Can I get a hell, yeah?

She had some words of wisdom; not necessarily advice but an appropriate sentiment I had not been able to express until she mentioned it:

Flying with children is like giving birth – it sucks for about 12-15 hours, it’s painful, it’s uncomfortable, it’s torture. But at the end, when you’re done, you’ve totally forgotten it and are happy with what you have…

…which is why we end up doing it, again and again and again.

Note, I don’t mean the crazy short, hot-red kind. I mean the long layer in the back, thick shorter layer in the front.

Also note, it seems to be a universal phenomenon, no matter if the hair cutter is a 30-something hot guy or a middle-aged fraicha mother.

Just curious.

Somehow, unfortunately, I’ve been to two funerals since Koala was born. One was just a few months after, a year ago; the funeral of a 12-year-old girl. The second was tonight, the funeral of a middle-aged mom.

Bodies. When they are formed, bodies take up space in other bodies. When they are born, new bodies encompass all the life of any other body. They contain the code for continued living. They are the most valuable thing a person has. They are the only thing. They are people.

Until the life of a body is taken away. I can’t help but think, as I watch a burial, that with removing something as invisible as breath, you can make a person into a body. A lifeless encasement that’s been emptied of its contents which made it invaluable.

It doesn’t matter what you believe happens after. Whatever religion tells you, it doesn’t matter at a burial. A person after death – all we know for sure at that moment is that there is a body.

The biggest fear I live with these days, since creating a living body, is the thought that someone I love might end up a lifeless one.

I’ve been on a quest to discover the right outlet for skill-sharpening. It’s no shock that Israel would lack easily-accessible writing courses for English speakers. There are a few here and there, amateur and professional,  and I’ve been dipping my fingers into different pots trying to find the right one.

I recently completed a memoir-writing course with Madelyn Kent, a former NYU-Tisch writing instructor turned olah chadasha. She led me to Evan Fallenberg, a seasoned oleh (1985), who writes, translates and teaches, operating from The Studio, a workshop for writers in his home. On his website I found out he was bringing Etgar Keret to speak there the next week.

So last night I drove the hour and 45 minutes in evening traffic, up past Netanya, to hear Etgar Keret talk. His writing and his speaking go hand-in-hand, which was fun to discover.

It was also funny to hear him say that he can’t write from truth; he needs to make up his stories and keep the true experiences unwritten. He has trouble taking the experience and turning it into a written story. Opposite problem from me, you see.

The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God was the first present my then-boyfriend/now-husband ever gave me, and I became completely enamored and inspired with Keret, seeking more. But since then (2005) I have not been able to tap the inspiration the way I’ve wanted.

The last time I wrote something I was really, utterly, completely proud of was in 2003. It was a series of short-short stories about some of the very first ways I experienced Israel. The truth of it and passion behind it lent me a hand I never realized I had before.

And slowly I began to come to the conclusion: it’s much easier for adult-me to write based on experience than actual story-telling. Kid-me could tell you tales of worlds and planets and creatures; at sleepovers with my best friend, from my sleeping bag on the floor I would sprinkle her and her younger sister with colorful characters that just flowed from my mind to my mouth. I would dream of places I knew by heart, and before I went to bed, I’d think up new chapters for my reappearing players. I didn’t just have imaginary friends – I had fine-tuned characters.

But somewhere along the way, Peter Pan grew up and I can’t find that place anymore. And now that I have a kid, I really, really want to. Maybe it’s what will help me reunite with my story-telling. That, and working on this item from my bucket list.

Someone explain this to me:

This is a family-friendly country. Walk anywhere and easily spot a pregnant woman or a mother with a litter, big or small. Even take Charedim and Arabs out of the equation, and you’ll find tons of trendy maternity shops and baby stores in shopping centers across the country. Within the government’s basic health basket, couples are entitled to receive unlimited fertility treatments until they birth two children together - that’s to birth, not just to try.

Unfortunately, it is also a country where most parents have to work; the option of one stay-at-home parent is just so preciously rare.

Then why is the daycare situation so… dire? Why is it so troubling to get your toddler into a structured situation? Why are there three weeks in August when all baby daycares go on vacation at the same time? Why are there no long-term subsidized summer activities? Why does school let out at 1?

Money, money, money. Yes, I know. But it’s a deeper argument than just that. This is a place where so much creativity is utilized in making successful the medical, agricultural, technological, and military fields… Why not the very core of everything, our children’s education? I’m not just looking at you, Israeli government. I don’t think change must only stem from the corruption upstairs.

And my final question: As the Jewish state, founded on somewhat traditional (ok, touchy) Jewish principles, why would this country not work harder for a strong, successful education system for its children? For our children’s futures? Isn’t that something all strains of Judaism actually agree on, the value of education (never mind the details)?

We, the so-called People of the Book, can’t get our educational act together?

I don’t know yet which is worse: Paying through the ass for a Jewish education in the Diaspora or paying nothing for a sub-par education in Israel.

There are some modifications, of course. I serve the big holiday dinner on Friday night, since this Thursday is a weekday in Israel, like any other. I don’t have every exact ingredient; fresh cranberries are near impossible to come by out here.

But I do manage to order a whole turkey from my favorite meat counter in Jerusalem. And I don’t have to look very far (not past Emek Refaim street, anyway) to find some good ole Shop Rite brand canned cranberry sauce.

And this year, like any other, I will participate in the American holiday – no matter how sketchy its roots, no matter how exaggerated its celebration. And while no one ever takes seriously the ‘going around the table and saying what you’re thankful for’ – why, this year I will.

It’s been an intense year since last Thanksgiving, when I was just visibly pregnant and we all joked about everyone at the table wearing maternity pants after dinner. I have a lot to be thankful for, and luckily for me, it’s all corny and wonderful.

My little start up family is awesome. I’m thankful for my not-so-start up job. A good trustworthy landlord is always something to be thankful for – and on top of that, a good trustworthy apartment. Living in Israel has its many moments, but I like living here, I like that this is my culture right now, and I like that I’ve been mindful enough to make good decisions and end up where I am today.

And, most of all, I’m thankful that even thousands of miles across the world, I can pre-order a whole turkey one time a year and cook that sucker well.

Ahead of me was the shiny white glow of the expansive charedi town, speckled with black movement.

Behind me, in my rear view mirror, I could see the remnants of the sun facing Husan, highlighted by the giant minaret cracking the sky.

And I thought, what the fuck am I doing here?