It was a total Balagaan.

In Hebrew, “Balagaan” means chaos or a completely crazy situation. It was a word I knew before I came to Israel, but now that I’m here I can appreciate it’s impact so much more. Especially after yesterday.

The day started innocently enough. Yonah went off to his playgroup and I went to school. Our mornings both ran smoothly, not a cloud on the horizon, so I had no reservations about spending the afternoon at the Malcha Mall with Rachel and Shmuel Yaakov, and Nomi and Yaakov Moshe. I even let Yonah skip his afternoon nap because I knew he would fall asleep in the stroller.

Big mistake.

We arrived at the mall, a massive structure of mostly Euro-glam stores that immediately disappointed me. I didn’t realize how much I had been jonesing for even the sight of a Bed, Bath And Beyond, Old Navy or Barnes and Noble, which I clearly was not going to find here. Instead, I was surrounded by displays of overpriced thigh-high boots, popped collars and the insistent pulse of techno music. I did, however, manage to find a bookstore with a decent English section with some cute children’s books (a blessed miracle after two months of reading Yonah the same four board books).

After my tiny literary coup, everything went downhill, fast. Turns out, Yonah, Yanky-Mo and Shmuel Yaakov were way too interested in the doings at the Malcha Mall to do anything like sleep. Overtired and confined to their strollers for long periods of time, it was only a matter of time until one of them had a meltdown. Amazingly enough, it was Yonah who decided to start the ball rolling. As I was checking out at Shilav, the kids’ clothing store (Yonah needed jammies. And a new outfit. And some socks to match. What? There was a sale!), Yonah decided he would stand for nothing but being held, and only by Mommy. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a check-out line with your arms full of clothes, but it’s pretty difficult to do while you’re holding a 25-pound baby. Major crying ensued. Rachel tried to entertain him, but Yonah would only have me. The meltdown continued through the kids’ shoestore (where they charged more for a pair of baby sneakers than my weekly grocery bill) and then to the maternity store while Mommy tried on skirts, or at least tried to try them on between picking Yonah up and putting him down; As the glammed-up salesgirls sized me up behind the checkout counter (pregnant, exhausted, balancing three full shopping bags, a bulky stroller and a screaming Yonah), I could practically hear their thoughts: “I am NEVER having kids”.

I guess the show Yonah put on inspired the other two boys because once we got to the food court, Yonah, Yanky-Mo and Shmuel Yaakov all proceeded to freak out. A frustrated Yanky-Mo spilled his fruit shake all over him and Nomi, Shmuel Yaakov refused to stay in his stroller and ran all over the food court while Yonah protestingly threw his herb-cream-cheese sandwich across the table. Poor Rachel had to chase Shmuel Yaakov and Yanky Mo so Nomi could choke down her lasagna; By the time she was done, the white flag went up and our trip came to an abrupt end.

The good thing about days like that is that they do end, and luckily mine wound down on a good note. Shuie and I went out on our weekly date for dinner at Entrecote, a steakhouse not far from our apartment. The food was delicious (though I got a little ambitious and ordered a salad–BIG MISTAKE) and the company charming, of course. By the time we got home, my nightmarish afternoon was practically forgotten. Well, almost. Nomi called today and asked me if I wanted to go to Mea She’arim to get shoes for Yonah. “Thank you so much,” I told her. “But after yesterday’s adventure I’m going to pass. Check in with me in January”.

Today, thankfully, was back to normal. The weather has been typical fall: chilly mornings that compel you to bundle up but leave you sweating to death by midday. On the super-packed bus this morning, I had to ask a girl on the bus to let me have her seat because, between the heat and the nausea (stupid salad), I could barely stand up. That, by the way, is one of the things I really like about Israel: their code of common courtesy. Cab drivers may try to cheat you out of every cent you have, but they will also get out of their cabs and help you put your stroller in the trunk. It is common practice for strangers to help random children and old people across the street. On buses, it is expected that those in the front row will give up their seat for the elderly, infirm or hugely pregnant (there are signs that even say so), so I had no qualms about asking this girl for a place to sit. Not only did she gladly give up her seat for me, but she offered me water from her bag. Later, as I was getting off the bus, she wished me a “Shabbat Shalom”, as if I had done her a favor (even sweeter because she was clearly not observant). This is what makes me wonder about Israelis. They are called “Sabras” after the desert fruit with prickly outsides but mushy, sweet insides. And yet, there is an underlying sense here that everyone is looking out for everyone, no matter where on the spectrum they fall. Maybe it’s because we’re all Jews, and at the end of the day, we know all we have is each other. As a random cabbie quoted to me after I arrived here, “Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh La Zeh” (All of Israel is responsible for one another).