The NeverEnding Story, Part III

My husband had been sent home by Bambi (if you know her), who knew I was in for the long haul and knew at least one half of our family should be getting some rest. I, on the other hand, hadn't slept properly in weeks because lying down made me feel like a flipped-over turtle when I was that pregnant. 9 lb 6 oz baby and all.

The next morning, day 2 of week 43, I called Bambi from the high-risk ward because I didn't feel the baby moving. She asked me what the monitor said. I said, no one has come so far to monitor me. She said 'Go to the desk and tell them to monitor you! That's why you're in the hospital!'

 I must explain- American hospitals wait on you hand-and-foot. In Israel, you're expected to hobble up to them and say 'change my IV- it's empty' and other such pleasantries. They won't magically intuit your needs, or check on you regularly enough to fulfill them. 

At 8 am, in the middle of the monitoring (the baby was fine), a hospital official came by, barked 'Go down to the Delivery Room!', and disappeared. So, after actually sputtering 'but, but, but...' to no one but myself, I gathered my belongings and walked to the elevators. 

I remember being suddenly overwhelmed with fear. Even though I had waited so long, I had this feeling of wanting to somehow turn back, of wanting to be a child and to hide in my grandmother's dress. This was it.

(this is a hospital room, but not mine. you get the idea.)

The NeverEnding Story, Part II

As everyone who's pored over pregnancy books knows, it's a good idea to avoid induced labor. Medically speaking, the first step of intervention can always lead to a domino effect. Spiritually speaking, a baby is meant to be born when they're meant to be born, not when your doctor has a free afternoon and you don't want to miss the Oprah special next week. And if you're a perfectionist like me, you would never choose drugs/intervention of any sort because you want to test your limits in the Natural Birth Challenge.

But sometimes, all pluses and minuses considered, you don't have a choice in the matter.

All of my preparation- the books, the labor classes, the mental preparation, the interviews of absolutely anyone who had given birth and spoke english, the time spent googling 'labor pain how to cope with', and much more, came in absolutely useless because I never went into labor. Our visit to Shaarei Tsedek on day 1 of week 43, intended to be a quick monitoring and a refusal to be checked in since my baby was 'overdue' (but how accurate is the due date anyway?) but otherwise fine, ended in my being admitted to the 'high-risk' ward (do they have to call it that?) until my turn came to be induced. The hospital had their reasons- the ultrasound showed that the baby had low fluid in the womb, after I had spent the last 2 days literally in bed at the advice of a nurse in the overdue clinic who said that I could prevent an induction by laying down to increase the fluid. I also had a big spike in blood pressure, my ankles were enormous, the baby's heart rate actually stopped while they monitored me, and, as the hospital pointed out, I was way, waaay past my due date, which they considered a reason to induce, even without the other risk factors. My husband and I explained to the young, female, non-religious doctor that we understood, but needed to make a phone call to our Rabbi before signing the papers. She looked at us like we had just drank the kool-aid.

We felt that we needed to make the call first, because our Rabbi had advised us to avoid an induction, even after 42 weeks, as long as I was fine and the baby was fine. When my husband called and explained the situation, asking at the end if we should now induce, he also seemed to think we drank the kool-aid and said 'yes, of course!!'

The high risk ward is a mighty boring place to be. I was there alone, and basically spent the night pacing the surrounding halls, speaking on my cellphone to people in America where the hour was not so ridiculous. I kept getting panicked stares from people in the hallway, because most ultra-ultra-pregnant women in the hospital are in the middle of active labor. I tried to give them a look that conveyed 'I wish! I am just a prisoner here until they induce me...'

Heard on Shabbos

Heard on Shabbos:


Joke:
Q-what's the difference between an outlaw and inlaw?
A- outlaws are wanted


Metaphor (said by a South African):
South Africans, as a culture, are like a duck on a duck pond. You see only the part of them that is gliding gracefully along, but underneath, their feet are kicking like mad.


Joke:
Americans say everything, the English say nothing, and South Africans say as much as the Americans, while saying as little as the English.


Insights:
1-Whatever feelings you have towards another person, even if you try to hide them, are sensed by the other person on some level.


2-Marriage is about flexibility. The willingness to compromise and shift your way for the way of another. This has to happen on both sides, but often starts with the woman, who has a greater ability to give in this way.


True Story:
A non-religious Jewish man lived in South Africa, in a town where he was the only Jew. He was known in the town for his many acts of kindness. His children grew up, moved to the city, and became more religious in their adulthood. Two years after this man passed away and was buried in South Africa, his children paid to have his grave moved to Israel. Eyewitnesses reported to the children that their late father's body was completely intact, without signs of decomposition*.




*Judaism teaches that a completely righteous person's body will not decompose, as every part of the person was so spiritually uplifted in life, no further correction or transformation is needed. We know that certain Rabbinical figures had this distinction.This story is significant because this was a person who did not know or observe the Torah, which is our guide to living a righteous existence on G-d's terms. But G-d, at the end of the day, has His own assessment of who is truly righteous, based on  each individual's starting point and his or her response to opportunities along the way. It is also significant because the teller, our host for Friday night, knew the man's children personally.


p.s. the birth story isn't finished.

The NeverEnding Story (a.k.a. my daughter's birth)

Inspired by Rivki (friend, former roommate, and author of the fabulous blog 'Life in the Married Lane')

7 weeks before the baby, when I still had a sense of humor. Don't worry, now that she's out, it has returned. :) 

My due date came. My due date went. A week crawled by. To my surprise, ANOTHER week crawled by. And during this stretch, I just kept getting more and more pregnant. Until I could not pick things up off the floor. Until my belly had a picture of a tree on it (don't ask). Until I could not even slide my feet halfway into my crocs which were my last remaining pair of shoes that came anywhere near fitting, after I had outgrown all my shoes and stretched out my husband's house shoes. Until most of my maternity clothes that used to fit became as revealing as a two-piece bathing suit. Until I needed four hands to pull up my knee-highs so that no part of the elastic would put pressure on my lower legs, as swollen and painful as they were. My sense of humor had looooong since left the premises at that point.

Little did I know that I was carrying a baby that was 9 pounds, 6 ounces- unheard of in both of our family histories. I had been told consistently by every doctor and ultrasound technician that she would be around 8 pounds. In retrospect, I am glad I didn't know, because I would have been pretty scared.

So after two overdue weeks, my health insurance would no longer cover bi-weekly baby monitoring, so we strolled (he strolled, I rolled) into the hospital on day 1 of week 43, with no contractions in sight.

To Be Continued

No Larger than a Single Step

Do you ever get the feeling that you are quintuple-majoring in Life?

I may not be in school right now, but I am still a student. My schedule this semester includes (but is not limited to):

Expressing Gratitude beyond 'oh, thanks!' 
Putting Things Away In Their Place- with a focus on establishing a place for each item
Trusting in Hashem, who can run the world perfectly well without me as a backseat driver
Punctuality
Listening to Voicemail (often) and Calling People Back (promptly)- this is a tough one. maybe next semester we'll start on email...
Being a Rolemodel 
Smiling, especially at my husband, regardless


And I am starting to see that so many enormous achievements in life (health, happiness, financial stability, strong relationships, and successful Torah study, to name a few) are just a question of tiny, miniscule habits- the kind of tiny habits that you stick to day in and day out. 


It's like...plunking a penny into your New Kids on the Block Lunchbox (that you made into a bank by stabbing a hole in the top with half of a pair of scissors) day after day until you count up all those pennies and realize that you can buy the My Little Pony yourself. And even though the beginning was marked with the hopelessly hollow sound of the penny sailing through the empty lunchbox and landing in the very bottom, tempting you to quit and laugh at your foolish dreams, your penny-plunking has become so habitual by now that you don't even notice it anymore. And stopped listening to gauge how far the penny had to fall inside the lunchbox anymore. Until the day, today, that you tried to drop in your penny and it simply had nowhere to go- the box was filled. 


I know someone who walked from Maalot Dafna to Neve Yaakov on the holiday of Simchas Torah for the bris of his twin nephews (when, like on Shabbos, we are prohibited from driving). If you aren't familiar with Jerusalem, just know that NO ONE WALKS TO NEVE YAAKOV- it's really, really far. But one thing I realized is that even though he made it all the way from Maalot Dafna to Neve Yaakov and back, there were absolutely no increments of that walk that were larger than a single step. 

the Disenfranchised Carseat

If I want to put my baby down, there are several options:

the floor, on a blanket (good for working on lifting her head, bad for trying to walk through the room, also only lasts a maximum of 5 minutes)

the stroller (good for pushability, bad because she doesn't like being strapped into, or placed on top of, the harness so you have to lay a folded blanket over the harness first)

the baby carrier (okay, its not really putting her down, but it frees my hands. good for folding laundry, bad for cooking- I can't really see what my free hands are doing and I can't safely go near any heat sources)

the other baby carrier (same problems, plus its a hippie one and I am lacking the extra three hands it seems to require to tie it correctly)

the bed (no longer a safe option since I saw her roll over for the first time two weeks ago)

the pack n'play- (comfy and entertaining, but I can't really interact with her while she's lying in it- she's too far away)

which leaves, as the best option,

the car seat. It can follow me everywhere. She is positioned upright so she can be fully engaged in whatever's going on. AND she's safe and can't fall out/off of it. I can leave her there long enough to get the camera and even snap a few shots! The result of this is that the vast majority of our photos of her are in the car seat.  But as useful as it is, I still can't get used to the sight of a car seat outside of a car. I wonder if our borrowed car seat has ever actually been used in a car (the taxi ride home from the hospital doesn't count)...

Does anyone else find the sight of a car seat outside of a car somewhat strange?

excuses, excuses...

Well, that was quite the hiatus! I have a truckload of religious excuses (we just finished an 8-day festival, followed by Shabbos), but I'll spare you. Truth be told, I missed writing on this blog quite a bit. It's pure pleasure for me. And I really appreciate all of your encouragement (you all know who you are). 


Now...when I say I'm 'back', I mean that I am no longer ensconced in a holiday whirlwind. Ostensibly, I am able to write. But if I am not posting, it could be because my little princess needs my attention. And she, of course, takes precedence. 

I still can't believe I'm her mommy...

Erev Yom Kippur

It's about reaching the same spot, at the same time, with the same laws and traditions. Saying the same prayers from the same prayerbook.

But...better. 

I am better.  

My friends and family are better. 

The world is closer to what it is going to become. 

Everything is a bit clearer than it was one year ago.

 

Tomorrow's Autopilot

I felt it at the beginning of middle school (9 periods in a class day?! And how will I ever remember my locker combination?)
And then again at the beginning of high school (um..where's the gym again?!)
And then at the beginning of college (how am I supposed to know how to swipe my Metrocard?!)
And then when I came to Israel ('Ken' is yes and 'Lo' is no?!)
And then when I got married (WHO PUT ME IN CHARGE OF KEEPING KOSHER AND COOKING AT THE SAME TIME IN THIS KITCHEN?? I CAN'T DO THIS!!)
And then during my pregnancy (I...can't...do...anything...)
And then becoming a mother (I am responsible for another human being's IMMUNIZATION SCHEDULE?)

But I just realized something today, as I entertained my baby, made lunch, and choreographed a tap routine at the same time (Get ready to remember this when you need it):

Today's New/Impossible Task will be tomorrow's Autopilot. 


And that gives me all the hope in the world. 

Marrying Out

Since marrying out (I mean marrying a European, of course), I have been introduced to a very different approach to life. I haven't exactly adopted this approach yet, but I have certainly gained from being exposed to it. 

It's the approach of...time.

And  patience.

And  'proper'.

 The word 'proper', I've learned, doesn't mean 'snooty'. And it doesn't mean fuddy-duddy. I perceive it as such because I am coming from a rather adolescent-minded culture (if you don't agree with me, check the average age of the biggest celebrities in America- it's dropping by the day). 

Proper actually means appropriate. As in,
 'wear a proper jacket if it's cold.' 
Or, 'if you do this in the proper way, you'll only have to do it once.'

It's also the approach of measuring one's walls before buying the paint to cover them, so that you know exactly how much paint you'll need. So you're not stuck with a paint-free corner. Or extra cans that will never get used. Or the necessity of an extra trip to Home Depot. 

And do you know why European cheese, wine, and sausages are so exquisite? For the same reason. The Europeans take their time. They do things 'properly'. They are steeped in tradition. 

Americans, on the other hand, are known for fast things- Cheezwhiz, Starbucks (note: I was going to say Red Bull, then wikipedia-ed it last minute and discovered that it's originally from Thailand- never mind), and McDonald's. These things don't take years or months, but mere minutes or seconds. 

Not to denigrate Americans- I am one, I'll always be one, and I gained a lot from being raised in a diverse and idealistic culture. I am merely observing that there is quite a contrast between the American approach and the European approach, and have noticed this difference in approach only by virtue of marrying 'out'. Who knew there were so many ways to paint a wall?

(the above picture was from my first visit to Europe. When I saw this building, I asked my husband, 'Whose job is it to make these buildings look so authentic? I mean, so old-looking?'. He replied, 'They are old. They're real.' I was thinking 'Wow, they really look like Universal Studios!')

Musing on the eve of Coronation

Listening to the Pack n' Play's 'nature sounds' that just put my baby to sleep.

Noticing that I should be drinking more water.

Crossing off things on my to-do list, in my mind.

Regretting that I forgot to drop off my dry cleaning before the holiday, and now it's too late.

Wondering why it is warm again after it cooled off for a few days.

No, wait- why G-d made it warm again, after G-d cooled off Jerusalem for a few days. Reminding myself that weather is not an 'it'- it's G-d controlling my environment.

Reminding myself that Hashem is the King and we are coronating Him this Rosh Hashanah, and hopefully for every moment of our lives thereafter. 

Feeling satisfied with the laundry I did.

Stressing about the cleaning I haven't done yet.


Stressing about stressing, which I don't want to do anymore.

Checking on my baby that yes, she's still breathing and she's fine. 

Waiting to speak to my father when he calls back.

Wondering how my brother is doing in Uman.

Reflecting on what I have been given this year, which was determined last Rosh Hashana.

Marveling at what I different person I have become in one year.
.
Thanking G-d for many things, including my friend Maya, without whom I'd never have chosen the pack n' play, which is providing me with these lovely nature sounds.

And for all of my friends, mentors, and neighbors.

And for my family.


And for my husband's family, who are now my family, too.


And for my belongings- for I truly have everything I need. 


And for my health- I feel better than I have in a very long time.


And for each passing day- each flying day- and the endless opportunities within each day for renewal, for return, for repairing what is broken and strengthening what is strong. 


Thank you, Hashem. 


May the poetry of our machzorim and the yearnings of our hearts be sweet to Your ears this year...


 May the peals of the shofar quake within each of us...

May it help us to reach the place inside of us that stretches up to you at all times...


May the hardness of our hearts crack and be replaced with 


                           Your 
                        unbounded
                            love. 

Bath Time in the Bowl

I love giving my baby baths. Or should I say bowls? 

She currently bathes in a mixing bowl because we don't have space for a giant baby bath. When she's bigger, she'll probably upgrade to the sink or our shower (as we don't have an adult bathtub, either). It's so cute because she doesn't splash around yet, so I can bathe her wherever I choose to put the mixing bowl (lately, on our washing machine which doubles as kitchen counter space). 


She's extremely easy to bathe. When I place her in the water, she gets this far-off look in her eye (after all, 8 weeks ago, she was completely submerged in water) and her whole body relaxes. She also becomes very quiet, as if she's waiting for something paramount to happen. Her baby soap smells just like baby soap should, and I have 3 adorable hooded towels- all gifts from beloved friends- to choose from for the drying-off part.

One of my beloved mentors made a trip over to my apartment with 2 of her 8 children, to teach me how to give my baby a bath. I love and look up to this woman very much. She showed me the way the tepid water should feel, and how much water she needs, and how much soap, and to add the soap before the water, and how to safely hold the baby, and how to wash her from top to bottom. She then demonstrated how to wrap her immediately and dry her quickly, since babies can lose their heat very easily.


 It was so kind of her to do this- to make this special trip. I'll never forget it, and it will always make me smile at bath time with my baby. 


Have you ever been taught a skill in a way that makes you smile every time you perform it? 

How to Score Points in Elul

If there's anything I've learned from recovering from birth, its Accept Help. 

I have an acquaintance who was kind enough to accompany me to the grocery store yesterday, to be an extra set of hands and feet.You cannot imagine how useful this really was- for fetching forgotten last-minute items (forgetfulness is a major theme these days), to shorten the produce-selection process, to load all of my groceries onto the conveyor (when your baby is in a Baby Bjorn, you don't want to lean forward too far). She even returned my cart as I loaded the baby, stroller, and groceries into a cab (okay, the cab driver helped, too).

If you know anyone with a small baby, and want to do a major act of kindness, offer to assist her in the grocery store. You never thought of that one, did you?  

The Death of Perfectionism

The more organized I attempt to become, the more I realize that I have an internal aversion to order. 
It's like an allergy. I can usually ignore it and get by anyway, but its always there, and when I am tired or stressed, it flairs up. 


Our apartment is very small. Whatever you are picturing, cut it in half. We love it- its perfect for us, but it requires a high level of organization. And a willingness to throw out or immediately give away ANYTHING that is not needed. 


So to live here, I am constantly creating systems of order. And once I have a system, I realize how much I resist it. In chaos, you can't tell. But once things actually have a place, you see in broad daylight whether or not you consistently put them in their place.


Example: We have a diaper bin in addition to a regular garbage, right next to our changing table. Good system, right? Makes sense, right?

Well, I often find myself putting her diapers (the wet ones at least) in the regular garbage- which is FARTHER away than the bin. And even though our changing table is fantastic, and waterproof, with all supplies organized and at hand's reach, I often find myself changing her elsewhere (even after a few 'accidents').


So then I ask myself the question: what good is organization if I don't abide by my own system? In other words, if I am not perfect, why bother?


And I have arrived at the answer:

There's such a thing as a B. Or a B+. I don't have to get an A+ at everything. Order (seder in Hebrew) is not my strong point. I wish it was, but G-d has given me enough points of strength- I don't need to feel impoverished if I get a B/B+ in some areas of character development. I am working on it- this is not an attempt to escape growth in my problem areas. This realization is actually a sign of growth (or shrinkage?) in another problem area of mine- perfectionism. It's taken me years to be able to admit that that life is not pass/fail, that a B in an area where I want to succeed is actually okay.


(the photo is my baby on her changing table. see, it DOES happen occasionally...)

the Pair of Pacifiers

Last week, I was at Shefa 'Mall' with my baby.

 Mall is in parenthesis because I am from New Jersey, after all, which is the mall-capital of the universe, and what Israel calls a 'mall' is sometimes more of a run-down...area...of commerce. I had picked up a Fisher Price mobile on said outing- a bit of a mistake because it's not electric and therefore needs to be wound every 60 seconds (as if I didn't have enough endlessly repetitive menial tasks on my plate right now?)

 Anyway, I needed to replace her clear-colored-and-therefore-totally-invisible-and-easily-misplaced pacifiers, so on the way out, I headed to the pharmacy. FYI babies know the difference between pacifiers and have preferences, so it's a good idea to addict your child to a replaceable model.

 The female employee at checkout was a bit intimidating- she seemed like she had just finished her army service. She scanned the 2-pack of pacifiers, gave me change, looked up at my baby in her stroller, and then kept the pacifiers on her side of the counter. She then began the interrogation: 

"How old is she? Why would you get these for her??"

(was she referring to the objectionable act of giving a baby a pacifier to begin with? I started to shrink. It took me a minute to figure out that she thought my 6-week-old was older than the 0-3 month recommended age for that particular pacifier- she's big. I stuttered that she was only a month and a half.)

"Is this for now? Are you going to give her one now??"

(she had noticed that my baby was agitated. I stuttered that, yes, I was. I wondered what she was getting at.)

"WHICH one are you going to give her now?"

(I stuttered that it didn't matter- they were identical, after all...)

She disappeared with the pacifiers I had already purchased- ten dollars for a 2-pack, by the way. I was just standing there with my agitated baby, a now-agitated mommy. I wondered if she was tattling on me to the Misrad Ha Briut (ministry of health) for some yet-unknown parental offense. 

She then reappeared with both pacifiers out of the box and slightly damp. She explained, 

"I just wanted to sterilize them first. I boiled both of them." Then, she complimented my baby for being so cute. 

There's a famous metaphor for Israelis- they're compared to cactuses ('sabras' in Hebrew) because a cactus is prickly on the outside and soft on the inside. 

interruption

Since becoming a mother, it's been a unique challenge to attempt to string together 3 words befo....

She's up. There goes that!

Nothing is like Living It.

This picture is from my engagement party, 19 months ago. 

I remember thinking, when the picture was being snapped, 'I am going to look back on this picture and think-


I knew NOTHING about my husband back then!'

And it's true- I had no idea who he was.  

Wait- that sounds a little reckless. How could I get engaged to someone I didn't know?

You can't know someone until you're married to them, even though this doesn't absolve you of your responsibility to date with your eyes open. I had prepared myself extensively to date, and when my husband came up as a potential match, I had even more preparation to do. 

When this picture was taken, my now-husband and I had just gone through a very comprehensive process to determine whether we were right for each other. This included background checks of three official references plus many unofficial ones (before our first date),  a DNA compatibility test, a complete lack of physical contact (to keep away those rosy lenses), many hours of dates spent discussing our backgrounds, values, and what we envision for our futures, meetings with family members of the other party, constant guidance from mentors, a go-between to listen to our feedback and set up our earlier dates, permission from my father for my husband to propose, and much more. After every date, I would write pages and pages in my journal of exactly what I had asked this potential spouse that I was meeting, what his responses were, anything I noticed, and any questions I had for the next date (assuming there would be one- both parties had to agree to each subsequent date). I was in touch with my Rebbetzin, my Rabbi, and the matchmaker in between dates, so that they were all aware of what was happening and how I felt about it. My husband, on his side, did the same. 

So why did I think I knew NOTHING about my husband when this picture was taken? After all, I'd just gone through a very exhaustive process to determine that my husband was the right one!

Because preparation only goes so far. As much as I read about marriage, spoke to people about marriage, and imagined my then- fiance in that context, we had to forge our own way in order to know anything about each other. There are no generalizations in our life- it's completely unique. My husband and I are two soul-halves of one whole that has never come into this world before, and never will again*. Our marriage is taking place in a time that will never repeat itself. So as necessary as all my preparation was, it was not like living it.

Nothing is like living it.

*reincarnation is a Jewish belief, however, if our souls are to return, they will do so in different physical bodies than our current ones. 

How did I end up living here?

(This photo is not really from my neighborhood, but it could be. You get the idea.)

I live in Unsdorf- one of the most religious neighborhoods in Jerusalem. I never thought I would live here. I viewed myself as 'religious, but...you know...more open' (whatever that means), and as such, assumed I would live in one of the more 'open' or 'mixed' neighborhoods. How did I end up living here?

Our spiritual guide is the sainted and scholarly Biala Rebbe. When my husband and I were engaged, we decided to make our home in Israel, and to start off in Jerusalem. But of course, there are a myriad of neighborhoods to choose from. So my husband asked the Rebbe where we should live, and he responded,


 "You should live close to me."

I was both warmed and discouraged by this response. Warmed- by the feeling of such a great person reaching out to us. It was so personal and paternal, the kind of support we needed to start off our lives together. Discouraged- by the reality that his neighborhood was the most expensive and sought after, and apartment searches in that neighborhood were yielding no viable results. I also feared leaving the community I had lived in for 4 years, where I was surrounded by support and familiarity, not to mention English speakers. 

We searched for a suitable apartment in the areas surrounding the Biala Rebbe's neighborhood, without success. There was one apartment  in Maalot Dafna, that one basically entered through a rabbit hole, and had no windows. There was one in Har Nof, also without windows, where every room seemed to be shaped like a piece of pizza. I had high hopes for one in Kiryat Moshe, trying to ignore its shattered window. But alas, it slipped through our fingers anyway. We even found one that was an 8 minute walk from the Rebbe's home. When we visited, we saw that the couple was drying their laundry (no dryer of course) in the tiny bedroom, due to lack of space. Since it also lacked windows, it smelled of mildew. This apartment was the most expensive of the bunch (not that the others were cheap), and we would have needed to take over the lease much earlier than we wanted to, so we declined, praying that we were making the right decision, in light of the advice to 'live near him'. 

The Rebbe told me, when we were engaged, to stop looking for apartments until after Pesach because I wouldn't find anything. So after so many unsuccessful attempts, I completely stopped.

The morning after Isru Chag (the end of the week-long holiday), I was back on Yisa Bracha (the apartment listing service here), and read an ad for an apartment in Unsdorf. I barely scanned the ad before calling my fiance. I had learned from experience that you must act quickly if the apartment seems remotely viable. We met at the address, had a look inside, and were shocked to discover a cute little place with actual windows. Small, but well-kept. Something about it made me start envisioning our life there. We met the landlord who lived next door and my fiance was thrilled to be able to speak to him in German (since his mother tongue is Swiss German). The rent was actually $50.00 less than the cheapest we'd seen, with no long-term commitment. Everything looked picture perfect. I asked, almost as an afterthought, 
"Where does the Biala Rebbe live exactly?"

My fiance responded, 


"The building next door."

Whoa. And every day we see, more and more, why we were destined to live here.We can't stay forever, but we will leave with heavy hearts when the day comes. With wonderful, exceptional neighbors, my husband's shul and yeshiva a stone's throw away, and close proximity to the Rebbe, who has blessed us every step of the way, we want to stay as long as we can. 

By the way, if you had asked me in the first few months, I would have been whistling a different tune. I started off feeling miserable, isolated from my pre-marriage community, and afraid to even attempt to speak Hebrew with my neighbors. Last Rosh Hashanah,  I spent 2/3 of the holiday in tears because I felt so out of place here (which, if you know anything about the holiday, is not the idea at all). I guess things can change, even my attitude. 

mini letters

Dear Geula,

Maybe you should make a stroller lane on the sidewalk. I pushed a stroller there today and I felt like a contestant on Double Dare. 

Dear My Shadchan,

Thank you for making me the happiest woman on earth. 

Dear Pack n' Play,

I really like the changing table.

Dear Air Conditioner,

You are a lifesaver.

Dear Egged Bus Service,

I really like you much more now that I am no longer pregnant.

Dear Ladies on the Bus,

Maybe I could use a bit less constructive criticism on how I am caring for my baby. 

Dear Mailbox,

You look locked, but you're not. What's with that? And who has the key?


Dear Wedding Ring,


I am still looking for you, and if anyone else finds you first, I don't have yiush* so you're not hefker**. Mmmkay?


Dear Digital Camera,


If only your batteries didn't die so quickly, and if only I enjoyed uploading pictures...we'd get together much more often.


Dear Jerusalem, 


Thank you for hosting my life.

*yiush- a hebrew term for an owner's 'despair' of finding their lost object, rendering it...
**hefker- ownerless according to Jewish law, and not considered stealing if kept by the finder.

Traffic-stopping Attitude

I took a cab today to a doctor's appointment on the other side of Jerusalem, with my infant nestled in her Baby Bjorn Active (even this part of the story would never happen in America).

We'd traveled about 3 blocks when I heard the cab driver calling his friend, a makolet (convenience store) owner, and telling him in Hebrew that he'd be there in half a minute.

And I concluded that since the doctors office was more than half-a-minute away, he must be making a pit-stop (not that he felt the need to inform me). I asked myself, "Why is it that all drivers seem to be best friends with people who sell food?"- based on the many times I'd seen city bus drivers being passed a falafel in the middle of the street, in the middle of their shift.

In this case, my driver needed a bottle of water (yes, the meter was still running on this small detour but I didn't make it an issue because water is important).

To receive the bottle from his friend and pay him, he stopped in the middle of the road, diagonally, across the ONCOMING traffic lane, which was curving around a bend in front of the store. He didn't pull 'over', he pulled 'across'.

After getting the water and thanking his friend, he pulled back onto the lane moving in the proper direction, nanoseconds before the oncoming traffic collided with his diagonal and backwards (in their lane) vehicle.

Now, I had an infant strapped to my chest, and it was objectively dangerous, so I involuntarily let out a scream when this stunt happened.

To which he replied, 'What- you think they wouldn't stop for you? You're ehhhm...a VIP!'

Thanks for the compliment? It's just this invincible Attitude, and if you don't have it, you must not be truly Israeli.