All The Lonely People

For my birthday, Outdoorsman bought me a beautiful notebook and pen small enough to fit inside my pocketbook but big enough to want to fill up it's pages. I kept it for a while, wondering what to do with it. After a while, I decided to make it into a gratitude notebook, inspired by the events chronicled here. I try to write in it at least once a week. And there is so much to write, sometimes I feel guilty.

Like today.

When he first called me over, I thought about that story from the other week, about the girl who had stopped to help a guy at the bus stop and gotten raped for her trouble. But this guy was small, and old, and the way that he held his face told me that his eyes were like my father's eyes at the end, perceiving me rather than seeing me.

So I stopped, and sat down. "Can I help you?" I asked.

"Can you dial the telephone number on this paper? I can't see. Something happened to my eyes, and I need to get tested. But I need to call this phone number. Can you dial it for me?"

He handed me a paper.

It was blank.

"Um." I swallowed. "There's no number here."

"Can you dial the number?"

I said it louder. "There is no number. I'm sorry."

He handed me his cell phone. "Because I need to go get tested. I need to see what happened to my eyes. I didn't daven today because I have an early appointment. I have not missed a minyan in 40 years. But I need to go."

"There is no number."

"No number? Ah."

I started scrolling through his phone numbers, but there were only three or four of them. "Is there anyone I can call, from your family, you know, who can help?"

He smiled. His teeth were stained and that made me unbearably sad for some reason. "I am like Dovid Hamelech," he said. "His son wanted to kill him. So does mine. He will not come."

"Oh." I said.

We sat.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He nodded.

We sat.

"I've used up a lot of your time," he said. "And for that I am sorry. And you should be blessed and have male children and nachas and Hashem should give you all that you ask for."

I didn't say, what if I ask for female children? I took the bracha in the spirit in which it was meant.

"Thank you," I said.

He fumbled for his cane.

"Can I help you get somewhere?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I live right here. There is a woman who comes to clean my house. Maybe she can help me. Maybe I dropped the paper with the number on it."

"Okay." I said. "Good luck."

I waited for him to walk away, and then I continued walking home.

I have a story halfway finished and two chapters to write. I came home and stared blankly at my computer screen for a while before going to get a cup of coffee. My notebook, still in my pocketbook, was filled with unwritten words.

Make a Great Day

So stop me if I'm getting holier-than-thou, okay?

Okay.

Hahahaha, just joking, you can't really stop me, because by the time you are reading this, I have already finished. It's like a star that you are still making wishes on because you don't know that millions of miles away, it is already dead. 

Ahem.

Sorry about that. Excuse me. Moving on.

So I spent time the other day with a friend of mine, and she was talking about all the stuff that's hard and difficult for her. Halfway through the conversation, she said--referred to something that had happened to her--something like, "yeah, well, that's a reason to be miserable."

When I gave her a kind of quizzical look, she said, "Yeah, I'm compiling a list of reasons to be miserable."

She was kinda yes joking, kinda not joking, and I said that what she was doing was a bit counter-intuitive and shouldn't she instead think of reasons to be glad? And she and a few others around the table dismissed me as an insufferable and incurable optimist.

Disclaimer: I am an optimist.

Disclaimer: I made a choice to be.

I have been through a fair amount of doo-doo in my life and I expressed it at the time in pretty heavy ways. (hint: I once write a diary entry in my own blood. Yeah, I was fairly psycho.) Most of the really weighty stuff I choose not to write about or talk about not because I am a private person--I am not. I dunno if you noticed, but I write a blog. On the internet. So, no. And not because of fear of being judged, either. I choose not to delve into details of poopy-ness mostly because A. They do not reflect on who I am now and B. They can bring me back to a place in which I do not want to be, i.e., compiling lists of reasons to be miserable.

See what I did there?

So why didn't I share my journey with her because you know how people say (somewhat cloyingly?)  "if sharing my story could help even one person..." blah blah blah? Well,I don't know if my story could help anyone. Because everyone is so different. Everyone has such different tests. Maybe I had stronger drive than she does, better role models,went through it at a younger, more bounce-back-y kind of age...a million reasons for why I ended up so differently than she did.

And also, I don't need accolades. Because all I need is to know at the end of the day that I was there for my kids, my husband, my family, my job, and me. That I lived the day as if it was all sunshine and rainbows. Because you know what?

It is. 

If you want to look for it,

it's right there.

And if you want to look for reasons to be miserable,

that's right there, too.

And that's why being an optimist is a daily

(rinse and repeat)

(rinse and repeat)

CHOICE.

As to why I chose to write those last few sentences in a pretty melodramatic fashion, yeah, well, that was my choice as well.

It was all my choice!

Except for the fact that Coco-pop is wearing a winter dress today. That was totally her.

Consequences

Dearest Chava,

As the mother of all the people on the whole entire planet Earth, I guess I owe you reverence, respect, awe,etc. And I do have total respect, awe, etc etc etc, and the whole apple thing I know from various mefarshim was A. done with pure intentions B. not even an apple C. beyond my feeble comprehension as someone who has never spoken with snakes (well, I have,but they never answered back, so it was less like Chava and more like "oh, a weird creepy girl who talks to animals.")

(actually, okay, so the snake story: it belonged to Outdoorsman who raised it since it was a tiny worm-sized baby and it absolutely hated me. For reals. I held it once--only once--and it twirled around my body with lightening speed and Outdoorsman's eyes widened in the kind of alarm that also doesn't want to make me freak out over the snake's weird behavior but totally freaks me out on account of how carefully he didn't want me to freak out--and what I said to the snake was along the lines of, "Please don't kill me, please don't kill me.")

(It didn't.)

(But it totally wanted to.)

(now, I am continuing the sentence from before the first parenthesis. Following? Excellent! Because one of us should be, and I am definitely not.)

so I am totally not speaking from a place of judging when I say: did you think it through? The whole consequence-to-eating-the-fruit-and-blaming-your-husband thing? Because with respect, they say a woman's body is meant to do this. And hey, I've done this three times before. But every single time, I'm like, what is that what is happening is the baby okay OMG am I dying?

And then it ends up being on this week's pregnancy update because I am so textbook, I am boring.

But seriously, Chava, you had one-day pregnancies after which your children sprung out as fully functional adults. So that's not just the nine months of vomity-goodness that you got yourself and ALL OF US WOMEN FOR THE REST OF HISTORY into--it's child-rearing itself that you signed us up for. We could have had grown children, but Noooooo. My almost eight year-old still spills her cereal every morning, my five year-old woke up literally five times last night with requests in varying degrees of urgency (ranging from Iiima to IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIiiiiimaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!) and my two year-old pooped through his diaper and all over any expanse of skin that I was currently sporting. Right after I changed him. He likes a clean canvass.

So my question to you is, Mother of us All:

Did you think this through?

Really really really?

Reeeeeeeaaaaaallllllyyyy?

Alright, if you twist my arm, I'm actually okay with it. I would maybe be sad to miss out on the growing-upness and their delicious moments, like when Princess said she wouldn't choose a different Ima, and Coco-pop asked with wonder if the ice grows wings and flies out of the pitcher of water, because where else did they go? And Turtle, I kid you not, has learned how to skip over the weekend, and he would be skipping a lot more if I didn't end each attempt by flying across the house and smooooshing him to the ground.

And the pregnancy thing; I guess I do need nine months to get used to the fact that a human being is going to emerge from my body and join my confederacy of weirdos. So that's okay, too. I guess.

Okay, but with all of my okay with it, I lost the point of this letter? Oh, whatever. Pregnant-Mommy brain. I am excused.

With deepest respects,
D

PS--who am I writing to again? I forget.

But You have Already Forogtten

Can we be serious for a second?

Okay.

So here's the thing. I am not a Yom-Hashoa kind of person because I don't think that things should be--or could be--relegated to a one-day-of-the-year. Kind of like every day is Mother's Day? Every day is Yom Hashoa. Because it happened, and my grandparents bore the scars and the numbers until the day they died. And so do we, whatever those scars and numbers mean to you as an individual and also as part of a nation that has suffered so much and yet remains cherished, chosen.

So with that in mind, on Yom Hashoa, I do reread my own account of my grandfather's story that I published on aish.com years ago at the request of my father, and I do look through Yad Vashem archives, and scroll through everyone's personal memories and pictures that they want to share with the world via social network. Because just because every day is Yom Hashoa does not make Yom Hashoa any less than the every day.

And I need to say that I am disturbed by a new trend that I see creeping through Facebook and from the mouths of people and popular bloggers whom I respect, such as popchassid. Actually, it is his photo essay that I take the most objection to.

He wants us to see the Holocaust differently, through a set of pictures that we rarely see. Color me intrigued. I clicked on his link. http://popchassid.com/photos-holocaust-narrative/

Click on his link first, then continue reading my rant.

Or click on it and then go for a long walk.

Or don't click on it--oh, just do whatever you want, I can't sit here and list all the options before you.

If you chose to click on it and read it and now want to continue reading my rant, here it begins:

Rant  (clearly labeled to avoid confusion with say, a long walk)

He posted beautiful pictures, so many filled with power and light and beauty. He says that through his handpicked  photos, we should come to view those who suffered through the Holocaust in a different light, not as helpless, downtrodden victims.

But here's the thing.

We were helpless. We were downtrodden. We were victims. Millions of us died in fear and misery and without a spark of hope, help, or love.

Why are we so set on denying that? Why are we so afraid of that truth?

Yes, there were moments in which light lit up the darkness. But those moments were few and far between the utter misery and degradation that we suffered. 

We can and should choose to remember the moments of human triumph of spirit, of mind, of body. But it is of equal--and perhaps, dare I say of greater--importance to remember the truth. We were spat upon. We were raped, girls and boys alike. We were tortured by horrific medical experiments. We were lined up naked and trembling  before pits that we were forced to dig with our bare hands and then shot in the back of the heads.

Yeah, I know. Ugly. Horrifying. The stuff of nightmares.

But it happened. It happened to so many of us. It happened to millions of us.

We should remember our moments of personal triumph, our own family miracles that shone for one brief moment. But they shone so brightly because of the darkness all around us.

My Bubby died and her secrets are buried with her, horrible secrets, secrets that made her scream in the night until she died, decades and decades later. My Zeidy lived miracles and shared them with us; and shared as well was the endless days spent in the sewers, the forced labor, the liquidation of the camp, the killing of his only friend.

So much darkness. I can see why we are afraid of it.

But remember; in order to see the sparks of beauty and light, we need to first acknowledge the ugly and the dark.

Ding Ding Ding!

I've been chosen for the Liebster Blog Awards! Selected, you might say! Or you might not. You might say something else, like, Oh nos, we are all out of vanilla ice cream and plastic spoons. You might. I don't really know you, you see. You could say anything at all, and far be it from me to assume.

You know what happens when we assume, don't you?

That's right, you might run out of vanilla ice cream. And spoons.

Oh, you thought I was going to say something else?

See, it's because you don't really know me. But now you will! Thanks to these probing questions thought up by TooYoungToTeach at http://sporadicintelligence.wordpress.com/ you will find out more about me than you ever dreamed of! Or alternatively, more about me than you actually wanted to know. In which case, you can go browse or something while I bare my soul.

The Liebster Blog Award is given to new bloggers with less than 200 followers.  The rules are:

1. Tell 11 things about yourself.

2. Answer 11 questions from the blogger who nominated you.

3. Nominate 11 bloggers, and post 11 questions for them to answer.

4. Contact those bloggers whom you nominated, to inform them of their nomination.

Am I the only one who is extremely confused about the difference between numbers 1 and 2? 

Anyway, here we go:

1)      Chocolate or Vanilla?

As a kid, when we used to get that family-sized tri-colored ice-cream that came in a cardboard box that instantly got soggy but was okay because there were so many of us that it was all used up the first time we opened it, I would resolutely choose strawberry. Because no one else did as their first choice, and I needed to be the sole Strawberry in a sea of people who looked just like me but favored chocolate or vanilla. I needed to Stand Out Somehow. I still think that strawberry is my favorite flavor. To find out whether this is true or not would require more therapy than I have time or money for. It's cheaper just to buy ice-cream. 

2)      Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings?

Excellent question. It depends. I am a bit of a literature snob and therefore usually anything that is older=better. Obviously, Lord of the Rings is the Original, and also, he didn't need to use cutesy, relate-able characters to get you interested in his world. So my official answer is LOTR. But if you were to get me drunk (please?) I might be forced to admit to rereading Harry Potter, and only reading LOTR that one time. 

3)      Who was your favorite/influential teacher, and why?

I  have a terrible memory for teachers. They tend to blur together and in my natural pessimism, I remember the ones who hurt me more clearly than the ones who helped. But, I do remember that in fifth grade, my English teacher used to read the handful of compositions that she deemed "best" in front of the class, and she read my composition every single time we handed one in. I know that a lot of teachers would say that it's not fair, and to give other girls a chance, but she would say that mine was always of the best, and that's why she read it. Not PC, I know, but from then on, I started thinking of myself as a Writer. 

4)      What did you wanna be when you grew up. What are you today (or are you still growing up)

Still growing up, definitely. And I want to be the kind of person who can look at myself in the mirror every night and say, "Good job. You gave it your all today." 

Also, no wrinkles and zero percent body fat. Hey, don't make that face at me, Internet. I'm looking in the mirror ANYWAY, and while I'm wishing, I'll wish all the way. 

Also, a princess. And a fireman. A Princess-Fireman.

5)      What’s your favorite (or one of your favorite books) and why?

Oooh, too many fish in the sea. I'll pick one. I have not read anything new in ages that moved me, but an oldie-but-a-goody is Connie Willis's To Say Nothing of the Dog. It is brilliant, sharp, hysterical, great characterization, Sci-fi but not too Sci-fi if you know what I mean, satirizes an old favorite of mine (Three Men in a Boat) and is really all about The Grand Design without being too in your face. Read it! You won't regret it. Then read Three Men in a Boat. Then reread To say Nothing of the Dog. Then go to the store and pick up some vanilla ice cream and plastic spoons. 

6)      What is(are) your pet peeve(s)

Guests who don't eat dessert. I just can't trust someone who doesn't need to end his/her meal with something sweet. The reason that this is completely unreasonable and unfair is because I don't eat dessert either. Hey, you said Pet Peeve. You didn't say it had to make SENSE. 

7)      What is the biggest problem in the Jewish Community today?

There are many Jewish communities, and I think that the biggest problem we all face is that we are all extremely well-versed in and outraged about other communities' problems. If we would spend as much energy fixing our own issues as we do being breathlessly outraged by those who have nothing to do with us whatsoever, our world would be a better place. 

8)      Do you have any proposed solution to the previous question?

Yes. Legalize marijuana. Or go to the store and get that ice-cream already (don't forget the spoons. We can't eat with our hands.)--or whatever it is that will help everyone chill the heck out. It is so easy to be morally reprehenced (WHY is that not a word?) at others. Chill about others and look inside yourself instead. We are none of us perfect. 

9)      Where do you see yourself in 20 years?

Are you kidding? I don't even have supper planned for tonight. And I have the first two chapters of a serial due on Monday and I don't even have a handle on the plot. Twenty years? I haven't the foggiest. I will tell you this, though; I better have my own personal helicopter or transporter or something by then. The 2000's have been very disappointing so far. 

10)   People who __________ are idiots. Fill in the blank.

call other people idiots

11)   What can always make you smile?

Turtle, in general. In specific, his tiny little almost-not-there nose combined with his generous layers of chins. Excuse me. I have to go squish him now. 

Okay, I'm supposed to nominate other people and ask them questions, too, but I am not sure if I need to contact the award people or whatever, and am therefore awaiting TooYoungToTeach's reply to my probing questions which reveal my thoroughness as well as my technological non-prowess. When all is understood, I shall post the nominees and my own 11 questions for them to answer. 

Until then--I don't remember the question, but ice cream--with a spoon--is definitely the answer. 

Val Jean, At Last, We See each Other Plain

Thank you all so much for your concerned e-mails! I am here, I am fine, I am drowning in moving-related housework and other stuff. Which is good! First World problems, as they say. No one is hungry, we have access to clean water, and we have a roof over our heads.  Actually, this roof has heat, which is awesome, and no mold, which is unreal. And running water that becomes hot! And multiple bathrooms!

So I shan't complain about lack of stove. Or upper cabinets. Or that we just took the walls down last week after the iriyah inspection and are finally unpacking after living out of boxes for three weeks.

The iriyah inspection was a lot less dramatic than I anticipated. Upon further reflection, it was probably inappropriate to refer to the inspector as "Javert," and bursting into full song when he walked through the door might have been another strike against me:

Before you say another word, Javert!
Before you chain me up like a slave again!
Listen to me!
There's something I must doooo!

We knocked down the walls that Outdoorsman had just put up as we waggled our fingers to say goodbye to Dear Inspector. (Goodbye! Vrrrrrrrrmmmm!) Now we are working on getting a permit before the next inspection. But if we have to put the walls back up, Outodoorsman, who is not fond of Les Mis (Is it rap? No. Is it Bob Marley? No. Bluegrass, even? I'll take Bluegrass. Um, no. Is it a bunch of French people inexplicably singing as they die? Well, yes, but...) had a better idea of how to deal with Dear Inspector; he wants to hide a bunch of people behind the walls, and when the inspector pokes a hole (to make sure that we didn't slap the wall up over a finished room right before he came, and honestly, whowoulddoathinglikethat?) they will all cower and hide and scream. And wear yellow star armbands.

Oy.

Someone informed me with thinly veiled horror that having grandparents who survived the camps does not give me license to make holocaust jokes. But it is NOT a holocaust joke! It's an iriya joke. And we should be able to make as many of those as we can. It's either laugh or cry when the city informs you that even though it harms absolutely no one and cannot even be seen on the outside, some of the rooms in your own private apartment have to be closed up, some forever.

Anyway.

It is nice to be back and stretch my blog-legs a little! Wishing everyone a Purim sameach and less last-minute costume changes (read: morning of the purim mesiba--when did I say I wanted to be Hello Kitty? I want to be a Priiiiiiiiinceeeeeesss!) than my girlies.

In the meantime; stay strong against all of the Inspector Javerts in your life!

And little people know
When little people fight
We may look easy pickings
But we've got some bite!
So never kick a dog
Because he's just a pup
We'll fight like twenty armies and we won't give up
So you'd better run for cover when the pup grow up!

Or....okay. Or maybe we'll just do Outdoorsman's idea.

And if You Don't Know, Now you Know

I know more about myself today than I did yesterday.

For example, I now know--it came to me in a flash, like an epiphany--why I have been spending an inordinate amount of time watching YouTube videos of military fathers returning home and surprising their loved ones. I knew because all of a sudden there were tears streaming down my face and I was sobbing, "Abba, Abba, I miss you so much Abba."

(I also knew because of the duh factor. Like, duh.)

I also know that there is so much that I can live without and so much that I cannot live without. For example,I can live without a real kitchen. I know that because our new apartment will be ready soon, but will not have a kitchen. For a year. Because we have to apply for permits and because of the blahblhablhah yawnyawnyawn official something something yada yada. Kablooey.

Point IS, we will build and temporary one out of pallet wood. And I am all, "yay!" Because Outdoorsman bought a table saw and how fun will it be to make our own cabinets? Totally fun! Awesomely fun! Wwwwrrrrrrrr! (that is the sound of a table saw. Good,eh?)

And also we get to appreciate our apartment in stages.

And I am grateful for the opportunity to work on being grateful.

(See what I did there?)

But one thing I have in my life right now that I cannot give up is Turtle's cheeks. I am going to have a hard time wiving wifout der squishy goodness. He still has way to go, but they are slimming down and while I know that that's what we want, for our kids to grow up, it breaks my heart a little tiny bit. And then I say to him, "I just know you are going to marry a girl from Australia and move halfway around the world from me,I just know it."

\(And he says, "cookie?" and smiles disarmingly and then of course I give him a cookie. And then they all ask for cookies and I give them all cookies and then they make a mess and then I glare and think that I can't wait for them to grow up and get married to someone from Australia.)

(Ignore the above. I just want to smush and kiss his cheeks all day long.

We should nuke Australia.)

Some Useful Dictionary Terms

Love: 

As I am tucking her into bed, an hour past her bedtime: "Ima, for my Chanuka mesiba tomorrow, can you make a cake? Shaped like a doughnut? With icing and sprinkles?"

We are out of eggs and confectionary sugar. I will have to go shopping. I say "Sure!"

Nice:

Outdoorsman goes shopping for the missing ingredients.

Thoughtful:

He also buys me candy.

Diligence: 

I take the cake out of the oven at exactly the right time.

Inexplicable:

It is still raw in the middle

Diligence: 2: 

I put it back in for ten minutes.

Inexplicable: 2:

I go to sleep.

Fortuitous:

The baby wakes up at 2:00 in the morning for a cup of milk. I wake up to a house that is filled with billowing smoke.

Luck:

The oven did not explode.

Interesting:

The cake looked like it was made from granite. I could use it for my new kitchen as a counter top. Shaped like a doughnut.

Love: 2:

I make a new cake and wait up until 3:10 in the morning until it is ready.

Up to the Sky

When the letter arrived, it was official looking and made me sort of want to vomit and also sort of want to punch people.

"Some people," I explained to my husband as he numbly allowed the letter to flutter down onto my chicken-gut covered counter, "some people are stupid and should die.Painfully. And first we should punch them."

I chopped the chicken on the counter. Chop-chop-CHOP.

Someone told on us. We are renovating and there is a room that has been dug in from the mountain that my apartment is built into but is technically not part of the official blueprint and we have been a little nervous about the illegalness (illegalality?) of it. But there were so many things that were illegal about that apartment, and we changed so much of it to suit the neighbors legitimate complaints, that we figured that room would go unnoticed.

Plus, who does that? What does it matter to you that I have an extra room that you can't even see on the outside of the house?

Someone does that, apparently. And so not only did it not go unnoticed, but other parts of the apartment are in peril as well, parts that are considered "storage," and not part of the actual apartment, but they are part of the apartment, but they are also I DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY ARE EVERYTHING IS SO COMPLICATED AND WEIRD are drawn over in the blueprint that accompanied the letter in heavy red lines. Now, I am no expert at Hebrew or legal stuff, but usually red lines in a sign of bad, bad stuff.

The letter arrived on Friday. Our lawyer sounded like we woke him up when we called him and told us to call back on Sunday. Perfect for an entire weekend of worrying. The layout was set, the electricity was laid out.They could just say, too bad. They could just say, rip everything out. They could just say, we don't care about your cryin' eyes.

And then I said, after the punching and murdering and vomiting urge passed, that we need to be more grateful. Because we are getting our own apartment after years of being pushed around by landlords and lack of money. We have been sweating the small stuff a bit, worrying about prices and fees and lawyers and holds and loans and maybe we lost sight a little, of the fact that we are so so lucky.

And then just because sometimes Hashem wants to say to you, "VERY good, you got it! Exactly!" I went to a shuir motze shabbas and the speaker was talking all about miracles and how they come about through us being grateful.

Yes.

I am, so very.

So here is ten things that I am grateful for, in no particular order.

1. My husband. He is awesome, and funny, and talented, and cute. I am so lucky to be married to my best friend.

2. My children. They are individuals, and they bounce back in spite of me. They light up my life.

3. My mother. She is supportive and loving and we get each other and she finally figured out how to send e-mails, so yay for that!

4. My siblings. They are far, but near to my heart. And sometimes make me laugh so hard I cry.

5. My friends. They are awesome and there for me and are a great substitute for my far-away family.

6. You guys! You read and respond and sometimes argue and make me feel like I am not shouting in the dark.

7. My new house. But also my old house even though it is literally falling down around my ears. because it is a place that I can walk into and throw up my feet and make myself a coffee. It is a place to house our laughter and our tears, our ups and our downs. It is a place for us to live.

8. My words. I can express myself and be understood, and that that is a wonderful feeling. (Also, they pay me for my words! How awesome is that?)

9. My body. It is amazing. I open my eyes and see, I open my mouth and speak. I move my legs and arms and they move, walk, sit, and pretend to run. (Yeah, I need to get back into exercise.)

10. My father. It was the addition of some of his life insurance money that helped us to get this apartment, and while that can make me sad, I choose to think of that as exactly what he would have wanted; his gift to us. He is not here but he is so so much here, always in my heart, and watching out for me from above.

And now I can write a million things more, now that I got started.

But I guess the point is not just to write it; but to live it.

Ancestral Memory

I can't watch the video of the car bearing Ahmed Jabari being blown to smithereens. I feel the heat, the terror, the blood, the moans, the death. I try to remember his large frame manhandling the emaciated and shocky Gilad Shalit, but I still can't. I can't. The fear. The moans. The blood. The death.

Outdoorsman says that buses and trains are off limits for now. He always gets a little fussy when Hamas says things like, "now it is all out war!"

I always feel like they are just shouting in the dark, scowling like a scolded 2 year-old and saying, "Now I'm REALLY angry!" Because I never thought that they needed an excuse for terror, just the resources.

Still, you never know.

I will avoid buses.

A couple of years ago, I spoke to a Rabbi about a few things that were bothering me about living in Israel. I said how I couldn't stand the way that my kids were talking about "goyim." I hated the word "goyim,"too.

"In America, we have respect for everyone!" I said hotly.

The Rabbi smiled indulgently. "Listen," he said. "In America, the goyim are not trying to kill us. For now. Here, they are. So, we don't really like that. So we don't invite them to our Kumbaya sing-a-long."

(I might have made up that last line.)

It was like someone had thrown water into my naive face.

Because they are trying to kill us. There have been an insane amount of rockets this week alone. Thousands of people--families, kids, old blue-haired women--while I was curled up in my bed, spent last night in their shelters, waiting for the all-clear.

When I was in Neve, a girl in my apartment was shot while waiting for the bus. I missed the Cafe Rimon bomb by fifteen minutes, though I heard all about it from the girl in the room next door to mine. She threw up in the toilet and cried on the floor of the bathroom for hours.

It is so hard to wrap my mind around it. I see them in my park. One man puts his daughter on the swing and smiles at her as she squeals. A woman rocks her baby to sleep. My neighbor says, "You have to glare at them when they come! They have to know that they are not welcome here!"

Instead, I watch them, father and daughter, swinging past the green trees in the clear blue sky. And I think, no. It can't be. Look at him, smiling at her.

Outdoorsman makes a face when we are in the old city and a nun walks by in heavy black fabric. I say, they are our friends. Outdoorsman says that for a Jew, I have a very very short memory.

Today, while I was bringing Turtle to gan, a man passed by. He walked slowly, hunched up around himself, and wore a child's backpack. Short hair, short beard. Arab.

I wrapped my arms around Turtle and walked faster. I scolded myself for leaving my cell phone at home.

Vagabond? Or terrorist?

I wasn't sure. But from my heart, straight into my mind, shot one single word.

Goyim.

Paying in Forward

I was so afraid that I wouldn't know what to say to her. I sent up a quick tefila before I even opened my mouth.

Put the right words into my mouth. I am doing this for Your sake.

"Hi," she said to me on the phone. She felt a little silly, I could tell, vulnerable and intimidated. Intimidated by whom?

By me?

"I don't really know where to start," she said.

"Just talk in any order. I'll jump in when you stop for breath," I said.

She laughed. And went on to tell me that her pregnant belly, with its stretch marks, is making her cry. It's all she can think about; it's hugeness, and how her skin is getting ruined. "I feel so stupid. I mean, I have everything. Really! Great family, great husband, no money worries. I know that I'm carrying perfectly; little belly, and the rest of me is still skinny. I'm pretty.I have everything. And then there's this, always, hanging over me. Why can't I stop thinking about it? Why can't I get past it? I try to imagine how incredibly happy I would be if I didn't care so much."

We spoke for over an hour. I told her stuff. I told her about happiness, how it is within, not without, about challenges, how if we didn't have internal struggles we might as well be dead. About accepting your feelings and not using the phrase "I shouldn't be feeling this way!" About aging and true beauty and lines on the skin which, if they went away, will always be replaced with something else to focus the obsession on.

I told her that it is hard, and we live in a material world and we are material girls (I told her that I made that up by myself; she was impressed) and it's always a fight.

And I sounded wise and knowing and I felt wise and knowing because I know from whence I speak. Because as different as we are and always were--my life was always very far from "perfect"--I remember being so lost and so sad and so confused. I remember thinking, but this is not how my life was supposed to be. I was not supposed to be spending it calculating my calories so that I would know how many stomach crunches to do tonight and tomorrow morning. 

And how I remember the people who put out their hands to grasp my flailing one as I search blindly for dry land.

And then after she thanked me profusely and I told her to call back when she wants to, I sat down and thought to myself, this feels so nice.

And I thanked Hashem for all of the opportunities that I have in my life to pay it forward.

Past Tense

Want to know the worst thing about him being gone?

Okay, it's not the worst thing about him being gone.

I mean, the worst thing about him being gone is Him, Being, Gone.

But one of the worst things?

That every memory, funny or sweet or otherwise, is laced with him being gone. Even things that were funny are now wouldn't that have been so funny if he wasn't gone...

Every anecdote is coated in a layer of death. You don't get laughter when you tell over the funny story of how one time my father was... You get sad smiles and eyes filled with cloying understanding sweetness of oh, how you must miss him so. And the uncomfortable body language. Shift, shift. As if hiding your living father behind your body. I don't want your living father! Keep him! I just wanted to tell you a funny story!

But when the subject of your story is dead, nothing is just funny.It has gone beyond that earthly emotion. It is now all in the realm of nostalgia.

"My father said that joke all the time! That's so funny that it's also your family joke! We would throw tissues at him! Soooo corny!"

Oh,hon.

"My parents were also a foot apart in height.My mother had to run to keep up with him when he was strolling."

Tsk, tsk,.

"One time my father picked me up from school and there was that poem on the wall, 'A Smile Costs Nothing,' and he thought it was so amazing that he read the whole thing out loud--really loud--to me as all of my friends were walking out of class. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to sink into the floor."

Ah, yes. A sad dead story about her sad dead father.

No! No! It was funny! And you were just talking about your father embarrassing you, and I said a story about my father embarrassing me, and...and...yeah, okay, let's all shift uncomfortably and talk about recipes.

Also? So many italics in one short post! You know what? It reminds me of that time that my father...

Oh, forget it.


Edited to Add: But for real? Methinks I protest too much.

Because maybe--just maybe--they are picking up on the lurch in my heart that I get whenever I say the name "Abba."

Echo, Echo

Hi, ya'll!

Yeah. So lots happened, but mostly just busy and then my father's deathiversary and then emotional and speechless and then listening to lots of music with tears streaming down my face and new clothing feels SO GOOD! and more busy and then lots of cooking and a little more busy and the kids home and the keys still not being in our hands for the new apartment and then--

here I am!

so thanks for waiting for me!

both of you!

The yartzeit was...well, can I say wonderful? Because I want to say wonderful. I flew in by myself which is the best thing everevereverever--I loaded up my kindle and reeeeeead, I watched Brave (and annoyingly the princess looked like Coco-pop and had an attitude like Princess just when they were totally not leaning on various parts of my body) and The Avengers and I loved it because I am a nerd and that is okay.

I had a stopover in London and there was a Starbucks and I thought, yay! And stood on line for a Soy Chai. But then I wondered off the line and was sad because you travel to a different country. So shouldn't things be, well, different in that different country? Starbucks in England? Seriously? There should be like a Tea and Scones store. Sadness.

And then I went back on the plane and I read some more. Nothing awesome, but it was awesome. Because I was  reading, and no one was saying, "IIIIIIIIIIma!" Just a woman in a uniform and jaunty scarf who said, "Excuse me ma'am, tea or coffee?"

Yes. BOTH.

And then my sister picked me up from the airport and then it hit me! I was going to spend three days with my siblings! It was so wonderful.

So something my father would do for me.

The unveiling left me a little hollow. I flinched when I heard the echoes of my own wails from a year ago, from when they were lowering him into the grave; but the day now was so beautiful and the kids were playing with the rocks in the green grass in the bright sunshine and all I could do was murmur;  "Abba, I miss you. I love you. Your stone is beautiful." My brother spoke and I thought, he speaks like I write. 

The meal was nice; it was only family, as we wanted it, but there's a lot of us, and my other brother spoke and then I handed everyone a book, the book of their memories of our Abba, and I gave my mother the painting that I had had made of my father and all of his words of gratitude painted around him, and then we showed her the slideshow we made of my father and the song about him and I had my arm around her the whole time. We watched it three times.

After things and aunts and uncles petered out, after it was dark outside and the day was over, my brother came downstairs holding a guitar. He strummed and winced. "Needs tuning," he said.

But then we kicked out the brothers-in-law and sat around the living room on chairs and couch and floor and as my brother played guitar with fingers that had lost their calluses over the long year of no music, we sang songs, some new, some old, and then we thought, music! And we turned on some music, and it was good because my father loved music. He used to buy every single Jewish record/tape/CD that came out. And I mean every single one. And he would turn them up loud--so loud!--until the walls shook and we all had no choice but to dance.

It was a short time and a long time all rolled up in one, and when I came back home to my little family, I wasn't sure if I had just seen them a minute ago or lifetimes ago.

So--lots more to say about lots more stuff, but I'll leave you with what I wrote in my chapter of the book that we put together about my father.

Yes!

For the brave souls who stuck around!

Both of you!

HeartSong

It’s been, always, until it stopped. It’s like when someone turns off the music and only then do you realize that it had been playing the entire time. And in the sudden absence of sound you startle and say, what’s that?

                

What’s that?

                

It’s your heart, Abba. It’s the beating of your heart.  

               

  Your heart is, of course, legendary.  It’s the first thing referred to when someone tries to explain what kind of person you were. My gentle, giving Abba, bringing home strangers in the middle of the night because they had no place to go is just one example of how you viewed  our home and all material things; in terms of how they can be shared. Everyone can recite the rest. You read stories and we would wait for the moment when your voice would crack, stop; and then one of us would run to get you the tissues. The tzeduka you gave to strangers. The love that you had for your family and the loose definition you had for family. All that you did came from your heart.

               

But I’m also talking about your heart. Your actual, beating heart.

                

It was because of a song, an Uncle Moishy song, a song that frightened me. It was a scary song. (It was!) A boy had a messy room, and he would not clean it up. Because of the mess he lost his bed, and his head, and other things that rhymed with “ed,” (bread?) and I am sure the moral was simply; clean your room, boys and girls! But I didn't hear the lesson; instead, I saw the boy in my mind, as lost and as scared as I was then, a little girl for whom people and events moved too fast, a little girl who wondered, bewildered, how everyone else seemed to know the secret language of making friends while she was left to doodle, read, and dream.

                

The other day, as my kids colored with their new markers, we had an Uncle Moishy marathon playing in the background. When The Song went on, I cast a sideways glance at my daughters, and saw that they were laughing.

                

“Ima, it’s so silly! He lost his head!” Princess said.

               

 “He lost his head! So silly!” Coco-pop echoed.

                 

So silly! I agreed, and laughed with them. And I didn't tell them that when I was little that idea scared me so much, I would make sure never to be in the room when the first song of the tape (record?) began to play.

                

Except that one time.

                

I’m not sure why I stayed. I think because it was cozy. Ima was there, and Abba was sitting on the brown chair in the middle of the room. Everyone else was perched on chairs, couch, carpet; teasing, laughing, singing. It was something to be a part of, I guess, something I wanted to be a part of.

                

When the song came on, I panicked. “Turn it off,” I said softly, then louder. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” but no one listened. No one heard me. I felt the smallness of myself, of my voice, and I knew that they would never hear me, least of all if I screamed.  So I tried to run. I heard their laughter, because honestly, how silly! And halfway down the hall I felt my legs turn to jelly, and I fell.

               

But this is a story about your heart Abba, not about the fears of a small girl who has long ago outgrown them, so it’s really about what happened next.

                

You picked me up and carried me to the brown chair in the middle of the room and you let me cry against your chest and I did cry; I sobbed, unable to catch my breath, my heart beating wildly, until I heard it. The slow, steady beating of your heart. It was like a port in the storm. It was the most comforting sound in my world, and I leaned into your chest and let my heart listen to your heart until they matched in tempo.

                

And I was little, but I thought, that’s why I stayed here today.

                

I knew that everything happens for a reason. And that everything was going to be all right.

                

I listened to your heart again, when I was older and I could not accept how sick you were getting. It hurt me, what was happening to my strong and handsome Abba, and you saw how deeply it hurt me. And so you apologized. You pulled your wheelchair alongside me. “I’m sorry,” you said, and I opened my mouth to say sorry? Why are you sorry? I’m sorry! But instead of words, out came a flood of tears. I covered my mouth with my hand but they wouldn’t stop. I leaned into you, and heard it; your steady, patient heartbeat. I breathed in and out, in and out, in and out, and gradually my heartbeat slowed down to match yours.

                

Everything happens for a reason. Everything is going to be alright.

                

And it’s been, always, in your voice, and then when you had no voice, in your eyes. Even when I was 6,000 miles away, and I wrote letters to you, and Ima would call me and say, “I read it to him, and he’s smiling.” And I would hear it through the phone lines; your heart, Abba; the beating of your heart.

                

When it slowed and stopped, it happened so suddenly. It was me, Y and M around the hospital bed, and we knew that viddui was to be said when it was almost over, and then suddenly Y asked, “Now? Should I say vidui now?”

                

And I got angry. He’s not gone yet!  “Not yet! Y! Wait until he is almost—!”

                

“D,” Y said, “Look at the monitor.”

                

Oh.

                

And Y said viddui as your heart slowed, stopped. And we sang “mitzvah gedola lehiyos besimcha” as your heart slowed, stopped. And something in me slowed, stopped as your heart slowed...and stopped.

I guess I just couldn't believe it. I guess I could not believe that it was possible for that heartbeat to ever, ever stop.

                

I grieved its loss—your loss—all year. But you left your heart here, down here, with us, didn't you? As more people tell their stories of you and as I remember my own, I can almost hear it; its slow and steady beat, telling me that everything happens for a reason. And that everything is—and is going to be—alright.

Eizeh hu ashir

While brooding about our apartment woes, Outdoorsrman went to work and I drank a vodka and orange juice as the kids destroyed the house played with the children for hours on end.

It's funny about vacation, right?  Summer vacation!! My heart skips a beat! Then I realize, oh. 

So I have been keeping them busy and letting the house slide a bit, which is so so hard for me, but right now I am typing this while their wet towels are scattered on the floor, the garbage can is yet to be graced with a new garbage bag, and there just seems to be a general stickiness in the air.

But I was distracted, too, thinking about the apartment, how every time I can almost allow myself to feel that is will be ours, it's moved out of our grasp. And my apartment, here? Is falling apart around my ears. For serious. It's like the apartment is expiring. Or giving up. Like, what the heck, it's saying. I can't do this anymore. I'm tired. Plonk. The nob falls off in the bathtub.

Outdoorsman came hom early and the babysitter came because Outdoorsman and I had an appointment at the bank. Da-da-da-duuuum.

But no. Because they called. They cancelled.

We looked at each other. I don't remember the last time we had hired a babysitter, and the possibilities were endless!

We decided to get all wild and crazy and go out for coffee. We might have giggled over the idea. Just sayin. ANYWAY, we took a walk afterwards, and Outdoorsman told me about this guy that he bumped into on the way home from work.

"He was flagging a cab down and he barely spoke Hebrew. Almost none. Fresh off the boat from Russia. A cab pulled up and told him, 80 shek. He said, "lo, lo." I went into work for a few minutes and then I had to go back down and go on an errand for a part that I needed. He was still out there, trying to flag down another cab. I asked him where he was going. He was headed in my direction, so I told him that I would take him.

"D, he is so lost. He has no family. No no one. No job. He doesn't speak a word of Hebrew. He wasn't complaining, I was asking him and he was answering, but it was crazy to bump into this man who has nothing just as I was in a frenzy about the apartment."

A friend of mine calls problems like ours "upper class issues." They are not worries of hunger, or sickness, death, exposure. I have a place to live. I have beautiful children, a wonderful husband. We make enough money for all the basics and some extras besides.

It's true. I look around and see; I all of my problems are of the first class sort. Because really? Look.

I have everything.

Go, My Son

I break stuff.

Once, when I was pregnant, I managed to smash into tiny shards my entire set of fleishig dishes at the same time. I was only lifting half of the dishes into the cabinet, but when they slipped out of my swollen fingers, they landed on the other half waiting on the counter.

I break stuff. This year, I have broken the deep freezer by leaving the door ajar all night, I have broken my brand new computer by letting one of the kids drink a cup of milk while they were looking at pictures--which, of course, promptly spilled across the keyboard and fried out all of its inner workings, I have broken--well, had stolen--the garbage can. I left it outside for a few hours. When I came back, it was gone.

I broke the dryer by putting in a soaking wet load and snapping the thinga-ma-worly-thingy.

The air conditioner broke. It wasn't my fault--probably--but I was the only one home, the one who turned it on. So default my fault. Our phones hardly work--also, probably not my fault, but with my track record, who knows?

And I hope I am not breaking Princess. I pray that I am not breaking her.

And I've been thinking lately, about the Land spitting you out. Because we have lived in apartment after apartment and it always ended too soon and in tears. We laugh about it to friends--ha ha! We are nomads! We are free spirits! We are a segulah for landlords to sell!--

But you know? It's not funny, living in unrenovated fourth-floor walk-ups that are covered in mold and falling apart around my ears. That would be okay, actually. I Can Do. But then it's not even ours. The landlord is trying to sell it, and even doing my daily housekeeping seems futile and pointless, like I am already cleaning someone else's house.

 Last night, the tris to the tiny mirpeset flung itself down and  broke, and now we can't get out. We are stuck in our tiny box in the sky.

I break things.

But we are moving! I say, we say to each other. Everything will be different in our own place, in a big place, a place that will have room for everyone, a place that we will tailor make to suit ourselves. (Read:I am so buying the Ikea Bar Cabinet.)

Yes. But the morgage? Not going so well. At all. Yeah, going really bad, for No Good Reason. Really.

And it all seems so pointless and hopeless and a little bit broken. (and I probably broke it.)

So now I am thinking; how can one tell the difference between the yisurim of Eretz Yisrael--and being told to leave?

Sea Salt

I won't romanticize it.

That's what I thought for the two hours that flew by like minutes, with the sun and the spray of the surf and the laughing children with their long, healthy limbs glowing and wet and then sandy. We will make a tunnel to China!

"I love it! The water, I love it!" said Coco-pop, who has been morbidly afraid of water since she went under last summer, her eyes open wide, fear shaking her little body as I pressed her to me, you're okay, you're okay, I got you, Ima's got you and Turtle, whose vocabulary has tripled since his second birthday last week echoed,

"Love it!"

Princess did not have to tell me that she loved it. Her normally rigid existence,  pinned down with her self-made rules, was a wild thing, a free thing, as she ran into the waves and let them hug her as she seldom lets me.

I threw a clump of wet sand at her, and at first she froze, unsure. Then she tried being miffed and crying. Then she ran over to me, hands outstretched, and at first I thought that she wanted a hug, but no, she rubbed sand onto my shirt, my scarf, and I said, "Princess!" spitting out wet sand and then laughed and we ran, together into the waves.

I thought that I didn't understand her. Her rules and her cutting brilliance, her high IQ that puts her into the "gifted" category and makes life into a thing that is hard for her, is all from Outdoorsman's side. But I found that in certain things she is me. I pretend not to worry but I worry so much, like her. In the water, my eyes dart from child to child. "Where is Turtle??" I scream, scanning the water for a bobbing head, and then we all laugh; he is in my arms. She worries about everything and I tell her, Don;t worry, stop worrying! that's what Ima and Abba are for, but I remember worrying when I was her age, worrying about the dark and what it was hiding from me.

I drank a beer, cold from the cooler, because I wanted the salty taste of the beach on my lips, in my belly, as I watched my children and husband build a tunnel to China, their shrieks as the sides caved in and China, ever illusive, dissapeared from view.

After two hours, Princess needed the bathroom, Coco-pop got a cut on her finger, Turtle sensed the change in mood and decided to be overtired, and we dragged our wet things and the scorching hot sand burned the soles of our feet and sat in the car and the traffic, sticky and uncomfortable and sunburned.

But before that, there was our day on the beach. Unromanticized. But perfect.

Life Here, Smushed

I have SO MUCH TO DO.

Therefore, my brain tells me to stare blankly at my toe nails and then decide that they really need to be polished.

I never polish my toe nails. Or my fingernails. I don't even own nail polish.

And what about the kitchen counter? It needs scrubbing! And YouTube is so lonely and needs watching!

And now it is a quarter to one and the kids need picking up and I have scrubbed counters and watched YouTube and have shiny toe nails and a feeling of panic in my chest.

Also? My air conditioner died and I am sitting shiva for it in shorts and a t-shirt and a glistening, glowing forehead.

Also? I saw a cat get run over TWICE--just to add insult to injury--and I can't get it out of my mind.

Also? Princess left this message on my husband's phone. "Abba, I hope you are working good. If you pass by a store and you want to go in and it has beautiful clips, I need a beautiful clip. Like, a sparkly one? Maybe blue? But if not blue then whatever, if it's beautiful. So can you go in and get it? If you see it."

So I wish her husband all the best.

Also? Coco-pop said her favorite colors are black and blood.

So I wish her husband the best.

Also? Turtle is really a little fat hurricane. He leaves unbearable cuteness and random acts of senseless violence in his wake.

Also? Red tape. When you buy apartments. Wrap up every last inch of you until you are like a red-tape burrito.

Also? I want to hug and smush every person that I just mentioned in this post. (Except the cat. It is already smushed.)

Does that make me crazy?

Yeah, probably. Or maybe I just found another way to push off everything that I need to do. Free hugs for everybody!!

Best-Laid Plans

Coco-pop drew a picture last week and presented it to me proudly. "Oh wow," says I, the proud mother, at loss for words. "It is so very. So very very!"

"See what it is?" she said, light shining from her eyes.

"It's. A! Um! Girl?" I threw a dart. The dart broke the lightbulbs in her eyes.

"It's a turtle," she said dully, and turned away.

"A GIRL turtle?" I said desperately, and just like that, boing! Lights back on.

"Yes," she said, pleased. "A girl turtle."



I have so much planned for my father's first yartzeit. I am putting together a book--not to be published, just for us--in which every one of my siblings writes a chapter. I told them it can be ten words or ten pages, and then I will edit it and put it together and my wonderful friend will make a cover and then I will find one of those online-y places to put it into book form and makes copies for everyone.

Then I am planning a paper cut. Not like the type you get on your fingers and then hear the sound of in happening over and over again, O clever and snickering Internet. The type that you frame. A paper cut of the lines that we found on the computer that my father wrote, for my mother to hang up over his old desk.

My sister and I will record, thousands of miles away from each other, (Internet, you is amazing! Mwah!) a song that she wrote for my father while he was dying, and then we will maybe set it to a slideshow of pictures of him.

And I am going in. For billion dollar tickets, for three days, I will leave the progeny with Outdoorsman and he will suffer care for them as I do. I am arranging play-dates for every afternoon, so he won't kill them can work/learn.

I am trying to understand my strong feelings about this, that I need it all to happen, that I need it to go smoothly, that I have a knot in my stomach when I think about that sibling who is dragging his feet with the writing, or the fact that I have not settled on a studio yet. you only have two more months! said my inner voice.


I know, I know, I answered it. I'll get there. There's lots of other things happening. Ima just came to visit for two weeks and I took her all over, and we just bought an apartment...


and you also need to lose ten more pounds! my inner voice added.

Ah. You showed your hand, Inner Voice.

I know you, now. It will be beautiful and wonderful and my waistline has nothing whatsoever to do with it. I will do my best with everything that I piled on my plate, but no one can ask for more then that.Least of all, myself.

Happiness, misunderstanding of

"If I had less space and the kids crowded around me more, that would be the best," said no one ever.

I am cooking in the kitchen and my helpers are having a knock-down drag-out about whose apron is whose, and their flailing bodies manage to block every single cabinet that I need. And I am calm--well--calmer, because I am thinking, my new house will have an island and they will sit there and smile and be sweet as together we make shape cookies and put them carefully into the spotless oven


So yeah.So first, yay! Because we have to get the mortgage approved and sign a bazillion papers and maybe cry a little and eat a lot of pasta, but then we are going to move!  And be nomadic no more! Our own place; no one can kick us out! (unless they give it back to the Arabs, of course, there is always that. Crazy world. Nuf said.) To a big apartment and it has a garden and a porch the size of my current everything and it is gutted so oh well we have to renovate it, and it is going to be awesome.

And my mind says, Yes! And it will also be perfect! And the birds will sing and dinners will be perfectly balanced yet surprisingly tasty and the kids will start eating things like broccoli and I will never raise my voice!

It's been a hard year for a lot of reasons, but also and especially my father died and for a while nothing seemed worth anything. Conversations in the park were insipid(er) and cookie making was draining. But there is grieving and then there is sadness, and sadness covers everything with a thin, dampening layer. And while I have experienced sadness in the form in which helping yourself means accepting that for right now you can't do it by yourself, real sadness, regular sadness, is a choice. If I relinquish that control and put that choice onto anything external--new house, non coo-coo for Coco Puffs kids, a smaller waist--I will never be happy. There will always be something else--when I get THAT, I will be happy--and my hands, reaching reaching reaching--will always be empty.

Also, this happened:

(walking home from gan, sipping on bottled water, with my mind on the heat and the heat on mind)

Coco-pop: "Ima, the scary lady pinched Zahavi, and it hurt her."

Me: #freakingouteverymothersnightmare "When? Which lady? In the park? WAS THIS IN THE PARK?"

Coco-pop: "No, on her ears she pinched her."

Me: "....?"

Coco-pop: "It feels like it. When Zahavi got earrings. So can I get earrings? Just with no pinch."

Cast off the Shackles! Or, please Pay by the first of the Month

"Princess, put down that marker this instant, and go to the bath! Before it gets cold!"

"No! I can't! I need to finish this picture first!"

And of course I get annoyed, and of course I mumble between gritted teeth what are we going to do with a girl who doesn't know how to listen to her Ima and of course I take the marker out of her hand and march her straight to the bath.

But a teeny tiny part of me is glad to hear her loud, firm, chutzpadik NO. 


Because.

Once upon a time, long long ago, there was a girl.

Yeah, whatever, she was me, you get that.

Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by myself, I was saying that there was a girl. And she could not say no.

This was bad, because there are people who, like the dogs they are, smell weakness. They smell prey.

This blog has a number of posts that never made it past draft stage. Most of them are about that time in this girl's life. Because I share all sorts of things with you, O Internet, but there are all sorts of things that I never will.

There are some places in your mind that you can never go into again. And not because you  are not healed; you are. But because you are not that person anymore, and the box no longer fits.

Of course it no longer fits.  Now this girl is a grown-up! She is ME, as I so cunningly lifted the curtain and revealed to you! And she can now stand up for herself!

Except that it still gives me a stomachache. It's like I reevaluate my worth every time I need to take a stand. Am I worth bothering this person? If I send the e-mail demanding explanation, she will have to take the time to explain. Am I worth that time?


Of course, I am worth that time. Of course. I know that. 


Completely not mysteriously at all, this theme keeps coming up again and again in my life.

And I take my sword and have at thee.

Because I am all grown up. Now it's time to take care of myself. Now is the time to say no.