You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2009.
Because they are so adorable that they’d charm you into living in a dictatorship. (Benevolent dictatorship, of course.)
Subtitle: Don’t run errands when your kid should be napping
Scene: New gelato place in town
OTE, after refusing a sample of the halvah gelato (this is the middle east, but I’m not mentally ready for that*), tries the gingersnap flavor instead. The young woman behind the counter hears the noise I’ve been ignoring–namely the steady chant of, “Can I try some, Ema? Can I try some? Can I have some, Ema?”–and offers AM his very own teeny tiny spoonful. He tries it and promptly asks to try the “shokolad marir” (the dark chocolate).
“It’s very bitter,” the kind young woman says, indicating the milk chocolate variety, “Do you want this one instead?”
“YES,” he agrees.
“Ema, can I have some in a cone?”
“No, honey.”
“Can I have some in a dish?”
“I don’t know. You just had chocolate raisins!” [Bribe to leave the toy store, where we were buying a gift for a party TODAY that Miss M was invited to YESTERDAY, but really, this is a whole other post.]
“I just want a little scoop. [Demonstration of "little" with hands.] Just a medium scoop. Just a medium-big scoop.”
I fix him with my best hairy eyeball. “Let me get this straight. First you wanted a little scoop, then a medium scoop, now a medium-big scoop?”
“Can I have some, Ema?”
I turn to the counterwoman and give the universal gesture for “as small as possible that you can still charge me for.”
“I can give you half a cadoor [scoop],” she offers.
“Yes, please,” I say, take out shisha shekalim [6 NIS = about $1.50] and turn back to the world’s cutest tyrant. “We can share this.”
“Can I hold it, Ema?”
“NO.”
“Why?”
“Because then I won’t get any.”
Then there were the six mini-tantrums as he discovered that no, I really wasn’t going to let him hold it, let him eat more than four bites, or let him run out into traffic.
I anticipate future trips…by myself or with adult company. There’s a pistachio cone with my name on it.
* Although the halvah we’ve had here completely surpasses anything we’ve ever tried in the United States; it’s not even in the same realm.
I love wearing sneakers on Yom Kippur. I don’t wear my running shoes or anything with leather uppers, so by the end of the day (assuming I’ve been on my feet in synagogue, which hasn’t happened in many a year but whatever) they’re feeling a little sore, but having a valid reason to wear socks and comfortable shoes gets two thumbs up in my book. Fancy shoes with heels and pointy toes and shiny accoutrements make me miserable.
Miss M came home from gan on Friday with a sheet explaining the restrictions of Yom Kippur (not applicable to one at the tender age of five, though not wearing leather shoes is pretty much doable for anyone) and was in tears at the thought of having to wear her slippers in public. Taxman and I tried not to laugh as we explained that she could wear her [faux] crocs because they’re made out of plastic. “Ok,” she sniffed.
Actually, if she were cunning she’d agitate to wear her shiny pink plastic dress up heels outside of the house–normally not allowed, because a) they clatter like you wouldn’t believe and b) every once in a while she still falls down even wearing normal shoes.
Maybe when she’s six she’ll figure it out. In the meantime, we will have to figure out how to explain that Yom Kippur around here will look like a giant block party. Our neighborhood is probably 15-20% religious, which means that the majority of people will not be in synagogue tomorrow evening but rather in the streets, riding bikes and hanging out. Public bus and train service, which always shut down for Shabbat, are joined by air travel (the Tel Aviv airport closes for 33 hours) and any kind of car-based transport (except for emergency services) as unavailable to the general public on Yom Kippur. (Read: it is not legal to drive or be driven on Yom Kippur. I have no idea how enforceable this is.)
Of course, at five, the gravitas of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, explained at gan in Hebrew over the past two weeks, has not seemed to make much of an impact. I can’t say that I’m sorry about that; once she figures it out, she’ll have her whole life to grapple with it.
Computer still in the shop, every spare free moment sucked up by ulpan (but I really like it), running way behind on shabbat prep (nothing like shopping on FRIDAY morning because taking the kids to the store, any store, is completely terrible), but wishing everyone a “tzom tov” (Dalia the ulpan teacher says it’s more appropriate than “tzom kal”) and a gmar chatima tova.
We’re not going with the water delivery for now because a year seems like a long committment. Maybe we can get someone to bring us Brita materials from the US (persephone, I’m looking at you). And I apparently buried the lede in that whole post, which was that AM is apparently speaking (!) Hebrew (!!!) at gan. With decent grammar and everything.
It wouldn’t be me if I were shiny and happy and well rested all the time, right?
My time is short because someone (me? Taxman?) BROKE the home laptop. Like we are going to have to replace the hard drive BROKEN. Thank goodness we landed somewhere with a hugely busy local internet mailing list, so within a couple of hours of Taxman posting “URGENT: COMPUTER FAIL, NEED HELP” we got eight recommendations and now the computer is with the computer doctor and by the end of the week (= Thursday) should have a new hard drive installed and all that jazz. Also thankfully Taxman is working (so we have his computer) but his office is closed this week so he’s doing all the running around to get things fixed.
The bigger gripe is with our water situation. We are coming from New York City, which has really great tasting tap water. We drank it straight, no filter. Israel has very hard water (lots of minerals), and the city we’re living in has particularly not-great water. We could suck it up and get used to it; we could do what hard core Israelis do and add all manner of sugary syrups; or we could buy bottled. Because it is like living on the sun, I want to encourage everyone (myself included) to drink lots of water, and we’ve been buying our favorite brand of bottled water. Other than the price of the water, the thing giving us pause is the amount of plastic that we’re using. Israel is way behind on recycling, though there is voluntary plastic recycling at designated dropoff points. But still. We’ve been investigating home delivery service, but between renting the “water bar,” the cost of the delivery, and the water itself (which must have a riotously high profit margin) we’re looking at 2-3 times what we’d spend at the grocery store buying 1.5 liter bottles in a six-pack.
And in a futher update to the entitled section of this whine, the brand of water that we like the taste of best is the most expensive. If we went with the less expensive water/delivery service we’d be paying about the same as what we pay in the store for the brand we like. We should suck it up and get used to the taste.* Bleh. Really, though, this is a justification for people to make aliyah via Teaneck, where the water already tastes terrible.
Nu, we should all have such problems.
But now! Shiny happy story time! We were pretty sure that AM was absorbing some Hebrew in his preschool because he’s three and that’s what three year olds do, but he hadn’t come out with anything at home. Today when we picked him up one of his teachers said, “He speaks Hebrew!” Um, sure, news to us. Apparently he said, “אפשר עוד מים בבקשה”** at school today. Color me flabbergasted-but-happy.
* Chilled it’s slightly better. But I prefer my water at room temp.
** He asked for more water. And said PLEASE. In a sentence that’s grammatically acceptable.
אני מאלחת לכל החברים שלי שנה טובה, שנה של ברכה, אושר, ובראיות. להתראות עד תש”ע
The Tired family would like to extend Rosh Hashana greetings to everyone. We wish you a year full of happiness, health, and dreams fulfilled.
One Tired Ema
Taxman
Miss M & AM
Breaking news from Sunday night (which I, of course, did not hear until Monday morning) was that Asaf Ramon, the son of Israeli astronaut Ilan Ramon, was killed when the plane he was piloting for the Israeli Air Force crashed.
Ilan Ramon, z”l, was aboard the space shuttle Columbia, which was lost in 2003. He was a hero to Israelis; the best of the best, doing amazing things as part of an international team of scientists; lost in his prime. There is an elementary school two blocks from my house named after him.
Asaf Ramon was 21, just beginning his adult life and following in the footsteps of his father. He will be mourned by his mother and siblings, as well as the leaders of Israel and everyone who admired his father.
I cannot help thinking, though, of those soldiers, Israelis here and Americans elsewhere, who die in more mundane ways, who are mourned by fewer, and the families who have suffered more private losses. Those who do not die, but rather have difficult tasks and then are judged in the court of public opinion; who sometimes return home scarred by what they have been called upon do or see.
I do not wish to minimize Asaf Ramon’s death in any way; I grieve especially for his mother, who was notified by the press of her son’s death before the military representatives could deliver the news nobody wants to hear.
Public deaths, or the death of a public figure, are hard to watch. A million years ago I sat behind Alisa Flatow in class. The next semester I attended her funeral. As difficult as it was to wrap my head around the violent death of a young, vibrant classmate, it was more difficult to comprehend the behavior of the media, who trespassed among her friends, harassed her boyfriend, and offered opinions in their newspapers. I didn’t know Alisa well, but I cried not only for her but the people who she left behind, who had to do their grieving before cameras and under stage lights. (Her father has since created scholarships and schools to honor her memory, some of which bring people to Israel, the land she loved and the place she died.)
Asaf Ramon has been buried next to his father. I wish for his mother, brothers, and sister, and all Israelis, to be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem and to know only joy in the future.
Baila and I had a lot to talk about on our way to and from the bloggers’ conference yesterday. While there, I mostly felt like a little fish in a pond of indeterminate size. There are people who somehow manage to write every day (or almost), deal with loads of comments, full-time jobs, and several times more children than I have.
Because I’m not using the blog as a vehicle to make money, I haven’t focused it more than the “slice of life” that I think I’ve always provided. Many people there represented a focus: politics, religion, food, or what have you. As my life has shifted, so have my posts. I think I have a more diverse readership (those who have emerged from the woodwork!) than other writing-in-English-located-in-Israel blogs, but that is in part to still being new here. I hope I can keep everyone interested as I evolve. Suggestions welcome, although now I am spending almost every free second in ulpan (which I really like, two days in) we’ll have to see what that means for the regular blogging.
The conference itself was a little heavy on the panels and a little light on the socializing, which was probably at least half (read: 75%) the reason I was there. Oh well. But I did get to meet Ruti*, RivkA, Tehilla, Hannah, Rivkah, Israel, and others. I saw people I hadn’t seen in eight years, in 10 years, who didn’t know I blogged. I got to see Benji Lovitt perform. I sat and listened to David and Jameel. I sat next to the Altmans to make snarky comments.
It occurred to me that a shabbaton would be great; just to have a chance to chat and chat and chat and eat, followed up by a nap. (Who has room for 300?) Because ultimately, using social media to advance yourself, your blog, or your aliyah seems kind of crazy when you are IN A ROOM FULL OF FRIENDLY, INTERESTING PEOPLE. You already have a lot in common. Just introduce yourself and ask for what you need.
* Ruti, who is possibly the youngest looking grandmother I have ever seen, is now my new best friend because she originally thought I was under 30. When I corrected her, she said, “I have shoes older than you!” Those must be some interesting shoes.
There might be a work stoppage tomorrow.* It’s not entirely clear to me where it’s coming from, whether it’s at the national level or at the city level.
For the first time in her (admittedly young) life, Miss M goes to public school and will be affected. On Friday her teachers, employees of the city who would be obligated not to show up for work, were casting about for volunteers to take shifts in the class. Because my Hebrew is at a two year old level (approximately), I don’t think anyone expects me to volunteer. Which is a convenient excuse; if I were fluent I’d have to think of something drastic, like purposely breaking a bone, in order to avoid babysitting for 33 five year olds (32 of whom are not my own).
AM’s in a private nursery program, so I can assume his school is on as usual.
What of me and my ulpan? Don’t know. Is the strike even on? Don’t know. The newspapers are eerily silent on the topic; the few news snippets about it have been vague. Is the strike on? Are there late-night negotiations? No idea. Our usual best sources of information work for the municipal government, so they should know, but there have been no e-mails.
I hate not knowing. Tomorrow morning is going to be a disaster any which way (kids tired from Shabbat with friends), but I’d like to know who to drop off first and how I will be spending my day. My morning, anyway; in the afternoon I’m off to the Second International Jewish Bloggers Convention…if I could just figure out where it is.
* This is a relatively common disruption in Israel.
Update: I know where the convention is now! I have no idea where I’m going to park!
Update 2: It is apparently the assistant teachers who are striking. The assistant teacher who opens the room at 7:30 and whose presence fulfills the requirement to have two adults during school (so if a parent doesn’t step in, they have to cancel). Dribs and drabs…at least we can wake everybody 10 minutes later tomorrow.
Today is the last weekday I’ll have to myself. Kids are in school (today AM forgot to cry until after I had kissed him goodbye! score!); Taxman is at work. Just me and my messy, still-unpacked house.*
Sunday I start ulpan, four hours a day of Hebrew language instruction.
Note to self: do not forget to eat breakfast and/or bring a snack and a drink. (Because? I totally would forget to feed myself. Seven in the morning here is a little hectic, what with two dawdlers who need to be fed, dressed, sunscreened, toothbrushed, and lice protected. Plus lunch for Taxman and a packed snack for Miss M.)
The aliyah pieces are fitting together; now we begin the (life?)long process of klita, absorption into Israeli society.
* I have spent literally the entire summer, from Memorial Day to Labor Day, dealing with packing and unpacking and things of that ilk. You’d think it would be inspiration to finish up already, but in fact it makes me want to lie down for a nice nap.
I passed my test! Using a stick shift! The second lesson really helped, as well as a lot of practice…
The reason why I was on the verge of hysteria at the thought of failing was a complicated stew:
You have only one year to drive on a foreign license.
You have three years to convert your foreign license to an Israeli one.
BUT
Until you convert your license, you cannot buy a car. We currently have a long term rental, which we use every weekday, but it’s obviously not the cheapest way to go.
You have only two chances to present your foreign license (I am skipping approximately 10 steps, including an optician-administered eye test, a doctor, and two government offices–this is the most complicated single post-aliyah task, I think), take one driving lesson from a qualified instructor, and take a road test. If you fail the road test twice you are on the hook to do it from scratch, like a home-grown Israeli. This entails a theory test (in Hebrew!!), a series of 28 (!!!!) road lessons, and the road test that I took today. As much pressure as I felt to pass on the first try, how much of a wreck would I have been if I were down to my last chance?
Of course, many of the steps involve fees. We’re looking at about $350 for each of us (slightly more for me because I took a second lesson) to get our Israeli licenses. The from-scratch method, due to the extra testing and ridiculous number of lessons, would probably cost in the neighborhood of $1,000. And that’s before you buy a car for double the price (and double the price of gas every time you fill up!) you’d pay in the United States.
The funniest thing is that I (and probably many other newbies) thought that converting a license would be among the easiest tasks before us. In May I said something to that effect at a table full of recent and not-so-recent immigrants and got an earful. It seems so ridiculous and draconian that a bunch of people in their 30s (driving for +/- half their lives now; that was the real rub for me, because I consider myself to be a pretty decent and well mannered driver) have to jump through these hoops….
But it’s over and done and maybe I’ll sleep tonight and run tomorrow morning. And enjoy my last free days before ulpan. And maybe unpack a box or 12.
