Mother of All Notes

Mila was born at 8:01 am, on a sunny Friday in Manhattan, exactly one year ago. This yellow note was the last thing I wrote before leaving the house, trying to figure out when it's time to go to the hospital, writing the times of contraction pain attacking my body, knowing it’s going to get much worse when I can’t write anymore. 
Then, you come back home, with a new, perfect little human and everything is different. You try as much as you can to hang on to familiar things, routines and schedules. You try, and fail, at eating breakfast together, watching Netflix at night, or reading a bedtime story to your son (the one who truly didn't know any other option existed).

She's One today, and that note had stayed on the side-table next to my bed for at least five months after she came into the world. Writing down the times, was a last desperate attempt to stay in control, and this dirty, dusty, ugly paper, was as good reminder as any, that I need to let go.

Nothing, from this day on will go according to my plan. Naps, dinners, trips. I cannot control anything, and maybe I never really did. 

I kept that note for a while next to my bed, maybe because I'm not very good at cleaning, organizing my place and maybe it stayed with me for months until I agreed to acknowledge it - and move on.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SUNSHINE. I LOVE YOU.

The first story on how this blog started.

I got into ‘Eat Pray Love’ because it was readable and about traveling in Italy. Of course I thought it would be classic if I only read the ‘Eat’ chapter (also because it’s the part about Italy. I don't care as much for India or Indonesia) but my uncompromising fight for language equality didn’t allow me to put it down. There were a few beautiful ideas and word tricks but mainly it helped me realize that I can write those kinds of thoughts too. I was already writing them, but not collecting or sharing them. Of course that was in Hebrew and when I thought I knew something about this thing called the Internet.
These days, though I focus on the short term goals, in my passive aggressive war on English, I am reading the papers. The New Yorker and I are going to be good friends. But until then, I read it folded in the common method of thirds, to help me blend in. The cover is always hiding anyways, so people can’t tell it is three weeks old.