On rocks, Arabs, talking it out, conflict, and more rocks.

This, an hour after listening to the recent This American Life podcast on the way home from work; the one titled, #570: The Night in Question, the one about the Rabin assassination and associated conspiracy theories.

“Listen, I want to talk to you about some stuff. Do your friends talk about Arabs in school?”

“[My teacher] does.”

“Really? When?”

“When we do [prayers] for the soldiers or people that are sick.”

“What does she say?”

“They throw rocks on us.”

“Do your friends ever call each other Arabs when playing, or say anything?”

“No, but today [friend] asked his ima if he is Arab.”

“He is not Arab… do you know that where I work sometimes Arabs come in to help fix things? And Abba used to work with an Arab guy. And lots of Arabs work around us. And they don’t throw rocks. Most Arabs don’t throw rocks.”

“More throw rocks or less throw rocks?”

“Way less throw rocks.”

“But why do some throw rocks?”

“Because they are angry.”

“But why are they angry?”

“Because sometimes Israelis or Jews make mistakes and do not-nice things to them, and sometimes they do mistakes or not-nice things to Israelis. But you know how we always say that when someone hits you, you should first try talking to them and not hit back? So here people aren’t talking, they are just hitting back.”

“Why aren’t they talking?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to know who to talk to.”

“How do they throw it? The rocks?”

“I guess regular…”

“Like this?” (pitches)

“Sure. I guess.”

“…what kind of rocks?”

“Uh, regular rocks I guess.”

“From the ground?”


“Where does it happen?”

“Where Arabs and Jews live close to each other.”

“Are the rocks big or small?”

“I dunno. Honestly, I’ve never seen it happen. I haven’t ever been there when it happens… yet…”

He looked at me, kind of surprised. It was too late to take it back but it registered I could have been anywhere near involved with an Arab throwing a rock.

“…but that’s a good thing.”

He turned six and a half today.

So I knew it was time for bed when he next asked,

“…but so Ima, why is your shirt inside-out?”



Working mom chronicles: 4 skills I’ve proudly mastered

Good evening, fellow working parents! Are you relaxed after a long day of <fill in various blanks>?

Let’s not focus on the negative. Sure, being a full time working parent of multiple children, equipped with the partnership of a similarly full time working parent is, well, rough.

But there are perks! I’ve picked up new skills. It’s like someone famous and successful once said – “you never know what you are capable of until you try absolutely have no choice but to get that shit done.”

The 45-second pedicure

Ingredients: Feet, nailpolish (in a bold color, because you’ve got nothing to lose), closed toilet seat to prop the foot, then the sink because baby will inevitably reach the top of the closed toilet seat. Also, base coat if you really want the extra challenge.

From the second you’re finished, you have about 3 days 1 day 12 hours 7 minutes before something smudges or chips. Congrats: you’ve achieved the 3-day old look.

The half-decent haircut

By haircut I mean random snipping of dead ends, and by half-decent I mean it’s so ‘layered’ no one notices because, let’s face it, it was a mess before and it’s still a mess now.

But check off haircut from your to-do list! You just bought another 6 months.

Grammatically correct, formatted email communication – including attachment

I took to one-handed typing fairly easily. It only gets better with time and number of kids. Now I can send full emails – no typos, perfect structure, with attachment – by one-hand typing.

This, I believe, has lead to another skill which I am utterly ashamed of: texting while walking. I’m so ashamed about this I cannot elaborate. I hang my head in shame. While texting. Perfectly.

Lots of mistakes with very few fucks to give

My favorite new skill. I don’t mean, leave your house messy and not care. Or forget details because you’re tired. I mean letting go of being flat-out wrong at least 29357293875 times a day. Not always being nice because that requires, literally, too much energy.

Not batting an eye when your son comes up to you – while you’re laying down – pats your stomach and says you remind him of his 8-month pregnant ganenet.

Not reading over this post 57248574 times before just hitting publish because dammit, you miss blogging and you’ll make teeny tiny time for it when you can.

See? So much going on and I still have time to pick up new skills.

What are some new skills in your “goddammit, I’m gonna make this work” toolbox?

Super quick Nutella cupcakes

Inspired by Pamela’s promises of how easy it would be, we tried out these Nutella cupcakes to celebrate abba’s unbirthday. (Kids + easy cupcake recipe + abba not home = it’s abba’s birthday!)

Essentially Nutella replaces a boxed brownie mix, except slightly cheaper and more Nutella-y.

Super simple instructions:

  • 10 tablespoons of flour
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 cup (280 grams) of Nutella

Mix, dump in cupcake holders or cake pan, bake for +/- 30 minutes. Makes 12.



Favorite moment of the day:

Parking is a bitch, but once I open that gate, I start to get revved for the next couple minutes. Walk through, towards the door, up the stairs. the stairs curve; at the curve is when it hits me – the enormity of what is about to happen. I hear her voice mingled with other tiny voices; they’re all soaked with anticipation. So is my heart. I turn the curve on the stairs. She darts from the corner of my eye. Every time. “Ima! Ima! Ima! Ima sheli!!!” she jumps, and squeals, and grabs at the stairs gate. Her smile is all fulfilled potential. I lift her up, I can’t grab her fast enough. Nothing about a weekday feels nearly as good as when I’m reunited with my tiny delicious daughter at the end of it.

The one where we lose our pet snail

It was a dark and rainy day… oddly, since it was May 3rd in the Middle East.

We had piled into the car, giddy about the surprise rain, and drove to the nearby nursery to pick up new flowers and herbs for our modest mirpeset garden. The kids were delighted by the plants, the rain, the 10 seconds of hail. And then, clinging to the bag of soil we picked up – the snail.

We packed our trunk with the plants, the soil,carefully placed to preserve the snail. Who wants a pet chilazon?! 

When we parked and unloaded – first the kids, then the box of plants, then the bag of soil – the snail was gone. I searched the trunk while huz searched the plants and packet of soil.

The kids were anxious to find the snail. Bebe was nagging, calling over and over, “Abba! Abba! Abba”

“One second, B.”

“Abba! Abba! Look! Look Abba!”

“Just a second, Bebe, we have to find the snail.”

“Look Abba! Look Abba! Look Abba!

At the same time, we looked towards where she was pointing… right at the snail, clinging to the bottom of the plant box.

And like that, no laugh track necessary, the four of us stood cracking up in the driveway under the grey May sky.

Koala named him Gluben (the third time he named him). He’s still kickin’ it on the porch.

P.S. I really like photographing snails.