Mmmmm...

I'm not much of a cook. While you certainly won't starve in my home (and you probably won't even suffer), the chances of me having my own cooking show are about the same as being sought after by the folks over at Iron Chef. The Husband is the true cook in our house; he's the one who has the natural cooking talent, the one who can (usually) throw a bunch of ingredients together and come up with some fabulous new dish. I can more or less follow recipes or instructions, but the concept of just knowing what to do, of intuitively knowing what items go together and what don't simply eludes me, and instead of being daringly creative or complex, I usually stick to dishes that are tried and true. The "wow" factor rarely makes an appearance in my kitchen, and when it does, it usually has nothing to do with me.

I say usually, because I do have a few special dishes up my sleeve. I'm good with salmon and fish in general, and am never afraid to experiment with pasta sauce. My spring chicken is always yummy, and I make a pretty nifty crab cake too (when I can be bothered to deal with crab meat). My best dish though, without a doubt, is my Ghormeh Sabzi. As I may have mentioned at some point, the Husband is Persian. As a result, I developed an affinity for all things Persian ( Mahmoud Ahmadinejad not withstanding), especially Persian food. I love Persian food. I did not have a weight problem until I was introduced to Persian food, and I've been battling ever since. I seek out Persian restaurants abroad and keep an eye out for recipes of the Persian dishes I like. Early on in our marriage, I decided to surprise the Husband by making Ghormeh Sabzi, one of the more popular Persian dishes, and on the menu at every Persian restaurant I've ever visited. At that point, I'd never attempted to make Persian food – it hadn't even crossed my mind to try. Once it did, though, I searched the internet looking for a good (read "easy") recipe, and came up with this one. The Husband was suitably impressed, not only by my efforts, but also by the final outcome, and while he might not come right out and say it, I know he's pleased that I took the initiative to learn how to make one of "his" foods.

Since that fateful first attempt, I try to make Ghormeh Sabzi every few months, though more frequently in winter. The recipe I use refers to it as "an exquisite Iranian dish", and I am inclined to agree. I love the sour taste from the dried lemons, the way the greens soak up so much soup and introduce such a fabulous texture. I love the way the chunks of meat practically melt in your mouth, and when I ladle copious amounts over a plateful of rice (Persian, of course!), the world around me almost ceases to exist, as I plunge my spoon into the center of the dish, making sure that the Ghormeh Sabzi is sufficiently mixed into the rice, before carefully guiding the spoon to my mouth, over and over and over again, filling my stomach and dulling my senses, feeling almost sinful because the food is just... so... good...

My Son the Gynecologist

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved to read. Growing up, it was not uncommon for me to be working on two books at once, and even today I often keep one book in my bag and another in the bathroom (yes, I admit it – I keep reading material in the bathroom. What can I say – I bore easily...). Even now, as I sit here on the train writing this, my mind keeps wandering to the Bill Bryson book tucked away in the bag at my feet. I first encountered the marvelous world of Mr Bryson during a visit to the Anglosaxies, and he's since become one of my favorite writers (thanks, AS!). I've read all of his travel books at least once, and have read most of them twice. The man is brilliant, what can I say (I am, of course, referring to Bill Bryson, so don't get cheeky on me Anglosaxy!).

But I digress. Reading. Given my great love of books, it was only natural that I would try to pass on my passion to the Little One, and so far, it seems to be working. His collection of books is growing, and one of our favorite activities is to curl up together with a good story. Most of his books are in English, purchased during trips to the US, or delivered as gifts from family and friends. Every year on his birthday, without fail, he receives at least one gift certificate from Amazon, and I have almost as much fun choosing books for him as I do for myself.

Some of the books, he knows by heart (as do I... sigh...), and not only will he recite them out loud as I read, but he also won't hesitate to let me know if I've skipped a page, always keeping me on my toes.

And then there are times when the books themselves keep me on my toes. We always leave the book selection up to the Little One (though not without a bit of nudging if he chooses a book that we simply can't bear to read yet again). Sometimes he opts for a book in English, and other times, he'll prefer a book in Hebrew. Several weeks ago, he chose the latter, and brought a book that we hadn't read before. It was one of the many we'd inherited from my sister-in-law, whose children had outgrown the books long ago. The book was about bringing babies into the world, and given that it was obviously a children's picture book, I had no concerns about the contents.

Apparently, I should have. What began as a lighthearted description of baby animals quickly gave way to talk of sperm and eggs. As I continue to read out loud, my mind is spinning. "Whoa! Did I read that correctly?" "Sperm?" "I'm reading about sperm and eggs to a three year-old?" "Well Jesus, Mary and Joseph! This has got to stop!" It would seem, however, that I stopped too late, as a little penny dropped somewhere in the Little One's head. While the sperm failed to register, the concept of eggs definitely left its mark. Despite the fact that the book has since been shoved to the back of a high shelf, the mythical eggs live on.

The Little One, bless him, is convinced that I now have a tummy full of eggs, and has proudly shared this news with nearly everyone who crosses his path – the neighbors, his teachers, my husband's business colleagues (who, I'm told, were visibly uncomfortable by the disclosure)... He keeps tugging at my shirt and pressing my stomach in order to try to find them, and has suggested that I go to the doctor, so that he can take pictures of my eggs.

As this saga was unfolding, we received word that our son had drawn the most marvelous pictures, demonstrating a level of skill usually shown by children who are at least five years old, not three. It was, apparently, a picture of me. "And what is that little line in my tummy," I asked him, pleased that he may have inherited his grandmother's art skills (which have obviously skipped a generation...). "Your eggs, Mommy!"

Welcome to my world, folks. Put on your seatbelts - I think we're in for a bumpy ride!

Once Upon a Prostate

Approximately eleven years ago, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Unnerving to be sure, but given that Dad is a "cup is half full" kind of guy, he approached the situation with his usual happy go lucky optimism. My mother, on the other hand, while not exactly a "cup is half empty" sort (more of a "cup is half full, but lets keep an eye open for cracks and chips just in case" gal), refused to accept this upheaval with my father's typical blasé attitude. She was the one responsible for researching the complexities of the disease and the different options; she was the one who researched various treatment centers.

In my dad's case, we were lucky in that the cancer was caught early, making it possible for him to undergo a course of treatment that was, relatively speaking, not too invasive. As I recall, his treatment, known as "brachytherapy", included a combination of mild course of radiation and the placement of radioactive seeds directly on the tumor, which had already been shrunken by the radiation. All treatment was managed by a very capable medical team at Sloan-Kettering in New York City, and lasted for approximately six weeks, during which time, my father stayed alternatively with friends in the City or family on Long Island, often accompanied by my mother.

Despite their reasons for being there, they enjoyed their extended stay in NYC, taking advantage of the situation by going to the theater, hitting the museums, and making the rounds of the restaurants. They spent time with friends and family, and generally made the very best of these somewhat unfortunate circumstances.

The success rates for prostate cancer are quite high, and Dad's prognosis was excellent. Indeed, he has been cancer-free ever since (tfu tfu tfu). Being far away, I was, of course, concerned, but given what I knew of this particular type of cancer, I wasn't overly worried. And, not to belittle the seriousness of the disease, but if you can imagine that my father and I have a similar sense of humor (as some of you can verify), you can also imagine that we managed to have fun with his illness. At gatherings of family or friends, he would say something to the effect that, "isn't it wonderful that my cancer is bringing us all together like this". When people gave him books to read during treatment, he would often ask, "if I survive, do I have to return the book?" As a result of such outbursts, I used to say that if the cancer didn't kill him, Mom would.

In the years since my father was sick, many of his friends have battled and beat prostate cancer. Colin Powell has beaten the disease as well (not to mention a host of other celebrities). While cancer is cancer, having witnessed both my father's battle with prostate cancer and my mother-in-law's battle with colon cancer (a battle she lost painfully just under ten years ago), when caught early, I'd have to say that prostate cancer doesn't make my heart skip a beat as some of the more lethal forms do.

Which is probably why I didn't go beyond the eyebrow-raising stage yesterday upon hearing that Prime Minister Olmert has been diagnosed with the Big C. Unlike former Prime Minister (and currently comatose) Ariel Sharon, Ehud Olmert is in good physical condition. He exercises and goes for regular medical check-ups, and his prostate cancer was caught early. Chances are excellent that he will be fine, though his choice of treatment – surgery – may result in both incontinence and impotence (of course, there are those of us who already believe he is rather impotent, albeit from a political standpoint...), neither of which must be terribly welcome prospects.

Though having cancer certainly isn't a lot of fun (my father's bout not withstanding...), prostate cancer is usually (though unfortunately not always) far less lethal than many other cancer types. And, while I can certainly understand how a sick Prime Minister is a hot news item, especially following the drama of the Sharon affair, I shudder to think that for the next few months, the media will be force-feeding us sound bytes related to the prime ministerial prostate. It's one thing to know that the man is sick, but quite frankly, viewing diagrams of a diseased prostate during dinner and hearing intimate details about the upcoming surgical procedure is just a tad more information than I need to know...

Amazing how far the guy will go for the sympathy vote, though, innit?

Celebrating the holidays once again

There's something about the holiday season in Israel that makes me realize that there's no place I'd rather be at this time of the year. In some respects, it reminds me of the Christmas season in the US. The excitement and anticipation in the air are palpable, and talk inevitably turns to holiday plans. Strangers smile at one another and exchange holiday greetings as everyone gears up for the feasts and festivals that lie ahead, and inboxes are filled with electronic cards and wishes. At work yesterday, we gorged ourselves on the annual festive holiday meal served in the dining room, and found ourselves back there two hours later for a company toast of wine and sinfully delicious desserts. Leaving the office, I cheerfully exchanged my customary goodbyes for "happy new year" and "happy holidays", receiving smiles and holiday wishes in return.

Of course, given the events of last week, my usual joy is tainted with sorrow and feelings of loss, but life goes on, and given that we will have a house full of people tonight, sitting around in mourning isn't really an option. Fortunately, my sister-in-law, who loves to cook (which would be the exact opposite of me), is bringing nearly all of the food with her. Still, there's much to be done, especially as I have real work to do as well.

Happy new year to all...

Playing tourist with the parents...

So yes, it's true. We've survived another visit from the parents. We survived the inevitable, disgusting heat that summer in Israel brings, and for the most part, we did our best to stay away from the blistering sun. We played tourist and tour guide, and somehow, despite the fact that they've been to visit us nearly every year for the past 16 years (have I really been living here for 16 years? Wow...), we still manage to take them places they've never been, and often, never even heard of before. The Sanhedrin burial caves at Beit Shearim, which I mentioned in a previous post, is one such place. The Little One delighted in running around the caves, descending steep stairs and climbing in and out of the various cave openings. Note the Husband in the shot below, entering one such cave as though it were Platform 9 and ¾ at King's Cross Station in London.

Forced into a state of semi-vacation mode, we found ourselves dining in a variety of restaurants around the north and center of the country. Fish and seafood was often the order of the day, and dining beachside on the Mediterranean was a regular occurrence. This picture was taken from our table at Manta Ray, where Savta Dotty and I switched plates about midway through the main course.

At "Ha'kdera Shel Noga", located on Moshav Beit Shearim, the spring chicken was a big hit.

While in Jerusalem (following a trip to the Sorek Stalactite/Stalagmite Caves outside of Beit Shemesh), we sat for a late lunch at a restaurant downtown, just off of Hillel Street. Sadly, the name of both the restaurant and the street it's on escape me (Help me, Jerusalemites! The side street has Blockbuster and Aroma on either corner of Hillel...), but I'm certain that we will make it a point to go back there whenever we find ourselves requiring sustenance in the capital. You know how it is. You enter a restaurant and peruse the menu. Sometimes, you can't find anything that strikes your fancy, while other times, there are so many mouthwatering choices that you just can't decide what you'd prefer. In this case, it was definitely the latter. I ordered the sweet potato ravioli while Mom and Dad both chose the eggplant and goat cheese ravioli. You have no idea... So, so good...

Lunch in Jerusalem was followed by a ride on the Jerusalem Time Elevator, which was followed by a walk to the Old City, skirting the Muslim and Armenian Quarters and a stroll through the Jewish Quarter(where we were startled to discover that the Hurva Arch is no longer standing, and has been turned into a construction site of sorts), ending on the stairs overlooking the Western Wall and Dome of the Rock, a site that never fails to take my breath away.


We spent one day up in Acco, wandering around the Old City and taking in the sites that Husband and I had somehow missed on all of our previous trips. I've always liked Acco, despite the fact that I find quite a few of the restaurants there to be a bit overrated, with the unpredictable service often found in establishments where the staff have an overdeveloped (and in many cases, undeserved) sense of importance. The antiquities are impressive, though, and the architecture is striking. Beware of shop owners who may take issue with your attire, especially if you happen to be a woman in a tank top and shorts.


And of course, all of this running around was simply the backdrop for the main event – allowing a certain little boy spend time with his grandparents. During our trip to the US in April, it was amazing to watch the Little One come to the realization that he would be unable to get by solely in Hebrew and slowly but surely switched to English in order to make himself understood. Following our return, he continued to use English, but as time passed, he eventually reverted back to Hebrew. In the company of his grandparents, he once again found himself in a situation that required him to speak English, and while he stumbled occasionally, his ability to switch back and forth upon request was great fun to observe, especially as he switched between accents as well.

On the morning of my parents' departure, the Little One and I were sitting together on the couch. I told him that I was sad because his grandparents had left. I was once again reminded of how much I love my son when he responded by patting my head and saying, "Don't worry, Mommy. I'll stay with you. I'll take care of you." When the Husband returned from the airport he was told, "Mommy's a little sad. She needs a hug and a kiss." And these are the moments that get me through the day, helping me to preserve my sanity as we watch "Toy Story" yet again (giving the phrase "to infinity and beyond" a whole new meaning), and I am told that I'm no longer his friend because I've cut off the cookie supply. Aaah, the joys of motherhood...

The photos below were taken at the ancient port in Caesarea.


(Some of the above photos were taken by me, while others - the better ones - are courtesy of my mother.)

Emanuel (z''l)

After graduating from college, I travelled to Israel for what was supposed to be ten-months. Four months on, I met the Husband. Once my ten-month program was complete, I opted to stay for the summer, and we moved in together. Towards the end of the summer, when we were discussing my immediate plans, I remarked that if we could get a puppy, I'd stay. Fifteen years later, I'm still here, but sadly, that "puppy" is no longer with us.

Emanuel 1992-2007

80s Music Video Sunday #36

There's one band out there that can put me in a good mood more than any other group or solo artist. When depressed, I often put on one of their CDs (or cassettes) at high volume, and the music almost never fails to bring a smile to my face. If I've got a stack of dishes to wash or have to do some cleaning around the house, I know that I can do it faster if I'm singing along to this group.

The Beach Boys were formed back in 1961, and have been making music ever since. Changes to the group lineup may have slowed them down at times, but they always managed to roar back to life with their distinct, fabulous sound. I know the words to nearly all of their songs, and have seen them perform live twice. The first time was at Tanglewood, located in the beautiful Berkshires region of Western Massachusetts. I went with my friend Jenny, who had come for a visit so that we could go to the concert, and we stayed at my family's lakeside cabin in Lee. It was, of course, an amazing concert, and there are a few moments that I've managed to retain in my aging memory.

We went to the concert during the summer after I returned from my year in Israel. I still had pins in my ankle from having broken it while abroad, and when we wanted to stick around for a bit after the concert, I used my ankle as an excuse when a security guard asked us to leave. I told him I needed to rest for a bit and let him feel my ankle. The moment he realized that he was touching screws, he pulled his hand back as though he'd touched dog poo, said we could stay as long as was needed, and then ran away. When we finally decided to leave, we made our way to the parking lot. We found the spot where we'd left the car, or rather, where we thought we'd left the car. We couldn't find the car! We wandered around and around in the lot, wondering where the car had disappeared to. Suddenly, we noticed people walking past our parking lot, which is when we realized that there was more than one parking lot. Sheepishly, we joined the parade of post-concert goers and found our car just where we'd left it – in the other parking lot.

The second Beach Boys concert that I attended was at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. It was a few days before my wedding (which would make it exactly 14 years ago, as our 14th anniversary is later this week), and I went with my soon-to-be husband and his sister; somehow, we'd managed to snag seats in the first row of the balcony. We sang along with the opening act, America (at least I think it was them), and once The Beach Boys came on stage, we started dancing as well. Lots of room to dance in the first row of the balcony, and the completely unobstructed view was simply outstanding.

Unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to get to any Beach Boys concerts since then. I keep waiting for them to come to Israel, but so far, there's been no "Love" on these shores. This band always makes me think of summer, and I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate mark the end of summer vacation than to feature a song by The Beach Boys for today's edition of 80s Music Video Sunday. And those of you who grew up watching TV in the 80s should definitely recognize the drummer...



Kokomo
The Beach Boys

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take ya
Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go
Jamaica

Off the Florida Keys
There's a place called Kokomo
That's where you wanna go to get away from it all

Bodies in the sand
Tropical drink melting in your hand
We'll be falling in love
To the rhythm of a steel drum band
Down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya
To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We'll get there fast
And then we'll take it slow
That's where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

To Martinique, that Monserrat mystique

We'll put out to sea
And we'll perfect our chemistry
By and by we'll defy a little bit of gravity

Afternoon delight
Cocktails and moonlit nights
That dreamy look in your eye
Give me a tropical contact high
Way down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We'll get there fast
And then we'll take it slow
That's where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

Port Au Prince, I wanna catch a glimpse

Everybody knows
A little place like Kokomo
Now if you wanna go
And get away from it all
Go down to Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We'll get there fast
And then we'll take it slow
That's where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo

See Liza run...

Well hey there everyone. I didn't mean to pull a runner yesterday, but life has been totally hectic with my parents here, unexpected deadlines at work and so on. We've been running around the country, hitting such spots as the Sanhedrin burial caves at Beit Shearim, the old city in Acco, the Neve Tzedek neighborhood and Jerusalem. I'll write a more extensive post with photos after they leave tomorrow and life has returned more or less to normal (it won't return to complete normalcy until the Little One has returned to pre-school next Sunday), but just wanted to mention a few of the highlights of their visit.

The Jerusalem Time Elevator. We went yesterday, and the effects were great! The seats move in accordance with what you're seeing on the screen, and it was brilliant. I did feel sorry for the couple that took the "walk of shame", though. Part way through the film, there was a pause and the lights came on, and the reason for the pause (announced, of course) was that someone in the moving seats wasn't feeling well, and had asked to move to the stationery seats (and no, it wasn't me!). We all sat and watched as a young couple made their way to the new seats quickly and silently, before the lights were dimmed once again and the movie restarted.

Manta Ray. My parents and I spent a fabulous day in Tel Aviv with Savta Dotty, whom they met when we were all in Florida in April. Savta Dotty took us to lunch at Manta Ray, making her a star forever in my parents' eyes. The food was divine. The dessert was unbelievable. Sitting at a table overlooking the Mediterranean, we chatted over the salads, laughed over the fish and seafood, drooled over the chocolate concoction with four spoons moving furiously between plates and mouths. The service was excellent, and we will definitely be going back. Lunch was followed by a stroll through Neve Tzedek, where we wandered around the grounds of the Suzanne Dellal Center, strolled in and out of the small galleries and shops scattered about the neighborhood (which is undergoing some serious gentrification these days), and even managed to acquire a beautiful necklace from the gallery of Ayala Bar, as Savta Dotty found herself an amazing pair of earrings.

The Sanhedrin burial caves. The contents of the caves were interesting to see, and given the fabulously cool temperatures underground, this place is the perfect outdoor summer excursion. From the caves, we went to lunch on Moshav Beit Shearim, and dined at a restaurant called "Ha'kdera Shel Noga" (Noga's Stew). To put it mildly, the food was simply outstanding, not to mention beautifully presented. The setting was gorgeous, the service was excellent, and don't forget to order the parfait for dessert.

Anyway, that's about all I have time for at the moment. Stay tuned for more details (and photos) later on in the week…

Keeping Busy, Helping Others

Life is hectic hectic hectic these days. While trying to meet my deadlines for the next edition of the Diplomatic Post, I've also been blogging over at Israelity, getting work done at the day job, trying to clean up the house in prior to my parents' arrival last Thursday afternoon and fighting off a stomach virus. I was supposed to attend what promised to be an interesting meeting last Wednesday, but my stomach wasn't having any of it, and it looks like I'll have to play catch-up by picking the brains of those friends whose health was clearer in better shape than mine.

I've also gotten myself marginally involved in another project of interest. As those of you who read this blog are probably aware, the journey to bring the Little One into the world was not a journey of smooth sailing. There were problems every step of the way, and more than our fair share of tragedies. After we lost our first son, I made a promise to myself that whenever I could draw on my experiences to help others, I would do so. For me, doing so would mean that everything we had been through had not been completely in vain. Several months ago, I was contacted by Angie Boss, co-author of a book called "Living with PCOS". She and her co-author, Evelina Sterling (herself the author of a book about egg donation), were in the process of writing a new book about funding fertility treatments. Angie had come across my blog, liked what she'd read, and wondered if I would be interested in sharing different aspects of my story for her book. I was happy to help, and am pleased to have the opportunity to take part in a project that will help other women who are going through experiences similar to mine. After coming to an agreement with regard to certain technical aspects of my contribution, I sent Angie several pages that I'd written, and in subsequent correspondence, she asked if I would mind posting the text to below to my blog. I periodically receive similar requests, and those most are turned down as a matter of my own personal policy, I was happy to acquiesce to Angie's request. Take a moment to read it. If you or someone you know can help, please do so. Most of the people I know who have gone through fertility treatments of one kind or another have always been hungry for information on all aspects of the subject, including myself. I read anything I could get my hands on (especially personal stories), so the more information that's out there, the better.

The Request...

"We are currently co-authoring a new book to be published by Simon &Schuster next fall called "Funding Fertility—How to Bring Home a Baby without Breaking the Bank." In this book, we address many of the barriers associated with paying for the high costs related to infertility treatments and adoption. This includes the "sticker shock" that we all get when we find out how much everything is going to cost, how to make cost-effective decisions (i.e., finding cheaper medication options, selecting certain clinics, undergoing certain procedures, considering "special deals") without sacrificing quality of care, actually having to come up with the money without completing going broke, dealing with insurance companies and the lack of coverage, and much, much more.

WE NEED YOUR HELP!!! We are currently compiling stories from people struggling with infertility (or considering adoption)—either currently, in the past, or in the future—to include in our book. These stories can highlight the good, the bad, or the ugly in terms of having to come up with the money to pay for your treatments and/or adoption. Through this book, we hope to shed more light on this nearly completely fee-for-service (and not covered by insurance!) side of medicine so we can allow more of the 10 million people out there experiencing infertility access to the ability to have a baby that they so desperately want without having to suffer financially. Having a baby should be a basic human right available to everyone, not a commodity in which some people make a lot of money! Please help us change the current system for the better by sharing your stories and experiences.

You can remain anonymous and all correspondence will be treated with utmost confidentiality. PLEASE SEND ALL STORIES, EXPERIENCES, AND QUESTIONS TO FUNDINGFERTILITY@YAHOO.COM.

Thanks so much for your help!

Evelina Sterling and Angie Boss"

Documents, rashes and one Norwegian blogger

Life has been rather hectic in something something world, lately, hence the lack of blog entries. The Little One has been sick on and off for the past week, beginning with a throat infection last week and ending in a rash and swelling that was serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital yesterday evening, at his doctor's suggestion. According to the Husband, he's already looking better this morning, and with any luck, they should be on their way home soon. One humorous moment passed last night during a visit to the eye doctor, who asked us if the Little One has any allergies. Husband and I looked at each other, and then looked at our son, whose face, hands and feet were severely swollen, and whose body was covered from head to toe with a rash. I turned back to the doctor, answered, "apparently", and the Husband and I laughed.

And of course, while this whole situation was unfolding, my old friend Murphy came to pay me a visit. For the past few weeks, I've been totally swamped at work, drowning in over two hundred pages of last-minute documents and tight deadlines. The individual managing the project believed that it wouldn't take too long, given that the documents only required formatting, and that checking the English wouldn't be necessary. Ummmm… Yeah… Sure… They believed that checking the English was "extra", especially since the target audience isn't made up of native speakers either (and are living in a third country, not known for excellence in its mastery of the English language). Knowing that I was essentially shooting myself in the foot, I begged to differ, and won approval from my boss to, ahem, "do my job". Suddenly, I was drowning in a torrential sea of badly written documents, I had other work-style projects on the burner as well, and at home, we were in crisis mode. Hopefully, now that the Little One is returning to his usual dimensions and he's no longer the color of a strawberry, life will revert back to its normal hectic state.

There has been one very bright spot during this period. Last Thursday evening, I had the opportunity to meet up with a really terrific politics and current events blogger, Jan, from Secular Blasphemy. Jan is a Norwegian blogger whose blog I've been reading for years, and whose writings tend to be very pro-Israel, unlike a great deal of the Norwegian mainstream media. Anyway, while reading Jan's blog just over a week ago, I discovered that he was vacationing in Israel. I quickly sent him and email and left him a comment, asking if he'd like to meet up at some point during his trip. He quickly responded in the affirmative, and on the day he arrived in Tel Aviv we all (all being Jan, his two friends, and me) met for drinks and dinner. It was a fascinating, very enjoyable evening, where we discussed everything from politics to lutefisk, and I was once again amazed by how well Norwegians can hold their beer.

Anyhow, I really must go read Harry Potter do something productive before the family returns…

The Wonderfully Wacky World of Why

The Little One turned three a few months ago, and our lives have turned into a live version of Toy Story. While taking the dog for a walk, he spends enormous amounts of time switching his "laser" from "stun" to "kill" (while perfecting his Buzz Lightyear stare - see the picture below - and yes, he really does try to make that face!), and he can often be found running around, pushing the "button" on his chest (while doing his own interpretation of what a button sounds like) in order to "expand his wings", and then calling out "To infinity and beyond!" before leaping at a surprised adult who, fortunately, has lightning quick reflexes (we haven't dropped him yet – does that make us good parents?).

Of course, it's not ALL about Toy Story. Have you ever heard the "Bob the Builder" theme song sung at the top of a three year-old's lungs – as he switches back and forth between English and Hebrew? How about when your only party trick is having your son show people how he says "Dora" or "Dohhra", depending on which language you ask him to say the name in? And speaking of Dora, I'm in the process of trying to coordinate with Allison for us to take the kids to go see the hottest show of the summer among the under-five set – "Dora and the Pirate Adventure" (or something like that...). In Hebrew. Because apparently, we really love our kids, and we just can't seem to get enough of that charming monkey sidekick of hers.

But, tot pop culture aside, one of the more fascinating things to happen lately is that he's recently entered a new phase, one that I like to refer to as "the wonderfully wacky world of why". Why? Yes. Precisely. Why. The Little One has suddenly become very curious about everything, and always wants to know why. "Why did he do that, Mommy?" "Because he was upset, sweetie." "Why was he upset, Mommy?" "Because of what his friend said." "But why, Mommy?" And on and on it goes. It can happen anytime, anywhere. It frequently happens while watching television, though it's also been known to happen when we're out and about, shopping, eating out, or hiking. Sometimes, for a bit of variety, the "whys" are interspersed with "whats" or "hows", but essentially, it all comes down to the same thing – "how can I wear Mommy and Aba down," or "how long can I get them to answer these totally inane questions," and no, it absolutely wouldn't surprise me if he secretly knew the word "inane", but was keeping it to spring on us when we least expected it. He's special that way...

Things I've learned from the Little One...

• Band-Aids (preferably if they have pictures of the Backyardigans on them) can cure any boo-boo, even if there's only been a small bump on the head, and even when there's already a scab and the bleeding has long stopped.


• Dresses, apparently, are only to be worn on Shabbat. To put one on at any other time is a sign of confusion.


• If you're cute, compliments will get you everywhere ("Little One, why did you break that? Now, I'm angry." "Mommy, you're soooo pretty! You're beautiful! I love you!" Sigh...


• My reflexes are quicker than I'd ever imagined possible.


• It's already quite light outside by 5:30 in the morning.


• Construction vehicles that communicate with one another and do jobs with no assistance from humans are normal.


• Ditto the builder who consults with said construction vehicles in order to decide how jobs will get done.


• Crayons work much better once they've been broken in two and their pointy ends have been mashed into oblivion.


• It's okay to cry when your best friend goes home – even if he lives right downstairs.


• Running around the house without any clothes on is fun. If you come to my house, don't forget to knock first...

In memory of little boys

When I was pregnant with our first son, at a time when I believed that we had cleared the hurdles of our previous pregnancies and had finally broken our curse of bad luck, a friend mentioned that sometimes, once that stage of pregnancy was reached, if I laughed or coughed, I might, well, to put it bluntly, leak a little. I filed that bit of information away for safe keeping, and soldiered on. One night, I woke with a horrible leg cramp, and while walking it off, I suddenly felt a great deal of liquid runnng down my legs. While racing to the bathroom, I silently chastised my friend, thinking that she had greatly under-exaggerated, and that what I'd just experienced was quite a bit more than a little leak. And then I realized that the "leak" hadn't stopped. We grabbed our pregnancy books, and it slowly dawned on me that what I was experiencing was a premature rupture of the membranes, a very premature rupture. We quickly drove to the hospital, where our worst fears were confirmed. My waters had broken in the 25th week of pregnancy, and so the nightmare began.

I suddenly found myself lying in a hospital bed, getting up only to go to the bathroom or to shower. I was lonely, miserable and frightened, and there was nothing I could do about any of it. All we could do was wait, knowing that the longer our baby stayed inside me, the greater his chances were for survival. Together, we managed to hold on for about a week, which is when I began having terrible stomach pains. These pains, of course, turned out to be contractions, and a few hours later, following an emergency c-section, our first son was born, weighing all of 700 grams. And all of this occurred nine years ago today.

The next six-and-a-half months were perhaps the most intensely draining I've ever experienced. The first four months were spent in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). As many parents of premature babies will tell you, it was like being on an emotional rollercoaster, where some days went by without a hitch (which is considered a good day), and other days the situation took a turn for the worse, and you fear that all is lost. You can assess how serious your case is by the seniority of the staff member who explains things, and we were practically on a first-name basis with the director of the neonatal department. To this day, we are in touch with the staff members there, who are still a part of our extended family, and no one was more excited than they were when the Little One was born, just over three years ago. Anyway, after those initial four months we transferred to a children's hospital in the center of the country, and spent the next two-and-a-half months doing shifts, in order to ensure that at least one of us was there at all times. Some days we both stayed, just so that we could see one another for more than a few hours at a time. Once all surgeries were behind us and our baby seemed to be on the mend, we finally began to talk about taking him home, but then he got sick again, and he just couldn't fight anymore.

As I said, this all happened nine years ago. We have, for the most part, moved on with our lives, and we have been blessed with the Little One, whose mission seems to be to keep us on our toes at all times. The loss is always back there somewhere, but it doesn't rule my life; it doesn't define who I am. My life is the normal life of any sleep-deprived, caffeine-craving mother of a toddler – indeed, many of the people who entered my life after this period have no idea it even took place. It's always there somewhere, though, somewhere in the back of my head, waiting to surface as life dictates. It surfaced a few weeks ago with the sickness and death of that little boy, and obviously, it surfaced again now, on what would have been our child's ninth birthday.

On the day of the other little boy's funeral, I began to think about words that a bereaved mother might find comforting. I was on the train, coming home late at night, and the phrases started coming together in my mind. When I got home, I grabbed a pen and paper, and the words just tumbled out as I thought of two little boys whose lives were cut short. I've never really considered poetry to be one of my strengths, but this is what I wrote...

"Fragile little arms wrapped tightly 'round my neck. Through love and pain, laughter and tears, fragile little arms remain, wrapped tightly 'round my neck.

Time is playing games again and nothing stays the same, save fragile little arms wrapped tightly 'round my neck.

Worlds are spinning, moving, crashing; the grip is growing lighter. Pulling, tugging,
wrenching free, fragile little arms wrapped loosely 'round my neck.

The warmth around my neck is gone, replaced by shards of ice and stone. Checking once, checking twice, unbelieving, not accepting that fragile little arms are gone.

Fragile little arms float freely now, drifting through the skies, softly, slowly drifting, off to parts unknown. Gently oh so gently, fragile little arms are safe again, wrapped forever 'round my heart."

Bathroom humor...

Little One: Mommy, what you doing?

Mommy: Going to the bathroom, sweetie.

Little One: I want to see!

Mommy: You can't right now, sweetie.

Little One: Why? Is your tushy too big?

Prayers for a family

Not too long ago, I wrote this post, asking for prayers for a very sick little boy. Sadly, he lost his struggle yesterday afternoon. It is simply incomprehensible to fathom the pain of losing a child, and only a parent who has already been there can understand the sheer magnitude of the hurt. Losing a child who has been ill often provokes mixed feelings. I can remember when we lost our first child, how my pain was mixed with relief. Relief at knowing my child had been released from his pain, relief at knowing that we would no longer be spending all of our time in a hospital feeling helpless, living in limbo and waiting for something to happen. The pain, however, was intense. I felt that I would never smile again, never laugh again. I would wander around, and it seemed almost surreal to watch people going about their daily lives, seemingly without a care in the world, at a time when my world had been blown to pieces.

And yet, I knew that I would somehow pull myself out of this deep, deep hole, that I would – and indeed must – continue to live, continue to go on. And I have. From the depths of my pain, I decided that I had to move forward, and that it would be harder to surrender to the pain than to somehow pull myself out of it. The pain is and always will be a part of me, but it does not control me. Hopefully, with great amounts of love, friendship and support, this little boy's family will find happiness again, will learn to smile again. Hopefully, they will eventually learn to take control of their loss and find meaning in what they have gone through, seeking out the goodness and focusing on the special times. For now, they must somehow find a way to get through the day. Through today and tomorrow, through next week and next month. They have entered the second phase of this most painful of all journeys, and all we can do is wish them strength to get through it all. Keep them in your hearts and keep them in your heads, and don't forget to hug your own children, for one never knows what tomorrow can bring.

Cows and cheesecake

I was lactose-intolerant for approximately ten years, from shortly after moving to Israel until I was pregnant with the Little One. As anyone who lives in Israel knows, the sheer quantity and variety of dairy products here is simply unparalleled, and I frequently found myself skipping over entire menu sections, constantly having to ask whether or not certain dishes contained dairy products and whether or not these dishes could be altered to accommodate my needs. Before becoming pregnant, I had read an article that some lactose-intolerant women become tolerant while pregnant, and that some women maintain that tolerance after giving birth. I decided to test this theory, since I was at home due to the high risk nature of the pregnancy, and very, very bored. Much to my surprise, I discovered that I was indeed tolerant (though a cruel twist of fate meant that I had gestational diabetes, so there were still many forbidden foods).

I hungrily consumed dairy products for the duration of my pregnancy, all the time pondering what would happen once I gave birth. The tolerance stayed with me, and I couldn't help but wonder if it was due to the fact that I was nursing, which played a small role in the fact that we nursed until the Little One was one month shy of his second birthday (with me pumping twice during the workday in order to keep up the supply, until he was 11 months-old), as I didn't want to revert to my former intolerant self. The Little One is nearly three years old, and I'm still eating dairy. I've discovered a whole world of ice cream, yogurt, pasta dishes with cream sauce, cheeses, and of course, my beloved latte. And finally, after many years of suffering and dread, I have been able to embrace the holiday of Shavuot, where tradition dictates that we eat copious amounts of dairy foods, and not eating at least some cheesecake is akin to sacrilege.

During Shavuot, agriculture is king, and in Israel, we celebrate with a veritable plethora of farm activities, whether they be tractor demonstrations, hay rides, and trips to various working farms around the country. We took the opportunity to visit friends on a moshav, as the friends have cows and tractors, and we were anxious to show the Little One where milk comes from. We strolled through the barn, discussing the bovine activities that we were witnessing and playing on the many tractors in the yard. As luck would have it, we were there for milking time, and the Husband brought the Little One into the center of the milking apparatus so that he could watch the cows line up on either side and get hooked up to the milking machine. He enjoyed the experience, though I think he was a bit unnerved by being surrounded by so many cows.

I stood on the side, watching my son as he witnessed in wonder. And as I watched each udder hooked up to the pump and observed the milk begin to flow, all I could think of was, "I know what that feels like!" Indeed, I am a sad cow...

In case you were wondering, the cheesecake was excellent...

80s Music Video Sunday #22

Like many of my friends (and I'm obviously referring to my Jewish friends here, as the following words will prove), I had a bat mitzvah. While we didn't opt for the tacky theme party route, my parents still managed to put together a lovely, three-day celebration, with out-of-town relatives invited over Friday evening (resulting in all sorts of strangers coming up to me, saying, "you don't know me, but we're related", and then handing me envelopes with checks inside), Saturday morning services in the synagogue, followed by a reception at one of the local country clubs, guests at the house that evening, and brunch the next morning. Quite a weekend, to say the least.

I have to be honest. Given that it was (gulp) twenty-six years ago, I don't remember it too well. I remember the bit about the checks (funny, that), I remember hating the photographer, who was far too intrusive for my liking, which resulted in many photos of me glaring (at least you couldn't see my braces!), I remember my cousins trying to get me to drink screwdrivers, and I remember the candle lighting ceremony, which is when various important people in your life are called upon to come light one of the candles on the cake. More specifically, I remember my brother's turn. For each person, the band played a different song, something, I suppose, that was considered appropriate for that person. My little brother was ten at the time. And he had a favorite song. It's the only song that I remember from the entire ceremony, as it was so unlike the "Fiddler on the Roof" type songs played for everyone else. Whenever I feel like teasing my little brother today, I remind him of "our" song. I mean, seriously. Who wouldn't turn a bit red being forced to remember that "Celebration" by Kool & The Gang was once their favorite song, right?



Celebration
Kool & The Gang

Yahoo! This is your celebration
Yahoo! This is your celebration

Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate)
Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate)

There's a party goin' on right here
A celebration to last throughout the years
So bring your good times, and your laughter too
We gonna celebrate your party with you

Come on now

Celebration
Let's all celebrate and have a good time
Celebration
We gonna celebrate and have a good time

It's time to come together
It's up to you, what's your pleasure

Everyone around the world
Come on!

Yahoo! It's a celebration
Yahoo!

Celebrate good times, come on!
It's a celebration
Celebrate good times, come on!
Let's celebrate

We're gonna have a good time tonight
Let's celebrate, it's all right
We're gonna have a good time tonight
Let's celebrate, it's all right

Baby...

We're gonna have a good time tonight (Ce-le-bra-tion)
Let's celebrate, it's all right
We're gonna have a good time tonight (Ce-le-bra-tion)
Let's celebrate, it's all right

Yahoo!
Yahoo!

Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate)
Celebrate good times, come on!
It's a celebration!
Celebrate good times, come on! (Let's celebrate)

Come on and celebrate, good times, tonight (Celebrate good times, come on!)
'Cause everything's gonna be all right
Let's celebrate (Celebrate good times, come on)
(Let's celebrate)...

80s Music Video Sunday #20

After what seemed like an interminable journey, the Little One and I are finally home from our vacation. Our return flight was, ummmm, interesting and fraught with far too much excitement, as our flight from Sarasota to Atlanta was delayed by three hours because apparently, the plane was hit by lightning before coming to Sarasota. Three hours was bad. Very bad. We would never have made our connection, and Sarasota being Sarasota, not only was that the last flight of the day to Atlanta, there were also no other flights to Atlanta on other airlines. There was, however, a flight from Tampa – an hour to the north – that would give us enough time to make our connection. Jumping back into the car, we raced up the highway to Tampa, cursing the lane cutters and the traffic (after all, if it had to happen, why not have it happen at rush hour...), with Dad pulling off some most excellent maneuvering across exit lanes when the Little One just couldn't hold it in any longer. Nor could I, and as we crawled through the traffic, Little One kept saying, "Grampa, you have to stop. Mommy has pee pee." Somehow, I made it to the airport, where we checked in after my mad dash to the loo.

The Little One was restless, and to our dismay, we discovered that the airport play area was gateside. Not wishing to drag out our last moments running around the terminal after a three-year old, we said our goodbyes, jumped on the train to the concourse and went through security, which is when we found out that the play area had been closed, leaving us with 45 minutes to kill. In a big, crowded airport. With a very active small child. I received looks that were a combination of amusement and pity as I chased him around the terminal, trying to get him to the gate when our flight was called, trying to get him to get up from the floor, trying to get him to stop running in circles. I received a look of disgust from our seatmate, as she spotted my son and spilled over into my seat. Fortunately, she was in the wrong seat, and we soon found ourselves sitting next to a funny young grandmother who had had a few drinks in the airport to calm her down and another one on the plane, and who made the trip that much easier to bear as she helped me to entertain my son (with much assistance from the in-flight satellite TV).

The scenes from Tampa were replayed in the airport in Atlanta as we got close to the gate, with me chasing, and the Little One alternately laughing and throwing tantrums, and almost escaping mid-wardrobe change. Finally making it onto the plane, and he fell asleep shortly after takeoff, but not before getting magic marker on me and on himself. My original plan had been to get him off to sleep and then catch up with the fabulous entertainment system, but it didn't pan out, as the system had malfunctioned for half the passengers and the entire system had to be reset, a process which took several precious "me" hours. The Little One slept for about eight hours, partially on me and partially on the sweet Russian grandmother who sat beside us, allowing him to kick her and rest his feet on her all night long. More hijinks ensued once my devil child precious son woke up, and no one was happier than I when we finally made it off the plane.

Passport control was a breeze. Grabbing the suitcases was a bit trickier, as the carts were not made with children in mind, but fortunately we were assisted by those around us, and three of our suitcases came out rather quickly. It's possible the fourth one did as well, but I was so out of it at this point, that I'd forgotten what the fourth suitcase looked like, and once the area was clear and I didn't recognize any of the few lone suitcases, we made our way to the lost luggage counter, where a young woman led us back to the carousel and I felt terribly foolish for not having remembered which suitcase I had. Somehow, we made it to the arrivals hall without being stopped by Customs officials (I'm guessing the pity came into play again), and a joyful reunion with the Husband and Father was had by all.

This journey from hell reminded me of a movie I've always enjoyed, National Lampoon's Vacation, starring Chevy Chase (and written by 80s powerhouse screenwriter John Hughes. The theme song was written and performed by Lindsey Buckingham (of Fleetwood Mac fame), and it's today's featured song for 80s Music Video Sunday.



Holiday Road
Lindsey Buckingham

I found out long ago, oooohhhh
It's a long way down the Holiday Road, oooohhhh

Holiday Road
Holiday Road

Jack be nible, Jack be quick, oooohhhh
Take a ride on a West Coast kick, oooohhhh

Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road

I've come back long ago, oooohhhh
Long way down the Holiday Road

Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road

Oooohhhh

Travels, trials and tribulations, and why there's no 80s Music Video Sunday today

As you have probably noticed, there was no 80s Music Video Sunday today, and I'm guessing that some of you are a bit disappointed. We were away for the weekend and only returned a few hours ago, and though I could probably cobble something together, I've decided not to post, given that Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror begins Sunday evening in Israel, and it just seems wrong to post a peppy little 80s song on such a solemn occasion. This is the first year since I moved to Israel more than 15 years ago that I've not been there to commemorate Memorial Day or to celebrate Israel's Independence Day, which begins Monday evening at sundown, and it feels strange. We will, however, be going to an Israeli Independence Day celebration tomorrow at the local Jewish community center, and Memorial Day will be noted as well.

We've generally been having a good trip, and as usual, there's a part of me that doesn't want to return to Israel later this week. The Little One (who has tried my patience on almost a daily basis) is speaking mostly in English these days, albeit with an Israeli accent. We spent the weekend visiting with my brother and his family, and the Little One managed to utterly charm his young cousins, one of whom could not stop talking about how cute he was (she called him "cutie buns") and how all she wanted to do was to hold him and squeeze him. It was all rather adorable, and he kept crying her name for a good part of the trip back home to Grandma and Grandpa's house.

We've seen lots of animals and reptiles (mostly in various aquariums and other such establishments), played in the majority of playgrounds around the city, eaten rather well (the Little One immensely enjoyed the boneless spareribs after we told him that it was chicken), and done a fair amount of shopping (though of course, there's more to be done).

Oh, and I'm very, very tired. I've also developed an even greater respect for stay-at-home- and single parents. I don't know how you do it folks. I love my son to bits, but if I had to do this all the time, I think I'd lose it. I'm absolutely full of admiration for people who can do this, and a bit frustrated because I know I can't. As much as I'd like to stay here, I'm really looking forward to getting back to my husband and allowing him to spend some quality time with the Little One, while allowing me to spend some quality time with myself.

In any event, it is now nearly 9pm, and I've got phone calls to make and a small child to bathe. This week will be hectic, but normal blogging will resume next week.

80s Music Video Sunday #18

We've been ensconsed in American life for approximately 52 hours, and the culture shock is palpable. So many television commercials! And hey! Why are there commercials for adult party phone lines on Nickelodeon during the day? We haven't been to Target. We've been to Super Target. Seriously! It's really called Super Target! Because regular Target just isn't big enough, I guess. The place is massive. I've already been to two supermarkets, and the sheer variety of products and brands has left me dumbfounded.

The flight was surprisingly not nightmarish. The Little One slept for eight out of thirteen hours (having managed to stay awake until the plane started to taxi down the runway in preparation for takeoff), and the rest of the time was spent reading and playing. At one point he told me that he wanted to get off the plane, but other than that, he was quite the little trooper. I actually apologized to one of the flight attendants for his behavior and she responded with, "he was good. Trust me." By the way, for those of you flying from Israel to the southern US, you should definitely consider Delta's direct flight from Tel Aviv to Atlanta. The service was excellent (everyone was so nice and so incredibly helpful!), the food surprisingly good, and the entertainment system kept me thoroughly entertained.

I drank my first cup of Starbucks coffee at the airport in Atlanta. Aside from being surprised to see that my medium-sized latte was larger than any large coffee that one can find in Israel, I was saddened to discover that what my husband and some of my friends had been saying was indeed correct. The coffee was nowhere near as good as the coffee in Israel. It didn't seem to bother anyone else in the terminal, though, as everyone seemed to be walking around with large cups of Starbucks coffee, and the garbage bins were full of empty Starbucks cups. They do, however, make a lovely chocolate chip scone, and I don't envy the person responsible for cleaning the area where the Little One ate his precious scone.

We've had an easy few days so far, aside from the jetlag and the fact that the Little One is barely speaking any English, chattering away to everyone in Hebrew, not at all bothered by the fact that almost no one understands him (he's even gone so far as to repeat answers in Hebrew, saying them louder and more slowly after his grandparents told him that they didn't understand). We've visited with friends, gone to a birthday party and made some new friends, and I've even managed to do a little shopping, after the Little One went down for an afternoon nap. The Official Shopping Count stands at two pairs of capri pants and one short-sleeved shirt (and sorry, NRG, but they're all in my "usual" colors. I did try on a red top, but it bunched funny under the arms...).

So, in honor of our trip to the US, today's 80s Music Video Sunday entry is devoted to an artist who I find to be quintessentially, unquestionably American. Our rocker was born in the USA, in the state of New Jersey. I've always been a Bruce Springsteen fan, and really enjoy his tunes from the 80s. Oh, and a gold star goes to the first person to name the girl dancing with Springsteen in the video below.



Dancing in the Dark
Bruce Springsteen

I get up in the evening
And I ain't got nothing to say
I come home in the morning
I go to bed feeling the same way
I ain't nothing but tired
Man, I'm just tired and bored with myself
Hey there baby I could use just a little help

You can't start a fire
You can't start a fire without a spark
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing in the dark

Message keeps getting clearer
Radio's on and I'm moving 'round the place
I check my look in the mirror
I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face
Man, I ain't getting nowhere just living in a dump like this
There's something happening somewhere
Baby I just know that there is

You can't start a fire
You can't start a fire without a spark
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing in the dark

You sit around getting older
There's a joke here somewhere and it's on me
I'll shake this world off my shoulders
Come on baby the laugh's on me

Stay on the streets of this town
And they'll be carving you up all right
They say you gotta stay hungry
Hey baby I'm just about starving tonight
I'm dying for some action
I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book
I need a love reaction
Come on now baby gimme just one look

You can't start a fire sitting 'round crying over a broken heart
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing In the dark
You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart
This gun's for hire

Can you say that in English?

I can't believe it's been nearly a year since we were last in the US. I remember the trip vividly, as though it took place just last month, yet suddenly I find myself making preparations to fly once again. It will be different from last time though, for two reasons. First of all, we will be flying to Florida instead of New York, and second of all, the Little One and I will be flying solo without the Husband, as he has too much going on work-wise and can't get away right now.

I'm really looking forward to the trip, though not without some trepidation. We'll be flying the route recommended by SavtaDotty, which involves a direct flight from Tel Aviv to Atlanta lasting just over 13 hours, a layover of just under three hours, during which we'll have to go through Customs, grab luggage, return luggage, and probably take a train to our next gate (which I plan to milk for maximum entertainment value). The last leg of our journey should take a little more than 90 minutes, where the Little One's grandparents will be waiting for us by the massive aquarium to help us collect our luggage and make the fifteen-minute drive back to the house. I've ordered kiddie meals for the kiddie and selected our seats for all four flights (sadly, no bulkhead seats were available), and have more or less decided that potty training will be put on hold while in transit so that we won't have any unfortunate incidents at inconvenient times. The last thing I need while standing in the Customs line is "Mommy, doody/pee pee", and not having any place to run (and not wanting to give up our place in line).

But I digress. One of the things that concerns me the most about this trip (aside from having to keep my son entertained for three weeks straight) is language. As time goes by, he is speaking more and more in Hebrew, and less and less in English. He understands everything we say to him in English, he chooses books and videos in English, but the language he usually opts to speak in is Hebrew. If I ask him how to say a certain word in English, he can tell me, and occasionally initiates in English, but for the most part, his primary spoken language is now Hebrew. Our conversations usually occur with me speaking to him in English and him responding in Hebrew. I'm not overly thrilled with this situation, but don't like the idea of trying to force him to use English, as I don't want him to rebel against the language. I don't want him to see English as a chore.

I've begun preparing him for the trip, and he knows that in a few weeks we'll be getting on an airplane and flying to visit Grandma and Grandpa (and possibly Mickey Mouse, which has proved an effective deterrent when I want him to do something or stop doing something, as he doesn't want to miss meeting the mouse), and a slew of cousins, and aunt and uncle, etc. While gently pushing him to speak more English, I've been trying to explain to him that when we go to visit Mommy's family, he has to speak in English, as they don't speak Hebrew, but I'm not sure he understands yet. He seems to understand the concept in reverse, in that if we tell him to say something to someone else, and we tell him in English, he switches to Hebrew, even when it's a word that he normally uses in English. I'm hoping that once he's fully immersed in a totally English-speaking environment, the language will come to him naturally, and that after three weeks there, his English speaking skills will be on par with his Hebrew speaking skills. Needless to say, I don't relish the thought of having to play full-time translator for the duration of our trip, and I know that my parents will be incredibly frustrated if he responds to them only in Hebrew.

Given that he is not yet three years-old, I'm not sure how much he comprehends of his bilingualism. He understands that there's an accent he uses on certain letters when speaking in Hebrew and that the accent changes when speaking in English. Sometimes, if I ask him to say a particular word in English, he simply repeats it in Hebrew, using an American accent. While watching Balamory last week, Archie came on the screen. I made some innocuous comment about Archie and was immediately chastised by my son, who explained that it wasn't "Archie", it was "Ahhhrrrchie", and no amount of explaining and cajoling would convince him otherwise, even though Balamory is in English. On the other hand, while being read to in English by one of his young Israeli cousins recently, when the girl stumbled over a word or two, the Little One (who knew the book virtually by heart) corrected her while using his American accent.

Before we flew to the US last year, he was speaking, but not really connecting words into sentences yet. While there, he had something of a language explosion, and because it happened while we were in an English speaking environment, the "explosion" was mainly in English. After we returned to Israel, his Hebrew caught up with his English, and then surpassed it as he began to truly interact with his peers and other Israelis who were, of course, all around him. I am hoping for a similar explosion (or at least concrete recognition of the fact that there are two distinct languages, and that not everyone speaks both) during this trip, but given that his language skills are far more developed this time around, I'm not quite sure what to expect.

*This post cross-posted to Brio.