The Sky is Falling, or Why Does it All Hurt So Bad?

"The sky is falling, the sky is falling," said Chaviva. Move over Chicken Little, this mama is struggling.

For two weeks we had Mr. T's son iBoy with us in Denver. It was amazing. Although I spent the bulk of that time guilty that I wasn't actively in the office working because of all of the ups and downs of being back in the U.S., we had an amazing time traversing Colorado. I saved up all the places I wanted to take Mr. T until iBoy was here. We went to the Celestial Seasonings tea factory (alas, no babies allowed, so I got hopped up on tea in the tasting room), Garden of the Gods, to the Flatirons near Boulder, down to the REI flagship store and rented a kayak and went out on the lake in a thunderstorm ... we did tons of things to keep ourselves entertained, to show iBoy how beautiful it is here, and to make sure, above all, he felt like he was our family, that we love him, that we miss him, and that we want what is best for him in life.

It was a hard thing letting him go on Monday, but these things have to happen (legally, of course). Since then, it's been tough to get him on the phone or Skype, which has been hard on us all. Ash got used to him being around, Mr. T got used to having him around and his entire demeanor changed -- after all, wouldn't yours with both of your sons around you? And me? I got used to seeing Ash light up in a new way, to seeing Mr. T so, so happy, and to having the sound of giggling and snoring and the thump of iBoy running around the apartment and begging to go out and play soccer with his dad.

Last Shabbat we spent ages with iBoy and his dad playing soccer, until it started to rain. Ash and I sat and watched, with Ash mesmerized by this bigger version of himself kicking around a ball and falling all over the grass with his dad.

We felt like a complete unit during those two weeks. So it's a bit heartbreaking as we go back to "normal" without iBoy.

On Tuesday, after dropping iBoy in Omaha, we stopped in to check on my dad, who'd taken the week off from work. Mr. T, playing on a Jewish softball league, wanted to pick up my dad's old bag of softball bats that they had out in their storage unit. I don't think my dad had touched those bats since we left Joplin in 1996. In southern Missouri, baseball reigns supreme. T-ball, little league, adult league softball, it consumes the summertime. My dad played on and coached softball teams throughout my childhood, and he loved the sport. His bats were housed in a green, old Navy bag with his name stamped on the shoulder strap. It's not that military surplus stuff, it's the real deal.

Then, on the way out of the unit, my dad started acting weird. Buckled safely into the car, he wasn't answering questions I asked again and again, and then? Then he seized. His entire body clenched into a giant fist. Asher was in the backseat watching Baby Einstein, Mr. T was in the seat next to him, and I was in the driver's seat, my dad next to me, and I held him and panicked.

In an instant I became a child again. I don't think I've called my father "Daddy" in years. All of a sudden it's the only thing I could say, with a giant question mark at the end of every single utterance of the word. He shook, he clenched, it was like I was watching a TV show or movie. It was textbook. I'd seen it before, but never never in person. I knew they were happening, but I'd never experienced it.

I just held him. I held his head when it flung back. I grabbed the storage unit keys from his hand once his body relaxed. We raced to the hospital, not sure if it was the right one, unable to call my mom thanks to T-Mobile having zero service in Lincoln, Nebraska.

He was out of body the entire drive. For 20 minutes he was gone. His head back, my hand holding it up, it was almost like he was sleeping, snoring. I kept on. "Daddy? Daddy? Are you okay? Daddy?"

We got to the hospital and all of a sudden I was in parent mode. My dad slowly became lucid, but didn't know what happened or where we were or why we were there. He was curled into himself, not sure of himself. I coaxed him out of the car with nurses, took him inside. Gave them his information; they knew him, he'd been there before.

They went through the same motions as always. CT scans, EKGs, vitals, etc. He slowly became lucid and realized what was going on. We were all frustrated, especially after several hours when the ER doctor came in and said everything looked fine; they were sending him home. As usual.

I now understand what he is going through, first hand, after seeing it, and after seeing how the ER doesn't seem to have much to say or do about it all. They offer up the usual: three meals a day, cool and calm environment, low-stress activities, plenty of sleep, take your meds.

For months this has been going on. No one seems to really have a good idea of what's causing the seizures or why. So I found an internist who is going to take on his case. And we're going to hope, pray that something gets figured out.

On that note, maybe Mr. T and I will move to Nebraska and set up a B&B or a little shul for passersby to have a nice, quiet Shabbat. We'd be close to dad, rent would be cheaper, we'd have peace of mind.

Ah emotions. Between family and what's happening in Israel, my head is about to explode. The things of the world that do make sense people don't seem to get (you can't negotiate with terrorists) and the things that should make sense (having seizures, a child and divorced parents) just don't.

HaShem? Let us see you.

This is My Narrow Bridge: What's Been Going On

The world is a very narrow bridge, and the main thing is to not be afraid. 

כל העולם כולו גשר צר מאוד, והעיקר לא להתפחד כלל

(Rebbe Nachman of Breslov) 

I've been so very mum the past few weeks here on the blog while so many things in my life tumble around. The utterly disgusting reality of what's happening in Israel paired with our own familial issues with my father being in the hospital, dealing with the small tree's worth of paperwork for Mr. T's immigration paperwork, preparing for iBoy to come visit, and the money being hemorrhaged for everything has my mind in a bit of a flutter, my body exhausted, and the concept of decent sleep off in the faraway distance somewhere.

Mr. T and I speak frequently about the guilt that we feel about being in the U.S. with everything going on in Israel. Part of me feels blessed to have experienced the "raining rockets" lifestyle after making aliyah a few years ago, because I now know what the fear feels like. I know what the desperation feels like. And I know what the "life as normal" necessity feels like. We're happy we're here in the U.S. and safe, but all of our friends -- who are so much our family -- are still there, and it horrifies us minute to minute. The deaths of the three teenage boys that seems to have set this all off has me more afraid than ever of raising a child in Israel. Reality smacked me in the face.

Yes, I know that children are kidnapped and murdered everywhere in the world. But it's different. At least in the U.S. it's different.

Here, a random psycho -- even if it's someone familiar with your family -- could cause you and your children harm. It's a fluke, an imbalance, a direct attack.

In Israel, it's a bunch of random psychos who have it in their mind that all Jews, all Israelis, are worthless and unnecessary. It's the continuation of so many episodes of marginalization, murder, and massacre. It's personal. It's different. Those three teens weren't kidnapped and murdered because of a random psycho. They were kidnapped and murdered because they were Jews. Their existence stood in the way of a world that's Judenrein.

It's hard being here. Having iBoy with us for two weeks very soon will be bittersweet. He'll be safe in our home. He'll be loved and cared for and not at risk. No red alerts, no rockets. But then he'll rejoin his mother and go back to Israel and be in danger again. B'ezrat haShem (thank God) the conflict will be over by then, but if it isn't? We'll continue to be on edge.

My father's health is up and down, left and right, and the brain is proving itself elusive and a formidable, frustrating foe that won't reveal why its doing what it's doing. It's scary. I feel the reality of growing up, getting older, even more than when he was diagnosed with lymphoma or had bypass surgery. I feel older than I should with the fear that my dad is mortal, that he's outlived his own parents by dozens of years, and that not knowing what's going on is scary. Very scary. In the moments you should feel like an adult you're sent back to the scary days of being a child and not knowing or understanding.

Mr. T's immigration paperwork has been sent off at last. I have quickly become a pro at filing the i-130, the i-485, the i-131, the i-765, and the dozens of supporting documents required. I've also become a pro at writing checks for thousands of dollars. Become an American is stupid expensive. It's prohibitive. I now understand why there are so many illegal immigrants.

America is not the melting pot it once was. It's a place where they want to make sure you won't leach off the government. Oddly enough, it's the people born here who seem to do that more than the immigrants. They just want to work. Mr. T is desperate to work. It makes me sad that I know people who can work and won't because they're lazy and ungrateful and my husband is desperate to work and pay taxes but can't.

It's stupid.

But small victories in the past few days over people who talk a big game but ultimately have zero clue what they're doing have shown me that HaShem truly does run the universe. The plan is there. It's big. HaShem is big. And although I fall -- constantly -- HaShem gives me the nudges I need to remember that it's all bigger than me.

All I have to do is remember that.

This is ... PHOTO HEAVY!

Read on for the dad files, Ian's birthday cake and FRIED PICKLES!

So an addition to the dad files is below. I got a new shipment of mail (credit card offers, etc.) that went to my parents house, and of course there was an envelope filled with coupons from dad. The thing about this envelope though ... this was a special envelope. This envelope was BIG doins. Why, you ask, would an envelope be such big doins? Just take a look. It not only had the pork and beans (for Ian) and Hebrew National hot dogs (for the Hebrew in the house) ...

It had both our names! That's like ... huge! Well, in my mind it is. For years I've gotten the coupon envelope with just my name. But now it's for the both of us. And on that note, I'll mention that we saved $4.00 at the store today thanks to dad coupons :D

On another note, I made Ian a cake for his birthday (which was Aug. 20) last night. It was white cake with chocolate frosting. Of course it was nothing like the homemade goods that Christy recently dished out, but it was something! I made myself a piping bag and even wrote on it ... and I'll be the first to admit it was a lot more delicious than these photos make it appear!


And some post-cake-making carnage!

And that's what yesterday was, in addition to paying a visit to Uber Burger up in Evanston where I found my FAVORITE memory food ... fried pickles! Now, when I lived in the dorms, there were fried pickles. But they were frozen and they were in spear form. When I was a kid living in Joplin, Mo., we used to go down to Arkansas to the AQ Chicken House and that's where I was first exposed to fried pickles. It's one of those foods that sticks with you and you crave it when you get the slight hint of a certain smell like buttermilk and pickles and fry grease. Maybe I'm the only one who has this kind of experience, but it's THE ultimate comfort food for me. The best thing about Uber Burger is that they make them in-house. They're not frozen or freeze dried. No sir, they're fresh out of the barrel and put into the grease with their homemade recipe of batter. Served up with some ranch dressing, it absolutely made my day. Perhaps my month.


Folks, if you haven't done fried pickles, I can't express how greatly you're missing out. They're so ... so good ... crispy, tangy, comfort home style food.

The Dad Files: I

I've decided to start a new little blog series about my father. My family doesn't read my blog, so far as I know, and if they do, well, we'll just hope that nothing I say is offensive! I want to blog about my dad in a particular way, and that is through a typical package I receive from my dad: An envelope with clipped coupons.

My connection with coupons and my father began many moons ago when I was in the 9th grade. I had to make a collage about "me" for an English class and dad had recently done his coupon clipping thing. He found a coupon that said "Expiration 9-31-1998." Of course, there IS NO September 31, we know. Dad gave it to me and I put it on the collage and for many moons after that kept it on my various bulletin boards as I moved from dorm to apartment and on.

Since I moved out of my parents house, my dad has been clipping coupons and either giving or sending to me. It's just a small white envelope with my name scribbled on front in my dad's boxy, legible-only-to-the-familiar manner. Inside is a myriad of coupons clipped from the Sunday ads -- all shapes and sizes meticulously chopped from shiny paper sheets. Napkins, deodorant, cereal ... you name it, it's in there. I've been getting these coupons for five or more years, and with each envelope I sit down with my little coupon folder and sort through the ones I'll keep and the ones that are either, well, not usable or outside of my typical shopping list. But in every envelope I receive there have been many that just make me snicker, giggle, shake my head or say "Oh, dad ... sigh."

The most common one is when I get Playtex or Always coupons. I know I'm a grown woman and that I shouldn't be "weirded" out by my father sending me feminine product coupons, but there really *is* something strange about it. It's just one of those things. Then there's those like the one's below ...If you can't tell, that's a coupon for Van Camp's Pork and Beans. It's to save 40 cents on four cans, which, truth be told, even if I ate pork and beans, I don't know why I'd need four cans at once. Secondly, as I was sifting through the most recent coupon delivery, I pulled this out and said to Ian, "You've got to be kidding me ... it's PORK ... seriously?" To which Ian replied, "Oh! I bet he sent that for me, we had a conversation about pork and beans." Strange? Yes. Ian eats pork, yes, but I sure don't, and i told them that we definitely don't keep pork in the house ...

And then there's the Hebrew National coupons. I ALWAYS get these from dad. Since years ago when I started exploring Judaism before my conversion more than a year ago, dad was giving me the Hebrew National coupons. I typically don't purchase the Hebrew National dogs, and try to go for turkey dogs, but thanks, dad :)

And here's a Schlotsky's coupon. Seemingly there's nothing wrong with this one. It's a kind gesture -- I love sandwiches! But then there's a tiny, tiny detail ...

Yes, folks. Good only in Omaha and Lincoln! I live in Chicago :)

Then finally, there's the following coupon. I live with a self-made chef, who specializes in the Italian cuisine. I love my dad to pieces, but Ian and I don't eat out all the time, and when we do, we eat local, ALWAYS local. We're not chain restaurant kind of people, especially with Ian being the self-made chef that he is!

Every month I get the special coupon delivery, as well as mail that shows up at the house for me. But I look forward to the coupons. Only recently have I really begun to appreciate that my dad takes the time to send them to me. I started thinking, Someday, these coupons will stop coming. And that made me incredibly melancholy. So I'm documenting the humor that couples these coupons. Cheers to pop!