Important Life Skills, or How to take someone's temperature rectally without waking them up

I always knew that once I became a mother, I would add new things to my skill set, but "What to Expect when You're Expecting" - while informative - can't possibly cover it all. The following is just a short list of the things I've learned how to do in the past two months:

1. How to shop for the entire week's groceries in ten minutes or less

2. How to prepare bottles, brush your teeth, surf the internet, fold laundry, cook dinner, and more with only one arm

3. How to appreciate the fact that any number of baby bodily-liquids ended up on your shirt, your pants, your hands, even your face (!) but NOT your mouth

4. How to survive on surprisingly little caffeine when you're sleep-deprived but breastfeeding/pumping doesn't allow the triple-mochaccino with extra whipped cream and cocaine that it would take to make you even semi-alert

5. How to laugh when all you want to do is cry - this one is EXTREMELY handy come 5pm when the baby needs to cry out some of the day's stress, you know your husband isn't coming home for at least 2 hours, and you realize at least ONE of you (you or the baby, not your husband, he's living it up on the train ride home) needs to maintain composure

My favorite - or at least most proud - how-to that I've learned thus far happened this past Sunday, in the wee hours of the morning (by the way, a time of day I've come to know well since Ella is sleeping like a champ but makes so much noise that I can't). Yes, how not only to take her temperature rectally but how to do it without even waking her up. (And no, I'm not for hire for any number of strange jobs - alien anal-prober at the top of the list)

This whole experience was due to Ella's most recent round of vaccinations. This girl is really a trooper. She only cries a bit when they give her shots and calms down immediately afterwards with just a little soothing. (Of course, this could be due to what Nadav labeled "the rhino effect" - i.e., to take down a rhino, you have to have a BIG tranquilizer - and well, Ella is no rhino, but she ain't no pip-squeak either!)

Anyways, they always warn you that after vaccinations, babies can get a fever, have diarrhea, and/or be fussy for a day or two. Alternatively, they can just fall asleep. Ella chose the latter reaction the day of the vaccinations and seemed to have passed the whole experience without incident. Or so we thought . . .

Saturday, I discovered she had a mild fever, and I was instructed to give her some Tylenol and just check her overnight to make sure she didn't have a fever. So, intent on protecting my young from danger with the determination of a mother lioness, I set my alarm for 1 am and went to sleep (very lioness-like indeed). When 1am rolled around, I got up quietly and felt Ella's head as lightly as I could, so I wouldn't wake her up. As everyone knows, babies don't need any more encouragement to wake up in the middle of the night. They are quite happy to be wide awake - eating, pooping, playing, cooing, gurgling, or crying - when the rest of the world is sleeping soundly. That is, the rest of the world except their parents.

She felt fine, but I decided to take her temperature just in case. So, I picked her up with the light hand of someone defusing an explosive and carefully laid her on her changing table. This would be an excellent time to discuss the merit of baby pajamas that do NOT have 473 buttons, but unfortunately for me, that very night we had dressed her in an outfit with about 474 . . . And then I had to open the onesie under this outfit, not to mention the loud "squuuaaatch" sound of me opening her diaper.

Ella, meanwhile, was sleeping soundly (so was her father, for that matter, a mere 2 feet away). Without going into too much detail, her temperature was checked, her diaper was closed, and I was able to put her - sound asleep - back to bed without incident.

When she woke up at 4am to eat, Nadav found her clothes open, legs splayed, under her covers - the only evidence of our nightly adventure. I told him in the morning that I could now proudly boast of my new skill - taking rectal temperatures without waking the recipients. With a somewhat worried expression, he looked at me and said, "I just hope you're not doing that to ME at night."

Lactation, Shmactation . . . or Taming the Tiger

As you can probably tell from the title, this is a blog about milk and its source - no, not cows. Breasts.

So, if you think you'll feel uncomfortable reading about the process of feeding a baby "the natural way," or if the idea of me breastfeeding makes you feel uncomfortable, you should probably stop reading now. Should you continue, know that I've tried to soften some parts of the description, but it's also my intention, that if some random woman happens to find my blog one day from a Google search, to provide her an insight into my experience, so that maybe, if she's experiencing the same thing I have, she'll feel a little bit better about herself and her decisions regarding nursing her baby.

And thus, the adventure begins.

I bought a book before giving birth called "The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding." The title is beautiful. The cover of the book, too, features a beautiful red-haired, long-locked woman, cradling her child, looking down on him peacefully, as he happily nurses from her fair-skinned breast. I WISH this could have been our experience thus far.

However, as I told Nadav one of my many tear-filled nights over the last six weeks, "The Womanly ART of Breastfeeding?!? It needs to be called 'The EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND POSSIBLY PAINFUL SPORT of Breastfeeding!!" This is not to suggest that some women don't: a) succeed at first suckle and go on to have wonderful breastfeeding relationships, b) work through initial mishaps to find a comfortable way of nursing, or c) endure pain (possibly even more than me) and heartache, yet stick it out because of ideological beliefs or possibly will power rivaling that of Helen Keller.

Yet, I think, there are many other women who experience a lot of pain, both physical and emotional, due to this experience - which is SUPPOSED to come so naturally - who decide to wean early because they reach a breaking point. I fall in this group.

My breastfeeding relationship with Ella started about 2 minutes after she was born. Despite being purple, covered in goo, and a bit shocked by her entry into the world, she already had the latch of a champ. Everyone was worried about her nose being the right position to breathe while she nursed the first time, but I could already tell, this girl was not going to let anything keep her from getting a meal. Let's just say if she were one in a litter of puppies, she'd be the one pushing the others out of the way to get dinner.
Blame it on her size at birth (a hefty 4.065 kg, 8 lb 15 oz) , or simply attribute it to a healthy zest for life, but this kid knows what she likes - and she likes a lot of it: Milk.

By the time we left the hospital two days after she was born, the pain and rawness in my nipples had already begun. I "phoned a friend" and gotten some moral support from a friend's mother who is a lactation specialist, but what I needed was face-to-face assistance. Another lactation specialist visited us at home four days post-hospital. What she had to offer was primarily support for my intuition (no need necessarily to time feedings, it's ok to sometimes let your baby sleep with you - you won't roll over her, etc.) and some techniques. It helped us a bit, but all the technique in the world couldn't calm a milk monster of this magnitude.

To make a long story short, the daily, sometimes hourly test of my will power and pain tolerance continued for a grand total of three and a half weeks before I broke down and gave her a bottle of formula. The morning I gave her the bottle, it was like she knew that I'd reached a low point, and she looked up at me as if to say, "Mommy, it's ok. Ripping this bottle's nipple in half won't be half as much fun as ripping YOUR nipples in half, but I forgive you." But on a serious note, she DID look at me as I spoke to her while giving her the bottle, and it made me realize that you can breastfeed with love, but you can also give a bottle with love. Of course, this is an idea I would have quickly and easily imparted to a friend in need, but it took me a while to understand it myself, to internalize it, to feel ok about it and not feel somehow ashamed or embarrassed at myself for making this decision.

In the meantime, I tried to keep breastfeeding while also pumping milk for her and supplementing with formula every once in a while, and my reward for my good intentions was mastitis, a breast infection. After this, I actually decided to try to suppress my milk production and move entirely to formula, which in hindsight was not the best decision. I'm paying for this now with a lower milk supply than I previously had, but like they say, hindsight is 20/20.

After taking antibiotics and recovering from the infection, I finally saw the lady who would help me make the wisest decision I've made thus far regarding breast feeding: taking a break from breastfeeding, pumping milk for Ella and supplementing with formula when necessary. I knew upon my first conversation with her that her holistic approach to the whole process, and openness to me breastfeeding for years or weaning immediately, was right for me. Ella and I visited her and discussed our situation and all our options, and here we are today, me in one piece and Ella growing like a weed - both of us happy.

This saga seems to have a happy ending - Nadav once described Ella's latch on my breast as similar to "one of those National Geographic specials where the tiger takes out an antelope in the wilderness." Well, my dear milk monster, it seems you have been sated and my breasts will live to see another day.

Ella's Firsts. . . Or How Ella Became a Superstar

So, I've been meaning to write things down about Ella's first days and weeks on Earth so that way I can remember them years from now. I've yet to write a thing and it turns out I should have, so I can remember them in the much more short-term. I'm certain there were a few things that should have made the following list, but my sleep-deprived Mommy brain has forgotten them already. It's amazing how even the smallest goal for the day can go undone when there's a hungry, poopy, crying, needing-to-be-entertained munchkin in the house. But here's the short list, with a short description of her most exciting outing yet, a trip to the photographer.

A few of Ella's firsts:

2 days old: Ella comes home from the hospital

5 days old: Our first trip to the park together

12 days old: Ella's first trip to Tipat Halav (health services for children) - she has gained 200 grams since she left the hospital (weighing in at a whopping 4 kg!)

13 days old: Umbilical cord falls off and Ella joins the rest of the belly-buttoned human race

13 days old (it was a big day for her!): Ella's first photo shoot

So, our trip to get professional photos done - for free, in exchange for using our little baby's photos to market the photographer's foray into newborn photos - was, in short, eventful. I'd been instructed to feed Ella right before setting out for Yael the photographer's studio and keep her awake for at least an hour beforehand. Yael also told me to wear black, so we could take some photos of me holding Ella and to bring an extra change of clothes, since we'd be doing the photos without Ella's diaper on (make a mental note of this instruction - it will prove relevant later on).

So, we set out - full of vigor and purpose . . . and promptly got lost. Luckily, I am a whiz with a Gush Dan (Tel Aviv metropolitan area) map and we made it to our destination on time. While we traversed the Givatayim suburb of Tel Aviv, Ella, who was not a happy camper, was soothed by Grandma Linda in the backseat and the sounds of a church mass on the radio - yeah, go figure.

We made it to Yael's and Ella had fallen asleep, which meant she wasn't particularly sleepy once we went upstairs. The fact that I then stripped her down to her diaper also didn't make her particularly calm. So I nursed her in the hope that she would fall asleep on me - as she is wont to do.

Well, no luck there. She was as wide awake as if I'd breastfed her a venti frapuccino. After countless attempts to lull her, Yael changed the set and we did some photos of me holding Ella in all sorts of strange positions. She was a willing - yet not entirely agreeable - model. She locked her legs straight when we tried to fold them. She turned her head away from the camera, leaving us no choice but to position ME in the other direction. And best of all, she peed on me - and all over the drape Yael had spread out on the floor.

Figuring this kid was not going to sleep, I told Yael maybe we'd just call it a day. But she persisted and with her baby-charming ways, managed to put her to sleep. Then the real fun began. We were on our way to dreamy, adorable pictures of Ella on a big pile of white towels. They would be so cute! But Ella must have felt she needed to make an artistic statement and proceeded to shoot poop onto 3 of the 4 towels. Oh, Ella!

After that, we managed to get the towels turned where Ella's "creative expression" was hidden and Yael photographed Ella looking much more calm and adorable than she had behaved that morning.

All in all, it was a trying morning. Mommy's wrists and back (not to mention other parts) hurt, Ella was exhausted and cranky, Grandma was tired but elated at the beautiful pictures, and it was decided that Ella - while adorable - will not be pursuing a career in modeling.

Thanks to Yael Elad: www.yaelelad.com

The Best Laid Schemes

The best laid schemes of mice and men – and apparently, women – go often askew. Or in our case, entirely askew. Sure, I had a birth plan. In today’s developed world, this is quite common. An outline, detailed or not, of how you’d like to see your birth experience play out. My birth plan was to have a natural, unmedicated birth. The goal was to use Hypnobirthing techniques (meditation and breathing) to remain calm—the basis of Hypnobirthing being Grantly Dick-Read’s book Childbirth without Fear, which advocates the idea that fear of birth leads to tension and this tension leads to pain.

As it turns out, either I was full of unrecognized fear that led to pain, or quite simply, childbirth is painful. The truth is, I was under no illusion that it would be easy or entirely pain-free, but I was hoping that my months of preparation emotionally and physically (prenatal yoga) would help me come through the process with a beautiful baby girl and somewhat (at least a little bit?!?) unscathed myself.

Life, or nature, it seems, had other plans for me. As I look back at my birth plan now, I think EVERY SINGLE ASPECT OF IT went ENTIRELY the opposite. Truly, without exception, everything I had envisioned did not turn out how I had thought I wanted it to. Well, the baby still arrived, but that was sort of an assumed part of the plan that I didn’t include in the written version.

And so, now, a short and hopefully not-too-graphic version of the day of Ella’s arrival into our world and lives:

Wednesday, 3am: Contractions start. They’re slightly uncomfortable and coming around every 10-15 minutes. I breathe through them just fine and let Nadav sleep a bit.

By 8 am they are coming more frequently, but I stop timing them due to the tediousness of timing 50 second contractions every 10 minutes.

As the day goes by, the contractions eventually get stronger, slightly longer and more frequent. Around 2:30pm, we decide to head to the hospital, a mere five-minute drive away, and call our doula to meet us there.

While in the women’s ER, with a fetal monitor strapped to my ginormous belly, contractions are getting stronger but it turns out I’m just under 3cm dilated, so they send me outside to walk around a bit, in the hopes that I’ll progress soon and be sent up to a delivery room. About 10 seconds later, my water breaks and I go back in to be checked again. They tell me that I’ll now be sent up to the delivery room—which I’m looking forward to, since there I can take a hot shower and hopefully get some relief from the increasing pain. Now is an important time to mention that the hospital we’re in—Ichilov in Tel Aviv—is a VERY busy hospital for births and has 15 delivery rooms, twice the amount of most other hospitals in Israel. Due to this, TONS of women go there. So, I only get into the delivery room around 4:30pm, thus enduring my contractions in the hallway, hanging on Nadav and moaning for the world to see.

Upon arrival in the delivery room, we tried a variety of methods to cope – hot shower, music, breathing, movement—in short, all the “typical” natural childbirth methods of dealing with pain. Around 4 hours later, and seeing I’d only progressed to 4cm dilated, I finally broke down and asked for an epidural. Unfortunately, for me and for another 12 or so women, the anesthesiologist was called away to anesthetize a woman having an emergency C-section. Which means, we waited and waited and waited and waited—and I moaned and groaned and contemplated just jumping out the window and ending it all—when finally around 2 hours later, I got the epidural—in the middle of a contraction (try holding completely still during THAT!). It helped. I could still feel the contractions, but it was like going back to earlier in the day concerning the intensity of them. I could breathe through them again and thought maybe, just maybe, I’ll survive this after all.

With my entire lower body now relaxed due to the drugs in the epidural, within an hour-and-a-half, I dilated to 10 cm and we were on course for pushing little (or big!) Ella out. It took 2 hours and 15 minutes and I can honestly say it was the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt. One thought that crossed my mind was, “How, if this little girl is supposedly coming out of me soon, can I still feel her feet in my ribs?” Another was, “Isn’t the epidural supposed to be helping this pain?!?”

Nadav and my doula, Michal, were amazing – helping me get through the whole process in one piece. Also, our supporters who held down the fort outside and popped in to give words of encouragement—my mom, and Nadav’s parents—were great. Afterwards, they told me that my mom, Linda, and Mina, Nadav’s mother, were standing at the door, pushing with me every time! At one point the midwife asked me if I wanted to touch her head. I must have looked at her with a strange expression (which meant, please no!), because she asked me again, in English the second time, and I said to her and Nadav, “No, that’s ok, I’m getting the full experience from this vantage point!” (Well, maybe it wasn’t quite so eloquent, but those were my thoughts)

As she FINALLY came out—after some Pitocin to help make my contractions more consistent and an episiotomy (dear G-d, this was TRULY my worst fear and I somehow survived it)—it’s like everything faded into the background as they placed her on my chest and her purple body, also exhausted from our efforts, wriggled up close to me. I exclaimed something like, “Oh my G-d, she’s amazing” and all the anguish I’d felt just seconds before was covered by a cloud of euphoria. The little girl that we’d been waiting for and dreaming about was finally here.

Everyone outside—the grandparents—cried. I don’t think Nadav or I did, but if I have to give an answer why, I think it has to do with the fact that they’ve raised children and they know, more than we can at this point, just how much of a miracle a child is, all the joy that she’ll bring to our lives.

In the week since Ella’s birth, I’ve experienced a range of emotions – marveling at her adorable facial expressions, which bring me a sense of calm and satisfaction, as well as letting myself breakdown at the thought of another painful breastfeed at 3am (thank G-d, we’re finally improving our technique).

Sometimes, I just look at her and wonder how this little 9lb body rode around in my body and in the end came out of me. Welcome Ella Miriam Rotem, to the world. We love you and wish you a lifetime of happiness and wonderful experiences.

The Missing Piece

It hit me yesterday. Week 36 and counting here at Chateau Rotem-Feinberg, and suddenly I felt it. There’s something missing. No, someone. There’s someONE missing. There’s a little person, a unique entity who already has cutie-pie clothes, a stuffed lilac Huffalump, books and even a yellow ducky-covered swing waiting for her – but where is she? Well, she’s a future Tel Avivian, so she must be stuck in a traffic jam.

In the meantime, I’m making preparations – largely in the form of lists – since my pregnancy-fogged brain is as sharp as a tack – shoved into a piece of gum. It’s like the gears just don’t work anymore. (Ask me sometime about how fun it was writing a PhD proposal with this level of clarity) There’s a list of things to put into my bag for the hospital. I’ve started packing it, but nobody seems to mention to you, “Oh, yeah, you’re gonna need all those things in the lead-up to the main event, so it’s not so convenient to have them all packed away.” More than once this week, I’ve rifled through the bag looking for essentials (slippers, pajama pants that actually still fit over my butt, etc.). I’ve got another list going of things that we need to do before the baby comes, including such thrilling tasks as:

1. Clean trunk (no, SHE won’t ride there, but some of her aforementioned paraphernalia will probably need to)
2. Check that car seat fits in back seat (positive, but apparently it doesn’t recline enough for newborn necks – what happened to the days of just strapping babies in a papoose and hoping for the best?)
3. Clean closets (since the dresser/changing table we ordered may arrive AFTER our little bundle of joy and she apparently, in utero, already owns more crap than Nadav and me put together)
4. Clean kitchen cabinets, inside and out (yes, I know, completely unrelated to a baby, but nesting is apparently expressed in a variety of random ways)

So, I’m sure with all these lists, we’re completely prepared for Operation Baby. Except . . . I’m not an idiot, and I know that no matter how prepared you think you are, the moment you actually become a parent, your life changes forever, and the only thing on your list is something along the lines of “Love her, support her, respect her, nurture her, be there for her, whenever she needs you and even when she doesn’t, no matter what, you’re a parent now.”

We’re looking forward to it, to say the least.

Size Matters

While the title of this blog could give my husband the impression that what you’re about to read is a glorious ode to his manly qualities, I’ll go ahead and tell you now that it’s G-rated and more focused on the “fruit” of his loins than his loins themselves.

It just hit me – I’m halfway there. More appropriately, the darling little fetus growing inside of me (yes, I’m going to assume she’s darling already, I mean, just look at her mother) is halfway to the point of being a full-grown baby, who will hopefully enter our lives in a more visible – and of course, noisy – manner come December. I’ve known all week that I’m 20 weeks along in my pregnancy. But yesterday when I read that she’s around 10 inches long from head to foot, and without a ruler in the house (especially one with the English measurement system) to be found, I started trying to imagine about how long 10 inches is. This morning, as I started working on my computer, I realized that the screen is 11.6 inches. Ok, so assuming 10 inches is an estimate, and assuming that she’s actually a bit longer since she’s got Nadav’s genes in her, she’s the size of my laptop screen! Now THAT is something substantial.

Sure, I felt connected to her since I found out I was pregnant, but the amazing thing about pregnancy, at least my experience has been, that each milestone brings with it another level of realization about the crazy endeavor you taking part in. The first, truly glorious (not to mention relieving) time we saw her little heart beating on the screen at the ultrasound around 9 weeks. The next time we saw it – and heard a computerized version of it – at our 13 week ultrasound. And, of course, this past week, as I’ve begun to feel her squirming (or I’d like to think dancing) around in my belly.

My new comprehension about her size is apparently just one more step on this journey towards bringing a new life into the world. It’s funny that I’m likening her to my laptop. Just last night, I commented that Nadav’s grandmother is knitting up such a storm that there must be pink yarn fuzz flying out her windows – a friend on Facebook then asked me if she could knit him a laptop cover, and I said, “No, she’s too busy making baby clothes.” I guess babies and laptops have more similarities than I realized.

For those interested, I’ve now posted (below) some of my (mainly bodily function-related) insights from earlier in the pregnancy – written back when the info was still “classified”. But as with every conspiracy – there comes a time when the truth comes out: in this case, due to photographic evidence received by the court, in the form of documented growth of aforementioned belly.

April 29, 2010
My Streak is Broken

I'm reminded of "The Dinner Party," that Seinfeld episode where Jerry eats a black and white cookie and it makes him throw up, ending his 14 year (or something like that) non-vomit streak. I'm not sure the last time I vomited, but let's just say that whatever streak I had, it's gone after this morning's events.

In any case, grilled cheese is certainly not on my list of things to eat in the near future (I know, weird that I had grilled cheese for breakfast, but's like the only thing I could think of eating, and apparently, even IT was the wrong one).
Now, I'm working from home (which I'd planned to do anyway) and nursing myself back to a normal (whatever that means during pregnancy) feeling stomach situation with chocolate biscuits and sips of water.

Eventually, I'll have to shake myself out of this stupor and eat something normal, but I don't wannnnaaaaa . . .

May 5, 2010
To puke or not to puke . . .

So, no, not that I'm trying to equate myself with the Bard himself, but I gotta say, yesterday it was a real dilemma. I felt soooo horrible, and was a second away from throwing up for about 5 hours straight, not to mention wonderful heartburn, something I've only experienced during pregnancy. Anyways, nature played its course, deciding for me that vomiting was the way to go, somewhere around 5 pm, and I felt much better (everything is relative, remember) afterwards.

Anyways, today I am giving a presentation in my thesis advisor's seminar class, around 2:30, and I'm REALLY hoping that my stomach cooperates. I've decided that if I even feel like I have to vomit beforehand, I'm just gonna do it (oh, how I hate it, I will usually do ANYTHING to avoid it). It's not worth the risk of being in the middle of presenting my research and suddenly having to excuse myself. "And previous researchers have found that. . . " (wretching sound) Yeah, not worth the risk.

May 20, 2010
I feel like a failure (or "Does projectile vomiting warrant a sick day from work?")

I feel like a failure. I should, I guess. I failed not one but two tests today. I should have known when I woke up this morning that I was not going to do well. Last night and this morning, the omens were there: grumbling tummy in the middle of the night since I hadn't eaten enough before going to sleep, and in the morning, I barely peed. Just to catch you up to speed, I was on my way to blood and urine tests this morning at the local clinic - about a 10 minute walk away - and I had to fast the night before. I got there, didn't have to wait very long and went into the nurse's room. Blood pressure: Check. Weight: Check. Height: Check (well, kind of, I am apparently 2 cm shorter than I've been telling everyone). Blood test: Check. She stuck me, got a good vein the first time around and I didn't even feel woozy at the sight of the needle poking out of my arm.

Now, the big show: urine test. Well, I was a bit worried since I felt dehydrated yesterday - and I'd only had half a bottle of water during my 10-minute walk to the clinic that morning - that I wasn't going to get an A plus on this test. But I did not expect such a poor turnout by my kidneys. I mean, I'm a pregnant woman, for G-d's sake. Isn't that what we do? Pee? All the time? Apparently not. This morning it was not happening and I squeezed out about enough liquid to wet a postage stamp. The nurse shook her head at me dolefully and gave me another cup to try again at home another morning.

I thought to myself: Ok, I do NOT want to fast again. And I am SURE I can pee. I mean, this is not rocket science. So, I went downstairs, filled up my trusty water bottle, and went outside to sit on a bench, binge-drink, and encourage my kidneys to start filtering away. This, it seems, was NOT the best idea. The best idea would have been for me to eat the banana in my bag, walk home slowly, and try again another day. It seems that cold water, drunk like a woman exiting the Sahara doesn't really agree with a 10-week along fetus, who at this hour of the morning would like to still be in a cozy, warm bed (preferably being fed dry Cheerios).

I drank one bottle and still didn't have to pee. So, I decided to start bottle number 2. If anyone ever asks you the question, how much water can a 10-week pregnant woman's stomach hold before exploding like the Icelandic volcano, the answer is: 1.5 bottles (or to be exact 749 ml). Milliliter 750 put me over the edge, and put my head in the bushes. "Luckily" for me, I was next to a hedge, which doesn't really allow for easy maneuver - let's just say, more discreet vomiting than this has certainly been accomplished by others. The water exited my body with the gusto of a fire hose and I managed - through a combination of leaning over INTO the hedge - to get it on my entire face, jeans, and open-toed sandals. Lovely. I did have a beautiful scarf with me (thanks Mom) that allowed me at least to wipe my face and glasses.
I wasn't sure how much I'd really thrown up, but I figured at least SOME of the water I'd drunk must still be in my stomach. So, a few minutes later, I climbed the clinic stairs once again, for round number 2 (I'm a glutton for punishment). My showing was a bit more respectable this time around, but certainly not enough, and I decided to call it a day - at least in this realm - at the early hour of 8:15. There's always next week.

Bird’s eye view

A few months ago, in an attempt to make up for lost time and correspondence, I wrote an epic of an email to my friend, Beth, an artist, a dreamer, and an adventurer, and described to her my home in Ramat Hasharon, Israel. At the time, we were living in a basement apartment of a private family home, belonging to a family, whose lives we were quite acquainted with due to our close proximity. I wrote to her how despite being in the basement, we did have windows and my favorite one was at the top of the stairs leading out of the apartment. From my favorite blue recliner – located in our living room – I had a view of this window, which gave me a small, but usually accurate indication of what was going on “surface level.” I could see from there a beautiful tree, which sometimes to our chagrin and sometimes to our amazement, housed hundreds of fruit bats. I’m reminded of the silly homemade craft (sometimes a rock on a string, sometimes just a string) that’s supposed to serve as a weather monitor: “If the rock is wet, it’s raining. If the rock is hot, it’s sunny, etc. etc.”


Anyways, this tree provided me with an idea of what the weather was outside: “If the tree is blowing in the wind, it’s windy, if it’s wet, it’s raining.”

Now, from my blue chair, currently located much more in the middle of things –in our new apartment on a main street in Tel Aviv – I don’t really need a tree to tell me what’s happening. I simply open the giant window in my living room, feel the weather, hear the traffic (and of course, a few birds determined to tweet their messages to one another despite the honking cars), and know what’s going on. After all, now we’re “above the ground people,” no snobbery intended.

From here, I can see a tree (two even!) the way I think they were supposed to be seen – not by humans of course, but by our flight-blessed friends, the birds. I left a small rug out to dry on the railing guarding our picture window and yesterday a bird decided it was a much nicer landing pad than the bare railing. I’m thinking about just leaving it there – just in case he visits again.

Of course, as one can imagine, Tel Aviv is not all about nature. We can also see from our window 3 tall skyscrapers, which at night are lit up. This is Nadav’s favorite view. Me, though, I think I’ll stick with the birds.