Ten

Ten.

 It has a lot of meaning 

The Ten Commandments

The Ten Plagues

Ten months to a school year.

A Decade.

Girls of mine,

You have been in my life for ten years.

I adore you from moment to moment more and more.

The babies you were and the girls that your are.

I wish you challenges because they will make you stronger

Heartbreak because it will make you wiser 

Great love , wonderful friends, a career, motherhood, all

I have raised you to Judaism, Zionism, Feminism.

I hope you are independent, happy, healthy, loved.

Thank you for making me a mom. For making me grow up. For making me care about someone more than myself.

Always and forever

Ima

Not for the Faint of Heart

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Two days before Leil haseder, the Passover Big Event and I am finished for the evening.  My dishes are down from the attic, my food is purchased, and the house is cleaned.  Tomorrow begins the race against time and the nonstop cooking.

My girls watched tonight as I poured boiling water on all surfaces, cleaned the refrigerator again, and left the fires burning on the stove.  They asked why and of course I explained.  While Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are the two holidays which I most connect with my father, Passover is an estrogen filled event.  

My mother, grandmother and savta all figure prominently.  My sister and I too have strong supporting roles.  I cannot think of Pesach without the smell of gribenes frying, my mother cooking, and my grandmother issuing orders (oops! directions) from the table.  

The Manishevitz white matzah cartons hauled up from the basement with all the dishes and utensils; all of which have a story; the wooden chopping bowl and chopper for the charoset, which has been my annual contribution since I can remember, the cast iron grinder that weighs a ton that belonged to my mother’s grandmother; the one that locked onto the countertop and ground the chicken livers for the chopped liver, all the crystal wine goblets which also belonged to my mother’s grandmother, and especially, the one with etched grapes on it which was “mine” every year.

Pesach is my favorite time of year; the change of weather to spring, the nearness of summer and vacation, the birth of new flowers, leaves, and just the newness of it.  Changing the house over was always exciting for me.

Seven years ago, I decided that if I could do twins on my own, I could take on Seder.  The first couple of years we ordered food.  About four years ago, my mom and I took over the cooking.   My mom and I are very different in the kitchen: I am neat, organized and fast.  She is slow, methodical, makes an absolute mess and her food is amazing.  No matter how perfect it is, she always finds fault with it.  I am a decent cook, slightly above average even, but I don’t have the time or patience to spend the day in the kitchen.  Everything is tasty but not like her food.  Like they say on the cooking shows you can taste her love and passion in every bite. 

She isn’t here this year.  They aren’t coming.  This is the third time in my life that I am alone on Pesach.  No matter how many people will be here (twelve) no matter how much they mean to me (a lot), no matter how many sedarim we’ve all done together (seven) they’re not my parents.  While I know my girls will continue with our traditions, it just isn’t the same without them.  Hearing those stories all through my childhood has instilled in me a sense of tradition and family and continuity.  I will do my best to share the stories with my kids but I don’t have the treasures and the artifacts to back them up.  The chopping bowl is probably somewhere in my mom’s basement still as might be the grinder.  But it isn’t the same as taking it out and using it.  “My” wine glass broke and my new wine glass isn’t the same.  Without Bubby and Saba it will be nice but not HOME.

This holiday, reminds me of my trek through motherhood.  It is hard.  There is a lot of work and a lot of cooking, cleaning, preparing, changing, sorting, and repeat.  But that is part of what makes it so special.  That you get to the other side.  That you’ve created something that is impossible to recreate: memories.  This is what I believe is what I give my kids in addition to love, hugs, nurturing and education.  I give them a past, a context, a story and memories for life.  My childhood memories of holidays with our family are a tremendous gift and give me strength and hope.  Our seder is very important to me because it gives them that; something to remember for a lifetime. 

 I am just so sad my parents aren’t going to be here to enjoy it with us and the girls won’t be able to share it with them this year.

Wishing you all a beautiful, meaningful and memory laden seder.  Chag sameach

You Deserve Better

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How many of us have said this to a heartbroken friend? How many have heard this from our girlfriends, moms, shrinks?

“Oh honey! He’s a jerk!” you deserve better…

I have spent the better part of my adulthood saying this or being told this. However, here I am. Still alone. By myself. And ….?

Where has it gotten me all this deserve-ment. Entitlement? Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’ve gotten the best there is and that is all I deserve. Or maybe what we deserve and what we get aren’t necessarily the same. Maybe “you deserve what you have” is more the more appropriate statement. Maybe “make it work” is a better phrase.

Maybe all those women who waited for better are still waiting…and don’t look as good, aren’t as thin, are past child bearing … Maybe this sounds sexist (Trump-y) but seriously…aren’t all of us over 40 women and maybe even over 50 women thinking this? Feeling this?
maybe I should have…. ??

Don’t misunderstand me: I have it all. I say this and mean this and believe it. I believe I am blessed and that G-d takes care of me.  But, I am alone. It is the one piece of the puzzle that I haven’t been able to complete (successfully). 

I have definitely grown and evolved. I have gained life experience and wisdom. I have done the work; alone, in therapy, in my outlooks and attitude.  And yet… this part doesn’t ever seem to change.  If I am tough, if I am go with the flow, if I’m patient, understanding, or hard assed. The person who is before me is always the same person.  It doesn’t seem to matter if he is Israeli or American, religious or charedi or completely non-observant, Ashkenazi or Sephardi.  He is invariably the same man.

It is unclear to me how this keeps happening. Maybe it’s just bad luck, maybe as a colleague said the other day there are simply more women than men, maybe at this age “what’s left” is fucked up.  I cannot believe that this is my fate.  I believe in creating fate.  I remember going to real estate seminars when I was still in the business and speakers said things like “imagine what you want; a boat, apartment, trip to Europe and then figure out how you can make the money to pay for it”.  This is my philosophy. If you will it it will come.  But every time I will it either the recycled crazies come back or new ones come to fill their place. And the drama and insanity begin again.

My friends tell me I crave the drama.  Maybe they’re right.  I don’t think I crave drama.  I am supremely happy in my drama free existence without a man…until I can’t take the alone anymore…and then the drama begins again.  I wish I knew why. I wish I could change it. I am not willing to accept that my life in this area is over and that I will never have real love again…but…

The Mad (Black) Hatter

I realized tonite that I have a very long history with the mad black hatters.

My first encounter was in 7^th grade.  We were living in Los Angeles and I developed a huge crush on my rebbe, the first black hatter.  He wasn’t mad, or at least (thank GD) he didn’t do anything mad.  If anything he did a lot of good.  He introduced me to my first friend, his cousins, in Chicago, when my parents made the very traumatic announcement that we were moving back there.

Then there was the mad black hatter when I was in high school.  I must say he is probably my first true love and very first broken heart.  He dumped me in a “Dear John” letter. The “Dear John” letter I received while back in LA working at a day camp with my former friends.  That same summer, or maybe the next one, I met my cousins friend: the soon to be mad black hatter.  He dumped me after his new found rabbi told him he shouldn’t talk to me even though I was the reason he got involved with the religious movement in the first place. 

Then my first boyfriend, while studying a pretty religious seminary in Jerusalem.  He, the first boyfriend told me he’d never live in the US and he would never be religious, I actually dumped him. But one year later, while home for Rosh Hashana I got a letter…no no no, NOT a dear John letter.  No, this was a “you are the reason my life has changed for the best” letter. My Israel living non US living ex bf was now studying in a very happy place in the Old City.  And thanks to me he found religion….and his soon to be American born Chasidic originated wife….. Need I mention that he lived for a spell (several years) in the US?!

This mad black hatter literally wears a black hat a black (by now white?) beard, has grandchildren, and still some 25 years later, is in touch with me.

As you see, my history with them is not made of happy endings…

SO, here it is, the eve of Yom Kippur and I am still thinking about the man I wrote about in my last post.  Yup! You guessed it! ANOTHER mad black hatter. 

Why do I keep going back to them? Especially when, those who know me in real life know I don’t look like them…but I do talk like them, sometimes and I definitely do believe like them in some ways.  My friend Sarah has said over the years” You can take the girl out of the Michlala but you can’t take the Michlala out of the girl”.  That is to say, I grew up there in that place in my “formative years”.  It had a huge impact on my life and my family’s life.  I was very happy for a very long time in that world.  I never intended to leave it for good.  But it is not easy dancing at two weddings at once and I really am a better fit to the life and community I am in.  But the mad black hatter world still pulls at me.

At synagogue on Friday nite, the rabbi spoke about Yom Kippur and the different ways to look at repentawww.andbabymakes2.comnce.  He essentially said he doesn’t look at it like that but rather, in another interpretation as the Ultimate Day of Love: we go to the mikva, wear white, fast, and “walk down the aisle”.  These are all symbols of a wedding, the ultimate day of love. We are trying to cleave to our Maker and we want Him to cleave to us.  But, all you therapists out there, in order to have a healthy relationship we need to know who we are.  Only when we know who we are can we expect to have a healthier relationship, so too, in the rabbi’s speech with God.

So I say, on this Eve of Yom Kippur.  I need to know who I am: I am a modern woman who lives in a very hot climate so I dress for it. Who also only wears skirts, who doesn’t drive on Shabat or fast on 9Av. I believe with all my being in Gd, in the Torah, in the Land of Israel and the Jewish people.  I believe that my sleeves don’t define me but I love that my girls only wear skirts.  I love that I daven in an egalitarian minyan but have no need for it nor do I participate in it actively.

I believe that I can fall in love with a mad black hatter even though I don’t want to live that life…completely.  I believe that many have fallen in love with me but not enough to take a non-cookie cutter woman as their wife.

So I stand before God knowing who I am believing He knows who I am and that with His help I will find the one who I know and accept and who knows and accepts me.

Wishing you all a gut gbencht yor a shana tova and a happy healthy new year.

The Confused (Wo)Man

The Confused (Wo)Man

I had a very brief, I don’t know what to call it, with someone.  It was over before it started.  It is like a million other moments I have had with other men. Except…this one is different.

Something about me attracts them to me.  The Confused Man.  He was either born that way, became that way, or is post trauma: dead wife or ex-wife at this stage of my life, but earlier, it was much less defined.  At twenty, and then thirty, and then again at forty, most of the confused men who entered my life hadn’t yet married. 

I have a history with them.  I really thought after my last two plus year Confused Man that I had finally rid myself…but no… apparently they find me, like birds migrating or bees to honey. 

The other part of My Confused Men is that they confuse my extra sturdy door with a revolving door.  They think that even though they’ve stomped on my heart it is perfectly okay to come back for round two or three.

Some don’t come back for more but stay in touch.  My first ex-boyfriend, who became orthodox because of me and is now chareidi, contacts me regularly. Thirty five years later. He is a grandfather several times over.  He isn’t the only one but certainly the longest.

Back to the latest Confused Man: He and I didn’t understand each other.  He made assumptions about me based on how I look, speak, and dress.  I too made those assumptions about him. It turns out we were both wrong.  BUT, it only lasted a minute.  He tried. I tried.  I set a boundary, a hard limit, not to be crossed.  He didn’t like my terms. I didn’t like what he was offering.  I saved myself, my self -respect and protected my heart from being broken.  I also saved thousands on the shrink bill.

The good news all the thousands I have already spent have gone to good use.  The bad news, here I am, still alone, lonely and looking for you…Are you there?! Will we ever meet?

The Confused (Wo)Man

The Confused (Wo)Man

I had a very brief, I don’t know what to call it, with someone.  It was over before it started.  It is like a million other moments I have had with other men. Except…this one is different.

Something about me attracts them to me.  The Confused Man.  He was either born that way, became that way, or is post trauma: dead wife or ex-wife at this stage of my life, but earlier, it was much less defined.  At twenty, and then thirty, and then again at forty, most of the confused men who entered my life hadn’t yet married. 

I have a history with them.  I really thought after my last two plus year Confused Man that I had finally rid myself…but no… apparently they find me, like birds migrating or bees to honey. 

The other part of My Confused Men is that they confuse my extra sturdy door with a revolving door.  They think that even though they’ve stomped on my heart it is perfectly okay to come back for round two or three.

Some don’t come back for more but stay in touch.  My first ex-boyfriend, who became orthodox because of me and is now chareidi, contacts me regularly. Thirty five years later. He is a grandfather several times over.  He isn’t the only one but certainly the longest.

Back to the latest Confused Man: He and I didn’t understand each other.  He made assumptions about me based on how I look, speak, and dress.  I too made those assumptions about him. It turns out we were both wrong.  BUT, it only lasted a minute.  He tried. I tried.  I set a boundary, a hard limit, not to be crossed.  He didn’t like my terms. I didn’t like what he was offering.  I saved myself, my self -respect and protected my heart from being broken.  I also saved thousands on the shrink bill.

The good news all the thousands I have already spent have gone to good use.  The bad news, here I am, still alone, lonely and looking for you…Are you there?! Will we ever meet?

Petty Pity

There was a time which lasted pretty much from the time I was about five until, well, now, where I loved to buy things. Not anything, but fancy expensive designer things.  My love of all things fancy and expensive started under the care and tutelage of my Gramma Jeanne and my favorite and much admired Auntie Susie. 

Most children, then and now, would climb on jungle gyms in the park or slide down metal slides that would burn your tush on hot summer days… The parks always smelled like weird metal. I hated that smell. I hated looking up at the electric poles; I hated swinging,  sliding and climbing…

Gramma Jeanne would take me to the Saks children’s department. It smelled nice and fancy.  I could slide winding banister or run down the wide winding staircase with lavender carpet. I felt like That Girl or Doris Day singing Que sera sera (FUCK I’m old!!!).  It was magical and I felt like a princess.  I would run through the racks of beautiful clothes.

When I was older, I would go with my aunt to Neiman’s before EVERYONE shopped there. Or to the Style Shoppe in Highland Park a kiddie boutique… Again this is before everyone knew or could afford designer clothes. I felt cool grownup and like a princess.

When I was older still, in high school, my aunt would give me her Armani, Gucci and Sonia Rykiel hand me downs. 

When I was older than that, and started working and then married and living in New York, I was in the best fashion playground ever.  Then I also had enough income to afford at least some of it and usually on sale.  It made me feel good.

Petty I know. It is trivial, silly, truly unimportant and meaningless.  I remember buying my first Cadillac and my first Prada bag as momentous occasions. Silly, I know, trivial and possibly JAPy.

I learned before the girls were born that I had too much…You (Gila and Sarah G) are most likely rolling your eyes.  But I liked what I had.  Then I was packing to move back to Israel and I saw how much I had and how meaningless it was and is.

Fast forward March, 2016.  I haven’t bought designer anything for a long time. If anything  I am throwing it out;  its old, faded, frayed, and torn.  I feel like I’m throwing away pieces of myself.  I love my life, my job, my children my friends.  But sometimes, especially lately, I am struck by the Sisyphus like existence I have; laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, folding packing picking up straightening cooking, working and all over again. Constantly, every day, all day. With no break.

I was talking to a professor of mine yesterday and she made the “kiss of death” statement. “Well I’m like a single mother, my husband is always working.” REALLY!!!??? SERIOUSLY??!! Is he bringing a second salary? Is he a shoulder? A comfort? A bedmate? A partner? I don’t have any of that and I am really at my breaking point.

Two years ago, at this time of year my dad and I had a heart to heart.  He told me that I don’t take care of myself.  I didn’t feel that way.  The shopper, manicured girl, who prided herself on having spa-ed all over the country and in part of the world, didn’t take care of herself? The world traveler? Season ticket holder to the Bulls, White Sox, Kentuckey Derby? Lyric Opera? Chicago Symphony? Habima? How could he say that? I was very happy and content.  I still am but now I am ragged, exhausted and lonely..terribly lonely. But so busy and tired. 

I feel the same and yet terribly different.

It might be a phase.  It’s also the beginning of the end of the school year.  I don’t know. I need a change.

I thought today how wonderful a day at Bergdorf’s could be. Going shopping and then to the seventh floor restaurant and ordering an iceberg salad with blue cheese dressing, an order of fries. New clothes, a manicure/pedicure… and then I threw another load in the washing machine…

The Best and The Worst

My daughter told me last night that I don’t smile a lot. I was struck dumb because she is very funny and she and I laugh and giggle together a lot. But as I reflected, I understood that we each have different concepts of ‘a lot”. Because while we do giggle and laugh, I also direct, yell, get annoyed, and generally rush around telling them to hurry, there’s no time we need to go and you need to….. Whatever” it”
 is at the current moment.  The laughter, while there, is generally reserved for those wonderful fifteen minutes of quiet in the morning before all the rushing and hurrying begins.

So as the mom, I need to get them moving and out the door. Sometimes I succeed, at which point I breathe a deep sigh of relief and can go back to being “fun and laughing mom” and other times I don’t either due to my own exhaustion and don’t give a fuck attitude or theirs, in which case the “nasty bitchy mom” is in full force. 
But why is it that these people who are the best of me often times get the worst of me?

This is rhetorical of course. I get why. But while I understand it, I hate it. I hate that I get annoyed with them or yell at them. I hate it equally when I have to ask seventeen thousand times the same thing and get ignored. I fully comprehend the correlation between the two events. But I strive to be better.  I am not sure how to do this.  I apologize to them but I feel even they know it’s empty to the extent that it will happen again.

Bad habits are hard to break.  Bad habits are harder to break when we’re under extreme pressure.  I try. This blog has become my confessional. I am not sure my kids will see it that way… I certainly never saw it that way with my mom. I expected perfection. Most often I received it. I am pretty sure my kids do not think they get perfection or anywhere close to it.

As lame as this cliché is, I think when they’re grown up and have kids they will get it. But that’s nonsense. I want them to remember their childhood and their mom as fun but strict a friend and a confidant but the leader of the pack, in control and wise. I want to be someone who smiles and laughs and can get everyone out the door on time with all their books, bags, lunches, coats and in their seats by 8:00. I want my kids to have good memories.

I don’t want to just try my best I want to give my best to the best of me.

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The Day of Awe

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So it is here. Tomorrow. The day of days. The Big One. The marathon of fasts.

Twenty five hours of fasting, praying, klopping, and if the weather forecast is accurate, sweating. At least to and from shul.

Yom kippur is one of my favorite days of the year. I know, it is weird, but I love it. While I’m not a fan of the bike fest it has become, at least here in tel aviv, I am a huge fan of the sanctity, the fasting, praying and klopping.  I also love that even the non- fasters, prayers and kloppers, at least here, still respect and at least to some extent appreciate the unique quality of the day.  The number one pictures on facebook after yom kippur are always of the שyalon or the Begin Highway being photographed empty.  After all these years and ymei kippur in Israel, I still tingle when I walk to shul for kol nidre and see so many people in white, the streets empty and the stillness that ensues. Even with the bikers there is a stillness and awesome quality to the day.

I even love the pre yom kippur warm ups and drills; Those who abstain completely from caffeine in the days leading up to the fast. Those who partially abstain or don’t at all.  It is a true test of stamina and belief that so many of us fast. Today, while chatting with a colleague, we were discussing the pre YK drills.  How nervous the day makes us. In a split second I realized we were looking at it from a skewed perspective. In that split second I felt like the bride who is so wrapped up in the wedding that she forgets to realize that she needs to be a wife. ( men too, just a figure of speech). So many of us are so concerned with the preparation and surviving the fast that we don’t spend enough time thinking about the DAY itself and the MEANING.

Who will live and who will die? Do many of us stop and think about that? Do we all take it as a given that if we fast, pray and klop we’ll make it through. Or maybe we don’t even really need to do that at all.  Ive been told that I have a childish view of Gd; Maybe I do. Maybe there is no direct correlation between action and consequence. Maybe actions and what happens after said action have no correlation whatsoever.

I don’t know. Personally, I believe they do but who is to say I am right?

I do know that I am thinking about the meaning of YK to me, to my family and friends and to Klal Yisrael.  I am thinking about those that are still here and those that tragically aren’t here this year.  I am thinking about who I was last year and if I am exactly the same or hopefully changed in some small way. I am thinking about what I had hoped to accomplish in this last year where I succeeded and where I failed.

I am thanking Hashem for my blessings. For my parents, family and friends. For my amazing girls. For my health and theirs.  For the zchut to live in Eretz Yisrael and be part of the miracle. I am praying for the continued strength and willpower to become a better person or at least a more patient tolerant one.

So on this day before THE BIG YK 5776, while I am nervous about fasting and the heat and being around my kids eating I am also trying to keep the big picture in mind; the why we do it and what we hope to gain.

Wishing each and every one of you a gmar chatima tova, an easy fast, and most importantly a meaningful yom kippur.

xo

The Barrier

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I remember sitting at my grandfather’s shiva with my mom and aunt, sometime in 1995, surrounded by friends and loved ones. Suddenly, I had a horrible thought. It occurred to me, that the barrier had been diminished.  I had never thought about it until that moment, sitting on my parents’ living room couch, looking at my mom on her low chair and my aunt being comforted by others that there even was a barrier. You know what I’m talking about?  That BARRIER, the one that separates you and protects you from the END.

 As kids we are usually blessed with a thick barrier of four grandparents and two parents. As we get older though, the barrier weakens.  Sitting on my mother’s taupe sofa that day, I suddenly realized that not only did it exist but that in that moment of my grandfather’s passing it had been weakened.  It was a terrifying thought.

Many of you that know me know that since my kids were born my parents come every year for around 5 months.  My friends (and my mom) have told me I don’t appreciate it enough. They say I take it for granted.  That isn’t true.  I have appreciated it and them and the older I get the more I appreciate them and realize how blessed I have been.

My mom usually comes a little before purim and is joined by my dad a week or so before pesach. They usually stay through yom haatzmaut.  The routine, in the last five years that has developed is that my mother tells everyone what to do and we do it.  My dad goes to the shuk daily, I go to the supermarket and she organizes it all. That is not to say I am incapable or unwilling to do it myself.  I mean I am a pretty independent person and manage quite well on my own, but it is nice to have someone in charge other than me.  She makes the food, rearranges the cabinets and drawers and offers Helpful Heloise tips.

Every year my dad and I rent a car and drive to Bnei Brak for a day of bonding in the non kitniyot grocery store.  Arranging for the seder  also is laden with routines; my mom polishes the silver, I set the table and make the charoset; my pre-pesach chores since childhood.

This year my parents are not coming. I know my mom is going to say I shouldn’t write this post because it makes her feel bad but I can’t help it. I am devastated Mommy.  I am so afraid you will never be here again and that I will have to do it alone.  At the same time, I think, having her here is a pain in the ass. We annoy each other, get on each other’s nerves and if she tells me one more time her “suggestion” I might scream. Yet still, I want her here. For all the selfish reasons.  I want her here for me, and for the kids, and because even though I love my friends and we’ve spent all these holidays together for years, it’s not quite the same as your biological family.

I have been thinking lately about my aunts and uncles.  The next row of the barrier.  I spoke to my aunt today and while talking about the family I just kept thinking back to all those Sunday dinners with all of us; my family and hers, our grandparents and their siblings and I  realized that, once the barrier breaks down again, who will I share those memories with?  My sister was too little too remember.  My cousins might not either, they were pretty small themselves.  These memories, which I never really think about but all of a sudden seem hugely important to me.

I look at myself in the mirror and lately I do NOT see a girl, or a young woman .  I see older; much much older.  I think of how young people look at me and realize they think I’m old.  I’m part of a different demographic.  I keep thinking that in 25 years I will be the same age as my mom and that my girls will only be thirty.  Isn’t that too young to have such an old mom?  Then, of course, I think about the (additional) disservice I’ve done them.

I don’t have some witty or pithy ending. I’m just really sad.  The circle of life is NOT always pleasant or happy.  I’m trying to take it one day at a time but most days I wind up crying.  For what was, for what isn’t and for what I hope will not happen for a very long time.

Rosa Parks or Go to the Back of the Bus

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A lot of stuff happens in this little country of ours around buses.

First they were the subject of great debate since many were “gifts” of the German government as remuneration for the crimes and atrocities of the Nazis.

Then there was the endless social debate over the ability to last an entire bus ride, in August, on a non –air conditioned bus amongst non- deodorized, smoking Israelis amidst the “oh so odiferous scent “of diesel fuel.

Then, of course there were the horrors of the Intifada and random buses being blown up with school children, soldiers, women and grandparents just wanting to go about their daily life.

Things had been fairly quiet surrounding our beloved public transport system….and now, again.
In all my many years in Israel, I have never been fearful of the people in my midst.  Of course the harrowing sounds of the sirens all summer long were stress inducing and havoc wreaking on one’s nerves. When walking down the street, especially with my kids, I made sure to know where I could go if a siren blasted, but I never actually feared for my life.

While I wasn’t in Israel during most of the Intifada, the look that we all gave one another was of mutual fear, tension, and camaraderie. I don’t recall looking at people suspiciously.  Maybe I was young and in that place and time I felt invincible. Maybe when you aren’t a parent it is easier to still continue to get on the bus. Whatever the reason, I didn’t suspect anyone who was with me of wanting to hurt me.

In my heyday, walking the streets of Tel Aviv, at all hours of the night I was not ever suspicious or on alert. I have never felt at risk or insecure. 
Until now. Now I am.  I am a public commuter. I take the bus daily, in the mornings with my girls to gan and then to and from all the places I need to be.  I happen to love the bus.  I like not having to deal with traffic, parking, and the stress of not being on my phone. It is the only time during the day that I can just be quiet with myself and one of the few occasions in my life where I can depend on someone else to do the work. 

Since these random stabbings have begun, though, I am not the relaxed and passive passenger.  I am suspicious; I look at the people surrounding me. I try to sit alone, or stand at a distance.  The other day, the day of the most recent attack, not two kilometers from my house, a man got on the bus and sat next to me.  An Arab man.  A working class Arab man. I got up. I moved seats, to a row where I was alone.  And I felt guilty, bad, racist, and very un-politically correct.  He turned around and looked at me, or rather, glared at me.  Then I felt guilty for feeling guilty. I started to justify my action and to rationalize my behavior.  I know my more moderate or non-Israeli friends are probably rolling their eyes at me. “That Ellie, so right wing.”

 Maybe, or maybe finally adult and responsible enough to realize that I have just this one life and my children have just one mother. These random acts put everyone at risk and under suspicion. 

I am sorry dear cousins for suspecting one of you even though I know not all of you feel as these murderers do. I am sorry for generalizing.  I am sorry for doubting you and your personal value systems.  I need to protect myself and my kids and my friends and family and countrymen. So yes, I am going to get up and generalize and judge and continue to be suspicious and racially profile, and I am going to sit at the back of the bus if that is what it takes to feel safe…r.

Truths

Truths

As a child, I, like most of you, assumed that when we grew up we would get married, have a family and live happily ever after.

Along the way, most of us found out that Prince/Princess Charming doesn’t exist nor does happily ever after.  Most of us learned that if we can tolerate our mates, accept their annoying habits, idiosyncrasies and still manage to love them, laugh with them and grow old together that was good enough.  That happiness ebbs and flows and mostly, we are all trying to get through our lives surrounded by our loved ones, health, maybe a little money, and some fun.

I don’t think any of us, ever, thought that we’d grow up and after having been disappointed enough times by love opt to have a child on our own.  I don’t think any of the gay men or women who were kids in the 60’s 70’s or even possibly the 80’s imagined that they would grow up, marry a partner of the same sex and have a woman, of third world country origin, be a surrogate or an egg donor.  I don’t think many of us who were kids then, imagined a possibility where a male friend, often gay, could be in a relationship of his own and yet, still be the father of our children.

Fast forward 2014. Tel Aviv. Although it could be New York or LA.  I go to an orthodox synagogue.  Many of our members are gay.  Many of our gay members are married. Many of our gay married members have children.  We also have straight members, many of whom are married and have kids.  Some of the members, like I, are single mothers.  I think I might be the only single mother of twins.  Even in my shul I feel alone and lonely though it is a very warm and welcoming place.  I joke that no matter where I go to shul there are couples everywhere and no single straight men.  It’s not a very comforting joke…but I digress.

The other day, many of us went to a simcha of a friend and a member of our synagogue.  The whiskey was single malt, double digit years and very smooth.  I had a little more than I should.  Loose tongues and all.  I began chatting with a man who I know casually from synagogue.  A gay married father.  Anyway, he said that had we met some years before he would’ve liked to have had a child with me.  It was meant as a compliment.  It’s the first time this type of conversation took place in my world.  I responded with a thank you but that I would not have wanted a partner unless it was a love partner. He responded with surprise saying he had never heard a woman say that before.

Truth.  One assumes it is universal and all-encompassing but in reality it is quite subjective.  That is not to say that there aren’t universal truths but this parenting thing has become so varied and so diverse that pretty much anything is possible and anything goes…but not for me.  I accept it and respect it in others but for me, having a child on my own wasn’t a choice it was a must.  I had no time left to wait so I did it.  I have never given it a second thought…and then last night, out of nowhere.

My baby says to me” Ima why don’t I have an abba?” and my heart breaks.  When I ask her why she wants an abba she tells me to carry her on his shoulders and I say that I can.  She points out that I can’t do it all the way home. And I tell her that I want her to have an abba but a really good one that theyre hard to find and I've been looking and will keep looking.

And I wonder…did I do it the wrong way? Did I do my kids a disservice? Was I selfish?
I don’t know.

Transitions

My girls are finished with preschool.  In less than a month they will begin kindergarten, the beginning of their formal education.  I am so taken with them; their growth, their talents, beauty, intelligence, capabilities and individuality.

I keep reviewing these first five years; their formative years. Especially in light of what has gone on here this summer, when the idyllic lazy days have been filled with sirens, shelters and scary scenarios, in between bouts of swimming sunning and silliness.

I am filled with thoughts of all our beautiful boys whose lives were cut so short and what their mothers must have been thinking about them on the eve of their first day of kindergarten. I keep thinking about the families; what did they do or not do to raise sons with glowing attributes that we here and abroad have all read about. Good sons, polite sons, sons with values, morals, love of home and land. 

And I think: will I raise my girls well enough? will my values be instilled in them? will they do their homework, get good grades, be good students, kind caring considerate people? Will they have lots of friends and do well in their chosen activites, youth groups, army service and life partners?

Did those mothers think about these things as well?

I keep thinking about my own mother; the stories she used to make up for me, the way she always, til this day, makes me feel like I'm the only one in here world. I wonder what went through her mind on my first day of kindergarten.

If I know my mom like I think I do, I would imagine pride, joy and happiness coupled with the anxiety and bittersweet feeling that your child is growing up and leaving home.

When I think back to that day, I'm pretty sure I can remember the pride I felt, all dressed up in a new dress and red patent leather mary janes, awaiting this exciting new transition.
The mom that was that little girl wishes that sense of pride, wonder, curiosity and joy to my girls.

I only hope that what Ive tried to do these last five years has been "good enough" and that it will work out the way we all envision it will.

http:www.andbabymakes2.co.il

Erin (Ellie) Brokovich

Many of you know the obstacle I faced when trying to obtain US citizenship for my girls.  At the time, exactly four years ago, I excitedly dressed my infants, navigated the diaper bags, stroller, car seats and paperwork, got into a cab with my mom headed to the US embassy, and sure that an hour or so later my kids would get what I assumed was their natural born right, dual citizenship.  This was not to be that day in February 2010.

If you want the story in all its humiliating detail, feel free to google me and get the facts, the distortions, the pictures and the news reels. Most of the time over the course of these last years I haven’t thought about it. I have kids to raise, a job to do, a house to care for and a life to lead. However, during this time we have travelled to the United States four times and before each trip, when I pull out the passports and see one American and three Israeli, the pang of pain returns.  When I try and decide which line to stand in for customs and passport control in Chicago I think about it and when I think about telling all these officials what I think and realize I’m travelling with foreigners I shut my mouth. I remember that they are guests in the United States and as guests, especially from this region; they are not so warmly welcomed. The pang of pain returns.

I have been trying to figure out these last two days, since I found out that my children will be getting their US citizenship, what about it is so emotional for me.  I don’t consider myself to be a gung ho American. I don’t cry when I hear the national anthem, I don’t see the fourth of July as more than a day to barbeque, hang with friends and see fireworks.

However, it is part of my identity and it is very important for me from a practical standpoint that they are citizens.  The women I’ve talked to in the last four years who are in a similar situation to mine have all told me their reasons why it is important to them that their kids get citizenship, because to me, it is an interesting question and I'm always curious.  The answers have been interesting, thought provoking, and valid.  None of them match my reason.

It is simple.  Magiya li. My very Israeli mentality that I deserve it is the very reason I want them to be American. Yes I want them to be able to travel freely worldwide, and have the option of going to university as residents and not foreigners, and the ability to work without a special visa. But bottom line, what has bothered me is that I have been singled out and discriminated against which are, at their core, the essence of American values.

But still it doesn’t explain why I am so emotional about it.  I don’t know. I think part of it is that although he never said it in words, my immigrant father has instilled in me the idea that you can do, be and have anything.  Isn’t that the American dream?

Years in the real estate business, attending seminars have reinforced my drive and belief that if you wish it you can make it yours. 

My childhood hero, Scarlett O’Hara standing on that hill with her world burning down around her saying “I will never be hungry again”…These are my core beliefs.  I already tell my girls that they can do and be anything they want.  I truly believe it.

When I was approached to go public with my story I didn’t think about it too much.  I didn’t realize what was going to happen, that my phone would ring off the hook, that CNN, FOX, NBC, and more would do stories on me.  When it started to take on a life of its own I stopped it.  I then had a lawyer friend in NY offer to write a letter to the ACLU. When that was declined she drafted a letter to Hilary Clinton.  I had little faith that anything would happen imminenetly but I always believed the law would change before they were 18 when all the advantages I mentioned above would become more relevant. So it didn’t really matter…until we flew to America and again I had that pang. 

 I found out the law changed and I got an email from a government official saying this:

“Ellie,
I did see that the law has changed and I thought of you immediately!! I am so happy and I want to thank you for pushing the issue to the powers that be in DC.  I believe that if it hadn’t been for you, the law would have been stuck behind the times for much much longer…..”

And then I became emotional.

Today, when the official said "Congratulations Shira and Maya on becoming US citizens", I cried. It was very emotional.

So I don’t know, maybe I’m more of a patriot than I thought. At the end of the day the reason doesn’t matter. I am so happy and moved and thrilled that their rights have been upheld and their freedom maintained. So Gd bless America.

singlehood to motherhood: The Ariks

singlehood to motherhood: The Ariks: Two giants of Israeli life died recently. Arik Einstein and Arik Sharon. Both of their deaths hit me hard. Arik Einstein’s death was qui...

The Ariks

Two giants of Israeli life died recently. Arik Einstein and Arik Sharon.

Both of their deaths hit me hard. Arik Einstein’s death was quite sudden whereas Sharon has been in a coma for the last eight years so it was hardly unexpected.  The actual loss though, is making me very sad and teary.

An era is over.

While the miracle of the State of Israel is well known; the almost overnight growth, wealth, international reputation in the hi -tech and innovation markets, its personality, too, has changed.  This is a fairly normal occurrence. Don’t they say that famous people “overnight” become different? So it follows that the personality of this tiny, unique and miraculous country has changed as well. 
Not necessarily for the good, in my humble opinion, although I will not delve into that discussion.

It isn’t lost on me that the Ariks were 75 and 85 years old upon their demise, the same generation as my parents.  Sharon was five years older than my dad.  Lately, I am somewhat obsessed with my parents’ immortality.  No, it’s not a typo. I am fully aware that my inability to acknowledge this eventuality is problematic.  Today I was with someone who is only a few years older than I.  She mentioned that her mother died seven years ago and her dad this year.  I was amazed that she was still coping and functioning.  I think the time has come to figure out how to separate.  These people are still my rocks and I simply cannot imagine life without them in it.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, I do think that the absence of a life partner makes the connection of parent and child seem stronger.  There is no other person to help balance out the equation. But more than that, is my hope that my parents will be around to enjoy my girls and that my girls will have the wonderful magical addition of grandparents in their lives.

Grandparents: Those wonderful people who spoil you and cuddle you and sneak you treats even after your mom TELLS them not to.  Grandparents: those warm cuddly older people who take you to breakfast and let you eat the sugar from the bags and scoop jelly out of the little container.  This is what I remember about my grandparents. No matter how much my mom and my grandma would fight, my grandma would turn to jelly and smiley for me.

Don’t my kids deserve this? Need this? Even without knowing it, crave it? So I tell my mother in the midst of some rant about how she isn’t feeling well ten more years.  I don’t tell it to my dad but in my heart and mind every day I pray for at least ten more years. At least then the girls will have had their childhood with them and will remember them.  But in my heart of hearts I know that it is completely selfish.  Maybe in ten more years I can finally accept the reality that my life WILL go on without them no matter how difficult and sad that thought is.  Shira, it’s the circle of life.

Reality

I grew up to an Israeli father in the late sixties and early seventies.  Although we lived in Chicago, we came to Israel often.  My paternal grandparents and my entire father’s family still lived here.  A twenty year old Israel was very much like a twenty year old person; rough around the edges, thinks they know everything,  is still filling out and is impatient to be considered an adult.

My grandparents’ home was (still is) in the center of Tel Aviv.  Since we usually came in the summers and Tel Aviv weather at least hasn’t changed since then, most days we went to the beach.  I remember the walk, down Jabotinsky Street, which today is a major thoroughfare.  Then it was sand, surrounded by three and four story apartment buildings.  I remember the men selling artikim (popsicles) and corn on the cob  and sabras on the street.  Growing up in the States we had those little corn holders to put on the corn and butter.  Here it was into a paper bag with the steam still rising and salt. 

The sabras were peeled and juicy and red and smelled delicious.  I can’t look at one now and not remember those days.  The gorgeous men (at the time mostly straight) in Speedos  with their cigarettes  stuck into the back playing matkot, the women in mini bikinis, the smell of bain de soleil oozing from their skin, the salty air  and the kids all running around naked splashing in the water. It was a wonderful time.  Coming here was always a joy.

My father has two brothers and many cousins.  To this day I can’t keep track of who is from which side of the family and which cousin is married to who and which kids belong to which parents, even though many of them have over the years become friends and in some cases, very close friends.

The one person I never was terribly fond of was my uncle Uri, my father’s youngest brother.  My uncle was in the paratroopers, at a time when Zahal was at its pinnacle. He was the pride of the family and he represented the best of this fledgling  country. Throughout my childhood he would come to the US for business trips and always bring my male cousins memorabilia from the army, model airplanes and…boy stuff.  I was the only girl at the time.  He didn’t bring me anything.

When I finished high school and came to Israel, he and I locked horns.  He saw it as his role to continue fathering in place of my dad who was 7000 miles away.  I, needless to say, had other ideas in mind.  I thought he was a pain in the neck and rigid. He thought I was rebellious and spoiled.  It stayed that way until the early 2000’s when I came to Israel in the middle of the Intifadah and volunteered.  I think he was blown away and finally saw me.  His reality about me changed.

While he has never said anything to me directly, it isn’t our way, having the kids on my own, was another reality check.  I think he saw that I wasn’t a spoiled fluff; the daughter of the brother who went to the “goldene medina”, made yerida, had American children and had too much of everything.  I think he saw my grit, my strength and my will.  I think he appreciated that and me for surviving and for doing it here because Uri is a true Zionist and loves this country completely.

My uncle has never drank, smoked cigarettes, done drugs or put any other bad substances in his body although he had a penchant for wheat germ and alfalfa sprouts in the 70’s. He was running, eating healthy and living a clean life before most people had any idea about it here or in the US.

My uncle is dying.  It is shaking my reality to the core.  It is shaking my entire family’s reality and worst of all his own.  He has always represented the classic Israeli soldier. Up there in the picture next to Yoni Netanyahu at the Kotel, in my mind, is the picture of Uncle Uri, in all his military glory.  He hasn’t been in the military in many years but it is the reality we all remember and this new reality is unfathomable, cruel, ugly and degrading.

I only wish you comfort, ease and dignity in the coming days.

http://wwwandbabymakes2.co.ilhttp://www.andbabymakes2.co.il

Grow Up

I am getting close to a new decade.

I am at an age where I am a grown up. I should be able to say I am responsible, solvent, and together. In many ways I am.

But like most of us, the minute the going gets tough I just want my mommy…and daddy to hold me, tell me they love me,  and that it will be okay…crazy isn’t it? That at my advancing age that is what comforts me, still. While I think that this is fairly universal, I wonder if I was in a loving relationship would I feel differently.

The man I can’t seem to end things with permanently has been back.  I keep asking myself, and my friends and family keep asking me, why?  Never have I had an on again off again relationship.  With me things are pretty black and white. Why has everything  been grey?

I have thought about it, off and on for a while now.  I finally figured it out.  He is kind and doesn’t judge and amazingly accepts me as I am which is not easy to do. It turns out that I am a difficult person.  I am short tempered, impatient, and moody.  I am judgmental and tell it like it is. And he still keeps coming back, which makes me wonder about his mental stability but since this blog is all about me, well, let’s talk about me.

He is even tempered, almost always cheerful, mostly consistent and never yells.  My complete opposite. But recently I found out that he really does judge, omits the truth, yeses people to avoid saying it like it is and is possibly hiding the fact that his children don’t like me.

In most ways we are polar opposites.  He has a very hands off “management style” while I have a very hands on, almost micromanaging style.  Then again, my kids are almost four and his are approaching their 20’s. 

What makes us good parents? Is there a formula, recipe, or secret ingredient for confident, productive mentally healthy and stable children? Does the dad who never yells get better results than the mom who does?

I wonder what it is that keeps drawing us back to each other. Now that we have arrived at our fifth and final breakup ( I received email confirmation) I think that it is my apparent craving for a complete family, which even in 2013, at least to me, still means man, woman and children.

 I am so blessed to have my girls.  As my cousin Sarit always points out I got them at the 12^th hour.  Maybe I am simply a product of my generation that is never completely satisfied with what I have.  I have friends with one child who are desperately trying for a second and I got two in one shot.

However, I have never ever believed  that my kids were a husband/boyfriend replacement.  The minute your kids are delivered they are already on their way out….of your house. They are not meant to stay.

A partner, on the other hand, is. If you’ve read my recent posts, then you know my ex is a widower with three children. Teen children. I never really spent much time thinking about them beyond being “his kids”. My girlfriend who is the product of a “broken home” tells me I should’ve done more to befriend them  When I reflect back I realized that I did what I could but it was regularly stonewalled by their dad…er ..My Man. He lives in two separate worlds. It was either he and them or he and I let myself believe, me.  Rarely did the two meet. When I mentioned it he got defensive or yesed me .  I didn’t really think through the blood vs. water argument enough in this case.  In the last two months, when I think the ups and downs of this relationship were made and broken I realized so many things. He is NEVER going to put me first…or second…or even third.

Spending shabatot together, on his turf, I saw little things.  Mostly that I wasn’t much more than air. The conversations rarely included me. His kids were polite as in hello, please, thank you and good bye. Not much more than that.  He never once saw or took my side.  I moved to his turf for the summer based on a promise the turned into a false premise. One minute I was Carol to his Mike Brady and the next we were Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. 

So I’m back to where I’ve been and still have trouble accepting:

 Do you shut it down before it starts because you’ve read the signs and you’re in your fourth decade and have been there done that? OR do you try; give it a chance, and hope against hope…. And then get your heart broken.. Again.  

For what? Believing? Believing him? Should I believe in “Love can prevail?” even though love does NOT make a relationship work? Should I ignore the wisdoms of life lessons? Hasn’t all that therapy paid off yet?

Here I am back at ground zero.

I feel like an idiot. I don’t feel like “I took a chance and oh well it didn’t work out”. How can I bounce back AGAIN and try? Isn’t there a point where you just say to yourself “I’m not good at this”?

NO. 

Wishing you a shana tova, with love, laughter, beauty, health and to enjoy it with the loves in your life.

www.andbabymakes2.co.il

singlehood to motherhood: Let My People Go

singlehood to motherhood: Let My People Go: Let My People Go My whole life I have lived in big cities.   I’m one of those people who knows about three kinds of animals: dogs, ...

Let My People Go

Let My People Go

My whole life I have lived in big cities.  I’m one of those people who knows about three kinds of animals: dogs, cats and pigeons. I used to say I like to see nature while driving by at 100 kph.

Today I’m a little older and possibly a little slower, but I enjoy nature slightly more and I generally do "stop and smell the flowers" mostly because the two little people I live with want to smell, touch, look, enjoy, and ask "ma ze?(what is this) about 500 times in a 30 second span. I appreciate and marvel at their curiosity and therefore enjoy it more.

As you probably know by now, I live in Tel Aviv which in terms of cities is similar to Manhattan. Until now I’ve said that Tel Aviv is Manhattan but more Zionistic.  It pains me greatly to say I no longer believe this to be the case.

Tel Aviv has always been the most modern and diverse of Israeli cities.  That is what makes it wonderful. However, there are two sides to everything and in the last few months I have realized that these things might make my continued residence here untenable. If I was alone, some of these factors would never have even made an appearance on my radar but I am no longer a sole operator and my kids' upbringing and education is of utmost importance to me. 

How do I want to raise my kids? What values do I want to instill in them?  For me, the most important thing is a Jewish education.  For diaspora Jews who care about these things, either a Jewish day school or an afterschool/Sunday school program fulfills these needs. So too, Jewish summer camps.  But here, in Israel, as ironic to those of you residing outside of Herzl’s dream land, this in NOT a given. While I love Tel Aviv for its diversity it is also what bothers me the most about it. Shouldn’t it be a given that living in a Jewish state, which based on the number of non- Jewish moms in my mommy groups is no longer a given either, they would automatically receive this? Sadly, heartbreakingly, no.  While my rather militant view of intermarriage has lessened to a certain degree, shouldn’t this still be predominantly a Jewish state? With Jewish values?  I was in the university yesterday and I saw a sign for a discussion on the place of the Rabbinate in Israel...SERIOUSLY???!!! Where else is there a place for the rabbinate if NOT in Israel?
Haven’t we fought, struggled, died for, been tortured, murdered and discriminated against enough that at least in one place in the world throughout there is room for us and our beliefs?

So it got me thinking. How do I want to raise my kids? In what type of environment do I want them to live? I myself am a study in contradiction. As a single person, I can live with my inner struggles which most of the time were cool, to my former way of thinking, but now I see that it may not have been to my advantage.  I certainly do not dress like an observant person and my family structure is certainly one that would, at the very least, raise eyebrows in certain segments of the community. It is clear to me that a part of our population would view me as not observant because of that. But I don’t want my girls to live on the fence the way I have. I want them to be on a team. It is something that I didn’t have and it isn’t easy to ride the fence. I struggle and I am stuck.

So as much as I love the diversity, freedom and openness I dislike the lack of Zionism and Judaism. It has become just like Manhattan.  On the other hand, I want to be in a homogenous community even less, although  I wonder if that isn’t best for my kids. 

The bottom line is it is up to me to instill the values, the beliefs and the love of Torah, Judaism and Eretz Yisrael so I am staying here, in Tel Aviv, the White City on the Sea. I hope I am doing the right thing.  Just another thing to worry and lose sleep over.

www.andbabymakes2.co.il