The Crazy Baby Mama

Sometimes, I am Still This Girl

2012-02-03T12:00:00.000-08:00

I was shiny in 11th grade. And not in an REM "shiny happy people" kind of way. I was shiny like a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. The terrain of my skin was pocked and purulent, a BP oil catastrophe waiting to errupt all over my face. If I could have spent the year with a paper bag over my head, I would have.

I would wake up three hours before I needed to get to school. First, I'd apply concealor. Then foundation. Then more concealor. Then more foundation. Then powder. Then more concealor. Then more powder. I was a seven-layer bean dip. Only bumpier and with more oil.

I almost always wore black back then -- and not because I was Goth. I wore black because I wanted to disappear, to navigate the high school hallways as a shadow, undetected.

And even though I would furtively powder my face after every class, I wasn't fooling anyone.

And people were mean.

There was one girl in my English class who was especially vile. She was one of those more edgy than thou types who'd wear mismatched vintage Vans to disguise her lack of real creativity. And, every day, she would use my forehead like a mirror to check her reflection.

Ok, I guess that is kind of creative.

Monday afternoons, Mr. A, the ~~self-~~proclaimed poetry guru would come to our English class and teach us his craft. We would sit hunched over our desks, stymied by the blue-lined notebook paper in front of us, twirling or chewing on our number 2 pencils until an Idea flitted by, while our regular English teacher, Mr. D -- a George Cloony doppelganger with a "hidden" tattoo snaking up his left bicep -- would grade papers and look bored. I loved poetry with Mr. A because metaphor was another disguise I could hide behind -- a way of saying "sometimes I wish I were dead," without actually saying it and having my parents called in for a conference with the school psychologist.

One hot Monday afternoon, when my pores were thick with Covergirl and LA smog, The Girl with the vintage Vans raised her hand in English class. “I have a poem I want to read.” We all turned to stare. No one ever volunteered to read during poetry class. And she had one of those gravely voices – a cadence to her speech that reeked of confidence – and everyone listened to her. Mr. A was positively beamish, and even Mr. D put down his red pen when she stood up to speak.

I still cringe when I remember the two and a half minutes that followed. The Girl with the vintage Vans read a piece called “Reflections on a Face,” and even though it was soaked in hallucogenic imagery, this did about as much to disguise that my skin was the subject as my makeup spackle did to disguise my teenage nightmare. And everyone knew it. By the end of her performance, I could feel the stares of the other kids boring into me. Only Mr. A – so thrilled that someone was taking his poetry class seriously – missed the metaphor.

And the whole class applauded.

Like Lord of the Flies. But In Red Stilettos

2012-02-01T09:15:00.000-08:00

Even before the separation, I was a free-wielding mama. I used to let M and Little Homie color on the walls of her room with a crayon. I let my kids stand on chairs next to me and slice bread with a butter knife on the kitchen counter. Crumbs on the floor can be swept up. Stains on their clothes means that they had a good time. Bedtime is a fluid concept in our house, and if we’re all having a hard day I’ve been known to break out the Ben and Jerry’s. I (still) don’t censor myself, even though I know it means that one day the preschool director will probably call me because one of my kids said “shove it.” But, I love loyally and loudly. Mess with my kids, and I’ll cut you.

Yes, you.

I am Mother Lion, hear me roar.

(Meow)

But still, now that I see my kids only three days a week instead of seven, I don’t want to fall into the trap of being just the “fun” parent. Ok, fine, I’ll be real: I dowant to be the fun parent–but I know that it’s a precarious balance between being “fun” and maintaining the structure that children crave.

(And I stumble frequently.)

Yesterday, for example, was an epic parental failure: Winter in Israel on a kibbutz without a car is a triple whammy nightmare for any parent. Let alonethis parent. By 2:07 p.m.–an hour overdue for naptime–M straight up told me, “No Mama, I don’t want to see Cinderella. (Again.) I only want to watch Sex and the City.” So, Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte joined us for a rainy afternoon visit* while Little Homie found my red hooker heels, and I found the chocolate cake my mother-in-law had baked for B. By 2:30, our house had devolved into Lord of the Flies. Only with red stilettos and chocolate crumbs all over the rug.

By 3:23, the kids were asleep, curled up together on the couch in clear violation of the “we only sleep in our beds” rule that I never fully signed on to.

Kids: 2. Mama: 0.

And then, just a few hours later, I’m gone–on a slow train back to Tel Aviv until Tuesday rolls around and I come back.

And I wonder how this easy-come-easy-go parenting style will affect my kids, especially as it smacks right up against their father’s more, um, orderly methods. Will the contradiction be too much for M and Little Homie to bear? Am I pillaging the boundaries and borders my kids need to feel safe?

We know that kids will rebel against their parents in one way or another. After all, we were all teenagers at one point (and I still have the pierced nose to prove it. Hi Dad.) While most of us eventually circle back to some basic level of functionality, some of us don’t. And this begs the question: If M or Little Homie join a cult–or worse–become investment bankers, will it be my fault?

*I will say (protesting too much, methinks) that the episode in question was all city and no sex.

Loving Your Kids and Loving Motherhood Are Not The Same Thing...

2012-01-19T01:17:00.000-08:00

Right after my daughter was born, someone told me that what’s best for the mama is what’s best for the baby.

(But at the time I was too wrapped up in the dangerous idea that dark under-eye circles,  scraggly hair, and spit and shit stained sweats made me a Good Mother. Sleep deprivation meant I was tending to my child’s every need. The two tell-tale wet spots on my shirt meant I was too busy breastfeeding to care about personal hygiene. Matted hair? Awesome. Pit stains? Bring it on. Oh, and do me a favor, bring over a large pot from the kitchen because I’m too busy shushing and swaying my colicky child to use the bathroom. Thanks.)

“Go out with a friend for coffee!” my mother-in-law said.

“When can we see you?” my friends asked. “We miss you!”

I missed me, too.

But I thought that women who waltzed off for a night out with a friend or–God forbid–their husbands, were selfish bitches.

Really.

And in between obsessing about germs and aspiration pneumonia, in between counting M’s poops with religious fervor, in between pouring boiling water on one of the organic wooden toys made by magical elves in Scandanavia, I realized this: Would I die for my child?  You bet. Would I kill for her? Touch her before washing your hands with antibacterial soap, and you’d find out.

But, I hated being a mother.

When I found out I was pregnant again when my daughter was 8-months-old (um, you guys? Breastfeeding is not birth control, just saying) I started writing as a means of survival. I couldn’t live the way I had been living any longer and bring another baby into the world, so I took a (very) deep breath and started writing. And wearing a push-up bra.

Maybe it was also a hormonal thing. Maybe growing a teeny tiny penis in my uterus gave me the balls to take myself less seriously. Or more seriously.

Regardless, I started to enjoy my kid. And the idea of having another kid.

But it still wasn’t enough.

And when we moved to Israel–when I left the community I loved in Los Angeles for a place that confused me, while we dealt with a barrage of illnesses strange and new, while the idea of sleep seeped down the drain and I tumbled headfirst after it into a world of manic exhaustion, I lost it.

Take a break, take a break, take a break my friends back home told me on Facebook and g-chat. But I couldn’t when it felt like there was no where to go.

This isn’t why my marriage imploded. This isn’t why I’m living 30 minutes away from my children in an apartment in Tel Aviv. But my fragile sense of myself–of what I liked and what made me happy–certainly contributed to the collapse of the family I worked so hard to protect.

So please, mamas who think they can “do it all,” take me as a cautionary tale. Take me as an example of what NOT to do.  And go take a fucking break.

This post originally appeared here on Kveller.com.

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children--including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies...and advice from Mayim Bialik.

Seven Years Gone

2012-01-15T10:57:00.000-08:00

Seven years ago today, I crawled into bed with my mom for the last time. Dry lips yanked back into a rictus of pain, she lay there, shriveled, on the bed. She fidgeted and moaned. Someone gave her morphine. She sighed.  Her breath was slow and coarse as gravel. Her skin stretched taught and transparent over her perfect cheekbones.

I picked up her hand. A large vein twanged with the thump of her tired heart.

Anemic sunlight flitted through the room, playing with the shadows on the wall.

I cried without a sound.

Her eyelids fluttered.

This was my mom, but it wasn't my mom.

My dad came in and lay next to her in the bed they had shared for almost 30 years. He held her hand. He kissed her face.

He told her she could go.

She shuddered, knocking her head against the pillow.

The primordial sound of death rattled in her throat.

And she was gone.

Whirling Together Out of the Darkness...

2011-12-23T12:04:00.000-08:00

Two months ago, I took one of our twelve suitcases out of storage, dusted it off, opened it up, and crammed in all my clothes, three photo albums, my mom’s journals, a bag -- (ok, fine, three bags) -- of assorted hair and makeup products that I had collected before leaving Los Angeles, the soft zebra dress M wore as a baby, and the tiny cotton onesie with the sheep parading up and down the middle that Little Homie wore for the first month after he was born.    

And I left the kibbutz.

And while the taxi roared out the big yellow gate and down the winding road lined with fragrant eucalyptus trees, shattering the stillness of the starless night,  it occurred to me that I had forgotten something:  My family.

B and I tried, but we couldn’t make it work.  

Our marriage was broken.  And over the last several months instead of trying to krazy glue the fuck out of the pieces, I ground my high heel hooker boot into them.  

Dust to dust.  

“Where the hell am I going to go,” I asked myself over and over and over during dark nights while I rode around and around and around the kibbutz on my shiny purple bicycle.  “What am I going to do.”

I don’t do well when I feel trapped - I get twitchy and edgy, and  I lash out like an angry beast:   I hiss.  I growl.  I bite.  And ultimately, I knew the only way out, was to get out.  

Usually, when a couple splits, they follow the standard protocol:  The wife stays in the family house and maintains primary custody of the children, while the husband holes up in a seedy motel until he can find an apartment.   The wife has support from her community -- her family and the friends who are like family, while the husband has his people who stand behind him. 

But what do you do when you’re all alone in a new country, and the only so-called community you have has your husband’s back and not yours?  

You build your own community.  That’s what you do.  In moments large and small, you create a home for yourself, even if you have to start from scratch.  And slowly, slowly, slowly, that’s what I’m doing.  I have work - a job I love with coworkers who have given me more support than I could ever imagine.  I have a few friends scattered around the country -- and yes, on the kibbutz as well -- who have humbled me with their compassion.  And through the internet, I have my 

family and friends back home, and of course my virtual community at Kveller.

But still, I wake up in the middle of the night with a jolt, my heart pounding, convinced that through the cloying darkness I can hear my babies crying out for me to take them into my bed.  

And yet, I know that they’re miles away.  The children I nursed through toddlerhood, that I coslept with until just six months ago, are tucked in safe and snug on the kibbutz with their father while I sleep alone in a new city.   

“Why can’t you take them with you,”  so many have asked.

Because the kibbutz is kind to my children - it’s Gan Eden - a place they’re free to roam and explore, and over the past year, they’ve blossomed like the red poppies that bloom in the Springtime.  Yanking them by the roots and taking them out of preschool, and away from their father and grandmother, and their community, and transplanting them into my life in a shabby apartment in a foreign city would be devastating.  

And so, three times a week, I take the train or cadge a ride to my childrens’ home -- where they thrive. 

And here I thought it was hard being on the kibbutz before I left:  You know the pivotal moment in the nature video when the zebras are all chillin’ by the watering hole? It’s all idyllic and peaceful, until  out of the shadows, a lion appears.  The zebras know what’s up and the get the hell out of Dodge.

 Well, when I visit the kibbutz, I am the lion.  With leprosy.  

Even though divorce isn’t a contagious disease, when I take the kids to the small grocery store, or the park, or even the cafe, most of the mothers bolt.  A few are brave enough to talk to me.   And these are the women I count as friends.  

I try to avoid being in public on the kibbutz.  I pick the kids up from gan  and either take them back to their house, or go to a friends.  (See, it’s kinda hard to hold your head high when you’re ashamed that you couldn’t make it work for the sake of your children.)

Anyway, last night was the annual Kibbutz Hanukkah party when all the families gather together in the Hader Ohel for celebration and song.  Last year, we stood as a family and wiped the powdered sugared remnants of sufganiyot from each others’ cheeks.  But not this year.  My desire to be at a public event on the kibbutz ranks right up there along with moldering in a cell in Gitmo or having tea with Sarah Palin.  But this is Hanukkah - the first Hanukkah where both M and Little Homie will be old enough to remember the festivities, and so I sucked it up and we went.  And I watched my strong and sturdy children run pell-mell into the fray, shrieking with laughter, while I thought of creative ways to disappear into the darkness.   

But M would have none of it.  “Come on, Mama,”  she said, grabbing me by the hand.  “Dance with me,”  and while the loudspeakers played the Hanukkah song ‘Banu Choshech Legaresh’ we twirled in a circle.  I couldn’t breathe.  I felt about a thousand eyes boring into me while I held my daughter's hand.  What kind of mother leaves her family... Faster and faster and faster we spun, while my daughter sang the words aloud:  “Go away darkness black as night.  Go away, make way for light.”  And while we danced, the rest of the world disappeared, and all I saw in that moment were my daughters eyes shining like twin moons in the light of the menorah as we whirled together out of the darkness.

This post originally appeared here on Kveller.com. 

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children--including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies...and advice from Mayim Bialik.

Missing Christmas

2011-12-16T14:01:00.000-08:00

While living in the United States, I reveled in my Jewishness because it  made me different.  Yes, even in LA, where you can float away on a sea  of yarmulkes down Fairfax Avenue...  Still.    

The "Holidays"  -- and I use that term loosely because let's be real:  Jinglebells, Santa Claus and red and green everythings  have nothing to do with Hanukkah or the fight for independence from the  Assyrian army 200 years before the Common Era  -- has traditionally  been a time when I would assert my Jewish independence from the Christmas caroling majority. 

I never hummed along with the "Holiday" songs trickling through the loud speakers at the mall.

Instead, I blasted Adam Sandler's Hanukkah Song (the first and second  one, because the third one is kind of lame even with the Osama Bin Laden  reference).  This made me feel a little special.   

(Ok, in hindsight, I wasn't a little special.  I was a lot obnoxious.) 

I never dressed in red or green or (God Forbid!) red and green together during  the "Holidays."   I would scoff at my friends for wearing Santa hats.   And once, I yelled at my high school  principal for allowing a Christmas  tree to prominently decorate the main office without any real religious  parity.  (I'm sorry, but no, that pissant menorah buried in the dusty   corner next to the Tardy Slips does not count.) 

I wasn't a total Grinch:  I'd bake meringue cookies with my mom to bring to Nancy's Christmas  party.   I'd go to gift exchanges, and thrill at the rhinestone  barrettes from Claire's or Country Apple lotion from Bath and Body  works. When the weather dropped to a frigid 63 degrees (yes, Europe, I  know you hate me) my parents and I lit a fire, and we'd sip hot cocoa.

And when I got a little older, I'd get my drink on at the occasional office "Holiday" party.

Still, I was Jewish and the "Holidays" were not really my thing.   

And that was cool because I got to be different.  I could scowl my way through “Holiday” movie marathons at friends’ houses, and sigh loudly about how unfair it was that My People  were not given any real representation, oh and “could you please pass  the pitcher of  egg nog and bowl of red and green M&M’s, oh and  Fight the Power!”

But now, I am no longer a minority.  

You know how as soon as the Halloween decorations come down from Longs  Drugs,  it’s like Santa blows up in the middle of Aisle three, and it’s   red and green and glitter and fake snow and reindeer shit  everywhere? 

Well, the  Kibbutz market was already selling dreidals and Hanukkah candles when we landed in mid-October.  

Mid-October.  It was 80 degrees out.

Suddenly, I stopped feeling special.  

And I started missing Christmas.  

I longed for mistletoe.  I yearned for sleigh bells.  I missed Santa Claus. I craved figgy pudding (whatever the fuck that is.)

It's like  January 2nd and back to business as usual around these parts because without Christmas to compete with, Israelis don't get all bling-bling with the Hanukkah decorations.

I wanna go home for "The Holidays." 

  
There is no Christmas here on the kibbutz, so when a friend of mine  invited me to come with her to a little shop in Ramle known for selling  Christmassy things, I was thrilled.   I imagined a secret hide-away  buried deep in a maze of alley ways.  There would be no sign.  The door  would be barred with a medieval looking bolt type thingy, and you’d need  a secret password or handshake to get through.

“I’m going to a Christmas shop!”  I whispered to B, thrilled by the taboo.

“Whatev.”  He said.  “Have fun.  Can you take Little Homie with you?”

And while the shop  – Konstantin’s Gifts (yes there was a sign) -- was  waaaaaay more mundane than I had imagined, at least it was in an alley. 

And this year, for the first time in my entire life, I bought a  Christmas tree ornament.   I ate sugar cookies on Santa Claus napkins.    I sang God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen – and not in sotto voce, I might add – while walking back from the Kibbutz dining hall after lighting the Shabbat candles.  

And while reveling in the “Holiday” spirit with a few other closet  Christmas-celebrants, it occurred to me that it isn’t about the colors  or the mistletoe or the songs or the reindeer shit.  It’s about getting  through the darkest days of the year with a little extra light.

Sometimes, I just want to feel part of a joyful, boisterous celebration.

Even if figgy pudding tastes like ass.

Instead of a Toaster.....

2011-12-08T04:56:00.000-08:00

Imagine if you will: It’s the first night of Hanukkah. Y’all gather around the menorah, and with a crack and a hiss, the match ignites and the shamash glows. The room is bathed in the golden light of the Hanukiah while your family chants the ancient blessings over the candles.

After a succulent dinner – brisket and latkes with applesauce perchance? – it’s time to open presents. The kids go first because that’s how you roll. And then it’s her turn: She reads the card. She unties the blue ribbon. She peels back the layers of silver and white wrapping paper. She opens the box, and takes out… a shiny new toaster?

Uh uh.

Oh Hell no.

Please please PLEASE don’t let this happen to her!

So, a toaster is out. But what does she want?

When I started to think about what women want for Hanukkah, I took to Twitter and Facebook with a vengeance and posted the following question:

“Ladies: What do YOU want for the Hanukkah?”

(Ah cyberspace. The ultimate cheat-sheet.)

Mom’s with newborns were pretty much united in their desires:

“All I want for Hanukkah is five freaking minutes to pee alone.”

“A night nurse. And a bottle of vino.”

“Um, a nap?”

(Still, one mom with way more foresight than I ever showed wrote that all she wants for Hanukkah is “World Peace.”)

Moms can attest that having kids creates a massive shift in paradigm: Your first shower after giving birth – you know, when your boobs are leaking, and you keep popping your head out from behind the shower curtain to check the video monitor even though your partner absolutely swears that they have everything under control – still feels like a spa day.

Moms work hard. And yeah, so do Dads, but this isn’t about them. They have their own list.

The good news is once things balance a little, it gets easier, and Moms can have the luxury of fantasizing about Hanukkah presents other than getting an extra hour of sleep or fifteen minutes to drink a latte and skim through People.

So, here ya go. The best Hanukkah gifts for Her directly from the women who want them:

1. The Kindle Fire seems to be a popular choice with the ladies. The sleek interface is a convenient alternative to schlepping around a book when you’re on the go. And for women who commute on public transportation, the Kindle Fire makes an interesting travel companion. If she already has a Kindle, the new iPhone 4s or a great DSLR camera seems like great alternatives.

And on that note, a gift certificate to amazon.com is always welcome – especially if someone bought her the Kindle Fire. (Hint hint.)

Let’s take her craving for a power nap and a little down time and kick it up a notch. Why not send her off on a spa day? She’ll come home glowing.

And if you want to get her something sparkly, I have one word for you: Tiffany’s.

5. But if your budget is limited, why not offer her a service? Significant Others can score a lot of points with a cute coupon book with messages like “A cuddle coupon. Good for 2 hours of cuddling with the coupon-issuer in one of the following locations: in front of a roaring fire, on a porch swing, on a cozy couch or in a bed. TV is prohibited. Radio is permitted.” (le sigh) Grandparents, extended family and close friends could also offer (free) babysitting services so that Mom and Dad can actually use that, um, “cuddle coupon.” (Ahem.)

Do something original: Find a first edition of her favorite book. Find a photograph with special meaning and have it framed. If she paints, get her art supplies. If she likes to write, buy her a beautiful journal and a cool pen. If she’s into music, concert tickets are a great choice. If she likes basketball, baseball, soccer, rugby, whatever, then she won’t turn down tickets to see her favorite team. These are just a few ideas .

7. Disclaimer: The following gift should not come from her parents. Or Aunt Esther and Uncle Bob: While she probably knows just how sexy and desirable she is, a little reminder never hurts. Yummy scented body lotions from Bath and Body Works will leave her feeling pampered. A cute camisole or bra and panty set from Victoria’s Secret is almost always appreciated. And if you want to give her something with a little more, um, shall we say, oomph then I suggest you check out Good Vibes. ‘Nuff said.

8. Gandhi was on to something when he said “be the change you wish to see in the world.” So, if she’s passionate about something – whether it’s ending world hunger, or the whole Occupy movement, or saving the spotted owls, then making a donation in her name is another thoughtful gift, and one that will touch her altruistic side. So while World Peace seems a bit out of reach, Tikkun Olam – Healing the World – is a step in the right direction.

This post originally appeared here on Kveller.com.

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children--including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies...and advice from Mayim Bialik.

The Lost Thanksgiving

2011-11-20T08:34:00.000-08:00

Another autumn rolls around in Israel. The earth tilts on it's axis. The sky deepens. Wind blows cold, hissing and howling through, tearing through the clouds and tormenting the trees.
Brown leaves crumple to the ground.
And I'm still here, half a world away from Home.
This isn't the first time. And being here - ten time zones away from my family, I remember the first Thanksgiving I stayed away. Only then, it was by choice.
In a painfully obvious way of asserting my independence, I had accidentally-on-purpose missed my flight home and stayed in the dorms over Thanksgiving weekend my freshman year of college.
My mom had cried.

“But you were going to help me flower the cukes!” she said, referring to the pre-Thanksgiving ritual we established since I was old enough to reach the kitchen counter. Every year, before driving over to Aunt Judy’s apartment in Santa Monica, my mom and I would wash and peel half a dozen cucumbers. Then we would drag a fork length-wise over the cucumbers until the entire thing was ridged, spraying a mist of mush on the counter. With the knife Great Gramma Celia used to cut her veggies, we would slice the cucumbers, eating the pieces that were too thick or too thin. And, inevitably, we’d end up washing and peeling an extra cucumber to make up for the amount we had eaten.

We would stand side-by-side, our fingers busy with the peeling, forking, and slicing, while the Twilight Zone marathon would run in the background on television. We would take breaks to watch parts of an especially spooky episode: My mom liked the one about the tortured ventriloquist and the sadistic dummy. I liked the episode about the aliens who arrive on Earth with nefarious intentions. And a cookbook. Working together this way, our conversation punctuated by the chop chop chop of our knives against the firm flesh of the cucumber, we could speak more freely than if we were facing each other across the dinner table.

But not that year.

“Whatever.” I told her. “They’re just cucumbers.”

Instead of finding another flight and getting my ass home for Thanksgiving to be with my family for the first time since I had run away to college, I sat at Wall Berlin, drank a latte, and smoked a vanilla cigarette.

Wall Berlin personified the Berkeley Bohemian underbelly. It smelled like piss, puke and pot, and the barista who worked in the afternoons would glare at whoever deigned to order. Sighing, he would put down his dog-eared copy of the Communist Manifesto he was always reading:

“What.” He’d ask without a question mark.

“Uh, I’m not sure yet…”

He would sigh again, the burden of the proletariat on his shoulders, and ~~Bourgeois Bitch~~ coffee novice that I was, I would quickly pick something at random.

“Uh, can I try an Americano?”

“Do you even know what that is?”

After a month or so of trial and error, I had figured out that I liked lattes. A lot. And, every afternoon, I would head to Wall Berlin with my box of vanilla cigarettes, and I would smoke and drink with itchy enthusiasm. Sometimes, I would bring a book. Other times, I would find myself lost in the twisted tendrils of conversations that would transport me to different dimensions.

The Thanksgiving I ditched my family, I sat next to a man with so many piercings on his face that he was more silver than flesh. We were at adjacent tables outside, facing Durant Avenue, and I felt his eyes boring into my right cheek. After discretely checking to see if a giant pimple had erupted on my face and ascertaining that I was in the clear, I turned to him.

“I’m concerned that the Mossad knows where I hid the money. If you see someone carrying a khaki colored satchel, please tell them that the package is in Kensington. That’ll throw them off.” He said to me, eyes darting.

He was holding a copy of my favorite book: Jerzy Kosinsky’s The Painted Bird, and this made him seem more credible. So, I asked him what happened. With words and gestures, he took me on a trip from the mountains of Santa Cruz to the Gulf of Aqaba. And back.

Somewhere between his description of a camel that could speak Arabic and Hebrew (“like totally fluently!”) that he was supposed to sell to the Mossad for a variety of reasons which he “was not at liberty to disclose” and his penchant for spitting while he spoke – not at all unlike a camel, actually – it dawned on me that not everyone with a good book was to be believed or trusted.

I knew my mom would have loved the incongruousness of this story, and I almost called to tell her about it.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I went back to my room in Unit One where I changed clothes, spritzed myself a little too liberally with Gap Dream, and headed downstairs to the common area. The dorm cobbled together a Thanksgiving dinner for the few of us who had stayed behind: Claire from France, Monika from Romania, Xiao-Di from China, Nawal from Bahrain and I (Sarah from Los Angeles) were the only students who came down to the Unit One common room for dry turkey, lumpy mashed potatoes, canned cranberries, and a Simpsons Marathon.

“Why didn’t you go home?” Nawal asked as I dragged my fork through the congealed gravy, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea. “I thought all Americans went home on Thanksgiving.”

I mumbled something about an Anthro quiz, and said good night.

I could hear the phone ringing from my dorm room as soon as I got off the elevator. Sighing, I walked slowly past the vibrant signs and posters smeared across the walls. Unit One’s theme was Charlie Brown and each door had a different character along with the occupant’s name stamped across the brightly colored construction paper, and I spent some time analyzing the pictures, wondering who decided which character was assigned to which student (and why oh why was I Linus? Although, I guess it could have been worse: I could have been Lucy.)

Walking down the hall that night, I became inordinately interested in a poster on STD and pregnancy prevention while pondering the cartoon condom at the top. He appeared to be dancing and enjoying his presumably child and disease-free life, and if that didn’t make for good advertising, I don’t know what does.

I thought about my mom forking the cucumbers alone in the kitchen, a headscarf over her chemo-therapy hairdo, her hands gnarled like the roots of a begonia plant, slicing the cucumbers into round daisies. Or maybe she bought a ready-made veggie platter from Albertsons. I wanted to know, but I didn’t want to know.

The insidious stillness of the corridor made the ringing all the more clamorous. I knew who was calling, and with a sigh, I turned around, headed back to the elevator, and pushed the button.

Whip it. Whip it Good.

2011-11-19T05:30:00.000-08:00

My culinary skills are legendary: I can microwave a mean frozen lasagna from the Kibbutz kolbo, heat up a can of pinto beans, boil water in an electric kettle, and, if I'm feeling really ambitious, scramble some eggs. B married me for many reasons -- cooking wasn't one of them.

That said, there is an old family recipe that I have managed to master. Every year around this time, since I was a little girl, I bake meringue cookies. It's a delicate balancing act of taste, texture, and time -- it's almost meditative... until you lick the bowl, eat the entire batch in one sitting, and get the shakes from an intense spike in your blood sugar. (Think rabbit on crack, people.)

Still, these cookies are so worth it.
And, beyond the intense sugar rush, I love making something that my Gramma Mary Emily's mother taught her how to make. (Or, in the words of My People: L'Dor V'Dor -- From Generation to Generation.) Standing in my cheery kitchen, with the kids underfoot begging for a lick of batter, makes me feel like the domestic goddess I will never be. It's kind of nice.

So, if I can bake these cookies, then anyone can:

INGREDIENTS:
Two egg whites.
3/4 cup of Sugar.
1/8 teaspoon of Salt
1/8 teaspoon of Cream of Tartar
1/2 cup Hershey's Chocolate Chips (I prefer milk chocolate, but others like the semi-sweet)
A Splash of Vanilla Extract (less than 1/8 teaspoon)

YOU WILL ALSO NEED:
Two greased cookie sheets (I like using butter or coconut oil, but Crisco works too.)
An electric mixer
A spatula
A teaspoon

Preheat the oven to 325 F.

Separate the yolks from the egg whites, and add the egg whites to a medium sized bowl. Feel free to give your cat the remaining yolks. (But, she might 'thank' you for them later by leaving a decapitated mouse or half a bird on your front porch. Just saying.)

Whip the egg whites either with an electric mixer, or by hand. (Beating the egg whites by hand takes forevah (forevah evah? forevah evah), so this should only be done by people with a martyr complex who feel like they have something to prove.) If you are using the electric mixer, put it on the highest setting so the egg whites get super frothy.

After the egg whites start to stiffen, slowly add your sugar, salt, and cream of tartar while continuing to beat the crap out of your egg whites. This entire process should take at least 10 minutes.

I say whip it. Whip it good.
Once your batter seems stiff and dense, use a spatula to carefully test it. Touch the tip of the spatula to the batter, and if the batter peaks like a little ski slope and stays that way, then mazel tov, you're almost done whipping.

Add your splash of vanilla extract, and continue to whip your batter for another minute or two.

Now, You can turn off the electric mixer. Or, if you've been whipping your batter sans the assistance of Thomas Edison, massage your crippled hand and moan in pain for everyone to hear. (Think Martyr and get serious.)

Feel free to taste your batter. I promise. It's delicious.

(NOTE: If you're afraid of Salmonella, skip this step.)
Now, very very gently add the chocolate chips to your batter, and fold them in with the spatula.

Then, using a teaspoon, place your batter on your greased cookie sheets. Just a dollop of batter for each cookie will do you.

Then, bake. Remember, ovens can be persnickety, so check your cookies after 25-30 minutes. The best way to determine if they're done is to taste one. They should crumble in your mouth, and melt accordingly. If they're sticky, then they need more time.

So, I hope you'll bake these and enjoy them. And if you do, feel free to send a few my way. I'm always down for a sugar rush.

My Life In Translation

2011-11-03T08:48:00.000-07:00

The first time I went to Israel, I was sixteen.

And from Los Angeles.

And blond.

We’re talking triple threat, people.

I was on one of those summer programs – you know, those Jewish hookup fests thinly disguised as “educational and spiritual trips” where hormonal teenagers hike, swim and share mono together in Israel.

(I think most of our parents imagined that we’d all be earnestly singing Hava Nagilla or Hinei MaTov around a camp fire, but no.)

It was a great time to be in Israel: The dollar-to-shekel exchange rate was in our favor, and Ben Yehudah Street was our Post-Sabbath smorgasbord, teeming with other Jewish American teenagers helping the economy.

We’d sidle in and out of shops, duped into thinking our amateur hour haggling actually made a difference in the prices, and inevitably, we’d buy too many t shirts at Mr. T’s. But hey, you can’t leave Israel without an olive-green IDF t-shirt (in English) or a fire engine-red Coca-Cola T shirt

(in Hebrew.)

During that summer, I spoke Bat Mitzvah Hebrew. And I was fluent in my mistakes.

Not that it mattered.

Whenever we would have exchanges with “the natives” – and by “the natives” I mean rich kids from North Tel Aviv who spoke English as well as we did – I’d inevitably end up playing around in their language: An ingenue tripping adorably over words with “Chet," “Ayin” and “Resh.” But in a cute way.

And every time I’d stumble through the language, the Israelis around me would hold my hand and help me through.

Well, that summer was a long time ago, and things have changed.

While it’s true my Hebrew has improved a little, the language is still new to me.

In Hebrew, I misplace words, leaving them somewhere buried deep in memory.

In Hebrew, I’m a time traveler, turning past tense into present, future tense into past. My passive verbs go running. My active verbs are stoned on a beach in the Sinai. I confuse my masculine and feminine verbs and nouns so often that it’s as if they’re cross dressing.

In Hebrew, I’m sixteen again: breathless and giddy as I stumble over new words, wrapping my lips and twisting my tongue over unfamiliar sounds. Speaking Hebrew gives me butterflies in my stomach.

And like that summer, as I trip over the language, I’ve found that others are still willing to pick me up and walk me through the nuances of something that is both a little familiar and still utterly foreign.

(After all, I may no longer be sixteen, but I’m still from Los Angeles, and I’m still blonde.)

But this time, I am not going home in eight weeks. This is my home. I’ve got two children who need a mother and not a sixteen year old friend. They need brave, not breathless.

They need a grownup.

And so, I will practice and learn.

Instead of grunting and pointing at something on a menu, I will speak up and order. In Hebrew.

Instead of wandering around lost for an hour and a half, I will ask for directions from a shopkeeper. In Hebrew.

Instead of letting their father do the talking for me when we speak with our daughter’s preschool teachers, I will find out how her day was. In Hebrew.

And even though I know that I will inevitably fall hard on my ass, I will take these first few steps.

And somehow, someday, I will toddle toward linguistic adulthood. In Hebrew.

How many of us have found ourselves visiting or even living in a country where we can barely speak the language? Sure, while It’s an adventure to navigate new cultural terrain without being able to communicate the way you would ordinarily in your homeland, it is certainly not without its challenges.

I'm going to be putting together a series of blog posts on this topic, and if you want to participate, PLEASE hit me up: sarah@thecrazybabymama.com

Why You Should Never Mess With A Woman Who Has A Blog...

2011-10-22T07:39:00.000-07:00

Well, it's time to bring it.

After living here one year, I know this to be true:

The kibbutz is a living, breathing entity that takes on a life of its own – and it will swallow you whole

Think I'm paranoid? Read on. And for those of you from this kibbutz, say what you will. But I can tell you this: As an Outsider I see sides to this place that you will never see... Just like you know the secrets of a deep seated history here that I can never fully appreciate.

Look. On the surface, this place is paradise – The land is sumptuous, the homes are well-equipped. The gan (preschool) system is enviable, and the kids scamper free from worry.

But being here does something to you. Especially if you’re stuck day after day after day, eating the same food, drinking the same coffee, talking to the same people.

For four generations.

You grow restless.

Your mind gets flabby.

(Think Club Med meets mental institution.)

And you’re stuck in your own paradigm – as beautiful as it may be, you turn your world into a cesspool because paradise is boring.

Hey, I’ve only been here a year, and I’ve felt myself sinking into the quagmire, which is one of many reasons why I found a job, and spend my waking life outside these invisible walls.

I don’t want to hate this place, but it’s hard not to when over the last several months, I’ve become fodder for the rumor mill. At first, it was kind of flattering. After all, if people gossip about you, that means they notice you. But once the rumors grew beyond “hmm, I wonder where she goes all day when she gets on the shuttle and gets off at the Train station,” it grew less amusing.

The Kibbutz is Wisteria Lane on steroids. And I am Edie Britt.

Ah, but with a twist. Because this Edie Britt writes a blog.

People. A word to the wise: You should never ever ever ever mess with a woman who is prone toward fits of righteous indignation and writes (very) publically. Because she will call you out.

So, Kibbutz XXX let me break it down for you:

1. I am not shtupping anyone on the ulpan. As flattering as it is that you think that this stretch-marked mama could attract a 19 year old stallion, believe you me, it ain’t happening. Yeah, I’m friends with the other expats who study Hebrew here, but just because we share a beer or two at the pub does not mean we're having wild orgies. This aint Cougar Town people. Sorry.

2. Also? I do not have two secret lovers in Tel Aviv. Or Haifa. Or Jerusalem. Or Rehovot. Or Bersheva. I do not have two secret lovers anywhere for that matter. (And incidentally, why only two? I mean, come on, I'm a little insulted! Why not ten? Or at least seven!)

3. And on that same note, I am not working as a prostitute. If I were, I’d be wearing much better shoes.

4. Nor am I an agent with the Mossad. Or a CIA operative. Seriously. Stop spreading this rumor. I could get in a lot of trouble. No really. This. Rumor. Must. Stop. Now. (Ahem.)

There.

Done.

All clear?

(Yeah, it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you.)

But I see a silver lining in all of this: It's nice to know I live with such a creative group of people.

And not to get all Pollyanna on you, but in many ways, being embroiled in this maelstrom has been an incredible learning experience. You know, minus the humiliation of walking through the Hader Ohel and trying to ignore the smirks. I used to think that there was a kernel of truth in every rumor, no matter how obscene or scandalous. And now, I know better. I remember once as a child waking up and finding that while I had slept soundly through the night tucked in my warm cozy bed in the safety of my home, thieves had broken in through our kitchen window and burglarized our house. And that’s how it feels to be talked about like this: It’s violating. It leaves me feeling vulnerable, like no matter what I do –no matter what safety measures I take to protect myself and my family- people are going to say shit that simply isn’t true.

So here’s what I’ve learned: You cannot believe rumors. Even if they seem plausible. Just because I wear stilettos and sit with a few guy-friends over coffee does not mean I have two (or ten) lovers. Just because I work long hours in Tel Aviv does not make me a whore.

And so from now on, when I hear people saying things about someone else, I’m going to do something I’ve never done before: As fun as it is to be ‘in’ on the rumor, I’m going to say in Hebrew and in English just so I’m abundantly clear:

"!מספיק MASPEEK!"

“ENOUGH!"

(And as hard as it is, I hope that others will do this too.)

But setting this Lifetime Movie of the Week lesson aside, I see another plus to these rumors: Almost every family on this kibbutz has a dark secret. And by “secret” I mean a past that is common knowledge to even outsiders like me. Affairs? We got ‘em. Public divorce and remarriage within the kibbutz “family?” Just throw a stone and see if you can’t hit a family tainted by “scandal.” And yeah, even for those families who seem to have escaped public disgrace unscathed, there are kids here who look more like the neighbor than their own father. Just saying.

So I guess these rumors level the playing field. Even if they’re steeped in more bullshit than the presidential primaries, maybe this is the kibbutz’s way of saying “hey, lady, we’ve decided to make you one of our own, so we’ll smear you with the same tar-brush. Welcome to the family.”

A Stranger in the Homeland

2011-10-12T19:15:00.000-07:00

My pity party: Let me invite you to it.

The closest I got to a religious epiphany during the High Holy Days was listening to the soundtrack of Sister Act.

Seriously.

I had reached my homesick breaking point at the half-way mark between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, and only Whoopy Goldberg and Mo Town-meets-Catholic liturgy could bring me back from the edge. Sister Act was familiar: The soundtrack is saturated in enuthusiasm, joy, faith, and, yes, kavana (who cares if it’s a different religion) and listening to the nuns get down with the tambourines while channeling The Supremes made me feel more connected to a spiritual epicenter than the shofar’s primal blast.

While so many Jews all over the world yearn to spend the High Holy Days in the Holy Land, I wasn’t feeling it. Yeah, I am the (Jewish American) Grinch who stole the High Holy Days. Whatever.

It really shouldn’t be that surprising: Holidays in Israel suck when you’re homesick. It’s the ultimate ‘lonely in a crowd’ feeling – while the whole country seems to move as one, I am dragged down by an undertow of isolation and resentment.

In other words, instead of going with the flow and being part of the experience, I suffocated myself on loneliness. Zen Fail.

While my Hebrew has improved, I missed the side-by-side translation that my home synagogue in Culver City, California would always provide. I missed the familiar nigunim – the melodies I was raised on that always make my heart swell. And so, when faced with the strangeness of the High Holy Days in the Homeland, I turned to Sister Act – I turned to the familiar words, and familiar melodies, to a joyful expression of faith and love. I turned to the familiar soundtrack of my childhood that my parents and I would listen to on car trips to Santa Barbara and Palm Springs when I was in fifth grade. I turned to the past.

And I turned up the music.

There are many ways up the mountain, people. Diana Ross is one of them.

Look, this doesn’t mean I’m ditching The Tribe. While I’m down with religious plurality, I still love being a Jew. And just because I found grace in the song “Hail Holy Queen” doesn’t mean that I’m exchanging my Jewish guilt for Catholic guilt. But it’s still interesting that during these most sacred of (Jewish) days, in a place where being a Member of the Tribe is taken for granted, I felt more alone than ever before.

Or maybe it’s not so strange.

I guess I should be used to it by now – this sense of not really belonging, but having nowhere else to go. Still, it takes me by surprise in a chokehold from behind. Passover was hard, but I felt even more alone during the High Holy Days this year than I had felt when whispering with conviction at the end of the Seder last April “Next year in LA, Bitches.”

It shouldn’t be this way, but it is. When I’m working – (yes, I have a job!) – I’m inspired. When I’m sitting with my laptop and sipping my latte in Tel Aviv, I’m happy. When I’m riding my purple bike through the fields and straight into the stars, I’m free.

But when I’m stuck on the kibbutz during the holidays, I’m sad.

I'm a stranger in the homeland.

I miss my family. I miss them so much that when I think about it, my eyes swell with tears and I can barely breathe.

“So why don’t you go back to LA, Sarah?”

Because it isn’t that simple.

This is home.

(Even though it’s a sad sad day when you feel more at home on facebook than you do in your real life “home.” )

Still, this is home. And not because I have to be here, but because I want to be here. Israel and I have a very complicated relationship – like all relationships worth having, I guess. And right now, we’re having a hard time.

Maybe if I lived in the city it would be different: This kibbutz is built on a history of communal living. Inside joke after inside joke support the foundation of this place, and if you’re from here, it’s freaking awesome. After all, there is nothing like laughing at humor so deeply ground in the rich folklore of your home. It bolsters your sense of belonging – of being part of a community. In many ways, being in on the joke is clear indication that you do belong – and by belonging, you are therefore protected from the Outside. (And Outsiders who might besmirch your kibbutz’s good name all over the Internet when they feel snubbed in the Hader Ohel. Just saying.)

Look. I get it. I remember once back in the day sitting with my best friend and laughing my ass off about something a coworker said while B. looked on in stony silence.

“Sorry, I guess you had to be there,” I wheezed with laughter.

Yeah, well, look who’s laughing now.

Normally, this is a non-issue. Normally, I can hop on the train and get the fuck off the farm and feel a comfort in choosing to bbe anonymous. But when the country shuts down during hag, it feels like the kibbutz has a glass dome, and the homesickness reverberates and ricochets all around me. Yeah, it’s just like The Simpsons movie. Only in Hebrew.

(Wow, I’m fun today.)

And to make it worse, during the High Holy Days, I want to feel a connection to something big and meaningful. I want to feel that sense of belonging envelop me. There is godliness in the relationships we have with others – the clamorous, messy closeness of family and the friends who are like family. I want that. I want it so much that I fall into the trap of trusting too soon, sharing too much of myself with those who only use it against me.

But I know it takes time. And maybe next year it’ll be better. And if not, there’s always Sister Act II.

An Open Letter To Patti Stanger, Millionaire Matchmaker and Yenta On The Edge

2011-09-30T12:47:00.000-07:00

Patti, Patti, Patti…

Oy Vey Ismir.

You are to dating and relationships what Sarah Silverman is to comedy. By nature of your personality alone, you force us to choose: We either love you or we (really) don’t.

And, Patti, I love you. Really, I do. In spite of your overzealous relationship with the flat iron, I think you’re interesting. Even though I disagree with many things you say, I like that you aren’t afraid to tell it as you see it. In a culture of media spin that leaves one dizzy, your ferocity and fearlessness is refreshing.

And I know others have agreed with me. (Because let’s be real: You sure didn’t skyrocket to fame on your charm.)

I also love reading about your family life…. You are the heir to a matchmaking dynasty that almost certainly grew out of shtetl living. Your family’s story was like my family’s story, and I feel a kinship wth you.

But your remarks about philandering gays and lying Jewish men on Watch What Happens Live? A Shanda for the Goyim, Patti. (Or, in plain English, “way to make Our People look bad, Patti.”) And poor Andy Cohen. Poor guy almost plotzed. He got hit by a one-two sucker punch when you bashed the gay community and the Jewish community all during the same airtime. And yet, you kept right on going. I could practically hear the sound of shovel on dirt as you dug your own grave while an imaginary minyan said The Mourners Kaddish.

Come on Patti. Being out there and stoking the fires of controversy is edgy, but generalizing about an entire community is like getting drunk on the edge of a cliff: Really fucking stupid.

And you’re not stupid. You wouldn’t have made it this far if you were.

Maybe you think because you’re Jewish you’re allowed to say these things, kind of like African Americans using the N word, or something. But this still doesn’t explain why you felt comfortable dissing the gay community –unless we accept the online chatter as truth and you really are a Tranny with bad makeup. Ha Ha.

All kidding aside, as another Member of the Tribe, I can tell you that this kaki don’t fly. Not only did you say some really offensive shit, but you did Our People an even greater disservice by looking really dumb while saying it.

We’ve got enough problems as it is. Don’t make it worse.

Look, Patti, I’ve dated enough to know that, yes, Jewish men lie. But so do Christian men. And Muslim men. And Hindu, and Athiest, and Buddhist, and Taoist, and Scientologist and Jain and Pagan and Zoroastrian and Agnostic, and Jedi warrior men. Men lie. Anyone who has hung out with the girls over drinks at the neighborhood bar, or reads Cosmo knows I speak the truth.

(And newsflash: Women lie, too. Seriously, strap a girl up to a lie detector during a first date, and she’ll probably electrocute herself. Just saying.)

And as far as the open relationship vs. monogamy smackdown is concerned lets be real: Gay, straight, and betwixt & between can struggle with the concept of committing to someone exclusively. But stamping one community with a big red stereotype is not OK.

Look. I don’t think you are homophobic. I saw the NO H8 campaign picture on your facebook page. And you had a gay millionaire on your show, effectively shattering the reality tv paradigm that romantic love can only exist between Adam and Eve and not Adam and Steve.

And yes, you tried to apologize for your asinine comments: After some serious soul searching—as your popularity plummeted and the ‘cheating gays’ and ‘lying Jews’ who write the checks that pay for your hair straightening treatments ground their teeth and possibly threatened to pull the plug on your contract—you took to Twitter with the following: “Attn male Gays: I support you & my comment on WWHL was to a LA guy who can't find commitment." Patti, that’s not good enough. And nowhere do I see a direct apology to the other minority group you bashed: What about Jewish males?

Patti, my tolerance runs a little thin: This is not your first (pedicured) foot-meets-mouth moment. Just last week for example, you told the women of New York City to “dumb it down” a little if they wanted to land a guy.

Very Klassy, Patti.

Hold up. Come to think of it, perhaps your idiotic remarks are actually your way of leading by example! Now that you’re back on the market again after dumping your (presumably lying) Jewish fiancé, maybe the little stunt you pulled is meant to highlight the effectiveness of “dumbing it down.”

(And how is that working out for you…)

Yeah, you’re on a roll, Patti: And now, people you’ve worked with on your show have come forward to add to the carnage by sharing their own horror stories of knowing you. Still, I don’t think you’re really homophobic or anti-Semitic – you’ve just taken the candor thing a little too far.

You like to dish out the tough love? That’s great. Now, let’s see if you can take it: Patti. Stop making excuses, and do some serious damage control – something bigger than an apology that took all of ten seconds to type on Twitter.

And then, do something even harder: Shine that freakishly bright halogen light on yourself for a change. After all, it’s the Jewish High Holy Days: Do a little heshbon nefesh –take stock, and look deep into your soul and ask yourself this: Is it maybe time to be a little kinder? A little gentler? Your brand is brazen. Your brand is brassy. And while many of us love you for it, maybe it’s time to let your guard down, and let us love that softer side, too.

A version of this post first appeared here on jezebel.com.

Einstein Called. He Wants His Theory of Relativity Back

2011-09-25T03:19:00.000-07:00

So a few weeks ago, I swanned off to Los Angeles to be surrounded on all sides by friends and family, and engulfed in English and cultural familiarity. AndVanilla Lattes from Coffee Bean. And sushi from a place near an actual ocean and not made by some guy named Shlomi from a kibbutz in the Negev Desert. And of course, Sephora. OK, and my good friend, Jose Cuervo. It was grand. It was glorious. It was everything I wanted in eight days and more.

And my kids? They survived. (And so did I.) Sure, there were moments of guilt, and flashes of uncertainty, but nothing so debilitating that a walk in Venice Beach with my dad, or dinner with my best friend, or an attempt to break into Taco Bell at 3:00 am while jonesing for a coronary wrapped in a tortilla couldn’t cure.

Yes, I missed them. But I had also missed Los Angeles.

In hindsight, I think the hardest part was the plane ride over because I was palpably aware of the difference between where I was and where they were during the entire flight: While flying over France, my children were coming home from preschool. While we soared over Iceland, my family was eatingdinner. As we dipped over Greenland down toward Canada, they were going to sleep. And when I landed in LA at 11:00 PM Pacific Time ready to crash headfirst into sleep I knew that on the other side of the world and ten hours into the future my kids were starting their morning. Without me.

(You know, assuming that they had survived the night in the first place.)

But deep down, I knew they’d be ok – they have an incredible, loving, resourceful Aba, and with help from their Savta and Dod, they would be absolutely fine. (Which they were!)

Eight days passed way too fast – and before I was ready, I was a reluctant traveler back at LAX, dragging my suitcases laden with goodies from Coffee Bean, Sephora, Old Navy, and Barnes and Noble. And I stood there in line at the ticket counter, my eyes swollen with tears, slapped upside the head by the the paradox of leaving home and being homeward bound at the same time.

In short, it was a good trip. I’m glad I went. And I will go back again. Like, really soon. (Please.)

But oh the piper. He gots to get paid.

Even during the (occasional) moments when I missed my kids so powerfully that I felt a physical ache resonate from my very core, I knew that when I came back, I would have to hit the ground running: Because during the last days of summer – the hot days, the dog days, the days that bleed seamlessly into mosquito riddled nights, the kibbutz preschool is closed.

Talking to strangers on train rides to Tel Aviv? My leisurely morning cappuccino at the beit café on the kibbutz? Hours spent straddling my two lives on facebook? Over. Preschool. Is. Closed.

For a week. A whole week.

“But it’s only seven days,” my (childless) friends said to me when they saw the grin-and-bare-it terror stamped on my face.

“Oh, you’re soooo lucky,” my mama friends in LA told me. “Our preschool is closed for an entire month, and yours is only closed a week you spoiled little bitch .”

And I guess this begs the question: I went off to LA for eight days. And not to get all Captain Obvious on you, but eight days is one day more than seven. And the time spent away from my kids whizzed by in a blur. And now, back in Israel, back with the children I brought into the world, all I wanted to do was escape the eternity that would be the week following my return.

(Einstein called. He wants his theory of relativity back. )

So here’s where the guilt really sets in. I love my kids. Every fucking second of every fucking day. But I don’t always like being around them. And come on guys, lets be real: Anyone who wants to be around their kid 24/7–or around anyone in general for that matter—is either lying through their teeth or had a highly successful lobotomy.

And I’ll tell you, to go from too much free time and doing tequila bodyshots with fifty three of my closest friends after a day spent strolling along the 3^rdStreet Promenade, drinking lattes and eating sushi, to power struggles over whether or not I can have two minutes alone to pee without a toddler and/or a preschooler straddling my lap and trying to chew on my boob (while still body slammed with exhaustion from the 20 hour flight and maybe sort of slightly hung-over from the free Black Label they gave us on the plane) is kind of a mindfuck.

But it was what it was. I ate my cake, and I have it too.

Now, I hate the world “bonding” – it’s, like, so ‘90’s and waaaaay too touchy-feely for me… But, I’ll tell you, the intense week that followed my return, with all it’s ups and downs and readjustments grounded me more solidly than bumping down onto the tarmac of Ben Gurion. The week home with my children helped us regroup as a family, and even though it was rough at times—(the Piper is a greedy SOB, and of course M and Little Homie were sick and we were stuck in the house for much of it, and of course we don’t have airconditioning, and of course B had a serious backlog of work and so he wasn’t around for much of the week)—we survived.

No, strike that: We thrived. In teeny tiny increments of good and bad moments strung together, the week passed. Yeah, ok, we bonded.

And while I still fantasize about defying the space-time continuum and slipping back to LA for a quickie visit, I also understand that my real life here on the kibbutz with my kids is where I belong.

This post originally appeared here on kveller.com.

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raisingJewish children--including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies...and advice fromMayim Bialik.

The Rabbit and the Rabbi: The Day My Rabbi Found My Vibrator

2011-09-20T02:26:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: Hi Dad. While I think it’s great that you read my blog posts, this article is not for you to read. Kindly find something else to do until I write Shabbat Dinner in the Hader Ohel or how I’ve become allergic to falafel or whatever. Thank you. Shalom. Love, Your Nice Jewish Daughter.

OK. Ladies, I may have some bad news: While it’s usually ok to screw your brains out when you’re pregnant, using a vibrator may be a little more risky.

It’s like this: No matter how incredible and mind-blowing your partner may be in bed (or in the backseat of a car, or in the shower, or on a pool table,) orgasms from a vibrator are... well... more electrifying. Sorry B. It's nothing personal: Anything battery operated that pulsates like 1000 times a second is bound to deliver the goods harder and faster. And this in turn can stimulate uterine contractions.

So, It was a sad, sad day when I developed uterine irritability during the second trimester of my first pregnancy, and my doctor put me on pelvic rest. It was like he had stapled a giant HAZMAT sign to my Lady Business--Hard times, my friends. Hard times. And, so, along with the whole enforced celibacy thing, I had to pack up my neon purple iRabbit - (and I thought giving up alcohol was hard!) - for the sake of my unborn child.

But then, as soon as my doctor gave me the green light, my iRabbit made it’s triumphant return to my bedside nightstand drawer where it lived happily ever after... until the day of my daughter’s Simchat Bat.

Now the Simchat Bat is a relatively new custom in Jewish tradition. Unlike the typical Brit Milah for baby boys, the Simchat Bat is fairly low-key: Usually, the Rabbi will say a few prayers, and make a special blessing over the infant, and there is almost always singing, hand-clapping, feet-stamping, and the like, followed by some seriously good noshing.

All said, it's pretty chill—especially since there’s no scalpel involved. Ahem.

And when we had our first child—a girl—was born in a sunny day in May, we decided we wanted our family to take part in this Rite of Passage. So, when M. was six weeks old, we invited close family and friends over for this special Jewish naming ceremony.

The thing is, when M was born, I developed this intense fear of germs and the havoc they could wreak on my tiny baby and her fragile immune system. Doorknobs touched by unwashed hands were the enemy. An errant sneeze could be as disastrous as nuclear fallout. Thoughts of Staph and Strep and Salmonella plagued my sleep. So, the idea of 50 people traipsing through our house and—Heaven Forfend –kissing my infant with their mouths and touching her with their fingers sent me into a tizzy.

(Yeah, welcome to Crazy Town. Just make sure you sanitize your hands at the door.)

Anyway, while our guests (and their germs) poured in to our home, M. and I hung out in the bedroom, where we were waiting to meet with our Rabbi to discuss a few things about the ceremony. Now, let me tell you, our Rabbi is awesome. I've known him since I was a little girl: He presided over all the services my parents and I went to when I was growing up. He told the best Jewish scary stories at sleep-away camp. He officiated at my Bat Mitzvah. And my mom's funeral.

It seemed fitting that he be part of this Rite of Passage, as well.

(In other words: L’Dor V’Dor.)

Also? Despite my stint poll dancing at Cat Club in San Francisco when I was 23, (seriously, Dad? Please tell me you’re not reading this…) and the six weeks I spent dating a guy in the Israeli Mafia when I was in high school, I’m basically a Nice Jewish Girl. No, really! I always did the extra credit assignments during Hebrew School. I never snuck out of my bunk at Sleep Away Camp. Hell, I was even selected to receive a special college scholarship from the synagogue. And the Nice Jewish Girl in me was happy that my Rabbi would see that B. and I were bringing our daughter into the community in such a meaningful way.

(“Wait, what does this have to do with vibrators?” I hear you cry. Trust me. I will tell you.)

Anyway, the Rabbi arrived, greeted us with many "Mazel Tovs," and we got down to business. He asked if M. was named for anyone, as is Ashkenazi Jewish custom. She is: In fact, the poor kid has not one, not two, but three names to honor the souls of my mom, my Aunt Judy, and my Grampa Fred, and B's Saba Moshe and Savta Yeuhdit. Yeah, the birth certificate lady at Kaiser wanted to cut me.

Well, given the long list of family members we chose to honor when naming our baby, the Rabbi stood up and said he needed a pen and paper to write it all down.

And before I could stop him, he reached over to open the bedside drawer.

My mortification. Let me tell it to you:

First of all, I do not have a pen in my bedside drawer.

Nor do I have paper.

Instead, I have a bottle of K-Y Jelly, enough Trojans to take over Troy, and my neon purple iRabbit vibrator.

As cliché as it sounds, it really was like the whole thing happened in slow motion. I tried to block him, but I was still a little unstable with the baby in my arms. And so, I had to make a split-second decision: Either I drop M. on the floor and keep my secrets safe in the bedside drawer, or sacrifice my dignity while protecting my baby girl.

Well, Shalom, Dignity. Via Con Dios, and don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

Now, since I'm pretty much a slam-bam-thank-you-iRabbit kind of gal, I’m not always careful when I put my vibrator away, so when the Rabbi grabbed the knob and pulled, the drawer stuck. And at first, I thought I was saved. But then, with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, the Rabbi yanked the drawer open, and in the process, (somehow) activated the iRabbit's on-switch. Whirring, buzzing, and gyrating, this vibrator, unlike so many smaller, more discrete models, leaves very little to the imagination: It comes complete with a fairly girthy shaft, a well-formed glans, and—YES—it even appears to be circumcised.

(Vibrator: 1, Foreskin Man: 0.)

(The neon purple tempers things a little, but not much.)

Well, the Rabbi slammed the drawer shut, and we both pretended that we couldn't hear the rhythmic buzzing as we continued to discuss the upcoming ceremony.

“So, her first name is in honor your mother, may she be of blessed memory?” He shouted while the vibrator bumped in the drawer, and the entire bedside table shook, and he turned the same festive shade of burgundy as the yarmulke he wore.

“Yes!” I yelled back.

And as the vibrator did a bump and grind against the drawer, my entire Jewish life flashed before my eyes—Sunday School story time in the synagogue sanctuary. Reciting the Aleph Bet at Hebrew School. Singing Hinei Ma Tov around the camp fire at sleep-away camp in Malibu. Reading from the Torah during my Bat Mitzvah. Singing in the choir during Hanukkah…

But still, even though I wanted the earth to swallow me up like a Jewish Rumplestilsken, I reveled in the complexity of the moment, because guess what? You can be a Nice Jewish Girl and a mother and still have a vibrator.

Just ask my rabbi if you don’t believe me.

This post originally appeared here on kveller.com.

The Half-Life

2011-09-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

So, this is the post that might get me in trouble.

You know, as opposed to writing about my irabbit (and the rabbi,) my cross dressing son, and my boobies (again).

I’ve been here ten months, twenty three days, and fifteen hours. Long enough to put down a few fragile roots. Long enough to start feeling like maybe I can kind of sort of grow here.

But not really.

Because every day, I am reminded that I am different – in subtle ways that eat at me, I understand through words and gestures that the people here still see me as strange.

(Now, maybe some of that is my fault. Maybe I am strange. Maybe I’m too open, too chaotic. Too eager to make friends. Too Other. Maybe it’s the stripper stilettos. )

I’ve heard many things about myself through others:

“She’s too friendly.”

“She’s a snob.”

“She’s different.”

(Most days, I feel like the new girl in the cafeteria with no one to sit with. I have braces and bad skin and a “KICK ME” sign stapled to my back. Only in Hebrew.)

People smile with their lips with snake-eyes made from stone. Sure, not everyone is this way – yeah, I’ve made a few good friends. But for the most part? Not so much. Because even some of the people who I thought were my friends have proven otherwise.

It’s discombobulating.

And because I am not from here – because I am an Other– people treat me in ways they would never treat one of their own. Born from a false sense of intimacy, like telling a taxi driver your life story because you know you’ll never see him again, people show sides of themselves that they would never show.

Like the man who followed me home from the pub and groped me:

“I just want to taste you” he whispered before I kicked him in the balls (with my stripper stilettos) and ran away.

Or the woman who told me not to talk to her husband anymore:

“If you see my husband on the train, don’t sit with him,” she hissed while I was playing with my son at the swimming pool.

Or the person who shares their deepest fears and desires with me over facebook chat and then twists the truth about my life when gossiping with others.

At this point, I feel like the kibbutz is an aquarium where three fish have died, and the rest have shit all over the tank.

Myself included.

(“Wow, Sarah, why don’t you tell us how you really feel.”)

I’ve learned the hard way that I shouldn’t trust anybody. And you know what? When you’re trying to create a new community for yourself, it sucks to have to put up really tall fences

I don’t belong here. But the thing is, I don’t belong back there either.

When I was in Los Angeles, even the vanilla lattes tasted strange.

Yes, it was wonderful seeing friends and family, and being engulfed in an intimacy inculcated over years of knowing people in a thousand tiny ways. And yet, I found myself yearning to speak Hebrew. I craved falafel. I missed Israeli abrasiveness, and the cut-to-the-chase attitude.

So I’ll cut to the chase:

I’m living a half-life. I speak Hebrew. I eat falafel. I ride my purple bicycle through the fields, and take the train to Tel Aviv where I write… for an American audience. When the kibbutz sleeps, I’m awake on facebook, celebrating moments and milestones in real time ten timezones away.

That’s what it is – a half-life: I’m neither here, nor there. An optimist might say I have two homes, but that’s really just a load of sunshine and rainbow unicorn crap. Still, I’m taking steps to make this place feel more like home, because I’m here, and only I can be responsible for my own happiness. And, yes, there are moments – ok, more than moments – when things click, and I feel like I am in the right place at the right time…

The coffee here is good – way better than in LA. The sun is warm. And… two people I know have just joined me outside here at the Kibbutz coffee place where I'm sitting with my laptop.

And no, the irony isn’t lost on me: If I keep writing this article, steeped in self-pity and sturm und drang (and angst not felt since 9^th grade), then I am my own worst enemy. And that’s just sad. I have a chance, right now, this very minute, to sit with two other people and to feel a sense of belonging, even if only for the space and time that it takes to drink a latte, and smoke a cigarette.

But after all, what is friendship if not built on a series of moments, large and small.

And so, I’m shutting the laptop.

(For now.)

California poppies growing in my garden. Did someone say "cliche" or "cheap metaphor?"

My Son Wore A Dress. And So What.

2011-09-12T21:46:00.000-07:00

My son is big into tractors. He loves Legos. He builds skyscrapers out of wooden blocks, and then goes all Godzilla on them. He plays in the mud, and looks for bugs and gravitates towards the collection of plastic dinosaurs over the baby dolls that his big sister, M. favors.

And on the first day of gan (Israeli preschool) last week, Little Homie told me that he wanted to wear a dress.

“This one!” He said, holding up M’s white summer dress with the red and orange flowers on it. “Pretty dress!”

So that’s what he worse.

“Do you know your son is wearing a dress?” one father told me during drop-off.

(No! Really? Must be laundry day, Captain Obvious because you forgot your cape.)

“Maybe he wants to wear this instead?” a mother said, handing me a shirt from her son’s bag. "It's more manly."

(Right, because nothing screams manly like a shirt with a yellow duckling on it.)

“Doesn’t he have boy clothes?” a grandmother asked when she saw my son twirling around in his flowery frock.

(No, Lady, we don’t have “boy clothes,” because we’re too damn poor to afford to buy new stuff for him, so it’s M’s hand-me-downs, or nothing. And besides, I’ve decided to exercise my God Given right as his mother to turn him gay. Now, lets crank up the Madonna and get this party started!)

Yeah, my son is wearing a dress with flowers on it. But so what? It doesn’t impede on his ability to play in the dirt. He’s not tripping over the hem and hurting himself. Yeah, he’s twirling a little bit, but it’s awesome: He’s learning about rhythm and movement, and the way soft fabric feels against his legs when he whirls around in a circle.

I didn’t encourage his fashion pick: Believe you me, our drawers are stocked with clothes in navy blue, steel, and hunter green. We have shirts with pictures of dinosaurs, and trucks and cartoon dogs emblazoned on the front. We’ve even got the requisite badass AB/CD (AC/DC parody,) and the “Chicks dig my Crib” onesie. But when Little Homie gravitated toward his sister’s skirts and dresses over all the clothes in his drawer, I honored his choice.

(Did ya notice the key words, people: His. Choice.)

Yeah, Little Homie is only 20 months, but this is one way we can allow him to (safely) exercise his autonomy. Sure, there are things that parents decide for their kids all the time: If asked, Little Homie might have opted out of his Brit, or the DTaP vaccine. But this is different.

And if anybody –parent, or teacher, or child—belittles my son for this, I swear I will cut them. Because even if he starts breastfeeding dolls or asking to take ballet class, so long as he’s happy and healthy, then it’s all good. And I will honor his choice to wear dresses, or lip sink to Madonna or wear red nail polish on his toes.

Or fall in love with the person he chooses.

Although I draw the line at wearing my high heels to gan.

This post originally appeared here on Kveller.com.

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raisingJewish children--including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies...and advice from Mayim Bialik.

Breasts in the City

2011-09-08T23:49:00.000-07:00

When I flew to Los Angeles for eight days, I took the following with me: Ten pairs of underwear, eight tanktops, six pairs of pants, four bras, and two lactating breasts.

Yes, Little Homie was still on the boob, and as I struggled with the decision to go to LA or not, the breastfeeding issue was the big pink nursing elephant (spraying milk all over the room.)

The thing is,Little Homie is 20 months – and while, like Mayim Bialik, I love the idea of child-led weaning, after twenty one cases of mastitis and sleepless nights spent lying like a sow in bed next to my (not so little) nursling, I have reached the point of no return where every time he latches on, I want to bite back. Dude has molars, people. And an extensive vocabulary which includes the words “boob,” “nipple,” and “aerola.”

Fortunately, we had already nixed the day nursing a long time ago when Little Homie started gan¸ but that still left us with the night sessions which most parents will agree are even harder to end because, after all, during the day, you’ve got about ten thousand distractions you can draw on if need be. But at night? Well, it’s just you, your “booboos,” and your (screaming) baby. (And a palpable awareness of your neighbors. Several blocks away.) And when your kid’s ‘transitional objects’ are your breasts, weaning… well, sucks.

And in the week before we left, we had some rough nights: Little Homie was like a belligerent frat boy, pissed off that this beleaguered bar-wench had announced last call. But (somehow) we made it, and by the time I boarded the plane, I had effectively closed Mama’s Milk Bar.

But while Little Homie was dealing with this sobering new reality like a champ, on the other side of the world, my breasts were very confused. Because, after all, ever since May, 2008 when M. corkscrewed into this world with a mighty yell, my boobs have hung (precariously and pendulously) in the balance between supply and demand: Every few hours, they would swell with milk, and one of my babies would empty them. And so it would go. From sunrise until, well, sunrise, through each passing season for three years and three months.

Lactating (and leaking) through the baby years was par for the course. Until I went to LA without taking the baby with me. The first 24 hours passed without much incident, and I figured my milk would just go quietly into the night, but on the second day of my trip, I woke up from a nightmare about fireants crawling all over my chest. Half asleep, I tried to brush them away, but the sensation of hand-on-boob felt like getting knifed in the aerola. In my dream-daze, I looked down, and where my rolling hillocks had been the night before were mighty mountains I barely recognized as my own.

Can I get a “WTF,” people?

It was like Beyonce’s ass had landed on my chest. All firm and round and whatnot.

And it freaking HURT.

A warm breeze felt like an electric shock.

Each time a friend or family member hugged me, those creepy-crawling fire ants morphed into vengeful scorpions on steroids. And then, after a day or two, while the milk kept coming and coming and coming with nowhere to go, my ‘fun bags’ weren’t so much ‘bags’ as huge sacks bulging with rocks.

But in a good way. Because even though the pain was excruciating, the fact of the matter remained: I looked like a cartoon femme fatale. (Think Jessica Rrabbit. Only blonde. And more stacked.)

And it was awesome. After all, this was LA, baby, where ego is practically built on silicone and saline. (And now, breastmilk.)

And as I bobbled around the city, I’ll admit that I loved the attention. While I was never small-busted, these breasts were entirely new terrain, and I enjoyed the novelty of it. At one point, it occurred to me that with my (waaaaaaaay) over-supply, maybe the altruistic thing would be to pump and donate to a milk bank. Or feed the entire homeless population of Los Angeles. ~~Or call Hugh Heffner.~~ But I knew that taking milk out would only kick-start the supply and demand process again, and we wouldn’t want to do that, right? After all, most lactation experts warn against that sort of thing if you’re trying to dry up.

So, I decided to keep the puppies to myself. I popped an antihistamine, put on a pushup bra and perfected the airkiss because real hugs hurt. And also made me leak all over.

(Yes, I was a cross between a National Geographic and Playboy.)

My engorgement. Let me show it to you.

Anyway, midweek, over drinks one night with my best friend (and my boobs,) I reveled in the contradiction: ever since I had had kids, it was like someone had stampled a huge HAZMAT sign to my vag. (After all, nothing says “sexy” like a second degree tear down there) But that night at the bar, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t pay for a single drink even if my life depended on it. And so, along with the watermelon margaritas that were sent our way (and no, the irony of watermelon margaritas was not lost on me) I enjoyed the paradox that lactating had brought sexy back. Well, front and center.

“Your milk ducts bring all the boys to the yard,” my best friend said to me after we had downed our third round of free drinks.

“Do you want to touch them?” I asked. “Because, you know, they aren’t really mine.”

(My best friend is a scientist, and she poked the left one with her index finger, a look of clinical detachment on her face.)

“They feel almost… crunchy?” she said.

(And then I leaked all over myself again. But we were drunk so we thought it was hi-larious.)

And then another round of watermelon margaritas appeared before us as if by magic.

But by the time I went back home to my babies, the milk was gone, taking my boobs with them. (Great, I guess this means I have to rely on my personality from here on out, huh?)

And now, I’m sad. And not for the reasons you might think after reading this post. It isn’t the attention or the free drink. (Although that was nice, too.) My sadness stems from a deeper source: I have empty breast syndrome.

Yeah, Joni Mitchell called. She wants her metaphor back. Because even though I am so glad that I’m done nursing, and that I have reclaimed my breasts as my own, I am still grieving the loss of fullness that comes with knowing that for three years and three months--through the passage of ten seasons—I was able to nourish both babies with my boobies.

This post originally appeared here on kveller.com

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children--including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew andJewish names for babies...and advice from Mayim Bialik.

There But For The Grace of God Go I... To Coffee Bean

2011-08-27T03:32:00.000-07:00

When M was born, because I was breastfeeding, I avoided coffee like the plague.

This did not for a happy mama make.

But when Little Homie arrived, I took a swan-dive off the wagon. Big time. It started when my Fairy Godmother-in-law literally bundled me into the car with both babies a week after Little Homie was born.

“Trust me, you need this,“ she had said.

“But I’m breastfeeding!“ I had argued.

“Nu? Mazel Tov. You’re breastfeeding. Trust me, we all did a lot worse back in my day.”

And, during the drive up the hill and around the corner to Coffee Bean I fell asleep.

Clearly, she was right. Decaf was not an option.

Since that morning over a year and a half ago, coffee has become a centrifugal part of my daily routine, utterly essential since neither of my darling precious babies sleep through the night. It's either coffee or amphetamines.

(If I could shoot Vanilla Lattes straight into my veins, I totally would.)

So, when we lived in LA, I'd do the next best thing: Each morning The Clusterfucks would go to Coffee Bean. It was always the highlight of my day -- and I'd even wear a bra for the occasion.

But I was never brave enough to wrangle the kids out on my own. My daughter was (and is) as capricious as a thunder storm -- fierce and fearless, even in the face of oncoming traffic. (Please don't ask how I know this.) Ever since she figured out that she could walk, she has flat out refused to sit in a stroller, and so, I'd spend most of my days held hostage by my babies.

I would see these other mamas, efficient and undaunted as they'd run errands with two or more babies in tow. Somehow, they'd grow invisible third and fourth arms to keep their little ones safe, while their eyes in the backs of their heads would never blink.

I would look at these women with admiration and envy wishing I could be like them. But I was afraid: I was scared one or both of my babies would start screaming, and everyone would look: "Bad Mama Bad Mama Bad Mama" I could read their thoughts in their sideways stares. I was scared M would scamper off for parts unknown, and, racing after her, I'd stumble and fall with Little Homie in my arms. "Bad Mama Bad Mama Bad Mama." I was scared that my cool and competent façade would crumble like a stale scone and everyone would know the truth: I’m a fraud who lets her toddler watch an entire Simpson’s DVD in one sitting, I play Gangsta Rap instead of Rafi, and I don’t shop at Whole Foods.

I was scared that I can’t fake being good enough even for fifteen minutes.

Until one day when B left early for work and I didn't get my coffee. (This may not seem like a big deal, but if I’m going to make through until naptime – let alone through the rest of the day, I need my latte.)

I tried to compromise with a cup of jasmine green tea, but by 9:00 am, I was dozing off while Little Homie nursed and M watched the Simpsons (again).

So, in a rare moment of desperate daring-do, I decided to take action: Since Little Homie had enough head control to ride in a front facing stroller, I thought maybe – (please God!) – I could bundle them into the double stroller and make the block and a half trek to Coffee Bean. So, head swimming, hands shaking, I dusted off the double-stroller lying fallow on our porch, and tried to open it. M came over to investigate: "Sit!" she said, pointing to the unwieldy tangle of plastic and metal that I was trying to sort out. "Sit!" She said, her voice tinged with the start of a whine.

(Shit.)

"Yes, Big Girl, I'm going to open the stroller so you can sit in it with Baby." I said, surprised that she was even considering a ride in the stroller, because let’s face it, she was smack dab in the middle of the Terrible Two’s, and God Forbid she should make life easy on anyone. Especially me.

Alas, the stroller had other plans, and incompetent mother that I am, I couldn’t figure out how to open it.

"SIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" She screamed, stomping her foot. (But still, I'll take a tantrum in exchange for a stroller ride to Coffee Bean any day...)

But I couldn't open the ~~Goddamn Motherfucking asshole~~ stroller, and M, meanwhile was stomping her feet and screaming “sit sit sit” so often that her sibilant ‘s’s’ blurred, and it began to sound like “shit shit shit.” Shit. But there was no way on Gods Green Earth that I was going to put that stroller away now and lose my shot at a latte.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” I screamed like a Brave Heart battle cry as I picked up the stroller and flung it against the floor. And then, oh miracle of miracles: With a begrudging creak, it opened– a chrysalis into a butterfly – and, flooded with relief, I strapped M and Little Homie in.

We made it to Coffee Bean. Little Homie was screaming, M was whining “Mama, out. Mama, out,” and I was covered in a thin film of sweat. Hey, we may be a birth control cautionary tale, but we made it to Coffee Bean!

I ordered my vanilla latte, dusted it with cinnamon, and took that first perfect sip. Heaven in a cup, people. Heaven in a cup.

Just then, another mama smiled at me and sauntered over. She was tiny and tan -- two things I will never ever be -- and her toddler was wearing the same sweater set Suri Cruise was captured wearing in a recent paparazzi pic. "Oh, what a cute baby!" she crooned while tracing a pink painted talon on Little Homie's foot.

"Thanks," I smiled, deluded by the taste of sweet victory (and latte) into believing maybe she wasn't a Stepford Wife on diet drugs, and that we might actually be friends.

"I wish I could have had coffee when my little Montana was an infant. But, I breastfed her." Dewy-eyed, she beamed a satisfied Divine Mother smile. And I threw up a little in my mouth.

"Oh, I'm breastfeeding, too." I answered.

"Really? And you're drinking coffee?" she gasped as if I had just whipped out my crack pipe and offered her a hit.

"Yup," I smiled, "In fact, I'm breastfeeding two babies, so if I don't drink my latte, I'll be shooting smack just to stay awake.”

And for the first time ever, my feelings of incompetency, the shame of sheer inadequacy, blurred around the edges: After all, I had just trudged up the hill to Coffee Bean with both kids strapped snuggly in a double stroller, and I was able to nourish both kids with my boobs at once.

Hey, say what you will about my crunchy granola tendencies, but tandem breastfeeding is pretty freaking hardcore.

And so, badass and brave, I took a big sip of my perfect vanilla latte to keep from saying "suck it, bitch, I’m awesome."

My Guilt. Let Me Tell It To You...

2011-08-16T13:50:00.000-07:00

I’m going to LA for eight days and eight nights. Alone.

Eight. Days. Eight. Nights. Like Hanukkah, only in August. And not really.

(The longest I’ve been away from my kids up until now is, like, eight hours…)

But still.

“Dude, it’s just eight days!” Says David on the phone.

“They’ll survive!” Chris tells me on gchat.

“If mama aint happy, aint nobody happy.” Michal messages me on Facebook.

Still, let me tell you about the reaction on the kibbutz:

The conversation starts off innocuously enough at the coffee place where I am smoking my (third)
cigarette and sipping my (second) latte.

“What’s new, Sarah?”

“I’m flying to LA next week!”

“Oh how wonderful! And of course you’re taking the kids!” (This is always said without a question
mark.)

“Actually, I am going alone.”

(You can hear the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in Lebanon during the silence that follows. And
while my news sinks in, I try not to squirm under the unblinking Eyes of Judgment, because Heaven Fore-
fucking-fend I should allow myself this treat without turning my stomach in knots first.)

After all, what kind of mother puts her own needs first and leaves her children (with a loving father, and
savta, and uncle and caring teachers, and wonderful friends and assorted extended family members) for
eight days.

This mother.

The Bad Mother.

I can see The Bad Mother clearly in my mind’s eye: She scatters the words “me time” and “spa day”
and “girls night out” like cheap baubles all over the floor—beguiling choking hazards for the kids she
brought into this world only to ignore. TV is a cheap babysitter, and after dinner, the ladies of Wisteria
Lane spend more time with her babies than she does as she logs onto Facebook, posting pictures where
she looks good (never mind how the kids look!) chatting with friends, and glancing up (barely) long
enough to notice her children have fallen asleep. At 10:30 pm.

The Bad Mother waves bye-bye to her babies at gan each morning, and breathes an audible sigh of relief,

while the other mothers stare, wondering what kind of woman does a happy dance and says “FREE AT
LAST, FREE AT LAST, THANK GOD ALMIGHT I’M FREE AT LAST” when the door slams shut on
her child’s plaintive cries. The Bad Mother is more focused on her lipgloss and the color gradations of
her highlights than on the milestones of her children. She drinks. She smokes. She cusses like a trucker
on crunk. And while her children sleep, she calls a babysitter and slips off to a bar with friends—more
a ‘desperate housewife’ than Susan, Bree, Gabby, and Lynette.

(The bad Mother is Edie Brit.)

I never thought I’d be this kind of mother.

But as I click “CONFIRM” on my airline reservations – Eight days and eight nights in LA, and half a
world away from my children—I’m not so sure.

What if?

What. If?

What if I go and something terrible happens to my family? What if a war breaks out. What if
Ahmadinejad’s trigger finger twitches and Israel goes kablooey or what if there’s an earthquake or a
cyclone or a swarm of locusts or something equally biblical or … what if B. turns his back for a second
too long and M. scampers off for parts unknown and gets abducted by aliens or the Mossad who want
to train her to be a secret agent because she’s bilingual, or what if Little Homie decides to take up night
swimming, or what if…

(Or what if I lose the hand-wringing histrionics that would manage to annoy even Woody Allen during
his most neurotic moments, and take it down a notch… Still, even if I chill out a little, this issue is fraught
with complexities: For instance, an hour to a child is a long time. Eight days is an eternity. And, my
babies are both still so young, and without the linguistic capacity to understand that sometimes mothers
need a break—a few days away to regroup and recharge, to come back better than before.)

My crisis: How does a helicopter parent fly away from her kids and not feel like a Bad Mother?

Still, I will not cancel, because it all comes down to this: I need to go, because for the last few months,
I’ve been neck deep in a crisis of identity. In some ways, things are so much easier over here on the
kibbutz than they were in LA: My kids are in gan, and for the first time in over three years, I have time
for myself.

(Some days, I work from home—a series of several, meaningful jobs that I love. Other days, I sit with
friends and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes. And then there are days when I swan
off to the train station in Rehovot, and go wherever my whim takes me. Tel Aviv. Haifa. Jerusalem.
These are days when I talk to strangers, when I realize that while our days are numbered, life is long and
the possibilities are almost endless.)

Basically, I’m trying to figure out where I fit in here—what I want to do and if I truly belong.

But then, on the flip side, there’s gan and for the first time in over three years, I have time for myself.

Because really, time to ruminate is an exercise in masturbatory calisthenics. And not in a good way. And
above all, freedom tastes good. (And surprising like Redbull and vodka.) And there’s part of me—that
feels like maybe I grew up too fast. Maybe I gave up the things that interested me too quickly to have
babies.

(Would I change anything? No. Absolutely not. But do I sometimes wish that maybe I had traveled to
Thailand and eaten shrooms on a mountaintop at dawn? That maybe I had gotten that second degree
in international relations or had joined the CIA? That maybe I had taken a chance and raced pell-mell
down that road not taken instead of waiting for the light to change, looking left and right, and proceeding
carefully across the street?)

Um, yeah.

I do. And I think so do a lot of people.

OK, maybe I’m not a Bad Mother. Maybe I’m a Complex Mother who is struggling to figure shit out.

And so, I’m going to LA – because as a wise friend told me over coffee yesterday, “If you don’t go,
you’re always going to wonder…” and this will be an eight day trip down a road not taken, and that is
reason alone to show up at the airport with a suitcase and carryon. But beyond this reason, there is a
bigger issue: I need to be engulfed by the intimacy of family and the friends that are like family. I am
craving this time away to be back amongst my own, with people who really know me, not as just as “B.’s
wife,” or “M. and Little Homie’s ima;” not just as “the American,” and not just as “the woman who sits
at the café and pounds on the laptop, and drinks too many lattes and wears and sunglasses that make Greta
Garbo look friendly.”

And above all, I just want to go home. Like Dorothy, except my ruby slippers are stripper stilettos. And
instead of a Glenda the Good, and the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, I have a wonderful
father who is helping spring for the plane ticket, and incredible friends who are going to let me couch
surf my way from the Valley to Venice. And while I’m there—home in Los Angeles for the first time
in ten months—I want to know that when I’m there, surrounded on all sides by the people I’ve missed,
breathing the fumes belched from the city bus rolling past the Coffee Bean on Sepulveda and Palms, that
I long for my home here on the kibbutz.

With the family I’ve created here.

Because then, I can come home again. And even though your ass can’t be in two places at once, flying to LA and back may actually do something that seems damn near impossible: This trip—this journey—may allow me the mental space to revel in the complexity of knowing that I can have two homes at the same time, and be OK with that.

This post originally appeared here on kveller.com.

Chasing Smoke

2011-07-25T22:08:00.000-07:00

My mom had a symbiotic relationship with cigarettes.

She was a product of the Golden Age of Hollywood, a time when star-crossed lovers proclaimed their undying devotion by blowing smoke in each other's face.  (Which thus effectively sealed their fate that one day, they would indeed die together. Of lung cancer.)

She was also a product of a home where her parents would unwind after a long day by sitting across from one another at the kitchen table. Her father would strike a match, light her mother’s Lucky Strike, and then his own, and my mom would watch as the smoke from their cigarettes twirled in twin plumes, twisting together in the glow of after dinner peace.  These were sacred moments of fleeting stillness– a way of being that transcended the pressures of work and raising children, of keeping house and cooking dinner. And as soon as the last ember fell from their Lucky Strikes, the moment would end.  

Until the next. 

(They kept the peace living cigarette to cigarette. )  

So, it’s little wonder that my mom started smoking on a chilly night in October  1960, when the stress of midterm exams weighed down on her.  

“Just one…” she said to her best friend as they sat on the steps outside Kingsolving Dormitory at the University of Texas. She coughed. She wheezed. She almost threw up. 

But she kept going. 

One cigarette turned into another and into another and into another, and with a nine month exception in the early ‘80’s, she smoked until the day she died.  

These are some of the things I remember about my mom:  

-

    1. When we’d ride in the car together, she’d slip Bach into the tape deck, and while humming along, she’d tap her cigarette out the window in staccato syncopation.   

     2. She'd sit at her desk, a cup of instant coffee cooling slowly beside the typewriter, and bang out a story pausing only to pick up her GPC 100 Ultra Lights. The room would fill with smoke, and her silhouette would fade into a blur of blue.  When I was in high school and hammering out a history paper, she’d perch in the wicker chair by the window cigarette in hand, reading passages to me from Howard Zinn or Thomas Friedman–“You have to add this quote!” She’d say, and then she’d read it again while my fingers flew to catch up. 

W

    3.  When she got sick –(ovarian, not lung)– her parents begged her to quit. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Instead, at family gatherings, she’d sneak outside to the back steps, hiding her nicotine stained shame in the shadows of Aunt Judy’s Santa Monica apartment. I would slip out with her, her co-conspirator, and we would sit side-by-side, speaking freely in the darkness. Then, she’d douse herself with GAP Dream perfume, her fingers, her hair, even her mouth, and we’d step back inside, our eyes glowing with a shared secret.  

-         

     4. Even when the world around her gave up smoking in the wake of the Surgeon General’s Cassandra cry--first her dear friend, Nancy, then Aunt Judy, and finally my Grandparents--she held fast to her smokes.  Sure, she tried to stop--Smoke Enders, the Patch, a day meditating at an Ashram, but in the end, she’d reach for that secret stash hidden behind the VCR.  I would threaten her:  “if you don’t stop, I’m going to start.”  She would reply:  “Don’t you dare.”  

But dare I did.

I had my first cigarette when I was 18, on a sultry night in Tel Aviv while sitting across from a handsome stranger.  Very glamorous. Very Bette Davis and Paul Henried. And that first one didn’t feel like a big deal–I felt no rush of adrenaline, no woozy high.  

“You have to inhale it,” the stranger laughed. “Breathe it in, deep into your lungs. Otherwise you look like a virgin” 

I took a deep breath, and sucked. And it felt like someone had hit me in the back of the head with a sledge hammer. I coughed and choked. If I were a cartoon, I would have turned a putrid shade of green. 

(In fact, maybe I did.)

“You have to have another one, until you learn how to do it.  It’s just like sex,” he said.  “Keep trying ‘til you get good at it.” He put his hand on my thigh.

I smoked that entire summer. And well into the next. My parents never found out, and really, it didn’t feel like an addiction because I could go days without lighting up.  

When autumn rolled around, and I moved to Berkeley, I discovered vanilla cigarettes. Every afternoon after class, I would head to Wall Berlin where I would smoke and drink with itchy enthusiasm. 

More than the physical aspects of smoking, I craved the experience of sitting outside with a cigarette in hand, talking to strangers – something that comes easy when you’re able to say “Hey, gotta light?”

Still, I felt like I could quit anytime. And really, I did quit.  Just like that in the middle of Freshman Year deep in the depths of December when meaningful conversations with random strangers were harder to come by in the dank alleyway next to Wall Berlin.

But when my mother died on an incongruously warm morning in mid-January four years after I had stopped smoking, I reached behind the VCR and found her secret stash. I could almost smell her in the half-empty package of GPC 100 Ultra Lights, the memory of her touch still there from only a few days before. I pulled out a cigarette, and after rummaging further back behind the VCR, I found her purple lighter. I touched the ridges of her fingerprints.

But still, even though I smoked that day, and on into the next few weeks, it was easy to quit. No, I swear: Just like that, I was done.  

Six years passed. And when we landed in Israel, we were assaulted by the acrid stench of smoke from all sides, everywhere. It’s all around us here, clinging to the trees. Disgusting and dangerous. And yet, smelling the smoke everywhere slammed me headfirst into the memory of my mom’s office when we would sit in companionable silence while she’d dig for just the right quote to help me flesh out my history paper. 

Now, as the months slip by in Israel, and I feel myself falling further and further from the familiar–from my family and friends and the memory of my mom–I take a deep breath and ask the question that has led me to this moment: “Can I get a cigarette?”

And just like that I’m smoking again. Only this time, there are two little kids at home, and not only do I want to protect their fragile lungs from the choice I’ve made to smoke again, I also know through the lessons of my mom and her parents (and their parents, too) that I am willfully continuing the dysfunctional legacy of this symbiotic relationship with cigarettes. 

And so, I’m sitting here at the coffee place on the kibbutz, typing typing typing if only to keep my fingers from reaching for the pack of cigarettes and purple lighter. But this time—for about ten thousand reasons—it’s harder to stop. Still, even though I want a cigarette so bad that I could actually suck the smoke belched from the cement factory a few miles away in Ramle right now, I won’t.

Because even though I have never smoked in front of my kids, I know that unless I stop right now, this fucking second, it’s only a matter of time before I am  lurking in the shadows of the Hader Ohel with M where I’ll turn to her and say  “Don’t tell your father I’m doing this.” And her eyes will gleam with the excitement of being trusted with such a big secret, just as my eyes shone when I would sneak outside with my mom all those many years ago in a moment I carry with me today.

This post originally appeared here on kveller.com.

Negotiating a Landmine: Interacting with a Pregnant Woman

2011-07-23T08:30:00.000-07:00

Pregnancy is both a beautiful and bizarre time.  

When I was pregnant, it felt like my body was no longer mine – not only did it belong to M and Little Homie (and about ten thousand pounds of Haagen Dasz ice cream,) but it also seemed to be the property of  the whole entire world.    That’s what makes pregnancy so surreal – not only does your stomach shudder and shake like something out of a scene from Alien, but you also have to figure out how to navigate in a world where all the social norms you’ve grown up with are out the freaking window.

For instance:  If total strangers came up to you and fondled your belly when you weren’t pregnant, wouldn’t you shoot them  in the face with a can of pepper spray?  

If the barista at Coffee Bean said “are you sure you don’t want decaff, and holy crap, your boobs look huge” wouldn’t you actively consider throwing your drink in her face?  (And maybe be a little flattered but skeezed out as well? True story, by the way.)  

Now factor the hormonal highs and lows and being pregnant is super fun!

Look. I know that despite the gravitational pull of a knocked up woman’s belly, the universe does not revolve around her.  Still, I know how much I appreciated when people were supportive and loving, and not all weird and not judging every step I took, every pound I gained (85 for those keeping score at home) and every ice blended I sipped. which is why I was thrilled when  Anna North recently interviewed me for the article How to Properly Interact With Pregnant Women which ran a few days ag on Jezebel.com.  

Anyway,   I thought I’d share her original questions and my responses here.  

What are some things you should never say to a pregnant woman?

First of all, in the interest of full disclosure, I have broken every single one of the rules I am about to lay out for you.  More than once.  

- OK.  The first cardinal rule when dealing with a pregnant person:  Now, say it with me: Never assume someone is pregnant unless she straight up tells you that she's knocked up, or you actually see the baby crowning.  Food babies and real babies can look remarkably similar, so until you know for absolute certain that she is in fact 'with child', do not smile fondly and pat her belly. 

In fact, just don’t pat her belly at all….

-   And this leads us to our second rule: Pregnant women are not public domain.  Even if she's your BFF, do not caress her belly unless you've asked for permission, or unless she's said "hey, do you want to feel Kicky McFetus in action?"  In which case, grope away... Even if she's wearing a Buddha maternity shirt that says "rub me for good luck"ask.  Because you do not want to contend with an irate pregnant woman -- she might sit on you.  (I would.)

Touch me, and I will cut you. Try me.

-  OK, at some point, when a pregnant woman waddles into the third trimester, hearing "oh, you're HEEEEYOUGE"  can be really annoying.  Especially when she has ten plus weeks to go.   But on the flipside, hearing "oh, you're so teeny!" can be completely unnerving because it can make her question the health of the baby beneath.  

I experienced both extremes during my first pregnancy -- until I reached 28 weeks, everyone told me how tiny I was, and this scared the crap out of me, so I hunkered down with Haagen Dasz, and within a few weeks the chatty homeless man in front of CVS informed me I was having twins.  

"No, not twins,"  said I.

"Triplets!  How wonderful!" 

Yeah, not so much.

(In other words, please refrain from shouting “Thar she blows!”)

In fact, just don't say anything about a pregnant woman’s belly - with one exception:  "You look FANTASTIC!"  is always great to hear.

-   Another thing you should never say to a pregnant woman  is  "Was it planned?"  Because sometimes pregnancies are not planned.  (Ahem.) And regardless of whether this one is or isn't, it really isn't any one's business.  And come on, do you want to hear about how your friend spent five minutes each day analyzing her cervical mucous?  Didn't think so.  

-  When I was pregnant, it made me sad to hear, "Oh, what a blessing!  Enjoy every precious second!"  Because there were times when I felt ambivalent about gestating life- dry=heaving into the tampon box in the public restroom at Barnes and Noble was one of those times, and sure, while in hindsight it makes for a funny memory, in that moment I was really miserable.  Yes, being pregnant is a transformative experience - carrying life is miraculous.  But it's also scary.  And when people would say "oh, don't you just LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE being pregnant?" I felt ashamed that I didn’t love it every second.  

-  Now, along this same vein,   I am Woody Allen with a uterus.  And many other women are similarly neurotic.  While some people head straight to Babies R Us and register as soon as they pee on a stick, I'm much more wary.  And whenever someone would say to me "this time next year, you're going to be a mama!" like it was a given, it would freak me out.  I was afraid their well-intentioned words would jinx me, because in pregnancy -- as in life -- there are no guarantees. 

-  OK, I'm all for hearing the gory details of an 82 hour labor that culminated in a gigantic dump on the delivery table and a third degree tear down there, but many women would prefer NOT to hear about it.  So unless someone asks you to weigh in about your experience or your cousin's friend's sister's dog's experience, don't.  In other words, save the Horror montage for Wes Craven. And speaking of horror stories, please do not tell a pregnant woman about how you know someone who's baby died.  It's our worst nightmare.  And I promise, we will be up for the rest of the pregnancy kick-counting if you do that to us. 

-  Advice is a sticky issue:  Now, I loved getting advice from family, friends, and the kindly checkout clerk at Whole Foods - but that's me.  And really, not everyone feels that way.   Problem is, I assumed that all my pregnant friends would want to bask in the glory of my newly attained knowledge once I became a mama.  It wasn't until two recently knocked up girlfriends defriended me on facebook that I realized maybe I should STFU and wait to be asked.   Instead of saying "oh, make sure you sleep on your left side and stay away from unpasteurized soft cheeses, and are you sure flying to France when you're four months pregnant is safe, and really, you have to make sure that your baby is moving x amount of times per hour, and if you want to breastfeed - which of course you want to- then stay away from... " (you get the idea...)  I now say "If i can help in any way, let me know."

- Which reminds me:   Please do not tell a pregnant woman how she should be raising her child.  (Did ya see the keywords, people?  Her.  Child.) Breastfeeding vs. bottle feeding.  Disposable diapers vs. cloth diapers.  Dr. Ferber vs. Dr. Sears.  Daycare vs. nanny vs. stay-at-home parent.  Just let her figure out what works best for her. 

(If she wants to gaze into the Eyes of Judgment, she can always go visit her Mother-in-Law. )

-  If a pregnant woman shows you the money shot of her baby-boy-to-be, you are allowed to say the following :

  *  Oh wow, no question there!

  *A boy!  That's awesome!

  *- OH MY GAAWWWDDD that's like the fetal version of Ron Jeremy!

There is one thing you must never ever ever ever ever say:  "Are they sure it's a boy?"  

-  I think one of the most annoying things you can say to a pregnant woman is the classic line  "Oh, you better sleep now while you can because once the baby gets here, good luck" (hyuk hyuk hyuk.)  Yes, because pregnant women are squirrels gathering sleep for the long winter.  Believe you me, in the third trimester, most pregnant women have to contend with stabbing sciatic nerve pain, leg cramps, heartburn, 1:00 am, 2:00 am, 3:00 am, 3:30 am (damn that stupid glass of water!) and 4:00 am trips to the bathroom.  In other words, it's virtually impossible to sleep.... Please don't add to the anxiety by reminding a mama-to-be that it's only going to get harder.   We will curse you when stress-eating our way through an entire bag of Hershey chocolate chips later that night. 

- And finally, please don’t say  "Wait, you're still pregnant?"  when you see her waddling toward the ice cream section at the grocery store three days after her due date.  We all know that the watched pot never boils.  So step away from the stove.

What are some things that are acceptable to ask or say? Things pregnant ladies (at least in your experience) like to hear?

- Any variation on the theme of "Wow! You’re glowing!  You look beautiful! ZOMG you are a goddess" are all acceptable.   And appreciated.  In fact, lets try this:  . Log into facebook.  Find your friend with all the bellyshot pictures, and  post an upbeat comment that does not refer to whale watching. 

- You can also feel free to say something like “Oh wow, from behind I can’t even tell you’re pregnant. Drop it like it’s hot, baby mama!”

When in doubt, just give her a warm smile.  

Assuming you're not going to a shower, should you send a gift/card before the baby is born, or should you wait until after? And what's a good gift to get?

I'll answer the easy part first: A good gift to get is whatever the parents-to-be ask for on the registry.  If there is no registry, ask what they want/need. You can also consider teaming up with other close friends to buy a 'big' gift (car seat/changing table/crib...) but just make sure to check in with the grandparents-to-be first because grandparents can be super territorial over the big ticket items.  

Also?  Give wash cloths.  First time parents seriously have NO IDEA how much they are going to need wash clothes.  No, really.  Wash cloths.  And babies tend to outgrow the 0-3 onesies super-fast. Although on the flipside, newborns are shit and spit machines and having itty bitty onesies is always helpful. 

And if she has a sense of humor, get her a box of condoms as well. 

As far as when to give gifts, this is a touchier issue.  Some cultures -- like mine (Judaism) frown upon gifting the unborn baby because we worry that it invites the "Ayin Ha Ra" - "The Evil Eye."  And because of this some women will be uncomfortable with the idea of accepting gifts before the baby is born.

Now, if the mama-to-be is having a shower, then try to get the gift to her before the baby arrives -- some people are planners and like to have every detail in place.  Her life is about to get ridiculously chaotic (no need to tell HER that, though) and the illusion of order and control may be comforting.

What are some ways you can offer to help a pregnant friend?

My dear friend, Crystal, came to more doctors appointments and impromptu jaunts to labor and delivery with me than my husband.  Even in the middle of my most neurotic, hormonally charged meltdowns, she was there for me with a pint of Haagen Dasz or Chicken Tika Masalah.  Not only that, but she seemed to genuinely love listening to me go on (and on and on and on and on) about each movement, each craving, each fear, and each hope.  In hindsight, I was probably a monstrous pain in the ass, but SHE was the epitome of grace and love.  And that's the most wonderful gift she could give me - support.  No questions asked, no strings attached, compassion, love and support. 

Now, if your pregnant friend lives far away, or you are busy and can't race out at 11:00 PM to take her to the hospital because she's sure she's going into preterm labor (but really it's just gas - not that I would know of such things...) there are other things you can do :  Ask to see ultrasound pictures.   "Like" the bellyshots she posts on Facebook even if they’re starting to get annoying.   And feel free to leave supportive, loving comments.... By doing these simple things, you help make your friend's pregnancy a nurturing, beautiful experience.  She will notice, and she will be grateful. 

For the full article, please check out How to Properly Interact With Pregnant Ladies on Jezebel.com.

(And the picture they chose to run with the piece?  Classic.  And maybe a little frightening. Totally worth clicking on the link just for that.)