There is a thought that the Jewish world is a small one. (Although with the proliferation of J-Bloggers out there, now I am not so sure.) So naturally your friend from ulpan is a friend of Baila’s. You’ve inadvertently “met” people under different names who turn out to be bloggers and you re-meet. People from the old neighborhood are people from the new neighborhood too, and some of them even blog and bring the snark–my favorite flavor of blog, don’t you know.

It’s not limited to technology; just within my ulpan, there’s the son of one couple studying under the tutelage of another woman’s son (he’s his rebbe in yeshiva), one woman’s married daughter knows the married daughter of our teacher (they live on the same yishuv), several people’s kids are in school together, and one person’s grandfather, who was a cattle dealer in Ontario in the 1950s, probably knew someone else’s grandfather, who was also a cattle dealer in Ontario in the 1950s.

This world grows very small when tragedy strikes.

When we arrived in Israel, on our official aliyah flight, there was a lot of fanfare. Journalists from all over the Jewish world were in attendance. A picture of half of the Tired family disembarking wound up on the front page of a Jewish newspaper in the United States. Inside the airport, as we were waiting for the ceremony to begin, a young photographer named Yehuda Boltshauser took a group shot of us with Taxman’s parents.

From that brief interaction we were on his email list, and as more aliyah flights arrived this summer we got links to updated photos on his Flickr page.

Suddenly, in the middle of November, we received pleas to pray for his wife, who was gravely ill. Over the next day the emails came every few hours, and the whole picture emerged. At 38 weeks pregnant with their first child, she had a sudden bout of pre-eclampsia. From slightly elevated protein levels to not feeling terribly well and being nauseous to seizures within half a day. Though the response time of the ambulance was very fast, the hospitals in Israel tend to be clustered in or around major cities; one email described a very fast ambulance ride that covered a lot of ground. Too much ground.

Their baby daughter was delivered, desperately ill as well, via emergency C-section, but his wife slipped into a coma.

Within two days, his daughter was healthy and his wife was dead.

Through it all, this family had the support of hundreds of thousands of people, most of them strangers, saying prayers, reciting Psalms, and lending emotional support. As horrifying as this man’s new reality must be, he and his baby daughter are cradled by a faith so strong that it seems to me, reading his loss and eulogy through the computer, to be unshakable.

I hope it is. There will be dark nights ahead.

I was struck by my own reaction to this unfolding story.

About nine years ago, I heard the news that a couple I had known in college had had a full term stillborn baby. I remember being horrified that at the dawn of the 21st century that a stillbirth could happen, that modern technology could fail in this way. I was 25 years old and married for less than a year.

Now I am, I don’t know, older and wiser?

Now I know that not only does advanced technology (reproductive and otherwise) fail, on a frighteningly regular basis, but the human body fails as well. Technology and the human body can work in wonderful harmony, but can also fail each other miserably.

Part of me wishes I didn’t know this, and I could continue to be horrified when the “ordinary” failures touch people who, as it turned out, live in an ultra-Orthodox yishuv 10 km from my house. Don’t get me wrong: It is so sad and so terrible and absolutely not right that this 23-year-old woman lost her life in the waning seconds of an uneventful pregnancy. But I can’t say that it’s something unheard of, even in this day and age, with all this technology and doctors and speeding ambulances.

There are gaps in the world that just cannot be filled. That is where faith lies.

The loss of Chaya Adira Chana bat Shoshana A”H will leave an enormous gap in the life of her husband and daughter.

המקום ינחם אותם בתוך שאר אבלי ציון וירושלים

So I was desperately trying to follow up with my dad, to try to get a name for this mystery woman/second-cousin-once-removed who called me. After talking to my stepmother, who was equally mystified (we hashed out from a different angle that it wasn’t any of my dad’s first cousins, whose names I would probably recognize anyway), I left a message on my dad’s cell phone on Thursday night, wrote an email Saturday night, and sent a Skype instant message today.

To no avail.

Um, hello, Dad? The internets need to know!

I just picked up a very odd phone message on my VOIP line (the one that has a US number).

I’m going to paraphrase:

“Hi, this call is for [my childhood nickname that only my "baby" brother uses; even my parents don't any more].

This is going to sound really weird, but I’m your cousin.

My mother, [name I don't ever recall hearing], and your Grandma B [who died in 1995] were first cousins.

Anyway, I’m coming to Israel tomorrow [NB: Friday, one of the shortest Fridays of the year; shabbat comes in very early] and thought maybe we could get together.

I’m coming for a bris and will be mostly with my husband’s family in Rechovot, but I’ll be in Jerusalem for a day. [Um, WHICH day?]

[Apparently, there was some miscommunication between her and my dad, with whom she must have spoken or emailed to get my number, because I decidedly do NOT live in Jerusalem. But does my dad, who has never been to Israel, even realize that? He has my address, but was he paying attention? Does he think I live in a nearby suburb? I mean, Modi'in is commuting distance to Jerusalem, but it's not exactly seven minutes by car.]

I’ll have a [rental?] phone number in Israel, but I don’t know what it is yet, so I’ll have my brother call you tomorrow [is her brother in Israel? in America?].

You can try to reach me at [South Florida cell phone number and unintelligible email address].

Again, I’m your cousin. I know your dad. Hope to speak to you. Bye.”

Never mind that this woman, who will be on vacation, assumes that I will be able to drop everything and come meet her. My free time consists of…wait, I have no free time. Oh, hang on, every morning between 7:50 and 8:15 I’m free. Other than that I’m in ulpan* or have my kids.

How about her NAME? I know her mom’s name and the fact that she is my second cousin once removed, but she did not tell me her name! I listened to the message three times in the hope that I had just missed it, but alas.

I understand that she’s probably operating under pressure; a bris is not (usually) something that can be planned in advance. But this is an adult woman, presumably at least in her 40s or older, who neglected to identify herself by name in a phone message to a stranger.

I am tired. I need to deal with this. But how? Help me, innernets.

It could be much weirder; she could be looking for a place to stay.

* I actually do have a free half-day next week, when I plan to go to Jerusalem to do some shopping. If somehow it’s the same day that she will be there, I suppose I could meet her for coffee downtown after that, but I would have to be completely rude and say something like, “I need to leave Jerusalem no later than noon because I have to pick up my son from school.” True, and I would have to be completely inflexible; if she’s late, too bad.

Not Taxman. He’s busy.

But AM is available. He loves calculators.

I do have a warning: Though he’s great at straight-up counting, especially to 52*, his actual math is a little…out-of-the box. There is a lot of asking about sums. Car rides are often filled with, “Ema, what does 35 and 35 make?” Etc.

This morning he did his own calculation and was so excited we had him repeat himself twice–when he’s excited he speaks quickly and swallows half his syllables.

“89 and 89 makes a million and two! Right, Ema?”

“Um, no.”

“But what does 89 and 89 make, Abba?”

“178.”

“Oh.”

I predict a job in the government. Israeli or American; either one could use a creative accountant like him.

* The number of cards in a deck. We play a LOT of Crazy Eights.

I had no idea how to broach this.  It’s like telling your parents that you broke up with the boyfriend they really liked.

(Or how I would imagine that would be. I never had traditional dating trajectories; usually my parents had no idea who I was seeing. And by the time I took Taxman home to meet them we had been dating for mere weeks but were essentially engaged.)

Before we moved from the US, AM seemed to be ready to stop nursing. Mostly. He didn’t nap much any more and was therefore incredibly tired by the time bedtime rolled around. He’d climb into bed (my bed, natch), jam his arm into the case of the pillow of Taxman’s that he favored, pop his thumb into his mouth, and be off to dreamland in about three minutes. In the morning he did like to nurse if we were lounging in bed, but he had stopped demanding it if I happened to be at the gym or in the shower when he woke up.

It could have happened with a tiny push. But I kept thinking about all the transitions awaiting us. Packing up; then moving out; then moving away; new house; new school; new life. I kept offering to nurse him in the morning. “Sure,” he’d say, and latch on for a few moments.

Finally we got to our momentous plane ride. As the flight attendants were preparing to deliver the breakfasts, AM settled down to nurse. About 10 seconds later he was done and demanding food. That evening, after an incredibly long and crazy day, he fell asleep on the floor after dinner. Really, he crawled under the table after a toy car and the next thing we knew he was at my mother-in-law’s feet, fast asleep.

In the morning, he clambered into bed with us, as usual. But did not ask to nurse. Next morning, the same. It wasn’t until Shabbat, normally a day with more idleness to it than the rest of the week, that he requested to nurse in the afternoon.

I didn’t know what to say.

Then I said no.

He cried and I felt like crying and we hugged and rocked and then played Candyland.

He went another week without asking and then we had a similar scene on Shabbat, though I was able to confidently tell him that there was no more milk.

A month later he asked but didn’t make a fuss when I explained that there wasn’t any more milk.

And he’s fine.

The germy stew of gan has been rough on him–and us–and I’ve almost second-guessed my decision. Not really, I suppose, but breastmilk beats plain water for hydrating  and soothing a feverish and vomiting kid. No longer an option.

This morning he woke up with pink eye, and I had to, you know, go to the doctor and get a prescription for eyedrops, which he of course hates with a passion; it would be so much easier to spill some breastmilk over them and start treating the ick at 6:30 in the morning instead of three hours later. Not that he would have been able to go to school anyway; it’s great stuff but doesn’t make time go in reverse.

There have been times when he’s especially trying or cranky–the nap was reintroduced, but I wake him after an hour and he’s usually a pill when I do–when I desperately wanted to tug at the magical parachute that was breastfeeding. But couldn’t. There’s no fix for the end of something big.

After all that it was only five years and about six weeks (June 2004 to August 2009) that I nursed.

Somehow it seemed like more.

Or is the Fashion and Style section just a throwaway? Just to sell ad space, like the Auto section?

So first anyone (read: any mother) who raises her voice is damaging her children.

But hey, if she breastfeeds them, at least she’ll be back to her old figure in a SNAP! (Or could be.)

Seriously? This is the breastfeeding support that women need? That breastfeeding burns a lot of calories and if you’re lucky, or a celebrity (with a TRAINER and a CHEF, natch!), you’ll be back in your skinny jeans within weeks. And now with a great rack! HOTT!

But what if you’re not “lucky”? What if you’re one of the women who cannot lose the last five pounds until you wean your child–because your body is holding on to that extra weight just in case your nursling needs it? What if carrying this child has permanently ruined your urinary tract, so that even when your sweet one sleeps through the night you’re up to pee twice? What if birthing this child has torn your perineum and negatively affected your sex life? What if you have a fistula from childbirth and are cast out of your tribe? Still concerned about the baby weight?

My own cautionary tale is that after I had Miss M, all whopping 8 lbs, 11 oz of her, I was a stressed out new mom. I didn’t take care of myself as well as I should have. The weight that I had put on was via a lot of protein shakes and composed salads. My doula had said, “Don’t drink juice,” so I didn’t. The weight came off easily as I nursed and barely had time to put together a cheese sandwich.

And then? The weight kept coming off. By the time she was four months old I weighed 92 pounds. (About 10 under pre-pregnancy.) Ralph Lauren would have hired me if I had a pretty face and seven more inches. I looked gaunt. My clothes didn’t fit. Taxman begged me to see a doctor, repeating, “I’m really worried about you,” about three times a week.

With AM I put on more weight–more juice (I had cravings) and ice cream–and took off less. (He weighed almost a pound less.) I was tired, of course, but I didn’t look like a prisoner of war. When he was two, I started jogging again and lifting weights. I didn’t lose a pound, didn’t stitch my abs back together, but I felt healthy. Isn’t that what should count?

I think I have said this before, but I suppose it’s worth repeating. Having a baby changes everything. Even if you diet away every ounce and torture your abs back into shape, you are not the same person you were. Your priorities and thoughts are constantly rearranged. But here the “paper of record” is feeding the appearance-driven, outwardly-obsessed, material/aesthetic culture that just seems so damn unimportant after you experience the fierceness of real love.

Seriously, editors, just make the section ads. I need to spend my Fridays doing more important things than responding to this crap. Like cleaning my house.

I was all set to whine about how the ONE beauty product that I’ve found indispensable since moving had become unavailable on-line and was about call in a huge favor and make Shana go to Portland, for crying out loud, in search of it for me, but apparently it’s back in stock. Now I just have to try to figure out how to get it here really soon.

The people who know me in real life are probably scratching their heads, saying…”Um, beauty product? Kate?” (Especially Gila, because she saw me two days ago, sporting my ratty red sweatshirt and doing my best not to pass out and look even more pale.) I am not into the beauty products; this has probably saved me oodles of money over the years, which I have turned around and promptly spent on books and pricey condiments.

But moving here I knew I’d be dealing with hard water, which turns my hair (and Miss M’s) to straw. So I hemmed and hawed about writing to Amy at the Advice Smackdown when she answered someone’s query about living with soft water. I hijacked the thread; it turned out that there are both soft and hard water hair “solutions” from LUSH cosmetics.

Yes, they’re a green company, and yes, they don’t use nasty chemicals in their products, but mostly? The Hard solid shampoo keeps my hair feeling like hair. This is, frankly, awesome. I used to be vain about how my hair looked; now I just care how it feels. Still vain about the kids’ hair, though, and it works for them too.*

And now it’s back in stock! *swoon*

* I of course alternate with rosemary shampoo for lice prevention.

So on top of AM’s cold virus he seems to have some sort of minor tummy ailment. There were a couple of days of generally upset stomach, followed by “loose poop!” (as we call it) in the middle of the night. He’s barely eaten the past couple of days, subsisting mostly on cinnamon toast and bananas and animal crackers.

Naturally he’s not his perky self. He hasn’t had an interrupted night since the middle of last week and he’s had no protein to speak of in a few days; he refused to eat chicken on shabbat, and I won’t give him milk or cheese with an upset stomach.

But I sent him to school anyway. That’s where he’s picking up this garbage. I know it’s the wrong attitude to have, but if I don’t send him, then I miss what I am committed to do.* I have no backup; Taxman’s parents don’t live in the same city and don’t have a car. In an emergency they could be here in two hours.

I won’t send anyone to school with a fever, or something glaringly icky. But he seemed fine this morning. The school has my number, but nobody called me to come pick him up after he had an accident. Though his teacher claimed that he didn’t feel well, hadn’t eaten well (this is a huge indicator for them–in the first couple of weeks of school, before we started the cycle of 4,000 viruses, he ate with a huge appetite all the time and if he doesn’t they want to know why–even if he’s not sick at all!), and wasn’t himself, he was sitting at the table in his usual place, eating a piece of banana. He cheerfully bade goodbye to everyone. I have no doubt that he was tired today–we all were–but if he’s too sick to participate? CALL ME. I have a cell phone. I’m five minutes away. Don’t call me out in front of the two year olds. The only other adult present was the other Anglo mom, who has precisely the same commitments that I do (we sit next to each other in ulpan) and has nothing but sympathy for my position.

It would be nice if we were all feeling tip-top, but if I wait for that it might be April. And I hear spring is when the lice come out. Joy.

* Learn Hebrew. I have figured out that I can miss one class a week or so without losing ground, though the discussions are always worthwhile. Today we had a 20-minute fight about adverbs, which proved to me that Asian nations have nothing to fear from the educational systems in English speaking countries. And I had a revelation about the verb לתאר

I’m used to being alone in my sleeplessness–meandering to the kitchen to have a drink, drifting to the bathroom, tossing and turning and counting the hours until I have to get up–but recently I’ve had company.

The kids and I have been sick now for two weeks. Nothing terrible, just colds (+ bronchitis for me), with sneezing and coughing and general low-level ick. (We’ve all had the seasonal flu shot. Will it do anything?) But once every few days AM has been crying in the night, complaining of stomach pain, vomiting phlegm (nice, right?), and has had a resulting night and day of wacky sleep, loss of appetite, and horrific crankiness. The night time rabble-rousing is killing the grownups; last night my night of sleep was effectively over at 2:30a, though I had been asleep by 9:30p. Taxman can function ok on six solid hours, but he does much better with more and without my intrusive staccato pleas: “Go! Get him! Take him to the bathroom!” (Vomit and I are not on speaking terms. Unless we have to be.)

I’ve also been drifting metaphorically. I had my tiny little pocket of people in New York–the people I saw face to face–and I’ve yet to get anchored here. It goes without saying that life in New York has gone on without me, as it should, but email and Skype don’t quite manage to keep everything together. Though we were immediately in good stead in Israel because Taxman came with a signed contract for a job, it is the intangibles that are eating at me, the relationships that we had cultivated (with friends, with teachers and school administrators, with doctors) that have been cut down to virtually nothing. We’ve found people in our city to be helpful, but there are tiny rules about everything that we’ve been finding out as we go along that make me feel small and stupid and out of control.

I don’t know where I want to buy a house. I don’t know where the best place is for the kids to go to school. I don’t know how much is too much to pay for their shoes. I don’t know where I can buy English books.* I don’t know when I’m going to be able to wear a sweater. I don’t know how we are going to muster the energy to unpack the last six boxes because every day feels long and draining. I don’t know if any of the nice people at synagogue are ever going to issue an invitation or if I (the introvert!) am going to follow the lead of my extroverted five-year-old and invite them to us. Which I guess I could do, though it feels so wrong to me; I spent a lot of time on the other side of the coin.

I know a lot of this is due to just moving in general and not to Israel specifically. Nine years was a long time to stay in one community. I’ve lost my moorings and better attach to something. Soon.

* Well, there are at least two places in Jerusalem. Not terribly convenient to drop by for 10 minutes to see if the new Audrey Niggeneffer has made it over yet.

More from the “I could never make this stuff up” conversation files.

“Ema, what month has 32 days?”

“Um, sweetie, there are never more than 31 days in a month.”

“What about the calendar we left in New York?”

“What calendar?”

“The calendar that has the month with 32 days?”

“Are you talking about the Hebrew calendar* or the English calendar?”

“The English calendar.”

“Ok. Well, February has 28 days. April, June, September, and November have 30. The rest of the months have 31 days. There are no months with 32 days.”

“But Ema, which month has 32 days?”

Deep breathing. Wait. Something shiny is sure to distract her any second.

“Ema, does Abba not make a pishy for the whole hour he’s on the train?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ll bet he tries to use the bathroom before he leaves his office. And there might even be a bathroom on the train.”

“REALLY?!”

“Yes. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Ok. AM, there might be a bathroom on Abba’s train!”

“Really, Miss M? There might be a bathroom on Abba’s train?”

And indeed, there is a bathroom on Abba’s train. There is, however, no month with 32 days. In any calendar. (To my knowledge.)

* NB: Every month in the Jewish calendar has either 29 or 30 days. The are 354 or 355 days in year, so about every third year (7 out of 19, if I recall) there is a leap month to make up for the missing days. Unlike the Islamic calendar, where the 12 lunar months rotate through the seasons, the Jewish months stay approximately fixed; the Torah festivals are tied to the seasons and agricultural process.