I’m lost in the new parent time warp. Completely forgot that Yom HaZicaron started last night until we heard the siren from my hospital room. Watched many of the nurses and patients stand still in the corridor while the Arabs and Charedis went about their ways.
Yom HaZicaron has the potential to take on a totally different meaning when you are sitting in an Israeli hospital, watching your newborn son.
Learning about breastfeeding in a room filled with new moms. There are posters all over the maternity ward about how to hold the baby.
The English ones talk about the “football hold.”
The Hebrew ones describe the “darbuka hold.”
I always thought when it came to my childbirth experience here in Israel, I’d end up automatically speaking, pleading and moaning in my native tongue. Despite Israeli hospital staff. I figured they probably get that all the time, and who doesn’t speak English in the medical field?
Well… it didn’t happen that way. I birthed my little Israeli son in Hebrew. Somehow, I had that frame of mind turned on. Or maybe there was this other-person coming out of me. A person who could do anything, in any language.
39 weeks. 36 hours of labor. Unmedicated natural childbirth.
Careful midwives, wise doula, supportive husband.
Beautiful, red, hairy, 2.7 kilo baby boy.
Most amazing thing I’ve ever done.
I was asked about transportation to and from Tzur Hadassah. Thought I’d share the options - though they are not as many as would be helpful:
Bet Shemesh: Superbus 182.
Jerusalem: Superbus 184 and Egged 180.
Beitar: Illit buses; there are multiple lines that go to Jerusalem, Bet Shemesh and Bnei Brak frequently.
Tremping: People do tremp (hitchhike) from the front gates. I’ve also seen (and picked up) people hitchhiking from the trempiada at Gilo junction.
Other information from the Tzur website here.
So it’s come to this: I go to Holocaust memorial services in Israel and all I can think about is how my kids may turn out in this culture.
Well, in the first place, I have yet to be impressed by an Israeli-made Holocaust memorial service. They’ve lacked intensity, empathy and authenticity so far. It seems to feel like an obligation; the yoke of some old Ashkenazi grandparents. I know this because the Yom HaZikaron ceremonies are a lot different. Which is natural and fair: they hit closer to home. Maybe the Holocaust hits closer to home in the diaspora Jewish communities, then.
Anyway, back to the kids: Yeah, I don’t know what to think. Kids here are probably much like kids anywhere, as a general age demographic. You have your snotty ones, your indifferent ones. The ones filled with kindness and friendship. Looking around I see kids in tight jeans standing silently with respect. Then others who shouldn’t be brought to stale Holocaust ceremonies because they can’t handle it; no patience, no context.
Come to think of it, it was much like that back in New York, too. So what is it about kids, then? Are they scary because I no longer am one?
Or is it, like anywhere else, that it comes down to the parents…
…And it’s the parents here who scare me more than anything.
Since I found out I was pregnant, I’ve been watching and waiting as pregnant peers around me finish up their terms, give birth and move on to parenthood. It’s been a sort of countdown of names, not numbers - first so-and-so, then so-and-so, next so-and-so. Happens to be there have been quite a few, especially within a six week radius of my own due date.
Well, I’m definitely getting there because there aren’t many other preggos to watch and wait for anymore.
Meanwhile, things have been pretty hectic recently. We’ve learned a lot about the difference between public health care and going private. We fall into the former category… And I’m not saying I wouldn’t do it again, but it can get you really riled up if you fall between the cracks. Thankfully we’ve been under the guidance of a midwife whose analysis and scrutiny has been a lot more than ‘just’ a supplement to the doctor’s… My advice to anyone else is to stay on top of yourself and keep plowing for second opinions if you need ‘em.
In the last week, as I’ve calmed into a sort of hibernation, my mind has frequently reflected back on what the last 9 or so months have been. I can say that pregnancy has been good to me - definitely better than I went in expecting. A collection of thoughts has pooled up in the back of my mind, which I know I’ll forget by the next time around unless I jot them down. So, in no particular order:
Taking a walk through Tzur Hadassah’s Har Kitron neighborhood, you’ll find the following street off the main road…
I think this is particularly funny because Har Kitron comes off as a bit of a posh ‘hood. It’s all full, robust houses and a lot of ‘older’ families with teenage kids. I guess this isn’t the street corner where the cool kids hang out.
So here we are, me and my belly tenant, at the ‘full term’ milestone.
This probably means different things for the two of us, but the more I think about it, perhaps the more it is actually the same. It’s probably so comfy in there, with the warmth and the soothing background noise. And not that the baby knows what it’s in for, but why should s/he ever want to leave? I wonder if somewhere, deep in the slowly folding crevices of its devolping brain, it’s thinking, Well, yeah, I should probably get packing, but I still have a few more weeks, right? Why ruin a good thing?
And send down more chocolate.
Then there I am. According to the questions people ask me - or rather, the tone in which they ask them - I’m supposed to be tired of being pregnant, frustrated that I’m still ‘like this,’ impatient to give birth already. Yet, I’m not. I’m content. I really do feel the calm before the storm. Maybe people exaggerate about pregnancy or maybe for other women it’s just more frustrating, but I have had a pretty good time with it. Maybe it’s the support I get from my partner (who, I can say, is quite ready to move on). Maybe it’s because I’m small - or percieve myself as small. I’ve really worked on remaining active, or as active as I’ve ever been when not pregnant. Maybe it’s all the prenatal vitamins I take.
Although, chances are, it’s because I take one day at a time.
So here I am, thinking, Yeah, take it easy in there. Enjoy what may be the best days of your life. I’d rather you weren’t too late, though. I made the mistake of telling people my due date and I don’t want to suffer people’s questioning every day after week 40… But I’ve always been one for having deadlines to get the work done. No deadlines, I’d never do it, right? So let’s look at week 40 as a mutual acceptance of the fact that you’re coming out and somehow my body is going to make that happen. In the meantime, sit back (but not too far back), keep eating (we don’t want to disappoint your Jewish grandmothers), and continue moving around so I don’t panic every hour (you don’t want to scare your Jewish mother, either).
And, yes, child. Chocolate is wonderful and here is some more.
Guess where the best place to shop for a mohel is?
Yes, a brit mila.
We stopped by the brit of friends’ new boy this morning and as we walked out the mohel was leaving too. My baby daddy recognized him from another brit we went to at the beginning of my pregnancy.
The mohel saw us and wished my birth “bsha’a tova.”
My husband jokingly asked, “Hey - you have a business card?”
I guess that’s not much of a joke because he did, and why wouldn’t he? Anything baby-related in Jerusalem can be big business. Especially if you perform fundamental age-old Jewish rituals.
His card reads: “Recognized by the Health Ministry, Ministry of Religion and the Rabbanut of Israel.”
I can’t help but love that.