I don’t know what it is about Shabbat here, but every week, without fail, I find myself homesick. It’s the most ironic thing because Shabbat is at its peak here in Israel, especially in Jerusalem. Even the air is infused with a holy energy. You’d think I’d want to stick around and drink it up. But, no. In the spiritual capital of the world, on the highest day of the week, all I want to do is go home. Shuie says that in such a loaded environment it’s to be expected that emotions will get stirred up. I suppose that’s true. In my case I’ve got a few extra balls going than your average juggler, between the pregnancy and dealing with all the grief stuff.

I had a moment today that I have not had in a long time, but before I describe it I should probably give a little background. Many of you know I am in Overeaters Anonymous, a twelve-step program for people with eating disorders. I am a compulsive overeater (which means I binge and graze throughout the day) and a bulimic (which means I purge after I eat). I used weigh about 250 pounds, but thankfully, as a result of OA, I have dropped the weight and have been living in a normal-sized body for over four years. Part of the way I recovered physically was by letting go of my drugs of choice, namely flour and sugar. Experience has shown that if I take even one bite I am not able to stop eating them, so today I don’t eat them.

The thing about being an addict, though, is that you can take the drug away, get into a program and recover, but you will never, ever be CURED. That means that each day you have to struggle not to pick up your drug, no matter what happens. Some days are easier, some harder. For me, it’s ironic that throughout everything with my mother, I never once considered eating anything I shouldn’t, because today, when there was no crisis going on, I let my brain go into a fifteen-minute fantasy binge-fest. In my mind, I visited all the stores in the Mercaz that sell my favorite foods, brought them all home and went to town. As I said, this is not something I have done in a very long time. Normally, if a thought like that surfaces, I swat it away like a mosquito. But today, I gave myself permission to go there, knowing full well I wanted to check out of reality for a while, even if it was just in my mind.

Thought patterns like these are usually a red flag: something is going on. Well, we all know what’s going on so there’s no big surprise here. But I did realize something last night that seems obvious now but I didn’t quite get until it fully crystallized: I’m afraid to have the baby here. There’s the aspect of giving birth in a foreign country that is overwhelming, especially dealing with insurance and doctors and hospital protocol and all that, but I’d have to deal with that in the States, too. There’s also the idea of my family being thousands of miles away while I’m giving birth, but my mother-in-law, my aunt and possibly my father will be coming at some point. What’s really scaring me is that my Mom won’t be there. A mother has an innate gift of making everything feel instantly safer just by being there. But my mother won’t be there, and I’m scared of going through this without her.

I told my friend Chaya the other day that going through a loss like this is kind of like having your life turned over and everything shaken out. You have to pick everything up and arrange it so that it sort of resembles your old life, but in reality your old life is gone and you have to start from scratch in this new one. Every experience is like learning all over again: “Okay, this is getting my eyebrows done without calling Mom after”; “This is buying clothes without showing them to Mom”; “This is cooking a five-course dinner and figuring out how to do it myself”. In many ways you’re figuring out how to be a different version of yourself. And this version has never had a baby without a mother to support her. It’s a very scary thing.

So can you blame me for indulging in a brief flight from reality? I am fully aware that there is a big difference between fantasy and reality, so no, I will not be bingeing on a dozen bagels, a pie of pizza and the requisite tub of Ben and Jerry’s, because I know it won’t stop there. What I will do is make myself a nice cup of tea, curl up with my book and try to shoulder through these feelings as presently and soberly as possible.

Tomorrow, bright and early, I am heading over to the Misrad HaPnim, the Passport and Visa office downtown to apply for Bituach Leumi, or National Insurance, which pays for all hospital bills for new immigrants to Israel. This means that, Gd willing, the birth will be covered. Now, before you get excited, no, we DID NOT make aliyah (immigrate to Israel). Bituach Leumi is also available to those with student visas or those who have been “added” to the list of new immigrants (for a fee). Note that I am not telling you which category we fit into. I’m a little nervous because from the initial meeting it takes 183 days for the BL to kick in, so we’re going to be cutting it pretty close to the birth. The good thing is, if it hasn’t come through yet, our representative gives a check for the hospital that will be paid back to him later by the insurance company. So here’s hoping everything works out.

I’ve taken on a new phrase: “Kol Bidei Shamayim” (Everything comes from Heaven). I’m using it kind of like push-ups, only I’m building my faith muscles. For example, if I miss the bus, I remind myself, “Kol Bidei Shamayim”; there must be a reason I was delayed. If Yonah wakes up in the middle of the night, I can say, “Kol Bidei Shamayim” and remember that I am being given opportunities to grow as a mother. I figure if I make it enough of a standard practice, it will be easier to say when things get tough. I’ve never been good at sticking with workouts, but I figure I have a better shot with this one because I can do it sitting on the couch.

Walking on the streets or riding the buses of Jerusalem, as in any city, can sometimes feel like a fashion extravaganza. After almost three months here, there is one thing I can say for sure about Israeli women: the ones who know how to work it know how to work it. The style among secular, non-observant women is a bohemian look with lots of scarves, intricate jewelry and long, dark wild hair left long and untamed like the heroine in a romance novel. There more adventurous religious women will also lean toward the bohemian with lots of flowy layers, a kaliedescope of colors and patterns, and tichels (head wraps) worn high and proud, making them look like queens. Little by little, my wardrobe is looking more and more like theirs, especially now that I’m on the market for more belly-friendly threads.

It was with that in mind that Rachel, Shmuel Yaakov, Yonah and I went over to Ben Yehuda Street yesterday. Rachel, who is a very beautiful, dark-haired, green-eyed yeshiva wife whose style tends to stick to variations of basic black. While she wears her sheitl (wig) most days, she’s been inspired by my colorful headwear to start trying to incorporate tichels into her wardrobe. Our errand was primarily to help her find a unique yet staid new kerchief as a first step in her evolution.

Before I continue, I should probably explain something about sheitls and tichels to those not as familiar with them. For today, we are going to ignore the myriad of opinions about the Jewish law stating that all married women must cover their hair and just talk about the women who follow it. The universal rule of fashion dictates that you wear says something about what you are. In the case of Jewish women’s headwear, I would say this is absolutely true. Of course, one of the most important things I have learned on my spiritual journey is that what we see on the outside is not always an indication of what is really going on on the inside; everyone’s connection to Gd is between her and Gd. However, on a purely superficial level, you can learn a lot about an Orthodox woman by what she puts on her head. For example (and there are always exceptions in every case) most women who make the commitment to wear a sheitl on a daily basis tend to lean more to the right ideologically; many ultra-orthodox women will even wear hats or tichels over their sheitls to ensure that others don’t think their real hair isn’t covered. Women who wear funkier, more colorful headwraps may fall into a more spiritual/experiential camp while maintaining a firm commitment to Torah. There are other women (the popular term now is “Modern Orthodox”) who may wear hats, headbands and bandanas that show some of their hair, and some may not cover their hair at all, suggesting a more progressive approach, meaning that they honor and keep the Torah while balancing life in the modern world. Again, these are all huge generalizations and there are countless women who don’t fall into any specific category (I’d like to think I’m one of them), but I mention them only to illustrate exactly what Rachel’s and my outing was about.

Okay, back to business. So Rachel decided to spice things up by getting a funky new tichel, so I took her to the Bat Ayin store on King George St. in the center of town. Bat Ayin is a Orthodox Hippie community in the West Bank where Shuie and I almost ended up living. The population is comprised of the spiritual/experiential, earthy types I described above, and part of the way they make money to keep the community going is by making and selling gorgeous, top-quality clothes. The store is an intoxicating swirl of colors and fabrics, the kind of place where I almost never leave empty-handed (”I feel like this is your store,” Rachel said to me as soon as we walked in). One of the things the store features is two wall-sized shelving units with tichels of every color, texture and description you can think of, which I knew would give Rachel a lot of options. While she hunted, something caught my eye that I knew was going to get me into a lot of trouble: a calf-length shift of cerulean velvet and netting with a sign on it –I swear– that said, “Rea’s Dress”.

“Uh,oh.” I said to Rachel. “We have a problem”.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, thinking something was up with one of the boys.

“I can’t leave without this dress”.

So while Rachel scored a lovely black kerchief with some silver piping (although I was dying to get her into something royal purple. Baby steps…), I left the Bat Ayin store with a flowy brown chiffon tunic with cream stitching (with plenty of room for Bean), a flower-print A-line dress that is perfect for layering, and the Blue Velvet Dress, my new favorite thing in the whole wide world. And the best part? The tunic and A-line were HALF OFF. I felt like Napoleon when he conquered Elba.

I am fully aware, by the way, that I have just devoted the whole of this blog post to a shopping trip, but a good fashion extravaganza is an integral part of what it means to be a woman. Jewish tradition even holds that it is to the merit of a woman that she make herself look beautiful for her husband because it promotes healthy, happy marriages. Plus, men are encouraged to spend a significant amount of money on clothes and jewelry for their wives to make them feel beautiful and happy (pretty sweet, no?). One midrash I love takes place during the time when the Jews were enslaved in Egypt. The men were downtrodden and exhausted from their backbreaking work each day and the Egyptians, to discourage them from being with their wives, would force them to sleep out in the fields, away from their families. The women decided to take the future into their hands and would look in their mirrors to make themselves beautiful before sneaking out to the fields at night in order to seduce their husbands and conceive more children. Later, when the Jewish people were building the Beit Hamikdash (the Holy Tabernacle), the women offered their mirrors to be melted down and used as part of the building materials. At first Moses refused them, saying he didn’t want to use things that promoted vanity. Gd stepped in and told him that those mirrors were “Beloved” to him since they helped keep the Jewish people alive. Not only should Moses use the mirrors, but the brass should be used to make the laver, the washing basin the the Kohen (High Priest) used to wash his hands in the Holy of Holies. So don’t tell me that my Blue Velvet Dress is just some piece of material. If the Temple was rebuilt tomorrow, it could make a fabulous curtain in the new Holy of Holies.

Last night Shuie and I had our weekly dinner date and then walked around Ben Yehuda for a bit. We bought him some new yarmulkes and a colorful one for Yonah, too — Yonah has a new obsession with hats and is LOVING his new present (pictures to be posted on Facebook soon). Between his shmutzy face (he always has crud on him no matter how many times I clean it), his new yarmulke and his new favorite word, “Todah” (Hebrew for “Thank You”), Yonah could definitely pass for an Israeli kid. I’m so proud. — Then we headed over to Coffee Bean where we sipped our drinks and talked for over an hour. It’s an amazing thing, marriage. You fall in love with someone so deeply so that you want to spend all your time with them. So you make a commitment to build a life together which, ironically, gets busier and busier so that it becomes harder and harder to actually have time together. But when you actually manage to steal some time and get a chance to talk , it’s like re-meeting your best friend. And then he smiles just the right way and you have a laugh together, and you fall in love all over again. I bless everyone that they should find that person that they can fall in love with over and over again throughout their lives, and that those who already are married never stop seeing what made them fall in love in the first place.

Another quiet Shabbat for us. I have transitioned from stomach bug to cold and literally cannot stop sneezing, so it’s a relief not to have to play hostess tonight. I’m sending Shuie out now to buy groceries and am throwing together an easy shabbat dinner: chicken soup, crunchy chicken legs (recipe: put in pan, throw in oven at 450 for an hour, take out, eat), salad, ratatouille and brown rice. And then it is to bed for Mommy.

A wise person once told me that getting sick is the body’s way of telling you to slow down. I conveniently forgot that piece of sage advice until today, when after a particularly frustrating morning, I called my teacher Leah to vent about pretty much everything. I told her about the tough transition to this new place and how hard it is being pregnant and running around every day. I told her about how I’m not excited about my classes at MRC but am pushing myself to go because I want to learn how to learn text. The problem with that is that I’m completely exhausted and am sometimes too sick to concentrate. I told her how I want to be inspired but feel like I’m not getting anywhere. And then I told her I want to go home.

“Well, first of all, sweetie,” said Leah. “You are doing way too much. You’re chasing after one baby and you’ve got another baby growing inside of you. You’re completely worn out.”

Alright, I would give her that.

“Second of all, you are in Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, which is the headquarters of learning. If you’re not jazzed about your midrasha, don’t go there anymore. It sounds to me like you need to slow down and stop running all over the place. Maybe you could find someone to learn with you one-on-one, even two days a week, to build your skills, and then the rest of the time just find classes that get you excited”.

Could it be that simple?

Leah gave me some suggestions and we talked some more about how hard it is to be in Israel. She reminded me of what we learned last week about Avraham Avinu, our patriarch Abraham, and his adventures with the three visiting angels on the third day after his circumcision. Most authorities agree that third day is the most difficult day in terms of post-op pain, which makes Avraham’s eagerness to welcome guests into his home on that day all the more praiseworthy.

“When you first come here it seems like such a great idea,” Leah told me. “But there are a lot of third days in Israel. It’s really hard, but don’t give up just because you’re having a third day. Just try something different. Remember, Eretz Yisrael is the land of emuna. Even when you come here and you feel distant and you’re not sure you’re getting anywhere, you are. Stick around and let the land work its magic on you”. By the time we got off the phone I felt like a new woman.

So it is time for a learning makeover. I’m now on the market for a new tutor and am scavenging the area for different classes that strike my fancy. I’ve already signed up for a few art and Torah classes, so we’ll see what else is in store for me. It is such a relief not to force myself to do something just because I think I “should”. Something else I had to learn, I guess.

My sister is arriving in less than a week and she’s ready to hike Jerusalem. On Shabbat, she wants to walk to the old city and explore: “It’s only two miles away”. Gd bless her, the naive, childless girl. I tried to break to her gently that long-distance hiking is not so simple with a toddler and when you’re pregnant but I’m not sure she got it. Instead, she directed me to Babies R Us so I could buy a new carrier to hitch Yonah to my back instead of shlepping the stroller. Interesting. I’ve decided that if she makes me walk too far I will be forced to hit her with something heavy and stuff her into a cab.

The Rosh Chodesh celebration at Moshav Modi’in is next Tuesday and I am so excited. I’m trying to arrange a caravan of friends to go together in a sherut (a giant taxi-bus thing) so we don’t have to deal with the tricky bus situation back to the city. I’m also hoping that if I get enough of my single friends to come they will help me entertain Yonah all day (sneaky, sneaky). I could be purely selfish and arrange to have the sherut leave from my house, but maybe I’ll be generous and have everyone meet up in the center of the city. Maybe.

Last night I went to the first installment of my Women’s Chabura Intensive in Nachlaot. The Chabura is basically a discussion forum in which the women work together to discover their own personal avodah (task or work) in the world. Our group is small, only 7 or 8 women, and all are wives of men studying at Sulaam Yaakov, Shuie’s yeshiva.

In the few years since I became frum (religious), I’ve developed a sense of ease around other religious women, even the ultra-orthodox. It ain’t no thing to shoot the breeze with a buttoned-up, wig-sporting Rebbetzin. That said, religious women like the ones in my Chabura–hippie earth-mama types who are freely spiritual yet grounded, creative, purposeful, strong and with full, dynamic lives outside of wife- and motherhood–intimidate the hell out of me. Mostly it’s because I aspire to be just like them. Not to mention that many of them give their kids sugar-free, wheat-free and/or vegetarian fare and have wardrobes I would kill for. So I was pretty nervous heading into the group last night, especially when I realized that all of them live in Nachlaot and socialize together, some going back quite a ways. I was the newbie, the stranger, and it threw me right back into third-grade when I would have given away a year’s worth of Ring Dings to have just one friend. Somehow, I mustered up the guts to tell them so when the session started and they actually didn’t eat me alive. In fact, they were all quite warm and welcoming, so here’s hoping I’ll eventually to find a place for myself among them.

Today was my favorite day of classes with Leah Golomb at Simchat Shlomo. In order to get there, I have to walk through the Shuk, where the sights are enough to keep you entertained for hours (however, the mingling smells of car exhaust, sticky pastries and fish are enough to urge you through pretty quickly). Aside from the usual spectacle of vendors calling out their wares to passersby, truck drivers in heated arguments with shop owners and the parade of hot Jewish mamas in fantastic tichels (head wraps), I happened to see something today that managed to make my mouth fall open. Literally. As I made my way through the market, I saw a craggy older gentleman holding an egg in his hand. It must have been fresh, probably plucked from one the cartons of eggs in a tower next to him. He tapped a hole into one end of the shell, tipped his head back and drank the yolk through it with the kind of relish you see in a Coca-Cola commercial. I didn’t know whether to applaud or puke.

For those of you who demand consistent Yonah updates, he is thank Gd feeling much better and is busy saying his new favorite word: “hat”, while pulling mine off my head and putting it on his. He looks just fabulous in my magenta crocheted beanie with a flower on the side. He has also taken to walking across the kitchen floor, but only when he thinks we’re not looking. The minute he feels our eyes on him he pops back down. Stinker. I am also pleased to say that he is graduating to more adult fare, including whole wheat pasta with cottage cheese, sauteed garlic and mushrooms (the noodles were a hit, mushrooms, not so much), and his new favorite, brown rice and lentil burgers (Mommy’s latest invention) which he sucked up like a vacuum.

Mommy is also feeling much better after her stomach bug, though I’m still struck with random bouts of nausea throughout the day. One thing I realized was how important it is to hydrate, especially when you’re pregnant, and especially when you’re living in a desert. Even when it’s chilly, Israel just sucks the moisture out of you. Today, my therapist Sara was doing some kinetic energy work with me (short version: using my body to get messages about my current state of being) and almost immediately said, “Have you had enough to drink today?”. I sheepishly admitted that I probably didn’t. So now you want me to juggle myself, a husband, a baby, learning, keeping a house together, managing some modicum of a social life, maintaining a creative outlet AND stay hydrated? How much does a woman have to handle already?

My father is coming to visit! He’s arriving December 7th and staying for a week, during which we will be celebrating my birthday AND the first day of Channukah, which just happen to fall on the same day (Can we say, PRESENTS?). So I’ll have a week with my sister, a week off and then a week with my father. My cup runneth over :).

Looks like my prayer for help has been answered in the form of my wonderful husband. Shuie took the day off of school and has tended to Yonah all morning so I could sleep. He took Yonah to the doctor to get a throat culture (Shuie said he cried :(); so far the verdict is that it’s probably the onset of a flu (As for me, there was a stomach bug floating around MRC last week, so it’s probably found its way to my vulnerable tummy. Trust me, this is not just morning sickness). In the meantime, Shuie made a stopover at Anise to pick up liquid vitamin C, probiotic powder and two huge bottles of pomegranate juice. After he gave Yonah a probiotic cocktail and put him down for a nap he brought me a cup of Vitamin C and ordered me back to bed. All I can say is, Thank Gd.

This is a big lesson for me and one I have to learn over and over: It is okay to ask for help. For some reason, my brain automatically assumes that if I ask for help I am going to hear, “No”, so I just try to shoulder everything myself. I remember one time this past Spring when I was frantically trying to get Shabbat ready for everyone while tending to my mother and to Yonah. Time was running out and I had no idea what to do. “Don’t worry,” Mom said. “Someone always helps in the end”. She was right, as usual. At the last minute, my brother Aaron and his wife Stephanie swooped in to finish dinner to I could take a shower and Shuie grabbed Yonah to give him a bath. If I actually give people a chance to help me, they just might actually help me. If I don’t ask them to help me, I think we can reasonably assume that I’m not going to get help.

Now for some more sleep.

It is 8:17 in the morning and I am already done for the day.

I went to bed violently ill and in the middle of the night was woken from my sleep for an olympic puking session (sorry to get graphic; all complaints can be forwarded to my PR team). Falling back asleep, however, was pretty difficult since Yonah was also waking up every couple of hours with a fever. This morning, unfortunately, my nausea has not gone away and Yonah, having fever will not be going to gan.

I’ll tell you something: being sick like this sucks. But being sick and being home with a sick kid double sucks. I have been praying that someone miraculously show up to help me (Shuie has to go to school), but my friends in Ramat Eshkol have babies who I’m sure don’t need Yonah’s germs. Yonah is fussy as ever, the phone line at the doctor’s office is busy, busy, busy, and I don’t think I can do today myself. I have no idea what to do.

Yesterday, about twenty minutes into our “quiet” Shabbat, our telephone rang. Immediately, I knew it was my sister. Unfortunately, it being Shabbat, I was not able to pick up the phone. I figured she’d remember soon enough that with the time change it was already Shabbat here and let it go without much thought. About twenty minutes later, it rang again. My anttenae went up: something was going on. When the phone rang AGAIN about an hour later, and then AGAIN about half an hour after that, I gave myself permission to have a full-scale freakout. My father was driving to Boston to spend Shabbat with all of my sibs, so my brain automatically jumped to twisted metal and flashing lights. I proceeded to torture myself for the next 25 hours until I could find out what was going on. When Shabbat finally ended, I practically pounced on my computer to call my sister.

Turns out, my worse-case scenario fantasy was founded on quicksand, thank Gd. Shira actually had some fantastic news for me: She’s coming to visit next week! I am beyond, beyond excited. I didn’t realize how much I missed the States until my mall debacle the other day, and even more so after an outing I had this afternoon with a friend who’s here visiting from America. On top of that, I was really sad to miss the dinner my family had all together last night, the first time they’ve been together since the end of the summer. I think Shira’s visit will give me the double-shot of America and Family of which I am so sorely in need. Now to plan a fun and inspiring trip that will tempt Shira to stay a little longer than a week…

I am considering writing a petition to the Israeli government to implement a Real Sunday instead of this back-to-the-grind hoo-hah they have going on here. Even if there’s no school on Friday, I do not consider it a day off, not when you have to run around getting Shabbat dinner together or traveling to get wherever you need to be before sundown. As soon as Shabbat ends you’re already prepping for the upcoming week. The only reason I’m not going to write a petition is because I don’t have much power as a tourist and because my Hebrew is such crap they would probably think they’re getting some cute letter from a kindergartener who’s learning about pen pals. I’ll just have to live with the sad fact that in Israel, or in Judaism, for that matter, there is never a day off.

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).

I have a new mantra I am forcing myself to constantly repeat in my head: “Rain is Good”. I had to say it quite a few times today, a particularly cold and damp one. I mantra-ed when I was pushing a triple-layered Yonah up the street to Ruchama’s, again when I was sitting in gridlocked traffic — in Israel, rain has the same effect on drivers that, say, a full-scale blizzard would on Americans — and again later on as I was walking through the shuk, my sopping wet ski jacket, skirt and tights all sticking to me and my breath coming out in clouds of steam. As I’ve written before, water in Israel is on short supply, so it is actually a huge blessing that it’s been raining so much. Still, it is not fun shlepping through cold and wet and it makes it extra hard to go out to classes and meetings at night.

This morning I went over to Simchat Shlomo for my Tuesday morning classes with Leah Golomb, followed by another class with musician Shlomo Katz, who told amazing stories while playing his guitar. Today was a special day of learning in honor of Reb Shlomo’s yartzeit and it was absolutely amazing. The room was packed with people all singing together and honoring the spirit of a truly exceptional person. I was very, very touched and left practically floating. I want to learn there full-time, but it may take some extra work if I want to improve my text skills also. We’ll see where I’m supposed to end up.

After a quick slog through the rain with Yonah we settled into our WARM apartment for the afternoon. As I was changing out of my wet skirt and tights in the bedroom, I heard Yonah begin crying hysterically. I rushed out to find him sitting on the floor, holding out his finger. It wasn’t bleeding and from what I could tell there was nothing around him on which he could have pinched it, so I had no idea what happened. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bee slowly crawling away, clearly on its last legs, post-sting. I was absolutely terrified; what if Yonah was allergic? I have heard nightmare stories of kids who go into anaphylactic shock after bee stings and are gone within minutes. The time it would take to get from our apartment to the hospital would be too long; please, the time from our apartment UP THE STREET would be too long. Thankfully, that moment Chaim called and came right over to help. I was relieved to have him there, and even more relieved to see that after a few minutes of rocking and kisses Yonah seemed to be fine and was back to his happy self. I cannot tell you how scary those few minutes were, and how unbelievably grateful I am that everything turned out okay. In the meantime, I killed that bee with the kind of venom you see in a Quentin Tarantino movie.

Again, the weather and my pregnant-ness have dissuaded me from going out to a class tonight and I am resolving not to beat myself up over it. This is technically winter in Israel, and winter is the time to hibernate, so I’m doing just that.

I had an interesting conversation with a Sephardi gentleman this afternoon (Sephardim are one group of Jews of middle-eastern or Mediterranean descent, while the other group, Ashkenazim, are usually of eastern-European descent. They differ in certain customs, but the basic laws of Judaism are the same for both groups). He told me that Israel was a difficult country to live in, not only because of the tough-as-nails attitudes of many of the people here, but also because there is tension between Ashkenazim and Sephardim. Certain schools, he told me, will not allow Sephardi students to attend, citing their “stupidity” and “dark skin”. I was absolutely horrified. It sounded like something out of a bad 50’s movie or South African Apartheid. Although I knew there were some problems between the two groups in the past (Yossi told me Carmela’s family didn’t want him to marry her because he was Ashkenaz and she was Sephardi), but hearing about something like that going on today made me immensely sad. It seems so antithetical to what being Jewish is all about: “Love your brother as yourself”. Rabbi Akiva, one of the most revered Rabbis in Jewish history, said that that one law was the essence of Judaism. How can someone say that they’re a “good Jew” while they’re spitting on their brother? Many rabbis teach that one of the reasons for the Jewish exile is “Sinas Chinam”, or baseless hatred between people, particularly between fellow Jews. When I hear about these kinds of issues, here and in the States (and in the States it’s even harder, Orthodox against Conservative against Reform against Reconstructionist and back again) all I can think of is how we are shooting ourselves in the foot. At the end of the day we are all Jews, we are all people and we need to love each other. And if we can’t quite muster up “love”, then at least we can give respect to a fellow human being.

I just want to share one unbelievable thing that I heard in my class today. Leah was talking about when someone has a desire to pray for something, like good health or sustenance or even something small, like catching the bus on time. In this particular case she was talking about Sarah, and how deeply she prayed for her son, Yitzchak (Isaac). The desire we have was given to us by Gd BECAUSE he wants us to pray; not only that, but He is praying also, whispering back to us our deepest desires. While Sarah was praying for a child, Gd whispered, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if Sarah could have a child”…Entering a convenant with Gd, Leah said, quoting Reb Shlomo, means that we are turning to him from the place within ourselves that is beyond our deepest desires, to our most inner essence. When we turn to Gd from that place, He turns back to us and reveals himself to us in that deepest place within ourselves. It made me think of the many clamors I have going on inside, voices telling me the things I want or the way I think things should be. When I can quiet those voices and just listen, once in a while I can hear Gd tell me what He wants for me. And, of course, it always turns out to be better than anything I ever imagined for myself.

Yesterday, my friend Elayne and I prayed together that Gd give me clarity that I’m on the right path and to show me if I should be doing something different. Once in a while, I catch myself in moments that I have dreamed before, not like deja vu, but more like something I know I’m meant to experience but just haven’t yet. In those moments I am reassured that I am moving in the right direction. Today, after I picked up Yonah, I opened the door to my apartment and had one of those moments. I had dreamed of this apartment, and dreamed of myself walking into it at some point. The memory just didn’t surface until today, exactly when I needed it. I felt like Gd was winking at me and saying, “I got your back, kid”.

This morning Yonah and I met up with the girls from school for a trip to the Begin Heritage Center, a biographical museum of the former Israeli prime minister right outside of the old city. While I was originally planning to skip the trip and go to the Malcha mall (a replay of my high school days), at the last minute I decided to go, seeing how unlikely it was that I would decide to visit the museum on my own, and I figured it would be fun to bring Yonah along so my friends could see him.

We arrived in the middle of the tour of the museum, which is basically set up like a movie set. Different rooms represent different eras of Begin’s life, from his birth in Poland to his imprisonment in a Soviet Camp to his arrival in Israel, his battles as part of the Haganah (Israeli army) and later, his election to prime minister. Each room played a movie that reenacted major plot points in Begin’s story, which we Americans were able to understand with our pre-programmed, English-speaking headphones. One room even had all of the Begin’s real furniture from their Jerusalem apartment, which they donated to the museum when it was built. Visitors are welcome to sit on their couches and put their feet up on the coffee table (well, not really, but you know what I mean…). Some of the girls were incredulous that this was actually Begin’s real furniture, but our guide explained that the Begin’s always had an open-door policy; every Saturday night when Shabbat was over, Begin would open his home to visitors who wanted to talk to him about issues or concerns they were having about how the government was being run.

The last leg of the tour was in a proper movie theater-type room, which highlighted Begin’s accomplishments as prime minister, including his Nobel-prize-winning peace agreement with Egyptian president Anwar El Sadaat and President Jimmy Carter, his rebuilding of slums in Israel, his commitment to providing free education for all israeli citizens and opening Israel’s borders to Jews everywhere who needed a home to come to. One of his most recognized missions was when he brought Jews from Ethiopia back to Israel and gave them new lives here. Unfortunately, despite his many accomplishments, after the passing of his wife and the outbreak of the Lebanon war, a devastated Begin suddenly resigned from his post and secluded himself from the public eye in his apartment for the next ten years, until his death. At the end of the tour there are three small glass cases that hold his Nobel peace prize, the signed Camp David agreement, and a speech hand-written by Begin that he gave at the White House when the peace agreement was signed. I was amazed at how available everything was; you could literally press your face inches away from these historic objects. Our tour guide made it clear that while Begin was the target of much controversy and criticism during his tenure (particularly because of the Camp David Agreements, during which he gave up land in the Sinai), he is still one of Israel’s most beloved, celebrated and respected prime ministers, noted for his integrity and incorruptible character.

I think out of everyone, Yonah had the best time at the Begin Center. He loved the movies and, of course, everyone fussed over him. In Begin’s “Living Room”, he wanted to touch all the pictures, especially the ones of Begin’s wife, Aliza, and during the final movie montage he fell asleep in my friend Yiskah’s lap. By the end of our tour, we were both pooped out, so home we went for a long, long nap.

I had been planning to head out to a class this afternoon but the weather, my exhaustion and my mood kept me home. Tonight I’m supposed to go out but heavy rains are coming on and off, which does not exactly get me jazzed about trekking up my street. It looks like it’s going to be early to bed for me, once again. I try not to kick myself too much for not doing the things I “should” be doing; although each day here really is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, there’s only so much I can do between my limited energy and taking care of Yonah. My father and I had a discussion today about this window of time I currently have before Bean comes and while Yonah is still so little. “One day you’re going to be supermom,” he said. “It’s going to be all about your kids, which means that time just for you is not going to be so easy to come by. Right now is an opportunity you may not have again for a very long time, so make sure you’re doing the things that you really want to do for yourself”. That was encouraging, because today I seriously considered packing up and going home. I keep thinking that if I’m going to deal with these hard feelings–alright, let’s tell it like it is: Depression–I may as well do it at home, where I have a support system of people who know and care about me. But I also know that if I went home I would be just as lost and regret leaving this huge opportunity on top of it. So if I’m going to feel this way regardless, at least I can do something I’ve always wanted to do at the same time.

Tomorrow is Reb Shlomo Carlebach’s yartzeit, so I’ll be going over to Simchat Shlomo for a couple of classes. Since I’m going to be missing tomorrow’s Chumash Class, I need to do some homework tonight and catch up on everything I’m going to miss. Should be interesting trying to tackle the text on my own, without the help of my teacher.

Now for a random tangent. I have two new obsessions that I feel the need to tell the world about, the first being my new immersion blender. For those of you who don’t know what an immersion blender is, think of a long, white electric massager from the Sharper Image but instead of a vibrating pad at the end, picture a tiny revolving blade. What could such a thing be for, you ask? Well, should you decide to make thick, pureed or creamy soups, all you need to do is stick that bad boy in and you’re good to go. The thing is brilliant, not only for the convenience but because I’ve now found a way to trick my son into eating all sorts of vegetables.

My other obsession is with an Israeli musician named Tzipia (AKA Micha Hyman), whose album is all mellow guitar with a distinct Spanish flavor. It’s a double-winner because I can play Jewish music for Yonah without wanting to shoot someone (all the Jewish kids stuff I’ve found out there is either really lame or really obnoxious). It is currently on constant repeat on my itunes. If you’d like to check out his stuff, visit his website: http://shemeshmusic.com/Tzipia.html. Really great stuff.