Monday, March 31, 2008

It finally happened

It's finally happening, and it only took two years. My kids are starting to play with each other without fighting for every little thing the other one picks up. They still fight plenty, but now I can finally see the glimpse of hope, and it warms my heart. They have started playing together little by little for some time now, but this Sunday I was treated to something special.

My daughter, who is all but three and a half years old as of last week, took out a blanket, spread it over the floor and called her brother. I am not sure what happened next, but at some point I realized she was calling him "baby" and he was calling her "Imma" (Mommy in Hebrew). Somehow my little man had caught on that he was supposed to pretend that his sister, his senior by a whopping 18 months, was his mom for the duration of the play. He went along with all of her requests: to stay on the blanket when she needed to leave (something he never does in real life for his real mother), held her hand and pretended to cry, quite often might I add. She would reply to his crying, "What's wrong baby? Why are you crying?", kissing and cuddling him, and he would complain about a boo boo, being wet/cold/hungry. It was very, very cute and lasted about an hour.

I thought I would have to wait until the next weekend to see the next show, but I was wrong. As I was getting dressed for work this morning, my son stormed into our bedroom and tripped hitting his head a bit. He started whining, "Mommy, hurts, boo boo." I kissed his head and thought that the incident was over. Then DS noticed his older sister and went into his pretend crying, saying specifically to her, "Imma, hurts, boo boo," to which she proceeded exactly as her mom, kissing his head and saying,"Don't cry baby, don't cry. I'll kiss your boo boo again."

How cute is that?

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Guilty as charged

It's commonly known that Jewish mothers are particularly good at instilling the feeling of guilt. What is less known that many Jewish mother (and most likely Gentile as well) are wrought with guilt themselves. As a matter of fact, if someone would ask me to name the most surprising thing about motherhood, I would name "guilt" way before sleepless nights, temper tantrums or pretty much anything else. And not just simple guilt, but guilt about anything and everything: things that are within my control and things that are not, things that are logical and illogical, thing that are consistent and completely contradictory. So here I share the (very incomplete) list of things (from the least to the most) that make me feel guilty as a mother.

... About working full time - I miss my kids when at work, a lot. I often look at their pictures and think about them during the day. Sometimes I miss them so much, I feel a pit in my stomach and want to cry. I feel guilty that someone else is looking after them, wiping away their tears, offering their support, teaching them values and manners and braiding their hair (ok, that only applies to my daughter).

... About counting minutes till their bedtime - when I am with them. No matter how much I miss them during the day, I inevitably grow impatient when putting them to sleep takes too long at night.

... About looking forward to Mondays - on the weekend. Somehow within the first two hours of Sunday, when I am alone with kids most of the day, they manage to push every single button I have, about five times. Pretty much every week they find a new one. And after umpteenth fight over toys/snacks/chairs, non-stop screaming and crying and being climbed on every time I sit down, hectic Monday at work seems like a vacation getaway.

... About not having enough patience - to deal with those fights and screaming and crying and non-stop cleaning and being climbed on and complete loss of privacy... Did I mention I feel guilty about feeling overwhelmed all the time?

... About not giving them the best start in life and cutting corners - not instilling right eating or sleeping habits, not being the best example in many, many things, not reading often enough, not playing with them enough, letting one of them walk around without a pompom on his hat for the past two months...

... About taking "me" time - which often feels like stealing. Do I need it, really? Do I need as much of it? Am I just lazy? Am I selfish to feel that I need more of it when I see so little of my kids as is?

... About not doing my best - doing your best all the time is very draining. Also, not really knowing what "my best" is also draining. I know that I am capable of not yelling at my kids and I also know that my self-control is lacking when tired, so if I yelled in 1 case out of potential 7, did I fail once and did my best six times or did I fail for not shutting up that one time? What's the score overall?

... About feeling guilty - yes, this is the mother of all guilt. Logically I know that guilt is the dumbest and the most useless feeling there is. It accomplishes little and destroys a lot. It can steal all the joy out of one's life and out of precious little moments that make up motherhood. Even though mine is not as overwhelming, it does spoil moods and instills insecurities and worries. I also logically know that twenty years from now I will be looking at myself now, feeling pretty stupid for allowing guilt to mar such a wonderful time of my life. (I might feel guilty about that as well...) That's as far as logic takes me because guilt is still present and is not going away any time soon.

... About writing this blog - that could be time spent so much better (from the practical point of view)! So many shelves could be cleaned, so many more hours could be slept, so much less junk food could be eaten...

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

17 signs you need to purge your purse

17. You start strength training just to be able to carry your purse around.

16. You need a shoulder replacement surgery any way.

15. You are no longer able to take subway for fear of being searched by cops at the entrance.

14. You found stamps which you used to mail out your wedding invitations right after celebrating your 5-year anniversary.

13. The other day you found your weekly grocery receipt containing 30 odd items that totals only $75. That must be circa 2003.

12. Retrieving anything from your purse takes more time than you would admit in public.

11. You ask someone to call you every time you need to find your cell phone.

10. You are so tired of looking for stuff in your purse, that you start carrying cash and credit cards in your bulging pockets.

9. Your biggest fear in life is to lose your purse, but not because of lost cash or credit cards (those are in your pockets, remember?), but simply because you just don’t know what kind of treasure could be buried there.

8. Both your husband and your kids have mistaken it for a trash can. You would never admit it, but so have you.

7. The new black hole located by astronomers has two handles and contains all kind of stuff with your name and social security number on it.

6. Your purse needs its own exterminator.

5. You have to put “toxic” label on your purse to abide by the state health regulations.

4. If stranded on a desert island, you could live out of your purse for two weeks without lacking entertainment, nourishment, your beauty regimen or clean underwear.

3. Purging it would require several pairs of rubber gloves, a mask, Epsom salts, 3 week of intensive mental training, taking off 2 days from work - one for cleaning, another one to recuperate from physical exhaustion and years of therapy afterwards.

2. When something is lost in the house, it is automatically assumed to be in your purse.

1. It usually is there.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Feliz Purim

My amazing ability to channel out (read: inability to notice or concentrate on) the things around me was one of the things that my husband found particularly cute when we were dating. As some unwritten law of relationships goes, it is the very thing that drives him particularly crazy now. But that's not what the post is about.

One of the ways this channeling out thingy declares itself is in my not knowing my neighbors. At all. I know that they are my neighbors because they appear where my neighbors supposed to appear - on the porch next to ours, in the doorways of houses next to ours, in our own yard saying hello - but I wouldn't be able to pick them out of a crowd. I know my landlady really well because I have to climb down a set a stairs every month to bring her a check for an obscene amount of money, which is now called a bargain due to the present real estate market. But this post is not about real estate either.

So on Purim we exchange packages of food (shaloch manot). This Purim was particularly hectic, and giving a package to my neighbors was not something that occurred to me in the morning. Then some time in the late afternoon it hit me that it would be a nice gesture. Our (or more precisely, our landlady's house) is adjacent to another two-family house owned by an Israeli family, and they have Israeli tenants on the second floor. So I prepared a package for the landlord, and rang the bell. There was some scurrying around behind the closed door, then the woman who obviously didn't expect anyone at this hour (wet hair, bathrobe, etc), opened it. She looked positively scared and seemed to not quite comprehend what I wanted from her. I tried to not look directly in her direction, threw at her the package and ran off with a "Happy Purim" wishes. I hate being caught in the middle of a shower, and didn't enjoy doing this to her.

So after I brought the food package to the neighboring landlord, hubby said it would be nice to bring one to his tenants, since apparently hubby is friendly with them. Again, this was news to me. I got the package ready and went out to deliver it. I knew the family wasn't home, so I had to leave the package by their door. I thought it was right next to the landlord's when all of a sudden stairs to the second floor porch caught my eye. I had seen my neighbors on this porch numerous times, so I knew that the door on the porch led to their apartment. So where did the second door on the first floor lead?

After I left the package on my neighbors' second floor doorstep, I ran to hubs and asked him whether the adjacent house was a two or three family house. The look that hubby gave me was worth more than the words could express and much more than we have in our savings account. "Didn't you live here for about a year?" he finally said. "It is a three-family house. We have a landlord and his Dominican tenants living on the first floor, and our (??!!) Israeli friends (??!!) living on the second."

Dominican? As in most likely Catholic? As in on a Good Friday (which happened to coincide with Purim this year)? I obviously rang the wrong doorbell! That explained why the poor woman looked so shocked when I presented her with my food. I would be shocked too if someone for no reason dumped food on my lap and ran off. Very, very grateful, but nevertheless shocked.

At that point I suspended all my food-giving and started getting ready for Shabbat. When all of a sudden a bell rang and a girl (who looked like she could be my neighbor's kid) brought us a basket with goodies. They were all kosher and made in Israel, so I guess I rang the right doorbell after all. Phew. The neighborhood peace is preserved, the inter-religious conflict averted.

Short Recap in my favorite art form: MasterCard Commercial.

Cost of ingredients and goodies for shaloch manot: about $150.
Time spent baking/preparing them: don't know, all I know is that I went to bed at 3 am the night before.
Finding out who your neighbors are: priceless (and still on my "to do" list).

Wednesday, March 19, 2008


Remember when life was so simple? When people were nice? When elderly were respected? When Zadornov was young and funny (as opposed to old and bitter)? Good times.

I have been looking for this and finally found it. Enjoy! (Apologies for non-Russian speaking readers, but the link didn't properly work for some reason.)

ЗАДАHИЕ ВЫПОЛHЕHО!(Детективная истоpия в тpех частях)
Часть 1.
Объяснительная записка.
"Я агент иностpанной pазведки Джон Кайф. Родился по заданию ЦРУ. В совеpшенстве владею четыpнадцатью языками, телепатией, йогой, каpатэ, самбо, боpьбой нанайских мальчиков, дзю-до и дзю-после... Умею соблазнять женщин на pасстоянии. Фотогpафиpую левым глазом, в пpавом пpоявляю микpопленки. Плевками сбиваю веpтолеты и тушу пожаpы. Стpеляю из любой пуговицы, пpичем из всех четыpех дыpок сpазу. Усилием воли могу вызывать землетpясения, цунами и такси. Меня 16 pаз pасстpеливали, 32 pаза топили в Атлантическом океане. Я выкpал 11 пpезидентов, 47 погpаничных собак загpыз насмеpть. Тpидцати тpем шахам с их гаpемами наставил pога. Hо вот год назад я получил свое главное и, к сожалению, последнее задание! Hезаметно пpоникнуть на теppитоpию СССР, пеpесесть на тpамвай и, устpоившись под видом молодого специалиста, выведать, сколько человек pаботает и что они выпускают в научно-исследовательском институте
Благодаpя отлично офоpмленным документам я действительно быстpо устpоился на pаботу. И пеpвой моей потеpей пока были только самостpельные пуговицы, котоpые мне в пеpвый же день отоpвали в тpамвае. А вот дальше началось нечто непонятное. Пеpвую неделю мне, как молодому специалисту, не поpучали никакой pаботы. Тогда я сам потихоньку начал pасспpашивать служащих о том, что они пpоектиpуют. Hо они лишь пожимали плечами и пеpеспpашивали: "Тебе-то зачем? Шпион, что ли?" Это меня настоpожило. И тогда, чтобы не вызвать лишних подозpений, я pешил воспользоваться телепатией и пеpехватить мысли главного инженеpа. Hо он весь день pазгадывал кpоссвоpд и мучительно думал, что это за птица из пяти букв, котоpая живет в Южной Баваpии, яиц не несет, но из них выводится. Пpичем думал он так напpяженно, что сеанс закончился пеpенапpяжением моего мозгового телепатического центpа и я навсегда потеpял способность к телепатии. Хотя точно знал, что эта птица - петух! От отчаяния я стал ходить по комнатам: хотел посчитать служащих, но это оказалось бесполезным, потому что все остальные служащие тоже ходили по комнатам и к вечеpу я их насчитал до восьмидесяти тысяч. Тут я был встpечен начальником своего отдела, котоpый вдpуг сказал: - Хватит без толку шляться по коpидоpам! Поpа заниматься делом! Завтpа поедешь на каpтошку! Я спpосил его, что это значит: "Поедешь на каpтошку? " Он на меня очень удивленно посмотpел и пеpеспpосил: - Ты пpидуpок или из Амеpики пpиехал? Я так пеpепугался, что сpазу сказал: - Я - пpидуpок! И сpочно связался с шефом, котоpый меня успокоил. Объяснил, что "поехать на каpтошку" в СССР означает условное обозначение сельскохозяйственных pабот, во вpемя котоpых колхозники помогают pаботникам умственного тpуда собиpать уpожай. Поскольку, учась в pазведшколе, я ни pазу "на каpтошку" не ездил, я очень боялся, что мое неумение обpащаться с ней вызовет подозpение на фоне тех, кто обучался этому много лет в pазличных высших учебных заведениях. Поэтому я очень стаpался, pаботал без пеpекуpов, за что в пеpвый же день был избит коллегами по полю. Их было пятнадцать человек. Я хотел пpименить пpотив них семь пpиемов "моаши" и восемь "йока- гиpи", но не успел... Потому что как только я встал в боевую стойку, ко мне тут же был пpименен сзади неизвестный пpием, котоpый один из нападающих назвал "pессоpа от тpактоpа "Белаpусь". С тех поp я стал пpихpамывать на обе ноги, пеpестал владеть пpиемами каpатэ, стал тpясти головой и навсегда позабыл моpзянку. По окончании сельскохозяйственных pабот я снова не смог пpиступить к выполнению задания, потому что меня тут же послали на стpоительство институтской подшефной недостpойки, где я пpоpаботал два с лишним месяца втоpым исполняющим обязанности тpетьего ученика четвеpтого мастеpа по укладке киpпичей шестого соpта со Знаком качества. Hевеpоятным усилием воли я взял себя в pуки и даже попытался, не тpатя вpемени зpя, выяснить секpет новой бетономешалки с пpогpаммным упpавлением и сложнейшей коммутационной пеpфокаpтой. Я спpосил мастеpа-наладчика о поpядке ее pаботы, на что он мне ответил: - Слухай сюда! Положь колдобину со стоpоны загогулины и два pаза деpгани за пимпочку. Опосля чего долбани плюхалкой по кувыкалке и, кады чвакнет, отскочь дальшее, пpикинься ветошью и не отсвечивай. Потому как она в это вpемя шмяк, тудыть, сюдыть, йоксель-моксель, еpш твою медь... Пш-ш-ш! И ждешь, пока остынет. Остыло, подымаесся, вздыхаешь... Остоpожненько вздыхаешь, пpо себя, шобы эта быдла не pванула! И бегишь за угол за поллитpой. Потому как пpонесло! Записанный мною за мастеpом поpядок pаботы бетономешалки был немедленно пеpедан мною в центp. Восемь недель опытнейшие шифpовальщики бились над ним, но так и не смогли pазгадать, что означает научный теpмин "еpш твою медь"! Я тоже не успел этого выяснить, потому что пpямо со стpойки меня послали на куpсы английского языка, с котоpых я был отчислен за неуспеваемость, потому что пpеподаватель не понимала моего чистого английского пpоизношения. Однажды она меня спpосила, где я обучался английскому языку. Я ответил честно: в английской спецшколе. Она на это ответила, что она, оказывается, всегда не довеpяла английским спецшколам и что совсем не так, как я, надо пpоизносить звук "Ше" согласно последней инстpукции. За остальные тpи месяца пpебывания на pаботе я пять pаз посещал овощную базу, четыpе pаза - наpодную дpужину, где сначала мы хулиганов ловили, а как мы их поймали, они нас бить начали. За это же вpемя я стал в пpинудительном поpядке членом добpовольного общества бега босиком по снегу под названием "Стопами Сувоpова!", "Осеннего общества сбоpа желудей в помощь голодающим свиньям", а также пpинял участие в 18 самодеятельных концеpтах в качестве пpавого кpайнего гpуппы скандиpования, где и соpвал себе голос на словах: "Спаpтак"- чемпион, "Канадиенс пpофи"- конюшня! От такого количества общественной pаботы у меня начались невыносимые головные боли, но больничный вpач мне не выписал, так как, пpослушав мою гpудную клетку, живот и голову, установил диагноз: "плоскостопие"! И надел на меня оpтопедические сапоги, в котоpых я не могу ходить даже с костылями. Я пытался покончить жизнь самоубийством. И лег на pельсы неподалеку от Яpославского вокзала. Hо поезд из Владивостока опаздывал на 18 часов, и я так замеpз, что вынужден был пойти в гастpоном, чтобы согpеться на семь pублей, оставшиеся у меня от последней заpплаты после уплаты всех членских взносов. Там, выпив, я pассудил тpезво. Поскольку я потеpял все сpедства к существованию, не выполнил ни одного пункта заданий, позабыл все знания, полученные мною в pазведшколе, у меня оставался только один выход - сдаться. Выпив для хpабpости еще немного, я подошел на пеpекpестке к пеpвому попавшемуся милиционеpу и сказал ему, что я иностpанный pезидент. Hа что он мне ответил: - Раз ты pезидент, то мы тебя сейчас и отпpавим в pезиденцию! И отпpавил меня в вытpезвитель, где я тепеpь и нахожусь. И пишу эту объяснительную записку, а главное, пpошу настоятельно учесть, что я иностpанный pезидент, хочу добpовольно сдаться, поэтому меня надо сpочно пеpепpавить в соответствующее заведение..."

Часть 2.
Резолюция диpектоpа вытpезвителя на объяснительной записке:
"Гpажданин, называющий себя иностpанным pезидентом, действительно попал к нам не по адpесу. И был пеpепpавлен нами тут же в соответствующее заведение, где тепеpь и пpебывает в полном соответствии в одном номеpе с Hаполеоном, Александpом Македонским и астpонавтом с Альфа-Центавpа, котоpый пpилетел к нам на летающей таpелке, чтобы купить пленки с записями песен Бюль-Бюль-оглы".

Часть 3.
"Всем, умело сыгpавшим pоли научных сотpудников, колхозников, стpоителей, вpача-оpтопеда, учителя английского языка за создание невыносимых условий pаботы и жизни опаснейшему pазведчику, объявить благодаpность!!! Hагpадить машиниста скоpого поезда "Владивосток - Москва" именными песочными часами, а также повысить в звании стаpшего лейтенанта, так убедительно сыгpавшего pоль pессоpы тpактоpа "Белаpусь". Задание выполнено! Кайф пойман! Если и дальше будем так pаботать, мы их всех изведем, товаpищи!"

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

It's a miracle

When life with kids starts resembling a battlefield, children have a special way to remind me why I got into the business of parenting.

This past Sunday the kids were behaving wildly: they went to bed pretty late the night before and it was time for their afternoon nap. My son was in a particularly destructive mood, so at some point he took out his Winnie the Pooh books and threw them all over the living room floor. That’s after throwing Lego (twice), his clothes (three times) and cereal with string cheese, which all had to be picked up or swept off the floor. Sunday started looking like a non-stop sweeping/cleaning marathon, and this book throwing was the last straw. I resolved to not clean or ask the kids to clean; I was tired of fighting for a neat floor just as much as I was tired of cleaning it. I would just ignore the mess because honestly there was no point in picking anything up. The floor would inevitably get dirty within minutes.

And then something miraculous happened. DD, who is only 3 ½ and didn’t participate in the book throwing mayhem, quietly picked up all the books on her own and put them where they belonged while I was dressing my son to go on a walk with my parents. I was shocked. When my parents took DS, I took DD away into the kitchen and offered her two pieces of jelly candy (I know, I am not supposed to use candy as prizes, but I didn’t have anything else, and a reward was definitely in order!). I told DD she didn’t have to share with her brother because it was her prize for volunteering and cleaning up, but asked her not to eat candy in front of DS to not make him jealous. As if cleaning up her brother’s mess wasn’t enough of an accomplishment, DD gave away one of the candies to her brother any way.

I am so proud!

Monday, March 17, 2008

5 helpful tips for anyone trying to write a song

1. A tune with someone singing "na-na-na" along is technically not a song, even if you add clapping, clicking and moaning. This form of expression is perfectly fine at a campfire, but not on public radio. Songs need words, and interjections do not count.

2. Listening to “Al hester, al hester, al hester panecha, al hester panecha oy-oy-oy" (or any other song comprised of less than a full verse) for seven minutes is torturous. Try adding words.

3. When out of words or rhymes, attempt to come up with a more original filler than "na-na-na" and "oy-oy-oy". Don't be scared, it's all a part of creative process.

4. Though many would argue that "oy" is the most expressive word in history, try to limit usage. Think of it as a spice and use sparingly. For a gourmet feel, avoid using completely.

5. No video is better than a dorky music video. Really.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Tell me why

Why do husbands leave permanent markers in places accessible to kids?

Why do little boys feel that they need to color our laptop and computer table?

Why does it take take them only 15 seconds to do so much damage?

Why can't their sisters abstain from helping in cleaning up the mess?

Why doesn't Windex take the marker off?

Why doesn't Ajax take the marker off?

Why doesn't bleach take the market completely off?

Why do they make permanent markers so permanent?

Why did it have to be red marker?

Why does a red market leave pink residue?

Why don't men like pink, especially on their laptops?

Why did it have to happen while I was having vertigo?

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Stand by your man

I do understand that there could be millions of reasons as to why these wives are standing by their men, at least during press conferences. The benefits could be enourmous, just look at Hillary. Had she left Bill amidst his impeachment proceedings, she would've never had any political career. However, there's something sickening in how similar these images look. Do they practice this "faithful dog wife no matter what " stare for years, just in case something like this happens? They obviously don't have enough time after the scandal surfaces. How does the conversation go? "Honey, you know the stare you have been rehearsing with Hillary for the past seven years? It's showtime!"

Monday, March 10, 2008

Follow your heart

When choosing professions, many people settle on something with steady income, but with low level of personal satisfaction. Some people choose the high road and dedicate themselves to low paying but more fulfilling jobs. And some people manage to do both, which at times necessitates certain compromises.

Our (at this point, probably former) governor of New York Eliot Spitzer refused to abandon his dreams. As he was fighting corruption (obviously very, very boring endeavor) during the day, he was "involving himself"(quote from the press) in a prostitution ring at night. And now since this was uncovered, he finally does not need to compromise any more. He no longer has to (not that anyone would let him at this point) be involved in politics and fight pedophiles, rapists and other sex crimes perps, as promised during his campaign. Mr. Sptizer could not be more overjoyed to finally give the full and undivided attention to his one and only love: prostitution (strangely enough, political career didn't satiate that desire).

For very, very few details available to the public now, you can click here.

Friday, March 7, 2008

Happy International Women's Day!

Дорогие женщины! Поздравляю вас всех с 8 Марта! Пусть посуда в этот день не пачкается, бельё не мнётся, дети не перебирают едой и муж не ворчит. С праздником!
Shabbat Shalom!

Hit the road, UN, and never come back no more...

Once again UN has proved that it's completely useless and defunct. This past Thursday an armed gunman walked into the seminary in Jerusalem and opened fire on its students killing 8 and wounding many more. This was a clear terrorist act and an attack on the Israeli civilians. The Security Council of the UN was expected to harshly denounce this act of terror and was unable to do so. Why? Because Libya, one of its (temporary) members, did not agree with the statement to be issued. With more details surfacing now (you can read this CNN article for more info), turns out that Libya doesn't see a difference between Israel firing upon Palestinian targets with confirmed terrorist presence and a gunman firing upon unarmed students whose average age is about 18. Libya considers this act of terror an appropriate response from the Palestinians to the recent events in Gaza.

Regardless of the Libyan depraved response (after all, one cannot expect much from the authoritarian state that considers terrorizing its own citizens appropriate), what the heck is this country doing on the Security Council? Only twenty years ago Libya's link to terrorist organizations was proven beyond any reasonable doubt. Only fifteen years ago UN imposed severe sanctions against Libya for refusing to cooperate with the investigation on the Pan Am Flight 103 and UTA flight 772 bombings, where Libyan agents were the prime suspects. Only four years ago Libyans acquiesced to the UN demands to abandon the production of the weapons of destruction. This is the country that considers raping a valid form of interrogation and where human rights simply do not exist. Why was the country that showed and continues to show only contempt to the UN and its official mission made a member of the Security Council? To help Libya and its allies secure its ability to terrorize?

So please, please, please, not so dear UN, pack your things, save yourself from further disgrace and dismantle. Or set up your headquarters in Tripoli. I am sure they will LOVE you there, especially if you get arrested.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Almost doesn't count

I very recently read an article on the situation in the Middle East on Overall, the article didn’t seem prejudiced, like most of them (except that the wounded Palestinians, as always, were shown before the wounded Israeli), but one word caught my attention. That word made me mad, almost furious. That word was “almost”. Why? The article said that the Israeli city of Sderot is fired upon with Qassam rockets almost daily. "Almost" is a very deceptive and very inexact word. What does “almost daily” really mean? 4 days a week? 5? Or is it not always Qassam rockets, but nevertheless daily?

My husband’s parents live in Sderot. Since we got married four and a half years ago, Qassams are always mentioned in my conversations with in-laws. From what I understand, in the beginning these rockets were fired randomly, i.e. you never knew when to expect them. In the past few years firing became very predictable, and not for a good reason - Qassam rockets started being fired daily. Period. Not almost, not close to, not nearly – daily. No rocket in a 24-hour period is a very rare exception, extremely rare treat for the citizens of Sderot. Sometimes they are not Qassams, but Katyushas, which I understand are much more dangerous. Every night people go to sleep sure that another rocket will be fired into Sderot from Gaza. Every night they are aware that a rocket might hit their home and they might not wake up the next morning. Every night for at least 3 years, which amounts to over 1000 consecutive nights of terror. So for years this city endured this kind of treatment from Palestinian terrorists with little media attention, which only came about two years ago. Where was the outrage? Where was the fair and independent reporting? And if it were the citizens of Sderot firing rockets on Gaza? I’m sure we would’ve heard about it from day one, with little ambiguity and complete certainty, with the rocket count and foaming at the mouth of some CNN reporter. There would have been no “almosts”.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Where did you go my lovely?

This is just a proof provided by my dad about my son's obsession with the radiators. After unsuccessfully trying to fit his sister's big toys in the slots, he gave up and threw them into the paper recycling bin. While she is trying to retrieve them, the unmistakable look of longing in his eyes is quite unsettling ("Isn't there anything in this house that would fit through these slots?"). I wonder what we would find in our radiators if we were to open them. The funniest thing is that every times he manages to fit something in there, he is very surprised that it's gone ...