Butterfly Kisses

"But, but but, I want it, want it want it, and also, it's almost Purim, so it's a good time to get a treat. Right?"

I kept my face carefully blank. Then let a smile touch my lips. "You want it want it want it?"

Princess' face looked like the sun coming in from behind gray clouds. "Yes."

And it's a good time for a treat?"

"uh huh."

I touched her chin. Her stubborn, set, adorable chin. "Just because I love you. Here you go."

Her eyes looked suspicious. "In a bag."

"In a bag."

"I want to pick them."

"It's so important to you?"

"Uh huh." She paused. "Please?"

"You can pick them. Then we need to hurry home."

"Okay! Thank you! My morah says that we need to all dress up tomorrow! For the party! And you can come! Imas can come! But not Abbas." A frown creased her round little mouth. "I don't know why."

We are changing our interaction with Princess, and now it's listing to one side of our ultimate Golden Means. And I am holding my breath, but it seems to be working. She has had only one tantrum in the past two days, as aposed to all. day. long. The odd thing is, we were inspired by a vlog.

It's weird to even watch it. It's basically a vlog about the day-to-day life of this family. They happen to be religous Mormons. And I can't stop watching them. It took me a month to figure out why.

They have three kids and one on the way, a huge family out of our world. And it was clear to me that the mother and father love every minute of it.

It took me another month to figure out why.

I think they just love them. The kids, I mean. They just love their kids. And that sounds like, well, duh, but really it pretty deep, I think. They just love them. They discipline, sure, and they are actually kind of strict, but there is never anything harsh behind the interactions. No expectations.

I'm actually having a hard time putting this into words. Let me give an example. When I was 9 months pregnant with Princess and living in 35 square meters in a building where you needed to try really hard NOT to hear exactly what was going on in all your neighbors' lives (I was tempted once to write a letter to one neighbor, explaining why he was right, and she had spent too much money that week carelessly. I also knew when another neighbor found out that she was expecting a boy after three girls. So excited for you! About what? Erm. About. Your new dress?)my husband and I overheard a father admonishing his little girl, "Is this how our tzadekes behaves?!" And I remember thinking, or maybe one of us said to the other, maybe she doesn't want to behave like a tzadekes. Maybe she wants to be a little girl.

That's it, basically. I am not trying to give in to her wants and constant desires. I am trying to project simple love and understanding, with no expectations. Not that I don't believe that she can become whomever she wants to become. Not that I don't believe that she can't rise above her contant need to control every situation. But that right now, while I would love her to, and I will try to lead her onto that path, I don't expect it. I won't project disproval while you wear your emotions on your sleeve. I don't expect you to be a tzadekes, my complicated little girl, I am trying to tell her. I love you for who you are right now, in front of me.

I tucked her in last night, my eyes red with the fatigue that has been hounding me since my pregnancy started, and has gotten worse recently. Outdoorsman, bless him, has been helping nightly with bedtime these past few weeks. "Tell me something that made you not so happy today, and something that made you happy today."

She thought for a moment. "Merav said I was a little baby today in gan."

"Oh. That didn't make you feel good?"

"NO. But she is silly because I'm even bigger than her."

"Yes, you are. And did something happen today that made you happy?"

"Yes." she dimpled. "You bought me an extra treat. Because you love me."

Because I love you.

Beer and Burkas

I was changing a particularly vile diaper of Coco-pop's creation and dreaming about a toilet that trains toddlers all by itself (because. how cool would that be?) when Coco-pop drew her knees to her chest abruptly.

"Do not do that, sweetie," I said sternly. "Ima needs to finish cleaning you."

"But z'not tznius!" she retorted, around a mouthful of pacifier.

Okay.

So.

We definitely live in Eretz Yisrael. I know this because all around me the buildings are made out of white stone, I purchase my milk in a bag, and my 2 year-old just informed me that changing her diaper is really not very tznius.

Being that Princess will be five this year, I have been thinking a lot about getting her into Bais Yaakov.

Now, I am a firm believer in judging things for myself. I never take other people's word for it. About anything. I know a lot of people who left this country for red-bricked-er and milk-in-containers-er pastures, claiming to be afraid of the Israli School System. Honestly, I never had a kid in the Israeli school system, and I refuse to judge it until I have experienced it for myself. Nothing is perfect. There are plenty of problems with the schools that I went to in the U.S. I guess it's all a question of the lesser of evils. And to decide which evil is the lesser, I need to experience both.

But then I get scared. Becuause maybe the devil that you know is better than the one that you don't know and all that. I am not sure how to respond to claims that the diaper changing thing, really Mom, is kinda not tznius, donchaknow. And I know it's something that she is repeating without really knowing what she is saying exactly, but that's the point. It's in the air here. And while tznuis is laudable, (even when it freaks me out that Princess refuses to wear socks because "when I run, you see my legs, Ima!") it also comes along with other things. Like this black and white attitude. It's either good or it's bad. Nothing is in between. When I know in my heart that most of the world is gray. I have a neighbor who punished her daughter for undressing her doll because "it's not tznius," and she thinks that the word "naked" is a 4-letter word. (Even though it's 5 letters. You know what I mean.) I don't like that. At all. But is it better in New York, where the kid sitting next to your kid watches TV all day, picking up subtle messages and a 3-second attention span, and sharing these delights with your child?

Remember when we actually wanted to be adults, and be in charge of decisions?

Don't know what I was thinking.

Although I don't really need to worry about getting into Bais Yaakov in the end, dear internet. Because this morning, while strolling between the isles of the very crowded makolet, Coco-pop turns to the woman next to me and informs her, "I like beer. I like to drink the whole thing up."

Because the other day, she asked for some of Outdoorsman's dregs, and I gave the can to her, figuring she'll never ask for it again. She liked it. Very much, in fact. So I do not have to worry about getting into Bais Yaakov, if the look on that woman's face is any indication. Because with honesty like that, it doesn't matter how tznius my daughters are, we aint getting in.

Ben and Jerry's and G-d

It was late.

I was cold.

The aparment was a mess.

Dinner was not ready.

The kids were in bed, but still up and making ten last requests a second.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I was riding on a wave of pregnancy hormones when Outdoorsman asked me something terribly provoking, like, do you want me to help with dinner?

Flames shot out of my blood-dripping eyes and talons grew from my fingernails. Fur sprouted. Jaws elongated. I growled with my new long, dripping tongue, "You think that I'm a horrible housewife, and also ugly and fat, and if you hate me so much, why did you marry me anyway?!"

He said something like no no, you are wonderful and beautiful and perfect, darling,and I am so sorry for thinking that you might like some help, and backed away slowly, as one should do when faced with a rabid animal.

So I burst into tears and said something like, It's late, I'm cold, the apartment is a mess, the kids are in bed but still up and making ten last minute requests a second.

He said yes dear, of course dear, would you like some ice-cream dear? And bought Ben and Jerry's Cookies 'n Cream, which costs around a shekel a spoon-full.

I have been thinking lately about women's mitzvos versus men's. (and I am allowed to change the topic at random because I am PREGNANT. Also, it will all tie together so brilliantly in the end, it will take your breath away. Or else.) How we do not have any of the positive commandments mandated. How I always learned that we don't need all that, we are somehow purer, above it.

I never felt purer, or above it. I was never really satisfied with what seemed to be the pat answers to my indignant questions. ("thank G-d that I was not made a woman?" Dude! Cold. Why can't be both just be "happy that G-d made us who we are?")

So I decided to work backwards, to understand.

What is the goal, the same goal that all of us have, even if we have to take different roads to get there? I asked myself in saner, cooler, post-feminist days.

Of course, it is to have a relationship with Hashem.

How can we go about doing that?

By really understanding whatever it is our human minds can grasp about Who Hashem is.

What can we know about Him? We can repeat His Attributes, but they are only parables. We can't know what He is like. We can only really know that He is in control of the world, and we are not.

Ah.

So it's not about being purer, maybe. Maybe it's about simply being one step closer to that Truth.

It's really so unsettling, what happens to us women, I thought as my spoon hit the bottom of the Cookies 'n Cream container. And not only when pregnant. We are ruled by our cycles. The hormone flow is something that men can never really understand. It's like being possessed. It's like not being in control of who we are.

It's like--like not being in control.

It's like--women, intrinsically knowing that Someone else is in control.


Edited to add: Incidentally, after buying the ice-cream, Outdoorsman rigged an old music box to a cabinet in the kitchen. Now, whenever I open the cabinet door, it plays music. This has nothing to do with this post, except to add that my husband knows how to tame a beast.

As Wet As They Let This Wet Pet Get

It's raining.

It's raining felines and canines. Or, as Princess put it, it's raining "like Hashem put on these huge boots and is stomping around in the sky! And also He gave some boots to Zeidy and Sabba, because they're in shamayim with Him, and they're all stomping around!" Then she let out a laugh of pure delight at the visual she created for herself.

So, it's definitely raining. Which I am glad for! We need rain! But also, Coco-pop is sick, and when I bundled her up to take Princess to gan, I tasted all different flavors of guilty. We set off on the 15 minute walk, Coco-pop in the stroller, wrapped like a tortilla, Princess walking proudly in her flower raincoat directly behind the stroller, and me, behind her, regretting my decision not to buy boots (waste of money! And honestly, where can I keep 'em? said I when opportunity knocked.) and pushing the stroller while balancing an umbrella over all three of us.

We got there, more or less soaking wet.

Then, the villain of the story strolls in. Or rather, rolls in. As in, in a car.

Let me set the scene for y'all.

Us three, soaking wet, my hand burning from holding the umbrella in position while pushing the stroller at the same time.

Her, in shaitel and makeup and white coat with fur collar and cuffs, emerging dry from her car to open the door for her equally dry child.

Our girls run in together,giggling as they splash all the puddles on the way to the front door of the gan.

Meanwhile, she returns to her car, and rolls down the window. A ride home? My heart leaps up as if I had beheld a rainbow in the sky. I walk towards her, smiling, but vague, just in case it's a false alarm.

It is.

"What do you think of this weather?" she asks.

Um. "Wet?" I ventured.

"I think it's so refreshing!" she smiles.

Then

she

pulls

away.


And all I could think of all the way home was that we could not afford fruit last year, and every time I buy some, I feel grateful that I can. Doesn't she remember what it was like when she didn't have a car? My shoes were waterlogged, and so was my spirit.

I got home, put Coco-pop into warm clothing, gave her some milk and put her in for a nap. Then I attacked the house. I was up to sweeping when I realized that I knew what it was like to not afford fruit. But did I know what it was like to not be able to pay rent? No. Thank G-d we had that every month from what we earned. Did I think about people who couldn't scrape it together and had to beg their landlord to give them another day, another week to get it all?

Not really.

Lady In White probably always had a car. She probably thought that the rain looked refreshing outside of her window, shared that with me, and then went on her way without another thought. Because not having a car--oh, she probably needs a ride!--was not a rounded out thought in her head.

So I forgave her. But for me--well, I think that we can do better than that.

I read today on aish.com about a couple who never forgot where they came from when they became really wealthy, and were constantly giving back.

We can and should overcome our blocks in our minds and souls, and feel for those who have less.

So don't worry, y'all. When Outdorsman and I become filthy stinkin' rich, I will totally not forget all the little people.

I Was Totally Asking For It

In the 50s, or maybe the 40's? TV was not endless programs that you could watch all hours of the night. 3 o'clock in the bleary morning home shopping network was not heard of. I guess no one had insomnia in those days.

ANYWAY, these 50's or 40's TV people would reach the end of the day of regularly scheduled programming and sweet stories about boys and their dogs, and it would end. Tada. The end. See you all tomorrow.

That, in a nutshell, is what happens to my brain after the kids' normally scheduled bedtime. Tada. The end. See you all tomorrow. I will now watch white snow on a black screen (or...is it really black snow on a white screen? Hmmm...maybe I'll watch it for a few more hours and get back to you on that.) until tomorrow morning.

Cam you see where I am going with this? Yes. Last night. They were up until 11:30.

I use my last ounces of sweet patience on pajama time and book time and milk time and shema time. Maybe a last minute water call and blanket tucking in. Then, they must go to sleep. At once. Because it's hard to talk to children with your brain tuned in to white/black snow.

"Ima!"

"Mmmmph?"

"Do you know how to say couch in hebrew?"

"Sapah?"

"Nooooo, sapah. (with an indistiguish-able difference. American-Israeli kids!)"

"Mmmph."

"Right I know so much Hebrew?"

"Hmmmhm."

"Can you sing me another song?"

"Go."

"To."

"Sleep."

"Does that mean no?"

Meanwhile Coco-pop was rattling around in her crib like a ghost in chains, singing a song of her own creation. It went like this:

"Iiiiiiiiima, wanna come out, Iiiiiiiima, wanna to come out, Iiiiiiima, wanna to come out!"

The chorus was pretty much the same.

When they finally fell asleep, I slumped, dejected, to my own bed. I felt like any Good Mommy Points that I had scored were gone, finished, done with, used up. I felt like I had to talk to someone about it. I turned to my husband. His eyes were closed, but he was still awake. Probably.

"You know, I hate that my brain turns off. I wish that I had more patience with them. I need to work on this. They do not have to turn off like clockwork every night in order for me to be happy. They could ask me questions and I should give them normal, human-like responses!"

"Mmmmph."

"I remember waking up with a nightmare when I was little and walking back and forth in the hallway, trying to creak someone awake. I wished with all my little heart that my mother would wake up and hold me. I need to always be there for them, even when it's 2 in the morning."

"Mmmmph."

"Maybe I should take classes. Or just tell myself that life is not perfect and does not fall into predesignated slots. You know?"

"Hmmmhmmm."

"I should make a list. I should hang it up. I should--"

"Go."

"To."

"Sleep."

"....I guess that means that you're not going to sing me a song."

"Zzzzz...."

And that, my friends, is what we call karma.

Mornings with Coco-pop

Me: Who's my baby? Who's my little baby?

Coco-pop: Not a baby! A little girl!

Me: (heart breaking into five pieces)

----

I love love having her home with me. I stare at her. I really do. When she is sitting on my lap, I look at her little profile and I get caught, in my mess and halfway through my list of Things To Do and do nothing but gaze at her little upturned nose and the way that her lashes rest on her rounded pink cheek and the auburn curls that lightly frame her face and I turn her chin gently so that she faces me. I ask her if she wants me to eat her little face up. She declines. I eat her face up anyway. She squeals and giggles and then says, do it again, Ima. And the whole time I am filled with wonder, filled with awe, filled with a need to touch her, to rub my cheek against her cheek, to play with her rounded fingers, her nails with the chipped red nail polish and half-moons of dirt from playing in the sandbox.

The knowledge that my blood pumps through her veins, that she is bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, all that floods through me as she sits on my lap, demanding another story. I tell her another story, making it last, curling up with her for as long as she'll stay still.

It's hard to describe, in this impure world, this physical manifestation of mother's love. I hesitate to post this, not wanting to be misunderstood.

It's hard to put into words, to put into into black and white the color of my love for my baby.

Sorry, Coco-pop. I meant, of course, my love for my little girl.

Drown In The Now

When I was little, the window in my bedroom overlooked a main four-laned street that further down merged into a highway. I would sit on my bed and look down at the toy-sized cars whizzing back and forth at all times of the night (I had major insomnia all my life, totally cured by the birth of my oldest. Ya always want what ya can't have, I guess!) and I would try to come up with different, intricately detailed stories for each car, explaining why they were on the road at 2 o'clock in the morning.

The little blue car with the broken tail light was obviously speeding away from the cops who tried to issue him a ticket. He turned onto a major street in the hopes of losing them. He can't afford a ticket, you see, because he just lost his job, and his three children are dressed in rags and never get any treats at all.

The green one with the suitcase on the roof-rack is probably coming back from a weekend in Florida (I didn't know much about any states in between New York, New Jersey, and Florida) and he and his wife keep taking turns at the wheel on the long trip home, while in the cookie-crumb-covered and sticky-with-spilled-apple-juice
back seat, their two children sleep.

I saw each car, each person, as a little floating bubble of unique life, a tiny world on its own rotation, that can get very close to another little world but never actually merge. (Especially those of you who think it's okay to pick your noses in the rear-view mirror. We DO see you from the window, guys. YOU know who I'm talking to!)

As I got a little older, I realized that there are actually points of intersection, and that most of them really boil down to how you feel about this person walking down the street, and how this person walking down the street makes you feel about yourself.

Little thought bubbles at the points of intersection:

"Oh no, I think that I owe her money. Do I owe her money? Oh, darn, and I think it was from a long time ago, too."

"She is always so patient with her kids. I wish that I could do that. She makes it look so easy."

"Ooooh...remember when I said that stupid thing and it was in front of her and then I got so embarrased and I never explained...I wish that I could explain now, but it was 10 years ago. Oh, why can't I just get over it already!"

"She is totally skinnier than me. But maybe I'm prettier?"

"She is totally prettier than me. But maybe I am skinnier?"

Like our nerve endings are rubbed raw with the contact, the intimacy of interaction. Our minds are jumbled with thoughts and feelings and memories until it's not clear if you feel a certain way about the person that you are chatting with or if you feel that way about yourself...

I took the kids to the park yesterday afternoon. Hogging the merry-go-round was one of the girls who has been teasing Princess in gan. I braced myself. Princess loved the merry-go-round. How was this going to work out?

"Hi, M!" Princess called out. "Stop the merry-go-round, I want to get on!"

"Okay," M agreed.

And to my amazement, 5 minutes later, the girl were spinning around with their arms around each other, singing "Bar Yochai" at the very top of their lungs.

Because now it's the afternoon. Who cares about what happened this morning, in gan? Right now we are two good friends on the same merry-go-round, singing this really great song.

Someone wise once said that when you walk into a party and you're all self-conscious about your choice in outfit, just remember than no one is looking at you. Just like you, they are all busy looking at themselves in the mirror.

So live. Laugh. Love. Forget what happened 10 years ago. (Except for that chick whom you owe money to. You should probably pay her back.) Twirl around together, because the past was already. The future doesn't matter yet.

Live in the present, their 4 year-old voices were singing.

Live for the now.

When you aint got your Man

I am a strong and capable woman. I take care of my kids. I take of my household. And I do it all with a smile! Yes! I am capable and strong! I am woman! Hear me roar!

Meow. meow moew moew.

No, really.

My husband left to America on business for a week and I have thus far eaten a box of candy, not gone to the gym, ran my fingers idly through the dirty laundry, cast a disinterested gaze over the piles of dirty dishes, and woke up every 15 minutes at night with a start at the silence in the bed next to mine, saying, "what was that?"

I am tired. My house is a mess. My kids are painting on the walls as we speak and eating leftover breakfast for lunch. I am eating a bag of lettuce since that is all I can stomach after The Candy Incident.

Wah. You don't have to feel bad for me; I feel bad enough for myself.

But, it is enough! Pull yourself together, girl! Turn on some music, pull out the broom, and clean and dance with your babies and dust-mites.

Although I am torn. Because I heard that if you let your dust-mites get big enough, they make very good, very quiet, low-maintainence pets. Then maybe I can cuddle up with one and finally fall into a good, deep sleep.

Of Wailing Walls

Princess has been creating her very own swimming pool out of her own tears lately.

I have lost track of the amount of times that she'll cry in the length of one day. Our dialogues seem to go like this:

Princess: Ima, can I have a cookie for breakfast?

Me: Um. Um? No? We do not and have never eaten cookies for breakfast? Sweetie?

Princess: But--but--BUT--Ima! IwannacookieforbreakfastYOUNEVERLETMEHAVEACOOKIEFORBREAKFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!

This intelligent and thought-provoking dialogue and other similiar ones usually end with me putting myself into time out.

The other day, being slighly suicidal, I took my girls to the kotel with a friend and her three kids. 5 kids + 2 mommies on the number 2 bus = you do the math. Chaos theory come to life.

We made it, we took turns davening, then let the kds run around in the square, wide-eyed at the beautiful kallas and the more colorful tourists. We fed them a run-around dinner, then, as the sky darkened and the crowds thinned, started heading back to the bus.

The bus pulled up, and opened up its back doors. I held Princess' hand in one hand, Coco-pop's in the other, and the carriage--oh, oops, the carriage! Halfway in her ascent up the stairs, I dropped Princess' hand to grope for the carriage. Got it!

And then, it happened. Well, nothing really happened, to me or to most passengers ascending the stairs, so I will give it to you from Princess' percpective:

I am going up the stairs, holding Ima's hand tightly. So many people--cannot let go of her hand or I might never see her again. Hey--Ima!--where are you? Don't let
go! Need to turn around, look for her--the doors! They are CLOSING--Ima, is leaving me ALL ALONE FOREVER FOR THE REST OF MY WRETCHED EXISTANCE!

'K, back to me. What happened was, as I turned to grab the stroller, the doors started closing. I didn't blink, just hammered on the door and yelled out somewhat indelicately, "Nahag, regah!" The doors re-opened, I entered with Coco-pop and the carriage, and was greeted by a screaming, white-faced Princess.

She sat on my lap and held my hand all the way home.

Me: Princess, look at that huge tree out your window!

Princess: Mmmmm.

Me: Look, it must be a hundred years old!

Princess: DON'T let go of my hand!

That night, as I was putting her in, we spoke about it. And I got a chilling revelation about how Princess, my smart, perhaps too-smart 4 and a half year old oldest thinks.

"I thought that I was going to be all alone on the bus because I couldn't figure out how to open the door."

"But sweetie, you did not have to try to figure it out. Ima got the door open."

"I didn't know what to do. Because the door was too heavy for me."

"Ima would never ever ever leave you alone on the bus, right?"

"Right. But I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to open the door."

And that's when I realized what she was getting at, what it was All About.

Princess doesn't see me as her Knight In Shining Armor. She doesn't thinlk that I could rescue her. She thought that the whole thing, the whole problem, and therefore the whole solution, was on her shoulders. She was the only one in control.

But love, I wanted to tell her, you are only 4 and a half years old! You do not need to come up with the answers yet; you should look to me for all of them. That is a heavy heavy weight that you carry, little girl. Why won't you let me lift it for you?

Instead, I said, "Princess, it's Ima's problem. Not yours. Ima's. Ima is the one who has to figure out what to do. Not you. Ima. Ima saw the door closing. Ima hammered on the door. The driver opened the door. Your job was to just sit and wait."

She let out a long suddering breath, and hugged me for a few millenium.

I have to keep reminding her.

I have to keep reminding myself.

Hashem li, lo irah.

Conversations

Princess: Ima, what kind of gan will I go to next year?

Me: Just like this year, but for older girls, because you will be bigger next year!

Princess: No, I mean what language will we learn next year, instead of Hebrew? Spanish?

----

Princess: Can you sing that song, Ima? About the beautiful morning?

Me: (warbling) "O what a beautiful mooooorning, O what a beautiful daaaay. I've got a beautiful feeeeeling, everything's going my way!"

Princess: Ima, you sang it wrong at the end. It's "everything's getting in my way!"

Me: Erm...

----

Princess: Ima, who's birthday is next?

Me: Abba's. It's right after chanuka.

Princess: Can we make a party?

Me: (stage whisper) Yes! But let's keep it a suprise. We'll have a cake, and balloons, and--

Princess: (not in a stage whisper) Okay! And pekalach! With wafers and a lolipop and popcorn! Abba! Abba! Abba, we are going to make you a party with cake and balloons and pekalach and also, it's going to be a suprise !

In Which I Open My Mouth To Insert My Foot

Oooookay.

So.

Outdoorsman, this is for you.

Because what I meant by not having anyone that I want to talk to in a 6,000 mile radius when I wrote that I have no one in a 6,000 mile radius that I want to talk to was that OF COURSE I have someone that I want to talk to in my 6,000 mile radius!

And that person is you, my beloved helpmeet! Because you are so wonderful and so charming and so captivating and so disarming! And you are funny and so witty and so delightful and so pretty!

Did I mention so witty?

Disarming?

I am flipping through the pages of my thesaurus at an alarming rate, darling.

All because there is nothing that I'd rather do than only talk to you. Because you. Are witty. And stuff.

So I googled! To find a poem that matches my feelings. I found this one:

Yes baby, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, ....! ! ! !

……and on top of that, I’m very sorry……! ! !

Thrush

I held the medicine dropper up the light to ensure that Coco-pop had taken all of the medicine to my satisfaction. She hadn’t. I didn’t need to look at the dropper to realize that; the thick red liquid (‘cool-aid flavored! Babies love it!’) was running down her chin, dripping into her collar, and blending nicely with the ex-contents of her nose. She was doing her best, it seemed, to roll over and stain the blanket she was lying on. She was also squalling at the top of her lungs.

I stared at the fevered 2 year-old on the couch and the whole scene took on panoramic proportions until my glassy eyes took in the heaps of almost-sorted laundry, the coffee cups with hardened coffee dregs sitting on the table, almost hidden from view by the most random collection of items—why is the soup pot on the table, and is that an umbrella next to it? If those flowers were any deader, they would be coming back to life…oh, so that’s what smells like the dead rodent that I spent all morning jumping at the dust mites because of—and then it caught my eye. The scene retracted again. There was a small stain on my new skirt. It was red. I sniffed at it. It smelled like cool-aid.

Baby wipes are good for these types of situations.

Crying might be less so, although perhaps the chemical makeup of tears might work together to create a good cleanser. Scientific research of exactly this idea might have been in the back of my mind as I stared blindly at my bawling baby and joined in. The room, the baby, the dead flowers, and the stain all blurred.

It all blurred and became one. And so I cried about the stain. I cried about all my stained skirts and the skirts that were not stained because 2 years after the baby was born, they still didn’t fit me. I cried about my pettiness, not being happy enough with my beautiful children and the weight that I had lost, but always mourning my one-size-smaller skirts. And then sudden;ly I was crying that I do not have a freezer full of freshly baked cookies and cakes, but knowing full well that I also cry when I make them...trapped, trapped, trapped, with no car and a broken carriage. And 6,000 miles away from anyone that I really want to talk to. My sisters, my Ima, the comfort of laughing with them. And my Abba, my patient Abba with his beautiful smile the only expression that I’ve seen him with lately, painted in stark relief against the gauntness of his finely chiseled facial structure. I’m so happy that you are in Yerushalayim, his smile tells me. Even though I can never visit.

And I have a stupid stain

On my stupid skirt.

But not everything is big. I mean, sometimes it is okay to sweat the small stuff—or, at least cry about the small stuff—because the small stuff can be big, in such a small apartment and in such a small country.

Which can work both ways, you know. Because a few minutes later, when Coco-pop, who had stopped howling abruptly to stare at me, bewildered, decided that Ima crying was the funniest thing that had happened all day and began giggling, I started laughing, too. Then I dropped the dropper, picked up my still-laughing daughter, and medicine-smeared cheeks and all, began dancing with her.

Then I changed my skirt and walked across the length of the ballroom and started making dinner.

Living Large

I am so cold.

I wake up cold and I go to sleep cold and in the middle of the day? I'm cold.

Did I mention that I'm cold?

Because if I didn't, I do want you to know that on a scale of one to ten of cold? I'm FREEZING. Which is pretty cold.

It's this season that my indignation rises like gorge in my throat, and I think, hey, you know? I'm American, damnit. I should be comfortable AT ALL TIMES. I should be in an artificial 75 degrees, always.

And then I have to remind myself about how wonderful it is to be in touch with the weather as it actually is, because it's real. Just like having fruit in it's proper season, and having some things that are not sanitized for your own protection and double wrapped with politeness and orderliness. There is something special, just because it's real, about experiencing life just as it is, as it comes.

I asked Princess what she wants for Chanuka. Her eyes grew big with all of her wildest imaginings. Then she blurted, "Stickers! And a treat."

They are so unspoiled, so blessed, my little girls.

It's really living, living in this country.

But wouldn't it be nice if the real living can be done just a leeeeetle warmer?

Flood This Forum!

Okay. I really really need feedback on this. I wrote out the speech in long copy that i will be giving at a seminary tomorrow. The principal asked me to speak about growing up with a sick father, and the tools that I gained to deal with it. So. I wrote it, and added some articles a the end to read together. Problem is--in real life, I am actually a really private person. Which is why this blog is so important to me, and why this speech to so hard for me. I can't even rehearse it in front of a friend and get feedback, because...I'm so shyyyyyyy,you see. Not really, but I don't like when people but me into a box. I am what you see, not my past. So. Anyway. Point is, I need your help. My husband says that it's great, but I need female imput. And impartial imput, since he also thinks I look great right after labor.

Here 'tis:

Edited: I decided to delete the speech in the end. I wasn't comfortable having it up, and also, I thought, if a girl from the seminary googles one of theartivles I used and finds this blog...me not be happy. So. It's gone. I have decided, and I am THE ULTIMATE POWER ON THIS BLOG! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Til The Fat Lady Sings

I need to go shopping for shabbas. It's thursday night. I was not so organized this week, and now I'm gonna pay the price. I'll be up cooking until the wee wee wee hours. But that's okay! It's all because of whay's been going on these past few days!
Like a rainstorm of creative openings, is my life right now! I am acting in a play. I am giving a yom iyun speech at a seminary. I am going to dust off my Healthy Body Image seminar and give that over, too.

And the most creative thing of all I cannot breathe a word of to anyone for another couple of months, but it is making me rather fatigued and nauseous in the morning...

You won't tell anyone, will you, O Internet?

Tznius, Cover your Knee-is!

So, we started these tznius groups in our neighborhood. We had the first meeting last week after shabbas, and the second tonight. 'Cept I missed it because I went to table-read for a play that I will be in. So fun, by the way! My part, which is the main part, which is super cheezy to say, but rolls off the tongue SO NICELY, is super de duper dramatic and I get to wear a wedding dress and sing about my PAIN and LONGING, and it's been a long time since I got to make an audience cry! I love makin' 'em cry!

Anyway. Back to the tznius groups.

So. Tznius discussions always brings out weird things in me. Not weird like a tendancy to grow fur and fangs and howl at the moon, but weird like ambivalent and teenage-ish rebellious stirings.

Now, I consider myself a pretty tznius person. I don't wear tight clothing, I am very careful about the length of my skirt, and my shaitel (which sits so nicely and patiently in my closet beside my oft-worn bin of scarves) is a long less than two feet long. (although if being tnzius means blending in to the neighborhood, maybe I should rock me some two foot-long shaitel and black skin-tight tops. But that is a mean and caty sort of thing to say, so pretend that I didn't say it. Because I'm not mean. Or catty. Meow.) I just have a hard time listening to it being preached. A few reasons:

1. Still a little traumatized from being brought to the front of the room in 11th grade and, using a book that had these little measurements drawn all over little drawings of girls and a TAPE MEASURE, my teacher showed the whole class why my shirt was not tzius. Blush much?

2. I feel like they always MISS THE POINT. (I am going a little capslock crazy in this post, am I not? I apologise. I REALY DO.) Like they talk about the symptoms instead of the problem. Yes, girls do show too much and don't understand the spirit of the law. But they don't ask WHY. WHY do they feel the need to dress this way? I agree with Outdoorsman who says that so much of tznius is all about how you feel about yourself. If you feel good and accomplished in your own skills and merits, you won't feel that pressing need to get attention with your body. And when girls are not allowed to do anything except shop, then yeah, they might show a tendancy to be materialistic and give their bodies more importance then they should have.

3. They seem to confuse being a bas melech with wearing dry-clean clothes and only wearing a shaitel. I know that denim rhymes with gehenom, but seriously? Banning a fablic? I feel that dressing casually, at least for me, means more time for the kids in the sandbox, and letting them cry and get snot all over my shoulder, because I'm a MOTHER, not a runway model, and I'm okay with dressing like one.

I could elaborate for many pages on all of my points, but I'll leave it for now because it's almost one in the morning and my kids should be waking up in oh, around NOW. No...NOW. Yup, there she is. Coco-pop. Am I good, or am I good?

Anyway anyway. I'll just end with a line that Outdoorsman started and I finished:

Tnzuis is not about covering your knees. It's about not thinking that your knees are that important.

Chulent-powered Rockets will take Man to the Moon

"Look at the horses!" Princess said.

--Which is not a comment you get every day walking down the streets of Ramat Eshkol, Jerusalem. So we stopped, because indeed, there were horses in the front of my building.

4 horses, they were. Two brown, one with a star on his forhead, and one black and one gray. They were tall, glorious, proud, and poopping all over the front walk.

The horses were tied to their trucks, and four bored-looking cops were sitting with their legs flung up, eating club sandwhiches and drinking coffee. What were they doing here, I wondered, as Princess backed up a step and clutched my hand. Scared as she was, she couldn't take her eyes off of the magnificent creatures, and Coco-pop's little fuzzy brain still didn't realize what her eyes were looking at at all. She continued to eat her Bamba, saliva and peanut butter mixing beautifully down the front of her shabbas dress.

Someone in the shabbas-bedecked crowd whispered something about the protest that was going on regarding a business that was going to stay open on shabbas. The horses and cops were probably hanging out here until they recieved a call that they were needed. In the parking lot across the street, we saw what looked like a water canon.

The crowd thinned until it was only us. 15 minutes later, Coco-pop Realized What It All Meant. They were Animals! And they had Huge Teeth! Waaaa! "Waaaa!" she remarked. Then I remembered my challa that I had put up to warm an hour ago that was surely burning, and we all headed at a clipped pace towards the front door. Our guests came, and we all sat down. We had pre-kiddush chit-chat. Then I said, "Let's give them some chulent."

"Who?"

"The cops."

Silence.

Outdoorsman said, slowly, "That is an amazing idea."

We dished out 4 bowls of Outdoorsman's famous chulent, steaming and fragrant. We carried them out to the cops.

They said, no. We said, try some! They said, no. We said, it's really goooooood. They said, no. We gave it to them anyway. They took. They tried. They said, this is gooooood. We said, we know. Enjoy!

Later, Outdoorsman remarked that loving your fellow man is easy if the only fellow man that you love is the one that is just like you.

Today I read in the news that the protestors, protesting in the name of shabbas, threw rocks (on shabbas!) at the cops, and yelled and screamed in wild hatred.

With love, and in the name of shabbas, we served the cops warm and hearty chulent on a chilly shabbas day.

I wonder which one of us Shabbas Herself would be more proud of.

Yes I Would, If I Only Could

The kids found a dead crow in the park today, and set upon it at once. Sticks were brought out to poke it, and the brave in the pack touched it with the tips of their shoes.

Princess came running over to, roses in her cheeks, to tell me all about it. "So it's a CROW, and it's DEAD, and now we can look at it. Come see it! Come, Ima!"

Now, when I was around Princess' age, I was the original animal right's activist. Maybe the first one who couldn't spell it yet. I would cry when my neighbor poured water over an ant's nest, and spent hours trying to save as many of the insects as I could. Baby kittens, abandoned and milky-eyed would get bowls of cream. I could not kill spiders, nor did I want anyone else to. Nowawdays, I protect the stray cats in the park when children try to torment them. I fully expect to wake up one day and discover that I am the neighborhood Crazy Cat Lady (and every neighborhood has one, no?) with long stringy grey hair and a horrible screechy voice. And cat smell.

ANYWAY, Princess was pulling in my skirt and inviting me to gaze upon the sad little corpse of the dead crow. "No, Princess. I really don't want to. Looking at things like that makes Ima sad."

Princess puzzled over this. "But I didn't kill it!"

Oops. "I know, sweety. But just the idea that it is dead on the ground instead of flying in the sky and will never fly again makes Ima sad. So I do not want to see the dead crow. Okay?"

Thought bubbles apeared above Princess' head. They all said something to the effect of, Oh wow. I am only 4 1/2 years old, and I have been saddled with a loony mother. This is like those movies. And I don't know how I know that, because I've never seen a movie in my life.

So she shrugged, released her vulcan death grip on my skirt, and skipped off to play with the lifeless bird who had long since gone to The Great Windshield In The Sky. Mothers shouted out to the tight group around the crow, telling them that it was full of germs and dangerous, but the Call Of The Crow was too strong. They stood there, the world against them, but nothing would make them abandon their passion.

Five minutes and two recipe exchanges later, a bloodcurling scream echoed around the park. Mothers heads picked up collectively, eyes scanning for their progeny, and relaxing when they realized, not my kid.

'Twas mine.

Eyes wide with panic, she ran into my arms, trembling all over. "They--threw--the BIRD--at me! And said--I was gonna--get--SICK!"

I shushed and soothed, and held her. But she would not calm down. She looked up at me, eyes filled with unshed tears, and asked in a quieter voice, "What's going to happen to me?"

I told her nothing, nothing, nothing's going to happen, you will not get sick, it just touched you, and there is nothing to worry about, Ima is here.

"Who did it?" I whispered in her ear, and she pointed a shaky finger at the brown haired, brown skinned girl a few feet away rom us. Mean girl! Nasty girl! She was the girl who responded to Princess' friendly overtures by sticking out her tongue at her, who made the merry-go-round spin extra fast when Princess attempted to go on...nasty girl! Mean girl!I held my hapless daughter closer to my chest.

That was two days ago.

Yesterday, a girl called me on the phone. She spent the first ten minutes apologising for calling and then finally explained; apparently Princess had been bothering her daughter in gan. Teasing her, taking things away from her, throwing sand in her face from the sandbox. I told her I'll look into it. I did. I questioned Princess, who looked confused and innocent. The teachers were no help. either. ("how's my daughter?" "oh, she is so sweet and cute!" "oh, I bet you say that to all the pretty mothers.") So, I'm not really sure what the real story is, but it did shake me out of my little black and white world.

You see, if my daughter is a bully, they can't be Those Nasty Mean Girls. I mean, I guess I knew that. They are 4 years old, after all. And I knew that when I wrote this. But the satisfaction of knowing that my daughter would never do that is all gone. Simon and Garfunkle wrote that they'd rather be the hammer than the nail, but I think that the world is much simpler and clear-cut when you are the nail...but life is not like that, I suppose. I cannot cloak myself in self-righteous indignation anymore.

It's like the world is shades of gray! And not black and white! Or something!

Does that mean that my annoying neighbor is really annoyed BY ME?

No. That's just taking it too far.

Right?

Prince of Darkness

So much has been said about the misrad hapnim (i.e; punicipal office; office of interior; home of Dracula's tomb and evil incarnate) And it is not. enough. I have not spoken about it in a while because I know, dear internet, that it gets you all worked up and mad. (or wait. maybe that's me.)

I will therefore write about my visit yesterday in a light, happy vein, perhaps with a little rhyme. Perhaps the way that Dr. Suess would write it.

You are here for your visa? But I must take my break.
I need more coffee to fill the ache
In my breast from my lack of a soul
All this bloodsucking takes it's toll.
Ah yes! I finished my coffee, but do not come in yet,
First I must finish my cigarette.
Now enter! My presence! But, no, you must leave.
There is still one more paper that you must retrieve
And that is written proof that your grandfather's cat, Treat,
Never failed to land on all four feet.
Then you must go to the bank and get more money
(your laugh must be hysterics, because really, I'm not funny)
And then when you return from chashing in all your stock,
You will see the door. On it will be a lock.
You will cry and scream and tear out your hair,
But save it, honey. There is no one to care.

....on second thought, while that all pretty much rhymes, it's not funny at all. Oops.

On the bright side, after trying for one whole year to renew our visas, the fourth time is the charm! We are the proud owners of little pieces of paper glued to our passports that proclaim to the world--actually, I'm not sure what they proclaim. I'm not even sure what the point of visas is? To show that I know that I'm not a citizen? I thought that my lousy hebrew and my need for personal space was proof enough.

My little gingy Coco-pop spread a ray of sunlight around the dreary, dank darkness of the building. She was like a stake in a vampire's heart.

Yes, I will lay off the meds now.

Time of Our Lives

So we went to Tzfat during the Great Rainstorm of 2009. We went for Thursday, Friday and Shabbas. It rained on Thursday, on Friday, and on Shabbas. It rained. It mudded. It basically emptied its nose out on the narrow cobblestoned paths.

Then there was the agent. See, we're thinking about making an investment purchase in Tzfat, which was the real purpose of our trip. It all started off well enough. We stopped off at a real estate office, spoke to the guy behind the desk (or, rather, Outdoorsman spoke to him. I stayed in the car and sang "I wish I were a little striped skunk" 87 times to my adoring little fans in the back seat.) and then agreed to meet an agent as a certain address in two hours time.

We took a quick look around the artist quarter, fell in love with a painting and a pair of candlesticks, then met the agent at the apointed spot.

The problem began at exactly that moment.

The agent, you see, was wearing pointy cowboy boots.

Now, this is not a problem in and of itself. People are free to choose clothing that expresses whatever it is that they wish to express. I know people who wrap who pashminas around their heads and they are perfectly wonderful. The problem, I guess, is the nature of the client/agent relationship. Basically, it's like this:

Client: Hi! I love Israel! I want to purchase property in this sacred place!

Agent: mwahahahahahahahahahaha!

So, as clearly demonstrated in the above sketch, agents are pretty much, well, slime. Who want to fleece you. And then skin you. And then carve sinister tattoos on your lower calves.

So, someone who is in a slimy business should wear a nice suit, a tie that is knotted a bit too tight, a genuine smile--you know, try to give over the impression that while agents in general are horrible, he is a nice, honest guy who is not in it for the money, no, he is in it simply to make you happy.

So. Back to the pointy cowboy boots. In a nutshell, they sing:

If you are slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it
And you really want to show it
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots!

Or maybe I have been singing too many backseat songs lately.

But, Agent in Boots turned out to be be exactly what he seemed to be. Which is actually honest of him. Which makes me all confused. So I will go on and forget about it.

Basically, we almost bought a place for double it's worth, and it rained. All. The Time.

And I don't even like cowboy boots.

But now for the postive!

1-It rained. A lot. But! I am happy, because we need rain. And right above the kineret! Which is totally amazing and a huge blessing and maybe means my water bill will not require a shot of bourbon before opening.

(Only, maybe, it could have started, like, on sunday? As we were pulling out? Like, Oh yay, wow, thank you G-d, it's raining! What a blessing! And also now we are in a nice warm and dry car!)

2-Agent, he lied. But Outdoorsman outsmarted him by figuring out the real value of the cottage. So, sad short term, but happy long term.

3-Also, my girls now know all of the songs that made my childhood so memorable.

All in all, a trip to remember. Then we'll say, "Oh, do you remember that time? When we went to Tzfat? And it rained the whole time and everyone was muddy and cold and you forgot to pack sweaters and we were cooped up in a tiny room with no windows and in the middle of the night someone yelled through door for someone named Mendel and then the agent tried to cheat us out of our life savings? Remember?"

Then we'll all laugh. Nervously. And change the subject.