Hanukkah

“I don’t care if they don’t learn anything,” I divulged to Lance, grinning, while seated on the tiny hard kid-size bench at Sebastian’s gan. We were partaking in the annual class Hanukkah party, watching 27 preschoolers sing and motion rhythmically, and my heart was overflowing with joy. “This,” I exclaimed, “makes it all worthwhile.”

There are few things more heartwarming than seeing your child sing, tap, clap, hip-sway, spin like a dreydl, and perform a rendition of a Ukrainian dance, small hands placed tentatively, stiffly, and proudly, on narrow hips.

The preparations for the Hanukkah party at Sebastian’s gan have been going on for about a week now. I’ve echoed the expectant mood with my own “preparations” -- walking the city streets singing, accompanied by a zealous and spirited little vocalist naturally, in search of sufganyot (the traditional holiday jelly beignets). The search itself is not taxing -- sufganyot grace nearly every storefront – but the selection is tricky. Nowadays, sufganyot range from basic to deluxe, chocolate to apple caramel. ‘Tis the season here this warm and sunny winter and the sights and sounds are sweet.

At home, the sights and sounds reflect their own variety of new traditions. When Sebastian was asked to bring in a Hanukkiah to school accompanied by an explanation of where it came from (i.e. my grandfather gave it to me), we knew we had to get creative. And so we did. Creative, messy, and colorful.

Here, the time-honored songs also incur a creative spin. At the dinner table, Sebastian deliberately sets the mood by singing a handful of traditional Hanukkah songs before a glimmer flashes in his eye and he giddily begins to sing what he calls the “mixed up” version -- the one that lives on the streets and in the ganim (plural of gan).  By a wily sleight of the imagination that is commonly the property of children, the songs of praise over “the miracles and the wonders that the Maccabees performed” are craftily transformed: “I got zero on an exam; my mom will kill me and my dad will strangle me, and that’ll be the end of the world.” Innocence and spoil are joined in a hazy glow.

I would be quite surprised if my four year old knew what an exam is and am quite certain he has no idea what getting a zero on one suggests. But he’s grinning. He learnt this version of the song from his friends. He feels a part of a social group. And he’s beaming. If this is his Israeli education, let it be.

Old Age and Colored Hearts

At Sebastian’s gan, the letter of the alphabet that is introduced every couple weeks is dubbed the “friend” of the week.

At home, especially at the dining table, numbers have become our friends. Sebastian enjoys the challenge, the pattern, and the order they pose. So we apply them in various molds. If you have eight pieces of fish and you eat two, how many will you have left? If you have three carrots and I give you another four, how many will you have? Oh now we’re playing restaurant? Yes I’d like to order a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. 8 dollars? Here’s 10. How much change do I get? Thank you.

The other day, after three bites of scrambled egg, Sebastian glanced admiringly at his father and started to smile, as his eyes glimmered and his voice filled with wonder: “How did Aba get to be 40 so fast?”

He then hurried to declare: “I want to be 100 first!”

He is going through his “first” phase. I want to be out of the bath first. I want to be in pajamas first.

He is after all the first-born.

Other number games have highlighted this prodigious rank: “How old will Liliana be when I’m 48?” “How old will I be when Liliana is 26?” Sebastian readily offers the answers with a disarming smirk. And we nod and beam as our hearts fill.

But when he asked Lance “how old will you be when I’m 85?” our hearts splintered.

For Sebastian time can’t move fast enough while we wish desperately that it would slow down. Oftentimes I teasingly beseech him not to rush when he professes that he wants to be 11 years old or in grade L. The pleading tone of my voice and the animated expression on my face make him laugh.

Yet I am quite serious. I smile along with him on the outside as I tear up on the inside. Motherhood is frequently dishing such poignant vibrations.

As far as Sebastian is concerned, time and us are equal partners, marching forward infinitely.  But we know that there is no parity; that time marches without us, that our days are numbered. And our conclusion, of course, must be glaringly simple: to embrace today with all of our hearts.

This morning Sebastian turned to me and asked: “Ima, what color is your heart?”

Um…. I hesitated, trying to come up with a sparkling reply. “Purple” I cheerfully blurted. “Why?” he queried. “Because purple is a bold and lively color,” I said assuredly.

“I have a golden heart,” he rejoined.

And my heart extended. It’s all about quality, not quantity.

Then he darted off to color his heart red.

Yom Kippur

“It’s really fun right?” Sebastian blurts animatedly as he whizzes by the living room sofa on what he calls his  אפנוע (ofno'ah=motorcyle). I turn my head. What’s really fun? “Yom Kippur! Next Yom Kippur I want to ride on the streets again on my ofno’ah.

[And so, I am compelled now, as Channukah swiftly approaches, to (quickly) hark back to September 18 and write about Yom Kippur.]

Really fun! Not the first phrase that comes to mind when talking about the Jewish Day of Atonement. I would offer, based on my Jewish experience in the Diaspora all these years, adjectives like somber, solemn, reflective, pleasingly meditative even. But fun – no.

In spite of the absence of “fun” however, Yom Kippur has in truth always been one of my favorite holidays. I always liked the introspective thrust of the holiday. The quiet, the austerity, the rumination; it lent the day a special tenor, it awarded it import, it set it apart from the rest.

But this year, our first Yom Kippur in Tel Aviv, I was hard pressed to find this meditative state.

Here the roads were bustling. Not with cars or busses evidently, but with pedestrians and kids on bicycles. Yom Kippur here is indeed a street party for kids!

I must admit there was something exhilarating, cathartic, certainly extraordinary, even holy, about ambling in the middle of the main roads with hoards of others on this one day of the year when all other traffic comes to an abrupt halt.

Here Yom Kippur is keenly felt – there are no cars on the streets, no school, everything is shut down  – but not observed. There, it is just the opposite. 

There, over recent years, I purposefully sent the kids to preschool so that I could spend a good chunk of the day in solitary repose (if you sleep most of the day the fast goes much easier), fasting, reflecting. Here, the kids of course don’t’ go to school. And telling people that you fast on Yom Kippur will yield a look that will make you question whether you are in fact from this planet. The supermarkets and grocery stores are jam-packed on the afternoon of the eve of Yom Kippur before shutting down for the one-day holiday, because people need to stock up. 

There I would try to go to synagogue to hear the mournful and soulful Kol Nidrei chant. Here we of course don’t (yet?) have a synagogue. Reform synagogues in general, though a lovely one does exist in North Tel Aviv, are simply scarce in these parts. In Israel, politics seeps into everything. In the case of Judaism, it bleeds. Judaism (as in the religion) here is sadly relegated to the orthodox sector, which meets (understandably) with deep and bitter resignation by the secular population (Tel Aviv!) for the political coercion in which they are embroiled. There is a sense that their fruitful families are taking over the country (a very bad thing politically), and “just leave us Tel Aviv, for gods sake” – a small haven of secular liberalism.

No solitariness, no synagogue, no one with whom to break the fast. (Who here even fasts?)

I woke up to prepare breakfast for the kids. Walked through the middle of the roads in the moist and sticky heat of the day, Liliana prancing freely and Sebastian zipping on his ofno’ah. Went to a lively playground, and felt like I was about to collapse. When no one was looking I furtively stuck my hand in my bag, unwrapped the cereal bar that I had brought along for the kids, and snuck a bite.

This was the first time in 15 years, save when I was pregnant, that I broke the fast midday. 

Aba Aba Aba

I know I’m lucky.

He sweeps. He mops. He hangs laundry on the drying rack. He rubs my feet.

He sits on the little green stool next to Sebastian at the activity table, and fastidiously draws and cuts and pastes for what seem like hours. He deftly lifts Liliana from her bed and soothes her softly when she cries out at night. He bends forwards to carry Sebastian on his back and bends backwards to airplane Liliana on his legs. He is patient, loving, and kind.

And it’s driving me crazy.

I know what you’re thinking: oh please, get over yourself, you've got nothing to bitch about. But please: hear me out. Consider these scenarios.

We appear outside Sebastian’s gan at 1:30 pm to pick him up. We is me and Lance; Ima and Aba, side by side. Sebastian runs excitedly to Lance and jumps into his arms calling Aba Aba. I hold my arms out readily and beg for a hug. Then close them in gracelessly.

Or this.

Liliana is seated at the breakfast table sniveling. I go to appease her, to pacify her, to soothe her. I try to take her into my arms. But she cries “Aba’ye”. I give up.

What woman doesn’t want a good dad for her children?

But a super-dad? Well like we say in Hebrew, לא צריך להגזים, there’s no need to exaggerate.

Just the other morning Sebastian climbed into our bed, clambered in between Lance and I, and nestled up to Lance. Naturally, I tried to get close to him, to partake in this velvety morning delicacy. But the small and purposeful hand that was thrust in my direction told me that there was no place for me in this morning delight.

Feeling completely spurned and rejected by the child I had nursed and nurtured all these (FOUR!) years, I sullenly dragged myself out of bed, set to preparing the oatmeal, and grudgingly plopped a bowl in front of my firstborn as tears clotted in my throat. Such is behavior I might be willing to entertain ten years from now, when I harbor an aloof teenager in my home, but now? At age four? Why these early years are supposed to be the cuddle era, the nuzzle era -- the mommy era!!!

Later that morning, after Sebastian had gone to school, I turned dourly to Lance, as tears welled in my eyes. He took me in his arms, caressed me, rocked me, and as my heart melted and my wounded tears turned tender, all I could think was Aba Aba Aba.

Postcript: A few evenings ago I returned home to an exuberant reception. Sebastian ran over and embraced me snugly. I clasped him firmly and held the moment as I held my son. Until my trance was shaken by Liliana’s cry. She too was waiting for her hug. Hurt feelings and hugs it seems, is the substance of childhood. And parenthood. 

Kishkush

Hovered over the small white table, Sebastian draws scrupulously as he leans forward on the lime green stool. His focus is sharp and his concentration is heightened.  

He was never “big” into art. At least not any more than your average kid. “Let’s do a chick-chack art project,” he sometimes called out before dinner. Chick-chack is that Hebrew turn of phrase whose gist connotes something quick, off the cuff, nothing too terribly involved. Let’s just eat a falafel chick-chack before the movie.

Drawing, during the chick-chack era, was carefree, natural, unspoiled.

Nowadays it is resolute, determined, and persistent.

The discourse of the קשקוש (kishkush =scribble) has insidiously woven itself into the subject of conversation at home over recent weeks. Yes, he knows that the kishkush appeals to the imagination, that every artistic piece is a worthy creation in its own right, that art cannot be quantified, that tastes differ, and that I like it and Aba likes it and Tata (grandma) likes it. 

But the kids at school don’t like it. For them it’s just a kishkush. Bottom line.

When I came home yesterday to find Sebastian seated at his current workplace, he breathlessly offered me a sneak peak of his oeuvre. I uttered the appropriate oohs and aahs. Moments later, while I was setting the table, he exclaimed brightly “But Ima, this is  be’emet (TRULY) not a kishkush.”

Another little heart-rend was joined to the chain of slits and scratches. 

My heart, a mother’s bursting heart, is swiftly becoming a battleground, blotted with nicks and scars.

Suddenly, I hear Sebastian cry out “Wow, look at this! The red one, it’s a REAL flower! ממש!” Yes! “Like the big kids draw.” Another slump.

But then I stop, look, and smell the flower.  

Ora

Sarasotans need a bikini wax? Suna at Suna Salon on Palm. A haircut? Derek at Nuovo on 1^st Street. You live in a city long enough, you’ve got your little spots. The best spot to get your nails done, the best brow shaper, the best dry cleaner.

You come to a new place and you have to discover anew all the “best spots” for all your integral needs. It can make one feel a little shabby I’ll tell you, cracked nail polish and bushy brows and all.

It had been about a month since we’d arrived in Tel Aviv. We had begun to get settled in and organized, the kids were napping soundly, and I declared to Lance that I was off for an hour. It was time to venture out and find my “spot”.

I had passed by a gazillion little threadbare, old school looking esthetician salons on our walks up and down Ibn Gvirol. Certainly, there is no shortage of estheticians in this city. Only a dearth of confidence in the midst of plentiful options.

I walked into the small, simple, unadorned spot closest to our corner. ORA’s salon. The fair, pixie haired, forthcoming and slightly irreverent, apron clad woman was busy with another client and coolly asked if I have any problems. I shook my head diffidently, no, I just want a simple pedicure. She then got up to examine my feet and told me in point of fact, in her thick Ukrainian accent, that I have a problem. My skin is very thin. This requires a medical pedicure. Come back in a half hour.

I obeyed.

I returned a half hour later, unstrapped my sandals, and Ora set to work while I began making small talk. We’re new here, just moved, trying to get situated and find the good spots… Work? Teaching, writing… My husband is a musician by the way if you happen to have any contacts in the world of music…

Now the ball was in her court. And she served and swung and struck like a pro. Yes well there’s this person, and that person. Maybe so and so can help him. And for you, you should look at such and such. Hey if I can help I will. Whatever I can do to be of assistance. Look it’s nothing at all. If I can help why not.

The list of potential contacts was interrupted only to signal the shift from clean, exfoliated feet to color and polish. But the question of color choice was cloaked by a poised statement: “Color? This is your personality! No doubt about it. This shade of purple that you never would have selected or even considered yourself, is totally and absolutely you.” And thus I was spared the typically protracted cogitation process while ambling by the polishes (rich? nude? sassy? delicate? this shade or that nearly identical one but with a nuanced and surely significant difference? time to read the cutesy titles of each -- invariably the decisive factor (“tease-y does it” trumps “yucatan if you want to”)). Turns out I was actually slightly relieved to learn that here, Ora the pedicurist chooses the color because she knows best.

I left, happy with my spanking nails (and arched brows by Ora’s partner Svetlana) and headed home, feeling like a new woman. As I turn onto our street, my phone rings. Ora the pedicurist. Write down this number for Lance. Dalia Atlas, a conductor, I just spoke with her, she’ll be happy to meet with him.

Later that day, on my evening walk with Lance and the kids, as we passed by Ora’s salon, I decided to walk in and introduce my gang to her. She glanced at Lance and her eyes glimmered. She later confided to me that my husband has captured her heart and assured me that she and I will go see him conduct together.

A few days later, another phone call: It’s Ora the pedicurist, there’s a woman here with me now who might have some ideas for Lance, what’s your number (to the woman)?, jot this down…

And so Lance has his Israeli version of an agent: Ora the pedicurist. Why just yesterday, several weeks after our first encounter with her, he gets a text from a dancer who tells him to send his materials to some conductor. “I met you outside Ora’s salon”, the SMS indicated.

It's all about finding the right spots.

Liliana: a feast for the senses

“She’s cute but she’s a little משוגעת (crazy),” Sebastian coolly remarked to me about his sister, during a familiar game of role-play. (Me, the anthropologist and he, the subject, describing his lineage and mores). “Really?” I played along, masking a smile at the thought that he couldn’t be more right on.

Lance and I don’t even have to utter the word anymore. The sigh’n’smile, accompanied by the shake of the head says it all.

Sure, most toddlers like to include the table, the floor, their shirt, and even their hair in a hearty meal. But with Liliana, the body is both the vehicle and the drive.

Yogurt is made for delivering a moisturizing and exfoliating body treatment. Markers are designed expressly for decorative body art.

Everything is touched, felt, rubbed, kneaded, spread, schmeared. With exuberant joy and brazen, obstinate, and inexorable glee.

Morning

OK. Sebastian is dressed. Liliana is changed and dressed. Both fed. It’s 10 past eight. I try and think of what still needs to be done amidst the ritual morning balagan. Funny how the same tasks and events need to be completed every morning and yet each morning presents its own version of disarray and clutter. If it were only the kids we had to take care of, I think, bleary-eyed, noticing the cone-shaped mop that has taken form on my head as I pass by the mirror. I still have to shower, haven’t even had a glass of juice yet.

Liliana pulls the “Apchee” book off the shelf. “Et ze” she declares. I check my watch. OK, We still have a little bit of time before Sebastian needs to get to gan. And I can always take her to hers a little later. Or shower later. Come on. Live in the moment. Read a sweet book. A mother-daughter cuddle. Liliana’s bent for speed-reading is of course a significant impetus.  This child is entirely amused and engaged by the lively dramatization of the “Apchee”, no need for elaborations, expositions, or denouements. I skip paragraphs and pages freely and generously. I can enjoy the silly “apchee”s without too much concern for the nagging encroachment of time. 

“Ah ah ah ahhh ahhhh aaaahhhhhpcheeeeee!” Sebastian of course hears my vigorous and animated performance and approaches us. I look at him tenderly, longing to share a moment with him too, and yet my internal cautionary alarm signals. Best to keep the two separate. If her style is cursory and perfunctory, his is thorough and precise. I must accept the fact that it could be another year before I can achieve my fantasy of having both kids burrowed on my lap, sharing story-time. 

Sure enough, Sebastian asks me to read the entire book to him. And I feel my heart extend mournfully, as it hungers to share the intimate encounter of story-time together with him also. And yet the brusque and unrelenting soldier of time marches on.  Not now. “Later”, I assure him. And I ponder, a little sadly, silently, whether there will be a later, whether we will find the time amidst the day’s typical rush of events.

“Plunk”. “Plunk”. I am returned to the reality of a restless toddler as Liliana pulls and throws book after book from the shelf. Inhale. Exhale. I let the sigh in and let the smile out. The “sigh’n’smile” has become the necessary and natural response to this little firecracker of ours. Without it we would have difficulty breathing.

But the “sigh’n’smile” has its limits. Restless toddler, restless mother; I begin to feel my anxiety descend. Books scattered all over the floor is not as fun as giggling over a silly story. I look at my watch. It must be time to take Sebastian to gan already. Surely it must be almost time to start thinking about me.  (sigh)

Morning!