Finding myself in the Middle East

Thursday, November 11, 2010


“These people know how to live. Look at this blueprint. They want to combine these three apartments, and make half of one into a dressing room.”
“That requires a lot of clothing.”
“I think they might just have a lot of clothing.”

“Ima, let’s dance!”
“First you dance with me myself, then with Coco-pop herself, then we all dance together, then I dance with Coco-pop. Then we all dance together. Then we hop, then we jump, then we spin in circles. Then—“
“Sweetheart. How about less rules, more dancing?”
“Mm. M’kay. So the rule is, we just dance.”

Shabbas (over a five minute span)
“Can we have shabbas party now?”
“How about now?”
“Is now time for shabbas party?”
“What are we going to have for shabbas party? And can it be now?”
“I hope we have those cookies. Do we have those cookies? With the cream? Because I like them. Can we have two? For shabbas party? And can we have it now?”
“Can I—“
“Yes! Yes, you can have shabbas party now. It’s time for shabbas party.”
“Oh, okay, good. But can I first ask my question? Because I was going to ask if I can wear your ring.”

“Dinner time!”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken with potatoes and carrots.”
“I’m too tired for chicken. Can we have chocolate chip pancakes instead?”

“Hi, Princess!”
“Ima! Don’t be here yet!”
“But it’s time to go home. How was your day?”
“You always pick me up first! I don’t want to go first! I want to hang out with my friends!”

“Hi, this is ___ calling from ____ Seminary. Is this D?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“You taught a workshop here last year, and the girls loved it. Can you do it again this year?”
“Sure, I’d love to!”
“So I’ll get back to you on dates, and we’ll work something out.”
“Okay, good. Um. But while I have you on the line, I sort of, well, I kind of didn’t get, um paid. Yet. For the workshop. Last year.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Okay, I’ll check the records for how much you’re owed and get back to you.”
“Thanks. That would be great.”

“Your baby is in the 97th percentile for weight and height.”
“Yeah, he’s a big boy. Aren’t you my big boy? You’re just the cutest, biggest boy. Yes you are.”
“You must be feeding him too much.”
“Yes, I do not think that he needs to be this big.”
“But I’m tall and broad. My husband is taller and broader. And my other kids—“
“How many ounces do you give him?”
“Five. Or four. Or whatever he wants. He’s still an infant, so—“
“He is very high above the average line. You see, this is the average line and this is your baby. He is too big, I think.”
“But you see, um, Nurit? Not everyone can be average. Or is supposed to be average. That’s why there is a chart, you see.”
“So maybe feed him a little less.”


Proud Tante said...

Your kids are adorable!

Gotta love tipat chalav....

JerusalemStoned said...

Oh, I do... :)


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