Oct 24 2013
When I was pregnant with my son, I knew he was going to have blond hair and blue grey eyes like my father. I knew he would take after my American side–rather than his Israeli father–because all the time I was pregnant, I craved pizza, hamburgers, and Coca-Cola.
I was not surprised when he was brought to me: a skinny old man with blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. I gave him a name my Israeli-Jewish husband approved of: Eitan. In America we would call him Ethan, a Puritan name, to reflect my own American Protestant roots. I called him Eitan ha katan because it rhymed. Ethan the little. When my son was 2 years old, we moved, for six months, to Israel.
Conversion to Judaism had never really been a question. My husband and I married just seven months after meeting and I knew I had no chance at an Orthodox conversion. According to Israeli law, I would never be Jewish, nor would our son. And anyway, my husband had grown up on a kibbutz. His childhood was largely secular. His own father had been rumored to eat sausage on Yom Kippur. When we’d lived on the kibbutz for those few months, my father-in-law took great pleasure in bringing me wrapped deli ham from the Russian butcher as a Friday night treat. Read the rest of this entry →
Aug 13 2012
“Smack! smack! smack!…. crunch, crunch, crunch…” Repeat a dozen times a day.
I am addicted to ice right now. And not just any ice–specifically ice which is partially (but not completely) frozen in one of those personal sized water bottles. (Thank God Costco sells them for so cheap or I’d have to take out a small loan to support my habit.) I check the freezer a hundred times or so, exactly what I tell my children to never do, and wait until it’s at that perfect stage–just beyond slush but right before it gets frozen solid. Next, I beat the living hell outta the bottle by smacking on the palm of my hand and then I open the bottle up and start crunching. Read the rest of this entry →
May 16 2012
I suspected I was pregnant with my fourth child even before the little ritual with peeing on the stick for two reasons. Reason 1: It is not normal to fall asleep in the (parked) car in the carpool line. Reason 2: It is not normal to think that dipping chocolate covered pretzels in hot sriracha sauce would constitute a tasty snack. Well, okay, both of those reasons are “normal” behavior–normal behavior for a woman who is pregnant, that is.
Food is a touchstone of pregnancy. It’s not only because a pregnant woman has to think of the developing child in her womb as she chooses what to eat, but also because those “pregnancy cravings” are very real. Trader Joe’s trips, normally a comparatively inexpensive supermarket trip to stock up on fresh vegetables, have become a veritable minefield of lethal snacks. There is definitely someone pregnant working in product development for that store (chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzels, exhibit A), and they prey on my dramatic pregnant appetites. Read the rest of this entry →
Apr 16 2012
My cravings are more for ramen noodles and PB&J, but this lady's got a good thing going on here.
Pregnancy is rarely glamorous. I have a rash between my breasts, my face looks like the before pictures of a Proactiv commercial, and I bawl my eyes out in the shower for no apparent reason every morning (which is surprisingly therapeutic, actually.) My bowel movements walk a thin line between liquid and coal and on any given day you’ll find me yanking aside my maternity pants to scratch my itchy baby bump. I’m nineteen weeks and my belly button has already waged a full-on protest. I’d also like to take this opportunity to reach through the World Wide Web and slap women who perpetuate the rumor that pregnancy is a time for uncontrollable sexual desire. My babymaker is currently occupied, and dry heaving on my husband during sexy time just isn’t a memory that I want either of us to have. Sorry, babe.
And then there’s the dreams. Read the rest of this entry →