much prefer it over the cold. But I have never really understood the limitations of hot weather until now. In most of the western world, where winter reigns supreme, summer is the magical time you can actually spend outdoors with your kids. But here, in the Middle East, you duck and run for shelter and air conditioning like fire is falling from the sky, which it literally feels like it is sometimes. That, coupled with my Australian respect towards "Slip Slop Slap" (Slip on a T-Shirt, Slop on some sunscreen and Slap on hat) and the general antipathy I see towards that ethos here makes summer much more of a dangerous minefield than ever before. Plus, air con is exactly that - conditioned, and not fresh, air. You don't want your kid breathing in unnaturally cold air all the time, but you don't want them sweating themselves towards dehydration either. 

I'm at a slight impasse. Especially at night. 

I've been a big fan of swaddles and sleeping bags thus far as a mum. They do wonders to help calm my son, who is an amazing sleeper but is clearly all over the shop during the night. He's never in the same position I put him down in even moments later, which I believe is a trait he got from his father, whose ability to sleep on bizarre angles that inch me off the bed ever so slightly with so much less blanket than I began with, is legendary. As such, even though he's in a very light sleeping bag and super light pyjamas, I leave the air con on in his room for an hour when he goes down and leave a ceiling fan on overnight to circulate the cool air. 

Since the heatwave has officially begun (its going to be 35 degrees Celsius for next...forever) he's been waking up at 5am hot and sweaty, needing a drink of water and the air con back on. Once it's on he goes back down till around 7.30am. On the whole, this isn't actually so bad - it's almost like a breastfeed wake up with even less effort so I can quite easily go back to get a little more sleep. But its still a wake up. I was so sure I just perfected this whole sleeping-through-the-night game down to a graceful art, beyond teething and solids and daycare ailments and the new-found ability to suck on his own toes. I was grandmaster mummy; now I'm just another hot and bothered shmuck with a hot potato of a child. 

On the one hand, I could just lose the sleeping bag - but he likely won't soothe himself back to sleep as easily. Or I could just leave the air con at a higher temperature - I invite YOU to pay my electricity bill. Plus, I really don't like the idea. I see him going from being a pig in a blanket to a sandy-haired, wide-eyed popsicle overnight. Or I could just keep doing what I'm doing, because in truth it isn't that bad, especially considering there was a point in the not-so-distant past where I was up every four hours with him anyway.  In the beginning, the heat was actually useful - newborns like it warm and there was plenty of that going around. But my little champ now has a fairly normal internal thermometer and as such, needs my adult finger to push that damn button. I've almost got the water issue sorted - if he stands up in the crib he can reach the corner of his change table and often grabs whatever is teetering there on the side (nappy cream, baby powder, the crown jewels) for funsies. I could just leave his water bottle there for the taking. But then he'll start drinking lying down which can lead to ear infections and him soaking the bed with his water bottle, necessitating a sheet change every other day and before I know it, my perfect world will have been decimated into a smoldering heap. So I won't. But damned if the thought hasn't crossed my mind. I am able to to have air con come on at a given interval over night for a selected period of time, but that only takes care of the graveyard shift. 

Damn you technology. Why won't you ever develop for my continuing benefit and lifestyle needs?!

So here it is. I'm back up at 5am again, if only for a few minutes. I'll eat this one, because it's really not so bad. Stay tuned for my next summer rant, which is sure to be entitled "The enduring agony of my child's first sunburn, and other stories." Until then, have a healthy, safe and wonderful summer, all you northern hemisphere folk. For those of you below the equator back home, I'll have some winter gripes ready around November...

20.6.12 - The eye of the beholder

When your child is born, you can't take your eyes off them, literally. First of all, you can't believe there's another human being on Earth that fell out of you, so that takes some time to sink in. Secondly, they are entirely helpless. They can't do a single thing for themselves, quite unlike any other born creature in the animal kingdom. You are all they've got, so you had better keep your eyes peeled (if you can keep them open, that is.)

Then they start gaining tricks, like rolling over, grabbing things, a bit of babbling, sitting up, crawling; the list goes on. You realize that you can actually turn your head for the slightest second, but you rarely do because, well, they're still pretty incapable and quite a danger to themselves (and the cat.) My hero of a child's latest craze is climbing. He climbs the couch, the stairs, his father - you name it and he's all over it. He's started pulling himself up to stand and desperately wants to start walking but isn't quite there yet. It's a really amazing developmental stage I think, mostly because you begin to understand one of your most basic functions and how much incredible learning a child does in their first year of life. We just celebrated junior's first birthday last week and many people at his party were so excited to tell me how close he is to walking. 

Leaps and bounds. Unbelievable.

Part of this exciting development has meant mum and dad need to do more baby-proofing. He can reach the good stuff now and that's a worry. So every day sees me rearranging parts of the house to remove threats and to maintain the integrity of my spice rack, which he's infatuated with. As well, even though we live on the ground floor, every day involves a climb up the stairs of our apartment building for good measure and, I suppose, sport. He absolutely loves it. When we are over at his cousin's place, a house filled with many stairs, I rarely have a chance to sit and talk with the family because either I or my husband or both of us are after him, constantly asking each other, "are you watching him? Watch him!"

Our conversation may have changed over the past year, yes.

It make me realize that we are constantly afraid, but he certainly isn't. To the contrary, he's inspired and a little excited by the possible danger. To make the point concrete, I turned my head for a second this morning as he was climbing the couch and he slipped and went head first into the base, giving himself a stunning purple bruise on his forehead. I ran to calm him, to check he wasn't bleeding, to ice the bruise (which seemed to bother him more than the bruise itself) and after a few minutes he was right back at it, while I was having a small panic attack about being accused of child abuse. I even thought about keeping him home with me for the day because of how it looked, and of the possibility he might not be able to add and subtract in the future. He grinned at me with his six teeth and bounced up and down, excited to be scaling the sofa once more like the explorer he is. 

Brilliant or brain damaged?

What we fear for our kids, they embrace. Concerns about pain and possible injury is totally our neuroses as parents. They actually don't know what it is. Fear in this case is totally in the eye of the beholder (us) and I want to teach him to fear nothing, to try everything at least once and it seems like I'm succeeding, at the cost of my own nerves. It's easy to forget that kids hurt themselves ALL THE TIME, because God forbid there should be the slightest tarnish on your golden trophy. Of course, you don't want your child to get hurt, period, but I have to remember the lesson here is that he'll now realize not to go head first into things, lest he bumps his little keppie (head in Yiddish) and that even though it looks bad, its exactly how he will learn. Of course, there's the guilt that I didn't catch him in time (and I have caught him many, many times) but I suppose that teaches me that he needs and deserves all of my attention; whatever it is I think I need to do is not nearly as important as ensuring he doesn't brain himself.

After so many years of being defined as "easily distracted," I'm so glad you're here, my little monkey, to help me focus on what's really important.

12.6.12 - The numbers game

I've never been great with numbers. It's a fact that many people can attest to. But, I am ok with logic.  I can work out how something is supposed to happen, but I usually get the numbers wrong, for whatever reason. It's just a part of my brain that doesn't entirely work, or work the way I need it to.  As a parent, this antipathy towards numbers is not helpful. In fact, it can be quite a burden. For example, here are some of the basic stats you need to keep in your brain the second you become a mum at any given moment:

My child was born at xx time on xx date at xx kg/lb (yes, we do the conversion for our American relatives). My child currently wears size xx. In approximately xx weeks/months, I need to make sure he has clothes that will fit him, as he will soon be size xx. My child drinks xx mls/oz of milk and is on an xx hour schedule. My child is in the xx percentile for height and weight. My child goes through xx diapers a day. My child is xx weeks/months old. 

And that's just to begin with. 

I'm writing this on the eve of my son's first birthday, which is a concept I have been struggling to get my head around for a while now.  A year is a measurement I have become unfamiliar with. It's too big. When your little bundle of joy arrives, the measurements are all pretty small - NB, 000, 60ml, 7lb, 2 weeks, whatever. Suddenly, without you knowing, you're counting in months. And then, out of the blue, a year has gone by and you need to account for that AND make xx number of party gift bags.  

I need a calculator. 

My hectic year aside, everyone's first year as a parent is chaotic, no matter what the circumstances, because, well, you've never had an alien in your home before who shits in their pants three to four times a day, sleeps erratically but hopefully for two hours out of every four, startles themselves awake several times overnight and literally sucks the life out of you multiple times a day. A negative description perhaps, but I've never been one to mince words. For the first three months, at least, you can barely remember your own name but all of the above numbers are at the forefront of your mind every minute of every day. Why? Because they have to be, and your day and night revolve around them, as do all of your conversations with other new parents, with whom the numbers game becomes a competition, although usually friendly and sympathetic. You feel like your head is going to explode from all of it (and the lack of sleep, and the mind numbing drone of crying as you wait for them to do one tiny bubble of a burp) but these numbers rule you all the same. And even if you told yourself a million times that you'll just go with the flow, and you won't be governed by charts and facts and figures, you'll just "see what's right for your baby" well, ok. I did too. And I've lost count of how long ago I gave up on that. It's ok - I get ya. I really, really do.

What I have learned, happily, is that it gets easier over time, and even a mathematical dyslexic like me can play the game reasonably well. Now, off the top of my head, I can tell you that my son weighs ten kilos, wears size 0-1 (in Aussie sizes) and size 4 diapers, has six teeth, drinks about 120 mls of formula before bed, knows four words (sort of) and sleeps 12 hours a night, 11 if the cat crying at the door wakes him up. He has ten aunties and uncles, nine different bath toys, eight favorite foods, seven first cousins, six friends at daycare, five different footballs, four spoons, three bibs, two cats and one gorgeous smile. 

Heh. Maybe I'm not so bad with numbers after all. 

Happy birthday baby boy. Thank you for being my number one.

7.6.12 - It's a matter of taste

For years, the directive with homemade baby food was to keep it simple - no spices, salt, herbs...no really exotic foods, either. There's a myriad of articles available for anyone looking which subscribe to several different schools of thought on the issue. I initially, on the advice of nurses, kept to the KISS method but my perspective has now radically changed, highly geared towards taste and lots of it, simply because the logic works: why would anyone eat something that doesn't taste good?

Like many mums out there, I enjoy the "hot lunch" service provided by my son's daycare (as opposed to having to send food with him) and as such, I just have to accept that whatever they are giving him, he eats. But lately I'm not so sure. Usually I get reports about him being the biggest eater in the group, but for the past few days they've told me his appetite has waned (= they're also telling me he must be sick again. It's become an ignorable norm.) Here's the thing though; he eats just fine at home, with the gargantuan appetite they've always raved about. 

Food for thought.

A few days ago, after another report of poor-ish eating, I decided to give him dinner a tad earlier than usual assuming he must be hungry. Actually, I was sure he was hungry, because he wolfed down a cracker with lightning speed and looked around for more, devastated when he didn't find it. My husband went to warm up some plain sausages for him and also took out the tuna and veggie patties I had made for our dinner. They were packed with dill and parsley and a noticeable hint of pepper. I started nibbling on one, cold, and my son reached out for it so I thought I'd give him a taste, what's the harm? Harm indeed. He DEVOURED four of them. And this is a kid who likes to rub his food in his hair for good measure before it goes in his mouth. He'd never eaten so cleanly in his life. Light bulb moment: junior has a palate I've not been giving enough attention to, and is justifiably pissed as a result. 

Makes sense. Issue solved! Kinda. 

My son likes taste. Good for him! I'm really happy to encourage this and to stop making him "separate" food because he clearly just wants good food with lots of flavor, like mummy and daddy eat. How then exactly do I break this to my daycare provider without hurting her feelings? She's obviously making food for all of the kids, which I presume is "bland" because that is what most kids prefer, and she's not running a bloody restaurant. So I'm a little stuck, because if I send food along it says a) he doesn't like, and perhaps I don't trust, her cooking and b) I have more time on my hands than one would think considering I'm working full time. Nope. Sending food with him isn't a solution. Besides, I pay for this service; I pay a lot for it, so I should enjoy it. But he's not eating well at lunch. Crap. 

What to do?

Without a doubt, being a parent presents you with challenges you never knew were there, insights you never knew you could have and dilemmas which force you to weigh up facts in a way you never did before. Right now, I'm going to ride this wave and see where it goes. I'm not going to send him to daycare with a packed lunch. I will continue to develop his palate at home and teach him how to appreciate food, in all forms, spiced, flavored, plain or otherwise. This episode has reminded me once again, like kashrut, vegetarianism and several other food choices I make, to stop and appreciate the bounty presented to me and to be thankful for it. There will always be things we like and don't like and we learn to deal with them all, in our own time and way. It's simply a matter of taste.