The Stuff That Lasts, Part Deux

First, let's talk about the stuff that *doesn't* last. A few of the games and toys I've thrown out recently:

1. Every remote control car we've ever purchased. We buy it, eagerly stuff in the batteries, start 'er up and for a few glorious nanoseconds, it works! Forward, backward, side, other side, into the chair, into the couch, under the table, through the trash pile, into a sibling. Wondrous! Then suddenly, it begins acting as if possessed, driving around in circles, paying little heed to the remote control or the frantic screeching of the children "Go there! That way! THAT WAY!" We then proceed to change the batteries in the car, in the remote, and in all the clocks and nearby toys just to be safe, but the car continues its feverish lurching until it comes to a sudden halt, silent, forevermore. No amount of pleading or battery changing can fix it, and it joins its friends "art projects" and "cutlery" in the garbage. (Who is throwing away all the cereal spoons and butter knives???  Who is it??? Whatever the cutlery did to you I PROMISE IT'S SORRY!)

2. Domino Rally aka "Spend hours setting up fragile domino pieces juuuussst so, to the point where your finger tips are numb, all while screaming at your sibling whose sneezes and existence are causing the dominos to fall. Then after countless frustrating hours (or maybe it's minutes who knows the unbearable tension does weird things with time) actually complete your Rally, call everyone over excitedly to watch this spectacular domino show that will be remembered for the ages and cry bitter tears because in the middle of toppling, one slightly-off-track piece causes the whole topple to stop, mid-topple. Finish by getting frustrated and kicking it, spraying domino pieces across the room and under the couch."

3. Bul pegiyah aka Mastermind: This toy is a favorite of the twins, who enjoy putting the pieces in the little holes, throwing them on the floor and on occasion, swallowing them. Just like love, Mastermind is now a very easy game to play because all that's left are one light blue and one orange piece. ("Um, is your code blue then orange?" "Omg yes! You won AGAIN!")


But this:

This stepstool, you guys, this has been with us since the beginning. It was a much darker shade of blue, back then. Also, we realized after many years of ownership that the top actually comes off and oh my god for the love of the chocolates I have hidden in the top cabinet behind the cereals do NOT take the top off, whatever you do. This stool is actually a lot like my kids, in that loves to hang out in the kitchen, underfoot, until I need it to do something for me and then suddenly it's nowhere to be found.

However, on the rare occasion that it's in the right place at the right time, it is a very useful item, allowing me to shove all the baking trays in the too-high cabinet (watch your head) and reach my chocolates.

The Stuff that Lasts

Is blogging like bike riding? Not in that it also hurts your butt, but that once you do it, you don't forget how? Let's see.

I have been thinking a lot about stuff. As many of you know, we have a lot of kids. #Blessings! Once, I was in the kitchen (prolly cooking "I'll just have a yogurt instead" for dinner or preparing a lunch for its lengthy hibernation in my son's backpack. Sleep long and well, little sandwich!), and out of the corner of my eye I saw a horde of kids coming toward me. "Are my nephews also here?" I thought to myself. I didn't hear them come in but they are pretty stealth which is helped by them often showing up shoeless. Then I realized no, the hordes were all mine.

Wow I have a lot of kids was the thought I had next.

Anyway, I'm sure that related to something somehow.

So stuff. Another thing you probably know about us is that there is quite the age range among our kids. We go from 14-3. And I remember thinking when the twins were born (Ariella was 11) that if someone asked me, "Hey, Expert Parent Person, about how long can I expect my baby items to last?" I would nod sagely - for is there any other way to nod? - and expertly answer "About 11 years or 3 kids." Because many of the big ticket items we bought for Ariella that were still in great condition for Yaakov 3 years later and we managed to squeak by for Nadav 4 years after that - they had to be tossed when the twins came.

Crib and mattress? Buh-bye. Car seats? Probably safer at that point to just stick the kids to the car using peanut butter and hummus.

But some things did survive the purge and have been steadily keeping on for close to 14 years now. And I would like to pay homage (you guys it is NOT pronounced home-idge) to those items:

You know what this is? It's the changing table pad. Do you know why it's stained green at the bottom? Neither do I but let's not investigate too closely lest it lead to another doctor's appointment. So this pad was purchased for teeny tiny Ariella back in 2003. Truth is, we probably would have replaced it when Nadav was born but they don't sell this kind of pad in Israel. So we kept it. Can you imagine what this guy has been through? Don't imagine especially if you are ever planning to eat again. But a lot. This stoic, humble piece of plastic-covered foam gently cradled all 5 of our children's tiny bodies and in return for its service, was treated to a wide variety of stuff that flew out of them, often without warning. But it never complained, not once. It probably would have even eaten whatever I made for dinner, too. Wow. Serious home-idge, people.

Now since we are sorta kinda done with diapers, the changing pad resides on our Bed of Crap in our home office and let me just say if your home office doesn't include a Bed of Crap, a secondhand desk, a judo belt from omg who even took judo why the hell is this belt here???, an IKEA pantry that's doubling as a closet, drawers filled with clothing for your youngest because your friends stopped having kids before you and gleefully dumped their little girl clothing at your house in the dead of night, a Spiderman, the instructions for a humidifier we bought a year ago, used once and then sent off on its true path in life (to nobly sit on a shelf and collect dust and bacteria), strands of hair from when one twin yanked the other one's hair and refused to return it ("zeh mah hair sheli!!!!"), a dress-up hat, a broken umbrella and a robot (but not the helpful kind that will take over your life, just one that uselessly shoots foam discs at you and yells in scary Hebrew), well then, my friend, you might want to look up "home office" on Pinterest is all I'm saying.

Stay tuned for more rambles and stuff homages.

8 Years and Counting

What kind of aliyah blog is this anyway, if I let our 8^th aliyahversary pass with nary a mention? So first I thought, but what is there to say, really? Then I thought, you all have come all this way, all the way over to my blog, so I should say something, at least. 

Well, 8 years later, Donny and I are as fresh-faced and youthful looking as we were in 2008. As if that had to be said. However the 5 year old who got shoved into gan not knowing a word of Hebrew and the 2 year old whose massive diaper in the bank as we were trying to set up our account is STILL something Donny and I recall with a shudder – well, they have aged greatly. Plus the three little eye twinkles are now full-fledged kiddos. The house is full of Heblish and one child has no clue when “January” is (“It’s around Shvat” I have to tell him.) But, the 3 talkers speak fluently in both languages so yay for that. I, however, do not. (“Mommy, when you read me that book, it not sound so good.”) But as Chief Family Communicator with Outside Parties, I think that I get on pretty well with what I need to do, mainly doctors (“We’re baaack!”) and teachers. So I think I get a kappayim for that as well.

I am still, and will forever be, an immigrant parent, though I now do understand “nyloniot.” At least, I understand what they are, if not the Israelis’ unbridled love and devotion to them. With each passing year, there are fewer and fewer “aliyah” moments that I feel the need to run to the computer and regale you with. Also, let’s face it, I’m tired. Too tired to think, write, form coherent sentences – and definitely not all 3 simultaneously, which blogging kind of depends on. These kids are constantly needing things, like rides, food, money and attention. The big ones go to sleep late so there’s none of that “quiet evening” anymore. And the babies still haven’t figured out how to sleep through the night, and now we’ve become the type of parents who bribe one baby to sleep with the sword (foam, don’t worry, we’re THAT type of parents) because the other one already claimed the little plastic broom. (They use “we need security objects” as a way to push off going to sleep. They think they’re rather clever and we haven’t cottoned on, but really, we have totally cottoned, we’re just too tired to argue. Or maybe that’s what they were counting on the whole time? So they’ve gone to sleep clutching everything ranging from the normal – stuffed animals – to the whaaaa???? -- mommy’s sneakers.) 

Anyway…back to aliyah thoughts, which is what we were talking about, right? Even though the memories of our own aliyah are getting more and more distant and fuzzy, I still get anxiety when I see the fresh olim coming every summer. It brings back all the feelings, most of them "stress" and "omgwhatarewedoing." They're asking all the questions. Looking for a place to live. Trying to meet people, get their kids set up, figure out the Israeli doctors, schools, shopping and sirens. (Although perhaps aliyah has gotten even easier than it was 8 years ago, because it seemed the most pressing question by the latest batch of olim was “How can I watch American TV?”)

Making Aliyah was probably the hardest thing I ever did, and I include my drug-free-by-accident birth AND a twin pregnancy in that statement. In fact, you see that it is harder than childbirth because while I did go on to have more children even after the epidural-less one, if you said to me now, ‘Go back to America and make aliyah all over again,” I would say “If you need me, I’ll be over at Dunkin’ Donuts, with my English, my magazines and my blueberries.” So I am thankful that I am here, I am thankful that Donny and I are raising little Israelis – if perhaps always a bit on the periphery ourselves (“So what did Daddy do when he was in the tzavah?” “Um.”). And honestly, I am very thankful I never have to do it again. So kappayim to Israel, to the awesome view from my mirpeset, to kafe hafuch, even if they are never large enough, to my fellow immigrant parents who always “get it” and of course to you, the loyalest of all Loyal Readers, who come by even when I don’t really have much to say at all.

I'm Here!

Just not here, here.

Kate and I have co-written a blog that she is kindly hosting for us over at One Tired Ema.

It's about Shabbat and how we calmly and holy-ly prepare for it all week long.

Bah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!!!!!!!!

Check it out!

A Semi-Coherent Rant about Princesses

Or in the words of my Tired friend: PLEASE CALM DOWN!

It’s Purim time! Which means it’s time for the Facebook feminists to get their panties in a bunch. Sorry, didn’t mean to stereotype. Panties or boxers, either way, your choice, no judgments, you’re a rockstar.

Purim brings out the feminist hand-wringing among the members of the League of Progressive Women. Mothers literally weeping over their precious Future Leaders wanting to be princesses and sparkly things instead of a fire chief or Congresswoman. Like they have let down the entire feminist movement and have failed as mothers and women if their smart, athletic, strong, opinionated (but god forbid never beautiful) daughters want to wear a tiara.

These women need to do princess therapy. I suggest locking them in a room with a dozen tiny Elsas and make them mutter over and over “Princesses can be feminists too. Princesses can be feminists too.”

I cannot figure out why for self-proclaimed feminists, “feminism” must always equal “Do not be feminine.” Isn’t feminism all about “we can do whatever the hell we want?” Why does “whatever the hell we want” have to exclude anything that smacks of femininity? Why is our goal to be as un-womanlike – and as much man-like – as possible? Isn’t that the exact opposite of feminism? (Side rant: Who says men are doing it right anyway? Example: A mother is feeling guilty about something, say, missing a school function because of work, and we say “Stop with mom guilt! Would your husband feel guilty?” Well, first of all, he probably would. But his guilt would be more along the lines of “I feel bad that I cannot be at this school function. But there is nothing I can do about it so I will move on in life,” and not tie his worth a father and a person to whether or not he is at this one school play. Second – let’s say he truly feels no guilt – who says that’s a better way to be????? End side rant.)

Also – you say you are raising your opinionated strong athletic glowing smart daughter to have her own thoughts and opinions. And what if that opinion is “I would like to dress as a princess for Purim?” Why is that a non-legitimate thought in your eyes? “You can be feminist, but only as I define it.” Sometimes, parents, – this may come as a shock – it’s not all about you. Your child’s opinion or choice is not necessarily a reflection on you or your parenting skills (or lack thereof). Children are entitled to their own opinions because – wait for it – they are not actually you. Your daughter is her own separate, individual person with her own thoughts and brain and ideas.

I would also like to ask these progressive women: Do you wear makeup, nice clothes, heels? Do you shave? Yes? Is it because you are conforming to some impossibly high standard set by our patriarchal and misogynistic society? If so, and you simultaneously bemoan your tiara-wearing daughter – you’re a hypocrite. If it’s because you are doing this for yourself to feel good about yourself, then why can’t you daughter wear what makes her feel good and special?

A final note by my Tired friend: The princess phase ends. By the time they are in upper elementary/middle/high school, they will have moved on to other types of costumes (many of which are much more time-consuming to prepare, btw, so say goodbye to pre-packaged ease). If they dress up as a princess, it will be in an ironic sort of way. So just enjoy the cute sparkly princess phase while it lasts, because along with adorably mispronouncing words and liking you, this too, will end.

This post has no ending because I believe endings are something contrived by our male-dominated society and I am a progressive woman who will only end her posts if she damn well feels like it.

In Which I Remember I Have a Blog

Dear reader, do not think that funny stuff (well, funny for you) has stopped happening. It’s just that I have lacked the energy to form the events into cohesive sentences.

Also, my alarmingly dwindling attention span means that I can’t focus for longer than a Facebook post. (Facebook, as I recently found out, is the social media for OLD PEOPLE, doncha know. The cool kids today are all on Instagram – sorry, “Insta” – and Snapchat and Twitter and other things for the young and cool and not the rapidly closing in on middle age harried looking mom types. The only thing more old-fashioned than Facebook is actually going to over a friend’s house in person to complain about stuff and pull out pictures of your kids from your wallet. While maybe drinking tea. Basically I’m the equivalent of mailing a letter.)

But here is a short summary of what is going on here these days:

We are on the spaceship hurtling toward Planet Teen. I am piloting the spaceship, which is a really dumb idea, because I clearly know nothing about this planet we're about to land on. Is the air breathable? Is there water? Scientists have confirmed signs of life in the form of clothes all over the ground. The inhabitants seem to sustain themselves with WiFi. Although I am going in for a blind landing, I am sure of a few things: I don't speak the language so I will say something wrong, I will not understand All the Things and I will definitely yell too much even though the inhabitants DID NOTHING WRONG, and it was probably the inhabitants of the neighboring planet (Neptween) that are at fault.

Meanwhile, the fourth grader is spending a great deal of time creating a cache of paper weapons. We have a spear, club, ninja star, gun, sword and sheath. You guys, when the paper zombie apocalypse comes, we are going to be SO READY.

5.5 year old loves the doctor. What’s wrong with that kid? He cannot wait to have appointments. And he lovingly peels off the sticker he receives after each visit and places it on his window. A doctor sticker collection. I guess they will come in handy when we need to corral our paper zombies after clubbing them to death. (Does one club a zombie to death? I’m still in 1998 with Buffy – omg how many plot lines would be solved if those crazy kids had cell phones? – so I’m well-versed on vampire-killing methods but fuzzier re the zombies).

Babies continue to adhere to their strict schedule of emptying drawers, getting their fingers caught in said drawers, falling down, banging their heads, finding my pocketbook, fighting over toys, poking each other’s belly buttons, climbing on furniture, spilling their spill-proof sippy cups and testing gravity ("Gravity Log, Day 1: I dropped the pacifier. It fell. Now I am sad." "Gravity Log, Day 237: I dropped the pacifier. It fell. Now I am sad."). They are also speaking fluently in the language of Grunt. In addition, they continue to enjoy middle of the night parental visits to adjust blankets and reinsert pacifiers. I will never not be tired. I know that now.

Piles of crap (yes, they are members of the family and deserve their own update) continue their relentless takeover of the house. They’ve gotten more brazen. Not one week after we did a big POC cleanup, a new generation arises, stronger and more insidious than ever before, spreading their many-tentacled grasp onto every flat surface of our living space. And even some of the bumpy spaces. They are creative, I'll give them that. One day I will give up and graciously give over the house to the POCs. I will let them grow wild, as they are meant to be -- the heaps of papers "to be filed," serving dishes from Shabbat, the remains (or beginnings, they look similar) of someone's art project, bits of tape, elderly magazines. Also toothpicks. As for me, I will go live in my car. I'll be okay – there’s a hardy supply of half-finished water bottles, granola crumbs and used tissues.

As for me, I’m busy working, parenting badly, losing my patience/temper, screaming and then feeling guilty, cooking food at least one person will groan about, doing endless loads of laundry (we are overachievers in the wet towel on the floor category), opening the dishwasher to load it and then yelling at the child whose job it was to unload it, looking for a dishtowel to mop up the latest spill (cups of water are always strategically placed to maximize spill potential) and then yelling at the child whose job it was to fold the towels and put them away, prying potential choking hazards/poisonous objects/our Maccabi cards out of the babies’ hands, holding lengthy discussions with the children about whether they should take a sweatshirt to school today (because I’m also a live weather app, able to foresee not only the outside temperature but also the inside classroom temperature, so I can accurately determine the most appropriate outerwear for the day), listening to passionate monologues about the unfairness of 1. homework, 2. who got picked for a thing today in school (spoiler alert: it that was not the child who is talking to me), 3. the responsibilities and/or privileges of a different child in the house (spoiler alert 2: the other children have way less of the former and way more of the latter than the child speaking to me), despairing at the state of my house while muttering “oh my god this place is a wreck,” looking for the missing: library book, shoe, USB stick, school project, tiny shekel store toy, cell phone or water bottle cap, attempting to listen empathetically, shouting things about dirty dish placement and homework completion and fight stoppage and omigod will I ever stop saying these same sentences????? and of course throwing out art projects, math tests and assorted memorabilia when the children aren’t looking. (ProTip: Hide the art projects under some paper towels or vegetable peels in the trash because the children WILL discover your dirty deed and there’s only so many more years you can blame the babies for it.)

So that's what we're up to. How are you doing?

Milestones

I often feel that we celebrate the wrong things. Birthdays are great and everything, but really, what do they represent other than “time has passed and you’re still alive?” (No small feat, to be sure, especially when you spend your waking hours climbing bookshelves, falling into toy boxes and ingesting Lego heads. But still. More a “lack of screwing up”  than an actual accomplishment.)

Instead of a first birthday party, we should throw a “You’re Walking!” party or maybe “You’re Talking! (Actual Words that Adults Can Understand)” party Or “You’re Sleeping Through the Effing Night!” party.

Instead of 3^rd birthdays, I would have a “You’re Toilet Trained!” party. Which may or may not be after the 3^rd birthday, not going to mention any names of any specific children I may know or have birthed.

I would throw parties for “You Brushed Your Own Teeth!” “You Arranged a Playdate by Yourself!” “You Made Your Lunch!” “You Walked to and from School on Your Own!” “You Know How to Take the Bus!” “You Stayed Home by Yourself When I Went to Pick up Your Sibling!”

These are the true parenting milestones, but we tend not to throw parties. (Come on kids, gather round for a fun game of “Pin the Colgate on the Toothbrush!” “Aim Your Pee for the Toilet!” and “Don’t Open the Door for Strangers!”), and often they go unnoticed, with maybe a mention over dinner. “So he woke up dry last night.” “Cool. Hey are you getting up? Could you get me some water?” (Sometimes Donny and I play water chicken, because we’re each too lazy to get up. Whoever stands first has to get the other one a glass of water.)

We had one of the big milestones last Thursday night, when Donny and I went to a wedding - as in, leaving Modiin - and Ariella babysat for the troops. With help from her lovely assistant Yaakov, of course. She even re-pacifiered Shoham when she (Shoham) started crying. Donny and I were a little in disbelief that we now have a live-in babysitter. We grew and fed her for 12.5 years, and now she’s ours. If we could have arranged a hall and a DJ for the Friday morning after, you all would have been invited to the “real” bat mitzvah. (“Today, dear daughter, you are our babysitter. Mazel tov!”)

Another recent milestone, one that went quietly into that good night (literally) was weaning the babies. I totally get why they made a weaning party for Isaac our forefather back in the day. It’s a big deal. [Warning: I am going to use the word breast, like, so many times now. If that offends you, keep reading so you can yell and tirade after.]

After a year + of breastfeeding, we ended it. Though the sore lump in my breast is protesting a bit. Damn it, milk ducts, did you not get the memo???

It happened kind of suddenly. At 12 months, it was going strong. I knew I was getting ready to end, but I wasn’t sure how it would happen. Then, one Shabbat, I just did not have time for the pre-nap and pre-bedtime nursing (the only daytime feedings left). So they made do without. Shoham was fine; she was basically only nursing to indulge me. Sivan protested with deep, sad, guilt-inducing cries. Oy.

The next day, I wavered whether to bring back those feedings or not. But I decided to push through and continue the weaning process. The time, it seemed, had come. I figured I would keep nursing Sivan at night for a few more nights. Donny was away that week, scheduled to get back on Thursday. I told myself that Wednesday night would be the last hurrah for Sivan and me. Once he was back, he would do the middle of the night wakings, eventually getting her used to the fact that the breast was just not happening.

I was all prepared as I went to sleep Wednesday night. I planned a small reception in the room after the final nursing. Nothing big. A little diploma, some tea and mini sandwiches, a platter of cookies. Tasteful, you know? I would speak, of course, and ask Sivan if she wanted to say a few words. It was all ready to go.

And then, for the first time in her young life, Sivan did not wake up at night. You heard that correctly. She slept through the #$#% night. And for the first time, I was a little upset! Our final nursing! The reception! My speech!!!!! So our last feeding had been Tuesday night? But there was no to-do! I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye!! 

But I suppose it’s fitting, because it seems the most important milestones just happen like that, without fanfare.

And so ends my breastfeeding career, which started 12.5 years ago. I have always been an amalgam of BF and bottle feeding (and when I say bottle, I mean “formula” for as much as I love breastfeeding, that’s how much I hate pumping). I’ve breastfed exclusively, I’ve breast and bottle fed at the same time (I mean, not at the same feeding, their mouths are only so big, but you get it.) I’ve done breast and then switched to bottle. I’ve breastfed single babies and I've breastfed twins. Sometimes I've breastfed twins at the same time. I’ve breastfed for a few months and I’ve breastfed for more than a year.

(The nice thing about my amalgam-ness is that everyone can roll their eyes at me. The pro-formula people can say, “Geeze, what a lactivist. My kids have formula and they’re the bestest smartest kids ever so why does she think she’s so great because she breastfeeds her kids?” Probably they use the words “whip it out” also. And the pro-BFers can say, “Formula????? What kind of monster mother is she???? She might as well just give them sugar water!!!” So everybody wins!)

I have enjoyed breastfeeding my children, holding them, watching their little eyes close as they nurse, having them reach out and grab some part of me to hold onto, enjoying the satisfied milk face when they’re done, bringing them for weight checks and knowing “Hey I did that!”, the sheer contentment of being able to just sit and be like, “Sorry, can’t wipe your butt now, I’m feeding the baby!” (In our house, there is always one child at the butt-wiping stage when we have a newborn around. Also: This is what they mean when they say “breastfeeding is also beneficial for the mother.”)

So it’s over, and while I’m a little sad (and astounded when I realized that probably by now, the babies have completely forgotten about it), I’m glad I had the chance to do it. Now, onward to the next milestone. (“Stay here till Mommy gets back from getting the kids. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. Also, don’t eat it.” Yeah, we’re ready.)

Oy, the Guilt

(With thanks to Abbi for her edits and "you're not totally crazy" reassurance.)

One of my best friends has been getting a bad rap lately: Guilt, specifically of the "mom guilt" variety. I am here to put in a good word for her. (We're good buds.)

From various comments, Facebook posts and blogs, it seems that if you're an Empowered Woman, "mom guilt" is a bad thing. To prove this, we denounce it roundly and heartily.

Moms have mucho opportunity for guilt in their lives. Remember those English classes where you learned about different kind of conflicts? Man vs. man, man vs. self, man vs nature, man vs. piles of crap, man vs. leftover Shabbat babka. (Spoiler alert: POCs and babka always win).There may have been more examples; I think I was reading Sweet Valley High books under my desk that day.

So, too, there are lots of different kinds of guilt we can feel, when all the things in our life come into conflict and we can't give everything the attention we want to:

Kids vs. spouse
Kids vs job
Job vs. housework
Kids vs. other kids
Housework vs. kids
Sanity vs. everything
Kids vs. babk--actually, kids, sohelpyou if you get near that babka

However, expressing such guilt (especially of the "job vs. children" variety) is seen as anti-feminist, a stain on our working mom cred and generally a bad thing. "Why should we feel guilt?" we demand of our ourselves and others? Get rid of the guilt! We are good enough, we are smart enough and goshdarnit, our family likes us 87% of the time! Buh-bye guilt!

Here are two things I want to say about that:

1. It's not so easy to "get rid" of an emotion, just stamp it out like that [insert finger snap].  Like those saggy stretch marks, it's a part of you. I don't agree with or like the underlying sentiment: "Error 404. Guilt feeling not valid." Because guilt is a valid emotion, like any of the thousands of emotions we feel each day, from the rage we experience when all the peanut butter cups are gone from the Ben & Jerry's ice cream, to the ecstacy we feel when we discover there is, in fact, one last well-hidden chunk. Telling someone the emotion they are feeling is "bad" or "invalid" isn't going to make them feel better. They'll just feel guilty about feeling guilty! And who's got time for that??

2. Let's say we could just get rid of our guilt. Why should we? Guilt is just an expression of wanting to be there for all of our things all of the time and feeling sad when we can't. Feeling some distress or guilt when we leave a sick kid with the babysitter, or get home too late at night to see the baby, or  let them watch too much TV because we're exhausted, or just having that tug of "I need to be here but also there" is okay.

Should we let guilt consume us? No. Should we engage in nonstop beratement of our fine selves? Of course not. Should we dwell on the guilt, unable to move on and lie facedown in the pile of babka crumbs? Obviously no. (There are no crumbs left anyway; we consumed them.)

But it's better to acknowledge the feeling, know it's there and move on than try to crush it because we're supposed to be - I don't know, past that? Better than that? It's a feeling; it's not good or bad, and it certainly doesn't make us a better or worse woman or mom.

[Disclaimer: And of course, if you are a mom that doesn't have guilt - guess what? Awesome! Don't go saying that ABA is promoting mom guilt. Just that if you do have it, it's okay.] 


So to sum up:

1. Feel guilty - is ok
2. Not feel guilty - is ok
3. Feel guilty about feeling guilty or not feeling guilty - is not ok

Now I can't think/write/say guilty anymore. It's starting to look funny.

Return of the Blogi

So I have started and stopped this blog post many times. I would start writing, and then stop and think, “Maybe I just don’t have anything left to say. Is any of this funny anymore? How long can I keep making the same old jokes?” But, despite my advanced age and tendency to repeat myself, I still have a lot of thoughts, most of which I mumble to myself throughout the day. So perhaps I will write them here, and perhaps you will read them. No worries if you don’t. Also, if you are an auditory learner, you are welcome to drop by anytime and eavesdrop on my mumblings.

So first, to clarify: I am now old. I know this for a few reasons:

1. Weddings always make you think of your wedding. But a few weddings ago, instead of reminiscing about July 3, 2000, a thought about a future wedding popped up, unbidden, into my head: Wow Ariella will be such a beautiful bride one day. Wait, huh? What was that? And with that thought, I quickly transitioned from “bride” to “mother of the bride.” The coup was silent and bloodless, you’ll be glad to know.

2. When we watch TV shows with teenagers, I realize we have more in common with the teens’ parents than the teens. (“Oh Buffy, you really should open up to your mother. She just wants what’s best for you.”

3.  A few weeks ago, someone posted in one of my (many) Modiin groups that they moved here with their baby and are looking to make friends with other young Anglos. And before I could raise my hand and say, "Me!" I read her comment that she and her husband are in their 20s. Oh. Or, not me. I mean, I'm not so old that I don't even remember my 20s anymore, but I'm old enough that my kids could babysit for her kids. We cannot be friends, young Anglo. But if you are looking for some sage advice from the local elders, well, this is probably the wrong place, too, since you are young and most likely are still planning on being a Great Parent and are probably not trying to test the absolute limit of how much you can ignore your kids before total chaos ensues. (“Mom’s log: Babies got into the toilet again and Nadav has paint on his hands. Older two nowhere to be found. Ignoring Level #215: Too high. Tomorrow, pull back to #214.5”) However if you want to know the ins and outs of Modiin Coffee, well, just pull up a rocking chair.

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Anyway, I will probably use this space to rant about stuff now, since I’ve found that being old has made me extra crotchety. And I hate the word “crotchety” because it's an uncomfortable word, like someone is trying to walk around with their underwear full of Lego pieces. But I’m using it anyway. Because that’s what crotchety people do.

And remember: Even when the world is full of scary things and stabbers, you can always come here to grumble about the little things. Because at ABA, we never let true suffering get in the way of complaining about life's minor annoyances. It’s kind of our thing. That’s all for now. See you here again soon.

Warning: Ramblings Ahead

It's a post-apologetic world we (I) live in, so I don't need to start by apologizing for the infrequency of postings, blah blah blah. Let's just jump right in.

State of the Blog, April 2015; Or, A Healthy Dose of Ramblings

1. Judgy McJudgersons: I will admit, had I met you a decade ago I would have judged you. Totally. Because 10 years ago, I knew everything. Now, I know nothing. Whatever parenting goals I may have had are reduced to: "I hope no one in the family ends up a life-long criminal." (See? I've lowered my standards from "I hope no one ends up in jail." I'm just hoping it's not a life of crime.) So, in my know-nothing state, I've become less judgy. Also, I've realized being judgmental is just
1. stupid
2. tiring, because who really has energy to care what other people do unless the thing they do is putting back the Ben and Jerry's with only a tiny half scoop left? (Don't be that person.) So I try to just be "live and let live-y." There are only two types of people I judge:

a. Judgmental people
b. People who are like, "This is what I did and therefore this is the correct/right/only way to do said thing," whether it's about parenting, religion, whatever. Those people irk me.
"We swaddled our baby and she slept through the night by the time she was 3 hours old. Therefore everyone must swaddle if you want your baby to sleep through the night."
"We used a sticker chart and our child never ever misbehaved again. Therefore sticker charts always always work."
"I kept my kid home till she was three/I sent my kid to gan at three months and now she's the smartest/fastest/tallest/funniest/prettiest/bestest child in the class. Therefore the right choice is to keep your kid home/send your kid to gan."
"I don't cover my hair because God just cares about how we act/I cover my hair because it's a mitzvah from the Torah. Therefore, I am a good Jew because I don't cover/cover my hair.

Grrrr. Don't be that person, either.

(Note: Do not confuse "I do not judge" with "I do not mock." Because I mock, dear reader. Ohhhh yes.)

2. Pesach: I can't even remember what we did and yet I still have my to-do list tacked onto the fridge. With all the lovely crossouts. I just can't seem to take it down. I'm so proud of it.

3. Twin update: You know what makes you nostalgic and wistful for having a little baby? Having two little babies.

The twins are now eating. Here's what they like to eat:

Shoham: Yogurt, sweet potatoes, avocado, banana, chummus, cholent, chopped liver, chicken soup, lentil soup, bean soup, ground meat, oatmeal
Sivan: Socks, feet, washcloths

4. Twin update, part two (ha! Get it?): I finally bought baby books for the twins. If anyone out there does not have kids yet, here's my advice: Don't buy baby books. Just don't start. Because if you do it for the first, you gotta do it for the fifth. And while Ariella's is the size of an advanced biology textbook (parts I and II), Nadav's is more the size of a Scholastic book order. And the twins didn't even HAVE books till now, 6 months later. So I bought them. And they are ALREADY stressing me out because I don't remember when I first felt fluttering, or the date when they first smiled. Ack! So they remain in a corner, untouched, because I'm too overwhelmed with all of my non-remembering to crack them open. You are probably thinking this can only continue to get worse. You are probably right.

5. A final Thought: I am literally living the famous parenting saying, "The days crawl but the years fly by." On the one hand, I'm planning a bat mitzvah. I think: "My little girl! She's so grown up! When did that happen? Wasn't she just a baby? Wasn't I just holding her in my arms and rocking her in that chair?"
On the other, I have two babies. That I hold in my arms and rock in that chair. And I think: "Oh my god will we ever get out of this baby stage???" Hard to imagine these spit-uppy, babbling (but no consonants yet - don't tell tipat chalav!), toe-eating, bathing-on-the-kitchen-counter babies will one day have their bat mitzvahs. And yet...

A Simple Guide to Getting Out the Door in the Morning

Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup. Eventually give up on the sleeping beauty; she’s on her own. (Where “on her own” = “gets to school late”)

(Thought: If we could combine the tween’s sleep with the twins’ sleep, we would have kids that slept all night and woke up on time. A person can dream.)

Eat breakfast. Pick out the pecans from your cereal. Request bowl wash in between cereals #1 and #2.

Stand on the kitchen chairs to measure your height against your brother's.

Ask what’s for dinner. Wrinkle your nose at the answer.

Tantrum about something (Mommy said no TV in the morning, which you totally didn’t expect because she always lets you watch TV. Or is it never? Either way, an outrage. Or, you cut your shirt in gan (on purpose, with scissors) and you are angry that Mommy won’t buy you a new one. Or, you wanted to sit in the middle seat for breakfast. Or, you wanted the glass bowl. Or, you wanted to be first and your brother had the absolute chutzpah to wake up before you. Or, you want to wear your costume to gan in January. Or we don’t have the cereal you wanted and Mommy can’t make it appear out of sheer force of will the lazy bum.)

Leave the breakfast table to search for the eensy weensy little bead you stuck way inside your drawer of crap. Cry when you can’t find it. Upon return, complain that cereal is mushy and demand bowl wash.

Get dressed. Find only one shoe. Argue with Mommy about the necessity of changing your underwear. Complain about the lack of requisite tightness in shoes, the offensiveness of sock seam, the scrunchiness of underwear. Search frantically for watch. (It was in your bag the whole time).

Continue your Lego project/art project from the night before.

Find your brother’s leftover Tropit on the dining room table (a disgusting Capri-Sun like drink, only with less good taste and more grossness) and take a sip.

Need reminders to put on your shoes, brush your teeth and put your food in your tik. Every single day. Because maybe today’s the day that the food is going to learn to jump in itself and surely you wouldn’t want to stand in the way of such progress.

Ask who invented electricity, what does Mars look like, how does an eruv work, were the ancient Romans were around when the state of Israel was born, why don’t eggs turn into chickens, have you seen my watch.

Finally, after one more bathroom trip, drink of water, last minute panic of "Where's my sweatshirt????" (on the floor, probs) and "Whoops forgot my water!" (I guess, today is NOT the day, then), we are OUT THE DOOR!

See? It’s that easy. 

The S Word

One of the most popular words to use in regards to babies is "schedule." What is my baby's schedule, what is your baby's schedule, what should my baby's schedule be, how do our schedules compare, etc etc etc. Getting a baby on a schedule is super easy, since anyone who has had a baby can attest to how eagerly they adapt to doing the same thing at the same time every single day. This makes it a breeze to plan time for outings, making dinner and peeing.

The "s" word is even doubly (haha) popular when it comes to twins. "Keep them on the same schedule!" "When one eats, the other eats. When one sleeps, put the other one down! Same schedules is the only way to survive!" Obviously you can do this no problem. Because when one baby gets up to eat, it is a cinch to wake up the other one and convince her that she also wants to eat. You won't be pulling out your hair in frustration while making annoyed grunting noises as you spend half an hour patting and ticking and undressing her so that she's alert enough to eat well. It also won't make you drip tears at all to wake up this baby, this very baby that took hours to put down.

And if that doesn't work, you can always try the opposite approach. Babies love to hear "You can't eat now; your sister is still sleeping. Just go back to sleep and we'll eat soon." Probably the first twin will just smile adoringly at you and snuggle back in her crib for some good, solid shut-eye. Babies are super easygoing like that. (Actually, I - I mean, a friend of mine, total scheduling loser - has given up and just lets the babies eat and sleep when they want, because schedules are just too much work, and she figures by the time they're 7 they will eat at the same time, because the bell will ring at 9:40 for aruchat eser and they won't have a choice.)

So you will all be relieved to hear that not only do our babies have a schedule, they have the same one! That's right! Here's what a day looks like for us:

5:00 am - 9:00 am: At some point during this time, the babies will wake up and eat

9:00 am - 4:30 pm, Part I: Eating, and its related activities of peeing/pooping/spitting up. I never always make sure to look at the clock and see what time they ate so I can be sure to schedule the next feeding appropriately.

9:00 am - 4:30 pm, Part II: Napping, preceded by the fun activity of Putting Babies Down for Nap. The babies always take two naps, a short morning one and a longer afternoon one. They never have days where they take three short naps, or days where they don't nap at all, or days when the time spent rocking exceeds the time spent sleeping, or days when they only catnap, or only nap on me, or take one superlong nap. Never.

4:30 pm - 6:00 pm: Being ignored or held, depending on level of fussiness

6:00 pm: Time for 6:00 bottles!

8:30-9:30 pm: Bedtime!

Then, between 9:30 pm until sometime the next morning, the babies will get up to eat. They get up exactly the same time as it says on the clock.

And that, folks, is how you ROCK the schedule thing! Feel free to print out this schedule and hang it on your fridge to use for your own little angels or when you simply need a good laugh.

The Park Ranger Comes to Live with the Ants; PLUS Free Parenting Advice!

Readers, I apologize. It's been too long. Really, with twins being so easy (not to mention tweens, they are also so so easy), there is no excuse for the dearth of blog posts. Trust me, there has not been a lack of trying on my part. But many a time did I find myself sitting down at the computer to write something, only to look down and realize it was time to change my shirt again because someone (not gonna mention names) had spit up on me again. And then by the time I got back to the computer, two or three days later, I had forgotten what I was going to say. In fact, I'm not even sure sentences sense that make can write I. And: am I still funny? I'm not sure. I tried telling myself a few knock knock jokes and I did not laugh, just kind of looked at myself oddly, so it could be that my sense of humor, like a good night's sleep, is just a wispy memory.

To make it up to you, I am going to give you, right now, without even any ado, a tried and tested ABA parenting tip. This is something we discovered, of course, by accident, while we were busy trying hard not to parent. (You think laziness is easy???)

"If you wait to teach your kids certain tasks until they are way past the age where they should have learned it already, when people start to look at you askance because your kid doesn't know how to X [= ride a bike, use the toilet, tie shoes], that's a good sign that it will actually take a very short time to teach child how to do that task. In other words: laziness pays off!"

In other news, we are rapidly approaching the end of Donny's paternity leave. This has been a very nice interlude in our lives in which there were two parents at home with two babies + three kids. Soon Donny returns to work and there will be one parent at home with two babies + three kids, which if you do the math - let's see, divide that, carry the one, parenthesis first - equals total madness until I grow those extra arms and head. (Look how we are doing math AND science today!)

In the meantime, it's been interesting having the park ranger come to live with the ants. The park ranger, of course, is the parent knows what's going on with the park and is in charge of its general upkeep, but could not, if his fourth cup of coffee depended on it, tell you what exactly was going on with the family of ants under that log over there. Homework? Dentist appointments? New shoes? Playdates? The park ranger is blissfully unaware. However, our park ranger got a glimpse of frantic ant life over these past few months. And he's gotten really proficient at being an ant, shouting "Homework!" "Teeth!" and "No!" at random intervals in the evenings. We are very proud.

That's all we have time for now. Cuz someone is hungry again. (Me.)

This is Where the Title Goes

I want to blog. I really do. But every time I get a few free minutes and sit down at the computer, my head feels fuzzy and foggy and I only have brain capacity to read recaps of Scandal. (The babies watch SUCH inappropriate television.) Scandal, by the way, takes a lot more concentration than you might think. I would make a terrible Gladiator because even after It All Becomes Clear, I'm still going, "Huh?"

In baby news, the babies have found new and interesting ways to keep us worried. You'd think after 3 kids we would have seen Most of the Things, but there is seemingly no end to the weird baby problems that crop up and make you go "Hmmm" or "Really?" or "Ewwww!" Nothing serious, but every time we're at the doctor, the answer is, "Well, it's probably fine, but..." So we're taking one baby for an ultrasound of her kidneys and bladder (after having done a spinal ultrasound, which was probably fine, but....) and the other baby has an ulcerated hemangioma (it's about as gross as it sounds), which at current count has involved 4 doctor appointments (a 5th is tomorrow) and 3 different creams (one that has to be specially ordered).

Otherwise, they are busy doing all the baby things, like eating and smelling bad and sleeping and crying and pooping and spitting up and doing that cute scrunchy move when they stretch and even smiling (!) and looking around and watching Grey's, Scandal, Parenthood, New Girl and the Lego movie and being alternatively picked up then set down in the baby-friendly venue of our choice (changing table, crib, bouncy seat, sibling's arms, playmat! The possibilities are endless! "Oh! Here we go agaaaaaaain!" you can just hear them saying as they're being swooped up for the thousandth time that day). But don't try kissing them when they are hungry because they feel skin and whip their heads around and open their mouths, looking for the food source. "Oooh is that it? Is it here? I could have sworn I left it here before. Wait where'd it go???"

So even though they do a lot of the aforementioned activities on their own, dealing with the consequences of all of them takes up most of our day. See, Twins Are So Easy!

Anyway this is usually where I would place the clever last line, but not today because foggy. Back to reading recaps.

Twins Are So Easy

This is the title of my latest book on parenting. However, taking care of the twins is really getting in the way of being able to write it. Since at this moment they are currently napping, I will take this opportunity to check in with my Loyal Readers. Because you know what they say, "Blog when the baby sleeps!"

So here I am. See me? No, over here on the couch, under the pile of freshly washed onesies that are patiently waiting to receive their next installment of spit up. (Because you know what they say, "Do laundry when the baby sleeps!") I'm in between the lone baby sock (get used to the single life, kiddo) and the pacifier wedged into the cushions. Oh and also, a pencil. And a random flip-flop.

Since we don't have much time (I can sense babies beginning to move from Not Sad to Sad), I will answer a few FAQs for you.

Q. How are you doing?
A. Tired. Veryveryvery tired. To paraphrase Princess Buttercup, "I shall never sleep again." However, everyone is healthy and happy, or, if you're one of the twins, healthy and occasionally, Not Sad. So we are thankful for that.

Q. Are they identical?
A. Unequivocally not.

Q. Do you have time to shower, even?
A. Putting on deoderant and brushing one's hair IS considered a shower in many cultures. Or it should be. I'm working on that. "Brushing is washing!" is a thing they will say in this culture.

Q. Can I bring you some-?
A. Yes. Whatever it is you want to bring, I'll eat it. Because you know what they say, "Eat when the baby sleeps!"

Q. Were you shocked when you found out it was twins?
A. I'm confused. Why the past tense? "Omigod there are two of them" is something heard frequently around the house, especially in the evening, as we are playing another round of Baby Whack-a-Mole. (Note: No actual whacking involved.)

Q. How are the other kids doing?
A. In short, the big ones are mostly helpful. The 4-year-old, well, let's just say his attachment to Mommy hasn't improved since the arrival of the twins. But really, who can blame him? Does anyone pour cereal, turn on the TV or brush his teeth with quite the panache of Mommy? It's an acquired skill, honed after years of (forced) practice. Also, rest assured that no one has felt any need to put their various issues or angst on hold until Mommy gets more sleep.

Q. Are you nursing?
A. This is possibly the most popular question, after the identical question. To answer, I give you a quote from one of the children: "Mommy, ever since you had the twins, you've been walking around half-dressed." So yes. And yes, I have nursed both at once, but not, ahem, discreetly. So avert your eyes. Currently we're at about 85% nursing and 15% bottles. Of formula. Because "Pump when the baby sleeps!" is NOT a thing they say. Bottles meant I had to hand back my Crunchy Granola Mom Trophy, plus they took away their offer to honor me at the Annual Crunchy Granola Mom Grass-Fed Organic BPA-Free Dinner & Co-Sleeping But that's okay. Because the bottles help me keep my last remaining nerve, which I need in order to deal with aforementioned spit-up and angst.

Q. "Is there another baby in there?"
A. Luckily, this is not an FAQ. This question was posed by Nadav, when they came to visit me in the hospital. First, as he walked in and saw the baby nursing, he exclaimed "EWWWW! What is the baby doing to you?" Then he examined my stomach and decided there must be a third baby Mommy is hiding in here. Now, he has declared that the tummy is no longer so big, but it IS "mushy v'gam floppy."

So you see, Twins: They're So Easy.

Okay, Sadness has been reached. See you all later.

Introducing, For the Very First Time (on this blog)...

Shoham Chen (שוהם חן) and Sivan Vered (סיון ורד). Shoham is in green and Sivan is in stripes.

Born Sunday, September 28 in Tel Aviv, at 12:55 and 1:05 PM. Shoham was some amount of kilo (2.7?) and Sivan was a little more than that (3.1?)

You may find it ironic, after my previous post, that they allowed us to take even more children home from the hospital. However, we have learned from our mistakes, When the tipat chalav nurse was going on about vitamin D drops and not giving too much because it causes kidney problems, etc., we told her cheerfully, "Of course! Drop not dropper, that is our motto! Ha! Haha!" And in this neighborhood, before an English magazine has a chance to even drop to the floor in prime leg-breaking position, it will be scooped up by a celebrity-gossip-deprived neighbor. And really, what are the chances of us replicating the booster seat debacle a third (and fourth) time? (Don't answer that.)

So no worries, these children are in very good hands. (Ariella's and Yaakov's).

Anyway, we are looking forward to sharing with you in the Continuing Adventures of Raising Our Children and Trying Not to Screw It Up Too Badly. (The alternative, though admittedly less catchy, title of "Leave Me Alone So I Can Read the Paper.")

Sorry, Kids! I Promise We Didn't Mean To!

I am not a dog person, in case you were wondering. This does not mean that I AM a cat person, or other such nonsense. I am also not a gerbil, hamster, guinea pig or goldfish person. I am not even a plant or flower person. The only living things I can reliably keep alive are my children.

And even then, it's touch and go sometimes. For example, Nadav has reminded me on an embarrassing number of occasions, as I'm getting him ready for bed: "Ima? Lo achalti dinner." Whoops! Forgot to feed him dinner. Again. (Note: There usually was dinner on the nights in question. The problem is that Nadav isn't ready to eat when it's ready, and then I forget that he never ate. Or it's a Friday night and I am hellbent on "Get-him-in-bed-before-candlelighting-so-we-can-eat-like-mensches" and I consequently forget to, you know, feed him.)

However, starvation is an easily rectifiable solution. Especially when children are old enough to announce they are hungry. But we have a long and rich history of accidentally harming our children in other, more creative ways. Today, I lay out my sins before you.

Let's begin around 11 years ago.

Formula? Who Needs It?
Ariella is 8 months old and eating a lot of solids. 3 meals a day, in fact. She had been getting bottles, but now, I figured, it was time to stop, right? She's eating like an adult, so why does she need stinky baby formula?

Over the course of the next month, her babysitter mentions how constipated and uncomfortable she is. Momz notes that Ariella seems thinner than usual. We are already firm believers in Parenting Through Winging It, so no alarm bells go off. But: It comes time for her checkup. And: She has gained no weight since the last month! How can this be????? The doctor starts asking me about her eating habits. When I tell her, she stares at me. "She needs to be taking three 8-oz bottles a day. Until she's a year old." Whoops! We start up the formula again. She gains weight, she poops better and is an altogether happier child. (Luckily this was before memory kicked in, so she can't add it to the list of reasons to be angry with us now.)

*********************
Slip & Slide
Yaakov almost got away unscathed. Except for the time we left a magazine on the floor and he slipped on it, breaking his leg. Whoops! At least it was a manly magazine ("Adventure") and not something wimpy like "Family Circle."

**********************
Nadav, it should come as no surprise, has born the brunt of our carelessness. You'd think by our third time around the block, we'd be better at this. Well, let me reassure you that we found all sorts of new and wonky screwups. Skipping formula and leaving magazines on the floor are soooo 2003-2007.

Vitamin D: Mmm, Mmm Good
For some reason, I had never had to give vitamin D drops to our other kids (or maybe I was supposed to and never did? Would that surprise you? Didn't think so.). So I'm giving him the drops, tra-la-la. Also, I notice that he's peeing. A LOT. "Haha, our little pisher, isn't that cute?" I say to Donny.

I mention to a friend that I need to get to a pharmacy to get more drops. "More drops?" she's astonished. "How are you finished your first bottle already?"
"Well, a dropper-full every day, you go through it."
"A DROP. Not a DROPPER."
Whoops!
Turns out I was giving him like 10x the amount of vitamin D. Hence all the pishing; his kidneys were working overtime to get rid of it. Luckily the doctor said just to stop for about a month and then pick up again. But this time, with a twist: Try not overdosing him.

Buckle Up!
When Nadav was about 2, he would occasionally need the booster seat (the kind that attaches to a chair) for height, in order to reach the table, but he didn't really need to be strapped in. Except, of course, that he's Nadav and insists on weird things, like making a color chart so he can decide which shirt to wear today. One Saturday night, during havdalah, he was sitting in his booster. Which I had plopped on a chair, not bothering to attach it. But he was going to do havdalah properly, dammit. He demanded to be buckled in AND have his tray attached. So, if you are picturing this, we have essentially incarcerated him in his booster. Which, careful readers will remember, is NOT strapped to the chair. The next step, of course, is he reaches forward to get some grape juice. He then topples over from the chair, but can't land on his feet or right himself due to all of the restraints. So, strapped into his booster, he lands on his face, gets a bloody mouth, cut lip and tongue, a trip to Terem and a visit to the dentist the next morning.

Whoops!

The best part of this story? The exact same thing happened a year later! Did we learn our lesson? It seems not! Luckily the fall wasn't as bad so we avoided the Terem/dentist trips.

Good for What Ails You
Nadav finds some children's chewable Tylenol. Gets through about a pill and a half before we realize and yank the remaining crumbly, slobbery, pink  mixture out of his mouth. We call both our local friendly pediatrician (who was vacationing in Eilat then, natch) and Poison Control. No lasting repurcussions. Although he does have an extreme fondness for pink medicines. Hmmmm.

Curious Minds
This one is all on him. Nadav finds a little spray bottle of some perfume lying around in our car. He puts it up to his face, asking, "Eich zeh oved, Mommy?" And then attempts to find out the answer by spraying himself in the eyes. WAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!! "It works like that, Nadav." Many unpleasant, screeching eye washes later, he was fine.

Till the next time, of course.

Now one lesson we can takeaway from this, besides boring ones like "Don't leave magazines on the floor," "Read dosing instructions carefully," "Always strap the booster onto the chair" is that at the end of all of these stories? The kids are just fine! Take heart, parents! Like us, you too can screw up abysmally without causing (too much) lasting damage for the little ones! Like the popular saying goes, "Parenting. It's sooooo easy!"

Now it's your turn. Feel free to share the times you accidentally caused harm to your children. (Or is this just us?)

In Which Donny Bravely Faces Back to School Night

What follows are the transcripts from our whatsapp conversations.

Gan meeting, Sept 2.

I am filling out information. [Good.]

What is Nadav's teudat zehut? Oh, and his Hebrew birthday? [I tell him]

They want to know who his friends are. [Ellie. Joe. Yuval. Rafi]

What are his interests? I wrote "To be funny." I think that covers it. [NO! No you cannot just write that! Write: Puzzles, cars, playground, games]

I'm putting you down for a committee. It's called חשיבה על פעילות הדנית* [What?? What??? Don't you dare! Did you hear me? You take my name off RIGHT NOW. Put yourself down!]

Just kidding! I put myself down.

*As far as we could tell, this translates to "Thinking about Danish activities." Maybe pastries?

School meeting, Sept. 9.

Tuesday night was a marathon school meeting. Donny went straight from work and took the first shift (third grade) and I took the late shift (sixth). The 3rd grade meeting was called for 6:00.

6:10 My whatsapp beeps. However, I'm busy making dinner so I can't get to my phone.

I bet that is Donny. He has no idea where the third grade classrooms are or what the teacher's name is. Well, he'll call in a minute when he sees I haven't responded.

6:12 Phone rings. "Which third grade class is Yaakov in? Do you know where the
classroom is? Who is his teacher?"

Donny finds his way to the classroom. Whatsapping ensues:

Eveyone is filling out sheets. [Probably information sheets. Use Lisa and Momz as emergency contacts]

The teacher is talking. You should feed Yaakov breakfast in the morning.

Email the teacher. Don't call. Call if you must, but don't.

I'm volunteering you for the va'ad.

Haha.

I didn't.

I think I'll tell her I don't give her permission to take pictures of Yaakov.

She wants 100 shekel for the va'ad. I'm offering 50.

Hmmm. She won't take 50. Suggesting tashlumim.

Now she's reading a poem. It's about candy. I think our children are the candy?

There is candy art. Did Yaakov bring it home?

No, it's here, waiting for us.

Okay she won't accept tashlumim either. You'll have to pay 100.

And email, don't call.

Done. Coming home.

**************************************

Later, at the 6th grade meeting, I did not have to text Donny once. #justsaying

But the most important takeaway is that we are now finished being oriented. Hooray! No more small chairs for another year! If you need us, we'll be celebrating with some Danish activities.

Hello? Is Anyone Here?

Readers, it has been a long time.

First, I made the conscious decision to stop posting because of all the Unfunny Things that were happening this summer. The three boys, the war, sirens. Then as August crept on, I made no conscious decisions at all. This is because my brain cells had fled for cooler climates. If you would look inside my head, the only remaining thoughts were "Me hot" and "Feed children. Again." Those two semi-coherent thoughts spent their days floating around lazily in the cavernous space that once contained my brain.

But now the war/operation is ... over? I think? There's definitely a cease-fire? Which brings up the question - why don't we just agree to a 1,000-year cease-fire? Then no one dies, no one sends rockets and we don't have to deal with like, solving anything. [This will be a cornerstone of my platform when I run for prime minister. My platform will consist of Confrontation Avoidance and Changing all the Highway Signs in Israel to Include "Modiin." Because I don't want to have to figure out if I need to head to "Afula" or "Tel Aviv" "Jerusalem" or "Beer Sheva" in order to get home. I want clarity. Every sign on the highway will be legally required to include "Modiin, This Way." You're welcome.]

So I guess ceasefire = we can return to our irregularly scheduled blogging program. In the meantime, I will catch you up on the highlights of summer:

1. Camp. Careful though. Did you blink, sneeze, or use the bathroom? You missed it! Now camp's over!

2. Mommy camp. TV, pool, fight, eat, TV, repeat. BUT - no waking up children, making lunches or doing homework! So it has its moments.

3. StayCation. In which we finally realize that the highlight of hotels for our children is the ability to eat sugar cereal every day for breakfast. So we decide to save thousands of shekel and just buy sugar cereal for them to eat HERE. The advantage is that HERE also includes good beds and not having to wash laundry in a tub.

4. My phone gets stolen. But I get a new one, so in the end it all works out.

5. We lose internet for a few hours. The Rose family stares at each other in horror. Without internet, there is no computer or TV. Everyone makes a mad dash for Mommy's phone. But Mommy gets there first. What shall we do now? Talk to each other? Read? Clean up? Confusion reigns. We rush to light some candles but then realize we DO have electricity, plus it's the middle of the day. So we blow them out. Luckily the 'net returns soon and happiness is restored.

6. The week before school. i.e.  PLEASE TAKE MY CHILDREN I WILL PAY YOU OODLES OF MONEY SO SO SO MANY OODLES.

7. School begins. And while "Hot" and "Feeding children" still take up an inordinate amount of space in my head, the other brain cells have slowly, cautiously begun migrating back. ("Let's see if she'll recognize our potential instead of just using us to figure out how to disentangle the children from each other and creative ways to say 'Stop it!!!!!'")

So, welcome back! How was your summer?

Highlights and Revelations

Part Three: There was ice cream.

Other highlights from our trip:

Versailles (“Ver-Sails”). Visit this place, and you will totally understand why the French Revolution happened. If there is a word that means supercallifragallistically gaudy, Versailles is it.

These people had antechambers. You know what antechambers are? Rooms that exist just to be rooms! They serve no other purpose than to be a room you can go in before you go into the next room. Sometimes, there were antechambers to antechambers!

Each room had intricate paintings on the ceilings and furniture covered in gold, but that isn’t even the best part. The Versailles palace also contains a separate palace so that if you just need to get away from the palace, you have another palace to go to.

This second palace was given to Marie Antoinette and there was a lot of information in French about her. I’m not sure about the whole story, but all I know is that you cannot, in fact, buy just her head in the gift shop.

Louvre in a Nutshell: Massive Museum, Teeny Mona Lisa. Seriously. It's as big as my framed diploma. And you can't get within 10 feet of it because of all the other tourists and their cameras pushing each other to get close. If Leo had just made it a mite bigger, it would have been easier on all of us.

Arc de Triomphe (“We Surrender!”) and Eiffel Tower (“Migdal Ayfel”): These represent two entries in our ever-growing list of “Tall Buildings We Have Not Ascended.” Don't worry, there are selfies to prove we were there.

Haagen Daaz restaurant. You read that right. An entire restaurant devoted exclusively to ice cream. Two floors plus outdoor seating, with fancy wait staff and everything. As part of our QKE vacation certification (Quite Kosher Enough), we felt comfortable eating Parisian Haagen Daaz. Sadly, most of the menu items came with a baked good, which even for the lax standards of QKE is NQKE. But we found two exquisite cookie-free desserts: I ordered one that had five scoops of ice cream surrounded by fresh raspberries, strawberries and whipped cream and are you drooling yet???? Donny ordered a scoop of ice cream in an espresso (I told you he got into it). We sat in rapturous, heavenly-ice-cream-eating-induced silence, until it was broken by:

The Amcha. Aka fellow Jews/Israelis. Funny because when you're in Israel, you say “Israelis!” in a mumbly, exasperated grunt, but while in Paris, you say, “Israelis!” with a cry of excitement. This particular amcha – an Israeli woman – interrupted our bliss to ask a question on behalf of her French-speaking charedi sister. The sister was wondering if it was okay to eat here, and when her eyes alighted upon Donny’s kippah, she felt we were safe people to ask. We explained that the ice cream itself was kosher; stay away from the cookies. QKE FTW!

We enjoyed our other encounters with the Amcha during our trip. In one restaurant, we had a choice of speaking to the waiter in French (“?como estas?”) or Hebrew. Naturally, we jumped at the chance to speak Hebrew. Did you read me?? We were HAPPY and GRATEFUL to speak Hebrew. Someone please tell my ulpan teacher. We also got chance to converse with the Amcha during our stroll around the Jewish Quarter. We passed numerous falafel stands including one that –and let me tell you, it hurt to read this – proclaimed its falafel “The Best in the World!” Um, excusez-moi, Paree? Clearly they have never been to Ofer’s. Or any other falafel stand in all of Israel. Please, Paris. We don’t claim to have awesome macarons. (As TZ-carrying Israelis, we’re not even sure that they qualify as dessert, lacking as they are in yeast dough and chocolate). So just stay away from our falafel.

Then, suddenly, it was time to leave. Pack up our stuff, say "A I R P O R T" really slowly to the cab driver, and head off into the sunrise (the only time we saw sun). All in all, the trip was amazing, but it was also great to come home. To the fam, the world’s actual best falafel, and even to Hebrew.