Did you know there was a kosher McDonald's in Argentina?

When our son Aiven was 15 weeks old, my husband Alex and I took him to Buenos Aires, to meet Alex’s family. I needed to pump plenty of breast milk to keep Aiven happy in taxis and restaurants, but towards the end of the 10-day trip, my pump decided it needed a vacation too.

My breasts could not afford such luxury, and I was forced to nurse more often to compensate for my slacker pump.

Our trip was blessed with excellent weather, but inevitably there came a rainy day.  We decided to go to a famous shopping center. This mall is huge and well known for both its Art Deco interior and kosher McDonald’s.

At lunchtime we went to the food court and Aiven decided he wanted to eat too. With no bottled milk left, I tried nursing him in a booth. He could not get comfortable, nor could I, and his hungry wails pierced the cacophony of the food court.

Of course my husband was nowhere to be found (he was on a mission to seek and devour a vegan meal) so I left the stroller with his aunt and tried to explain in broken Spanish that I was leaving to find a place to nurse. (Alex tells me that what I actually said was “I’m looking milk.”) I made a mad dash to find a quiet comfy corner in this cavernous mall to feed my ravenous son.

Well, I found a place alright, but I wouldn’t exactly call it comfy. I texted Alex and his aunt to come meet me and help me get up:

Yes, that would be me on the floor of the handicapped bathroom.

I had my hands on the floor, so Alex wouldn’t let me touch Aiven. When he was done nursing, Alex lifted him off of me. I washed my hands and arms as best as I could. I don’t think there was any soap or paper towels. YUCK! Alex wanted to dip me in a vat of bleach to disinfect me. Thankfully I remembered my hand sanitizer and gooped it all over me. I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and shower.

Although I’ve shamelessly nursed Aiven in a plethora of public places, I must say that this was hands down (pun intended) the most interesting and gross experience I ever had nursing my baby boy.

What about you? I would love to hear your stories!

• Posted in Baby & Toddler, Parenting
• Tags: breast pump, breastfeeding, kosher, Travel, Vacation

First cigarettes. Then cell phones. And now...children?

According to a story I recently read in The Economist, 74% of business travelers consider children the most annoying component of business-class travel.

The idea that, having paid top dollar for better seating and food, their comfort should be compromised by fidgeting, chatting and even crying youngsters is enough to make some flyers blanche.

One solution proposed was a child-free zone in first and business class, sort of like a quiet zone on a train, except instead of prohibiting cell phones, it would prohibit…well, children.

I have a confession, and it is this: each time I hold a business or first class ticket in my grubby little paws, I somehow morph into a completely different person. Now, admittedly, each time I’ve flown first or in business class, I’ve been traveling on business or with my husband (honeymoon!) – i.e. my children were with their father or grandparents, and I wasn’t toting a single crayon or Star Wars DVD. But I have to say that with my golden ticket in hand, the other mothers with children on the plane were no longer my fellow brave soldiers in parenting. Instead, these beleaguered women transformed into mere instruments of irritation whose carry-on luggage of a screaming child threatened to interrupt my tranquil viewing of a Nancy Meyers flick. How dare they??

I’d see these poor mother-creatures stumbling down the jetway, folding their strollers, hoisting the diaper bags, and looking miserable (the fathers usually look somewhat human, in one of life’s many misogynist cruelties). And you know what? I looked at those mothers the same way the girl who finally made it into the popular clique looks back at her former cafeteria table of AP nerds and mathletes. There’s that same sense of shuddering–I am really one of you wretched people!–and fear–please don’t make me go back there!

Surely the only people who are even more obnoxious than I suddenly become (note: my elitism recedes as I return to the world of the proletariat at baggage claim) are those who pay top dollar so that their kids can bother the crap out of honeymooners in first class. Read the rest of this entry →

• Posted in Parenting
• Tags: Travel

Back in the day, when I would fly to and from Israel, I would belly up to the airline ticket counter with my (one) suitcase, my (one) carry-on and a single solitary prayer:

“Please G’d. Please G’d. Please G’d. Don’t let the family with the two whiny little brats be sitting anywhere in my vicinity.”

Inevitably, they’d be sitting just a few rows up. Or a few rows back. But always within earshot.

And for the next 14 hours, I’d be treated to screaming, crying, hard-to-please little monsters with their snotty noses and grubby hands running up and down the aisles. Not even Ambien, earplugs, and two glasses of red wine could save me.

Now, don’t get me wrong–I’ve always loved kids. In fact, before getting knocked up with The Girl, I was a preschool teacher. But believe you me, suffering through a 14-hour flight from LAX to TLV or vice versa with young children just a few aisles away is the best birth control in the world.

I remember the haggard-looking parents with identical looks of desperate grin-and-bear-it terror, and I would wonder why they didn’t just do themselves-–and all of us–a favor and slip their kids some Benadryl. Yeah well. Karma is a rhymes-with-witch. I’m traveling with a lot more baggage than I once was, and on the flight from LAX to TLV, my kids were the whiny little you-know-whats and B. and I were those parents.

I bounced and rocked Little Homie halfway across the world while B. chased The Girl up and down the aisles over the United States, Canada, Greenland, the Atlantic Ocean, the United Kingdom, and Central Europe. The people on our flight were a lot kinder than I once was, and many of us congregated in the back galley where we helped ourselves to snacks, poured drinks, and talked as only a bunch of Israelis and Jews on a plane can: It was like flying in my grandmother’s kitchen, match-making and cheek pinching and all.

Finally–-finally-–10 hours later, as we hovered somewhere over Turkey, our little monsters fell asleep. And while B. and I were too wired to close our eyes, we each drank a glass of wine and enjoyed the quiet before the jet-lag storm.

• Posted in Parenting
• Tags: Israel, Travel