Tag Archives: baby

Almost another day in Israel

It was 10 am – still in my pj’s because I wasn’t feeling so well –  and trying to get Mo to take a nap. The siren blares. Oh yeah, it would be that siren. The same one that warned us of incoming rockets last fall and not the siren that ushers in Shabbat that I can barely hear most weeks.

My first thought is about the boys at school and wishing I had warned them and told them about Yom HaShoah. I hoped that they weren’t feeling panicked and wondered what their rebbes were telling them. The siren continued to blare loudly from above our patio.

Like most Americans, I usually have a hard time connecting to civil memorial days. I dutifully try to read an article in the paper about Memorial Day to remind me what the day is about. Otherwise I join the rest the country by focusing on barbecues and parades. I like the parades. I enjoy watching the soldiers marching and I can even feel a certain solemnity when I see them.

As the siren continued to blare, I realized this was different. This siren and all the cars stopped on the road right now had something to do with me. I was connected to them because we were all mourning our families. Our bubbes and zeides, great aunts and great uncles, cousins we would never know. This was my family’s story too.

The siren stops and I rock Mo to sleep. I need to get dressed and do more laundry. Life moves on as it must. While nothing dramatic has happened another brush stroke has been added to my connection to this crazy place.

A Rova morning

Today was sort of the classic Rova morning, so I felt I had to share…

So, in the morning, while the older boys were in school, Mo and I were in our favorite makolet. I was not only shopping there, but was meeting a friend who had rented a car for the week and who had agreed to take my sheitel (wig) with hers to be styled for Passover.  Meanwhile, it’s even more than the usual balagan (chaos) in the makolet, as they’re working to flip it over to Passover products. The two aisles are full of boxes to be shelved which meant that Mo in his happy green stroller was often in the way.

I’m in line waiting to pay, behind a very large order, and a nervous looking man comes up who only needs a loaf of bread. He’s late to work, so we let him in. Then comes a little boy, maybe 5 years old, buying lachmania (the classic rolls that the kids here all eat) and that cheese/yogurt stuff that Israelis have for breakfast (they often drink it, I use a spoon). The cashier is a terse but kind Russian woman who never loses sight of this boy.  While juggling other customers, she makes sure he has his change, and his food, and is okay.

In the middle of all of this, a bar mitzvah passes by the open doorway. They are a regular, and loud (horns and drums), part of Mondays and Thursdays in the Rova. This is a big one, with a mix of more modern-looking types together with some long peyos (side-locks), all wearing cute matching Che-like t-shirts featuring an outline of the bar mitzvah boy. Other than me, no one in the makolet pays the passing procession any mind.

When I go outside, the little boy with the lachmania and cheese is there, looking anxious. I ask him if he needs help. He doesn’t want to talk to me, but eventually shakes his head. He’s too busy watching everyone go by. I am not the only one fascinated by the street scenes of the Rova.

I walk along towards the ATM, appreciating what a classic Rova day this is, and feeling happy to be here. Walking through Churva Square, with all of the disparate groups of Jews, I start thinking about the political situation and where I would fit if I lived here. A group of soldiers pass by, and I think about whether I would be willing to risk my life for this country. I’m startled that, in that moment, I think I would. A tear comes to my eye as I rumble along the stony square, feeling connected to everyone around me in a new way.

At the ATM on this sunny spring day (it was 80 degrees today!) I am still captivated by this feeling. It has been a dark dreary winter of colds and flus and little inspiration. I am so grateful and excited to feel inspired again. Then I realize:  Wait, I’m right here! I can go down to the Kotel right now and channel this feeling into a spiritual experience. I look at my watch – yes! – it isn’t chatzos yet, so I can still daven (pray) shacharis (the morning service). Oh no, but I don’t have a siddur (prayer book). I’ll find one at the Wall – problem solved! I aim Mordechai’s happy green stroller down the road, dodge the bar mitzvah, tourists, and other mommies and look for the shortcut stairs that Dan says all the locals use. I bump the stoller down one flight and suddenly I remember: I bought yogurt. And it is among the first of the warm days. I can’t let Dan’s yogurt spoil just so I can live out some romantic notion. My prayers will also be heard from my house two minutes away, and I will have done something nice for my husband.

Back up the steps, through the crowd and homeward bound. Of course, I could theoretically still daven shacharis, but now I’m home. The baby is not interested in letting me salvage what’s left of my high, and there’s lots to do.

The trip, Stage 1: Chicago to London (UPDATED)

The last stretch of packing and prepping the house for our departure & renters was pretty hectic and stressful. It made it hard to focus on where we were going, and on not killing my family.

In the end, we had 8 large suitcases, each packed right up to (okay, maybe a bit over) the 50-pound limit. I am forever grateful to the AA skycap who put the bags through without weighing them.

“Hey, the service here is pretty good for coach.”

Things went pretty well on the first leg of the trip. Not only did we have the super-helpful skycap, but there was the nice gate crew who killed time by asking Olympic trivia over the intercom (when I correctly answered that Nancy Kerrigan was the Olympian who had 7 bodyguards at the 1994 Winter Olympics, I won a discount coupon that I had to give away — only good through October — and a silver medal, just like Nancy Kerrigan!). They also helpfully moved us to the bulkhead seats with a bassinet for Baby Mo. I’d planned to get to the airport extra early just for that (those are first-come, first-serve), but they even preserved my scamulous move of leaving the empty middle seat in our new row.

Yitzi has his takeoff candy tucked under his chin… for safety.

There are 5 seats in the middle, and we had 4 tickets, so I reserved like this: XXOXX. That middle seat will be the last one on the plane taken and, even if it is, the inhabitant will jump at the chance to trade for an aisle. No risk! Anyway, when the gate agent moved us, she kept the configuration, which meant no one sat there, and we had all 5 seats (plus bassinet) to ourselves. Score!

The melatonin kicked in quickly.

I was dreading the trip, because Shalom (our 4-year-old) is not famous for flying well long distance. He doesn’t sleep, then takes it out on the rest of the plane. So, this time, we decided to take the common advice we got: drug the children. Many suggested Benadryl, but there are kosher concerns, so we decided to go with melatonin, which many also swear by. At first, it seemed we had hit the jackpot. Fast-acting!

Unfortunately, we should have chosen Long-Lasting. After not-long-enough, Shalom was awake and possessed. Crying and unresponsive to logic, bribes, and threats. He did eventually snap out of it when we revealed the existence of his personal TV screen (hidden in the bulkhead seats of a 777 until you pop it up) and put on The Pirates! Band of Misfits. But he remained short-fused the rest of the way — not surprising, given that he had maybe 2 hours of sleep. Yitzi slept much better and Mordechai was, as predicted, the easiest passenger.

Between Shalom’s issues and the fact that an hour delay and an eastward flight gave me a quick window for shacharis (morning prayers), I got very little sleep myself. Nevertheless, we arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport tired but happy at about 9:30 a.m. local time.

 

Only women and transvestites may change diapers here.

Update: I forgot to include American Airlines’ blatantly sexist baby changing instructions in the bathroom. Check out the depiction of the diaper changer. Of course, I construed this as a statement of official policy and refused to change any diapers on the plane, to avoid getting tazed by a sky marshal.

 

Welcome Mordechai Leib Shmikler

Okay, now we’re ready for the passport application. Mordechai Leib entered the bris of Avraham Avinu this morning, and received his name. No one is happier than Yitzi, who took great offense at our joke that we were going to name his baby brother “Honey Peanut.”

Mordechai is named for Debbie’s paternal grandfather. He was famous for his ahavas Yisrael (love for his fellow Jew), which we hope his namesake will also enjoy.

We are still deciding on a nickname. “Mordy” is the obvious, but I can’t seem to say it without putting on my Old Jewish Man voice: “Mordy, pass the herring!”