So my last post was kind of sucky.  Why was I so determined to end it on an idyllic note?  Here’s what the late Friday hours and Shabbat were actually like:  First Daughter completely flipped out that the cake she was decorating was not pretty enough, and therefore proceeded to scream at Second and Third Daughter, while demanding to babysit Fourth Daughter.  Husband got angry at the noise level and decided to contribute to it (which is apparently logical in the world of Fatherhood common sense.)  I got frustrated and tried to find various places to hide in our 80 square meter apartment.  I think the dog ran away at some point as well, came back when she bloody well felt like it, and several hours later, I took out all my aggression on poorly cooked mashed potatoes, angrily dismissed myself from the holy Shabbat table, and passed out at 8:30 PM.

Lest you thought that I had managed to achieve the function of a neurotypical family – never fear.  I am still a member of the extra ordinary tribe.

And each day since then:  Bickering, yelling, threatening, punishing.  Heavy working hours, virus sharing and bill collecting.  Kids demand new clothes, it’s rained a lot in the last two weeks, and our winter boots are still in the mail, not entirely sure if they’ve left Sweden’s shore yet.

3/4 of the paperwork for Third Daughter’s Occupational Therapy have been submitted, and we are now waiting for our appointment, which will most likely be at least 4 months away, and during working hours.

Second Daughter’s teacher keeps calling me.  “Are you aware that she never brings her homework or school supplies?” she asks.

I retort, “Do you recall that you’ve called me three times over the past year about this problem?  Do you recall that her First Grade teacher also told me that Second Daughter does this?”

“No, I don’t recall that,” her teacher replies.

“Then I’m not aware she has a problem,” I say back.  Really, I’ve tried to organize Second Daughter’s schedule, but it’s outrageous.  School subjects are:  Social Studies, Religious Law, Torah (which contains “Religious Law”, but is not limited to it), Math, Science, Language (possibly Hebrew, but again, not entirely sure – shouldn’t it just be called “Hebrew” then?), English, Art, Music and Friendship.  I’m probably forgetting something.  Anyway, each subject has a notebook, workbook and at least 1 textbook – sometimes 2.5 text books.  And sometimes the text book needs to be brought, while the workbook only on alternate Sundays, etc.   Not to mention some days call for markers, and other days for crayons.  Glue must be rationed and brought on demand. And sometimes we are ordered to go out and buy a binder.  Goodness sake!

“When does Second Daughter prepare her backpack?  At night or in the morning?” quizzes the teacher.

I sigh.  “The morning,” I answer.

“Aha!” concurs the teacher.

“No, no ‘Aha!’.  We tried this, remember?  We conducted an experiment, and made Second Daughter prepare her bag at night as opposed to the morning, and found no improvement in the results.”

“Oh,” says the teacher.  “Well, just tell her to do better then.”

“Fabulous,” I reply, “Thank you so much for this call.  I feel that I’ve truly grown as a human being.” Ok, I didn’t actually say that, but only because I still have no idea how to do sarcasm in Hebrew.  I’m still convinced that the language actually isn’t suited to sarcasm.  Israelis are kind of like Yoda that way: “Do, or do not. There is no try.”

First Daughter has tried to pitch in and help Second Daughter with her schedule and supplies.  A bag check is squeezed in at 7:20 in the morning, approximately 20 minutes after First Daughter’s spontaneous English lesson, that all of her sisters are obligated to attend.  Note taking is mandatory.  Hey, at least they are learning, so I don’t interfere.  Anyway, Second Daughter really thinks we’re all a little nuts to care so much about whether or not all of the books are in her back pack or not.  She is sweet and tries to humor us though.  “Eema, today, in my class, I actually had all of my homework ready,” a declaration pronounced so carefully to me it was practically gift-wrapped.  I know better than to follow up such a statement with “Just one of your lessons, or all of them?”

“That’s wonderful, sweetheart.”  I tell her.  She asks if she can go out to play, and I tell her yes.  No more insisting that her homework must be completed first, or any of that.  She’ll be prepared when she’s good and ready.

I don’t believe that we are entitled to families that are smart, gorgeous, organized, healthy, employed, friendly, popular, best.  We should be entitled to happiness, or at the very least, if we come close enough to it, everything else should be allowed to fall by the wayside.  This is going to be my check for my girls.  Yes, I will appreciate any achievement they bring home, but my heart of hearts question to them is always going to be “Are you happy?”  If so, then all will be right with the world.

I have to end my blog post here.  Fourth Daughter just yelled at me from her crib.  Another child with probable sensory issues – she doesn’t sleep, she touches everything, and needs her food texture to be just so.  Then again, she’s only seven months, and a lot can change.  I walked over to her crib and she was so happy to see me, giggling and looking at me with such joy.

No matter how many meltdowns, our children are little for such a short period.  Each moment is going to be special, and if need be – sugar filled.  After all, artificial happiness can be just as enjoyable, provided you have a great relationship with your toothbrush.

Shabbat Shalom, and a super sweet weekend to all.



Buying Time

“Ok, we need to add 2 and a half cups of flour,” reading the printed recipe.

“Oh my G-d that’s like ten 1/4 cup measures!!!” yells First Daughter.

“Oh don’t be so melodramatic,” I snap back.

“That’s not melodramatic, that’s mathematics,” replies First Daughter, as she let’s me have a glimpse at her inner-twenty-year-old.

“It is not!” I yell back.  “Why do you have to keep saying these things?!?  Look,” I start to lecture, “You need 4 quarter-cup measures for a full cup, then…” and then I start slowly doing the new math in my head.  “Fine, ten of that quarter-cup measure.  You know if we had a servant who could have washed all of our full cup measures from the previous cake, we wouldn’t have this problem.”  I collapsed into a hard chair.

Now, why was I so tense?  I can explain with just one word:  Friday.  Every Jewish mama knows about the dreaded Friday, where we slave in the kitchen for hours, just to prepare a dinner, a lunch, and then snacks for a third meal (actually the second meal of Saturday.  The counting here alone drives me crazy.  Friday night dinner is called just that, Saturday lunch is called just that, but Saturday dinner is called “Third Meal”, because it must be reckoned numerically, counting from Friday evening.  Does no one eat breakfast?)  And no Shabbat is joyous unless you have guests.  And if one has guests, one must show off, and the ol’ Sloppy Joe must get dressed in a tux, side salad dishes must abound, your challah must actually have a taste, and then of course, there must be dessert.

All of this crazy effort buys us beautiful moments in time, that I know will be part of the memories our children cherish.  There’s nothing like a dinner that has servings and dishes, and everyone sitting at the table.  And the fact that we all sit around the table on Friday, Saturday and Saturday part -two (or three, depending on your viewpoint), takes the pressure off having to have everyone sit together during the week.

But sometimes, I want Calgon.  Just a break.

Actually, I don’t want a break.  I love my life, and I’m always scared of it being yanked away from me.  I think I want to turn down the volume sometimes, to reduce the chatter, to eliminate  the background noise.

I worry sometimes, that all of this effort is wrinkling my skin, weakening my teeth.  I worry that my children will need and want me less and less in their lives as they grow older.

I worry that they will resent the choices I made for them.

I could try talking to husband, First Daughter, Second Daughter, Third Daughter, Fourth Daughter.  Sharing my fears, hopes, dreams, etc.  They would hear me, and be generally supportive, but they have their own fears, hopes, dreams, etc.   Such an effort wouldn’t really be sharing, anyway, more like unloading, burdening.  I would cling to my children and husband and demand they ride along with me, abandoning their own paths.

And into this mix, comes the dreaded Friday.  All of the self-obsessing has to take a back seat as we begin the preparations for the holy Shabbat.  We cook, we clean, we yell.  Faster, faster, faster – how much time is left?  Who has taken a shower?  Who’s still dirty – do we have enough hot water?   For once, can’t we have mopped floors?  Look, I made jelly!  Look, I made hummus!  Crap, I forgot to start the soup – but we have jelly!

And then we have Shabbat.  Quiet, peaceful Shabbat, when no one is fighting over the television (because it’s not allowed.)  Sitting at the table in pajamas (we’re a little funky that way.)  Passing this, gobbling that, giggling at Husband’s silly jokes.  We’re all beautiful and loved.

What does any of this have to do with ADHD?  Well, Extra-Ordinary parents have been writing a lot lately on the internet.  “The top 18 things a Special Needs Parent Wants You to Know!”  “9 Things Never to Say to a Parent with a Disabled Kid!”  “5 Facts you must know about Autism”  (The counting is driving me up the wall, seriously, why must we continuously number lists?)    The articles are good, but it can sometimes give the impression that our lives are always a struggle of some sort.  That we are sad, and pray for a glimpse of normalcy.  This is true, this is a big part of our lives.

But not the biggest part.   What is the meaning of our life?  It’s the way of buying time with each other.  It’s Shabbat, it’s the laughter at a ridiculous joke, it’s a really good piece of cake baked by a loved one.  I think Extra-Ordinary parents learn this very quickly, as the rat-race of accomplishment collecting really doesn’t suit us, but this can’t be conveyed in any kind of list or marked by a trophy.

“I want you to know, I love you, you are perfect,” I said to First Daughter.  I glide over to Second Daughter “I love your laughter,” I say to her.  Sashaying over to Third Daughter, I tell her: “You have a beautiful way, calm and serene.”  I pass by Husband and toss out the words, “Love you,”  and hope that he gets the full meaning of all 14 years of our marriage.  I swoop over to Fourth Daughter and yell, “Thank you so much for coming to us!  We love you!”

First Daughter, channeling her inner-twenty-year-old, tells everyone that Eema is a little tired and needs a massage.


Pwobwems, and then there are Problems

Third Daughter came to speak with me, words of wisdom she had to impart, with each sentence is broken into many fragments separated by way too many commas.  Kind of like the tune to American Pie’s  “This one time, at band camp” …

“Eema, Abba said, that when I am angwy, Abba said this, I need to stop being angwy, and to stop being angwy, I should pinch a pillow.”

“Punch a pillow,” corrected Second Daughter, rolling her eyes.  It’s an incredible achievement that Second Daughter knew enough of English expressions to be able to make that correction.  This is the child who normally tells me about her day by saying “Eema, did you hear about the this?”  (“The this” sounds a little better in Hebrew, but not much.)

“Oh, yeah that” says Third Daughter.  “And so, I will need a pillow to pinch – I mean punch.  The end.”

This is a wonderful breakthrough, as Third Daughter has been throwing tantrums each and every bed time for the past few years.  We’ve tried moving bed time around, 7 PM, 8 PM, the tantrums have always been there.  And irrational ones.  She wants water, we bring her water, she doesn’t want water.  She needs her toy, she wants a kiss, she doesn’t want a kiss.  She yells for her father until she passes out from exhaustion.  No rule setting or consequence threatening could fix it.  Bribing also didn’t work.

In the middle of one of these tantrums last week, I was cleaning the kitchen and trying to ignore her, when she ran out of her room.  “Eema, I can’t stop being angwy.  I HAVE A PWOBWEM!!!”

Well, I consider it a breakthrough.  Of course, I’m also wondering if we aren’t just a little too free in this house regarding disabilities.  Did she overhear too much ADHD speak, and think she would get out of trouble if she just implied that she needed a diagnosis?    I’m not sure I care too much one way or the other.  On my outstanding list, my fabulous list of fabulous things that I must get done – hence still outstanding – is an appointment with an occupational therapist for Third Daughter.  She has shown some major sensory issues, craving pressure to the point where she pushes her cuticles back and has done serious damage to her thumbs.  Not to mention the talking and fidgeting in class,- I’ve got to make this appointment.

But she’s aware and taking control of her situation.  Every morning starts with a wrestling match with a large bean-bag chair, and every evening ends with one as well.  So far, the evenings have been better, but I’m not praising this as a windex-moment yet.  Probably because she’s the Third Daughter, and so doesn’t have each and every one of her challenges and resolutions bronzed as “breakthroughs”.  That burden is all on First Daughter, unfortunately, no matter how much I try to rein myself in.

First Daughter is growing into such an awesome lady.  We have BFF evenings, with long serious talks about life as we watch silly syfy shows that have been off the air for a number of years.  We talk about hairstyles, share recipes (mostly about cookies and cake), and keep it real with the latest gossip going around her class.  I love learning about her world.  She fits in well with the other girls, and seems to be displaying an appropriate level of “cool.”    There is still drama, but it’s lessening quite a bit. It’s certainly less if we remember the medication, but even without it the drama is cooling down.

Of course, school starts in a week for all three girls, and probably our roller coaster ride will start again.  In the meantime, there are problems, and there are pwobwems.  First Daughter is growing, Second Daughter is teaching, Third Daughter is understanding, and Fourth Daughter thankfully still stays in one place when we put her down.  So life is good.


I’ve had to abandon one of my cross-stitch moments.  Those moments whose corners are so perfect that they deserved to be memorialized on a cross-stitch pillow.  With lace.  Although, the more I think of it, I’m wondering if I should call these Windex moments instead.  I’m picturing in my head the television-lady with photo-shopped cheekbones, designer outfit, and she manages to immaculately  clean her entire WHITE house with a squirt of Windex.  My husband loves these commercials, and has ultimate faith in Windex as the cure to all household ills.  He hasn’t done it yet, but I know he’s thought about trying to spray our baby’s bottom in particularly ewwy times. (Husband’s editorial note: Um, no.)

Anyway, what was the moment?  I thought I had the solution to help my daughter agree to take her medication each morning.  Conceptually, she agrees to take it, and agrees that she has better days with it.  But each morning, when she’s tired and unable to concentrate, a fight begins.  “WHY!?!  IT’S NOT FAY-ER!!” (I’ve been able to seperate ADHD symptoms and true anger by their melody.  ADHD has a soundtrack, and all complaints actually fall in several interesting places along the musical scale. Real anger is short and tuneless.)

So here was my Windex moment.  I told her that I enjoyed taking medicine with her:  She would take her Concerta, and I would take my Multi-Vitamin.  This was such a successful technique for two days, that I pictured myself marketing it.  I would be called onto Oprah (yes, I know it’s no longer on the air) and be questioned:  “So how did it become so easy for you – what was your defining moment?”  And then I would casually explain about the….

Ok, that’s probably enough.  You get me right? So we’re back to arguing every morning.  I still go through the motions of  announcing to the air that I’m about to swallow a multi-vitamin, and wondering aloud if anyone else in my household would like to take medication in my vicinity.  It’s not easy trying to constantly stay one step ahead of ADHD.

And we have a war going on.  Again.  And I had to dump our pediatrician.  Another one.  This pediatrician surprised us by refusing to renew our daughter’s prescription.  Why?  Well, apparently her daughter also has ADHD and never needs medicine during the summer, therefore she has a policy against writing prescriptions for any ADHD meds in the summer season.

And by the way did I mention our country is at war?   It’s been a hellish couple of months.  In my previous post, I mentioned the kidnapped boys, who were found to have been murdered.  Terrorists began firing rockets at any Israeli target they could reach, southern neighborhoods and central communities like Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.  Terrorists in Lebanon tried to get in on the action, which resulted in our northern communities falling under attack.  Driving to pick up Fourth Daughter from her caretaker, while listening to the radio announcer describe how to to exit the car and tuck your head in the event of additional incoming rockets, is not exactly a calming experience.

And the world cries for Gaza – for images that they know full well are photo-shopped, while Syria burns and Iraq starves.  To borrow (and kind of mangle) a Yiddish expression, people act like “onions with their heads in the ground.”  Truth is irrelevant, and facts are outrageously boring.  The anti-vax movement has picked up so much steam that epidemics are breaking out in  first world countries.  Over a thousand have died in African countries from an Ebola outbreak, and Americans seem perfectly content to allow to infected doctors to return to America, numerous articles have been floated on viral internet sites to explain why people are “stupid” to worry about an Ebola outbreak.

Truth, determined by a series of facts, should be what illuminates our path.  History is significant to understanding our present, the direction of our future.  I insist on these principals.  I refuse to acquiesce to those who would rather the world be governed by entertainers, guided by group-think.  If one more person attempts to impart wisdom by quoting Jed Bartlet, I think I will scream.  From a rooftop.

My country is fighting back, and fighting well according to almost all reports.  The summer is winding down, and soon First Daughter’s last year of elementary school will start (6th grade.)  To borrow (and again, kind of mangle) an American expression, I’ve kept wondering why “stupid won’t take a holiday” during times of Israel’s wars, that some how we should be entitled to a break and only endure one particular stress at a time.  Cowardice.

We fight back.  Our lives don’t get put on hold, thank G-d, when apathy threatens to decay our surroundings.  We could be broken and persuaded by the silly doctor or school, intimidated by hollow-mams who cycle Scientology propaganda, or silenced by our well-meaning friends who have to ask “Do you have to make such a big deal?”  Yes, our lives matter, and our lives are one heck of a big deal. And my husband is using Windex to clean the kitchen table now.



An Israeli Kind of Day

I’m on maternity leave at the moment.  This means that I get 14 weeks paid leave, courtesy of amazing maternity rights.  I’m using these precious weeks to bond with Fourth Daughter.  And lose weight.  And clean the house and do laundry.  And finally buy all of my girls underwear – something that usually isn’t exciting enough for our ADHD family to accomplish during the work week.

98 days.  Creating exciting bonding opportunities each and every day is actually very difficult.  The baby also cannot yet walk and say things like “What an interesting palate, I so do enjoy the Expressionists” – so bonding at this moment seems a little like a one-way-street.  I have to factor in car time, stroller time, are there stairs at our destination, are there clean accessible bathrooms (a necessity if I’m planning on starting my morning with more than two cups of coffee).  It can get a little complicated.

Nevertheless, we’ve had a very full and rich few months.  We’ve traveled as a family, we’ve split up and done father-daughter(s)/mommy-daughter(s) experiences.  Baking has happened.  During the pregnancy, I came down with a pregnancy-related liver disease that almost prevented Fourth Daughter from being born alive.  I’m so grateful that she’s here, and it’s made me appreciate each moment with my children even more.   It’s truly been amazing.  Loud, but amazing.

Last week, three Israeli boys were kidnapped.  CNN and the BBC will tell you that they are simply “missing”.  The UN will tell you that they are “Unsure” that the boys were really kidnapped.  The New York Times will tell you that the Jews deserved it.  

The bolded text above is obviously a break from my usual subject matter.  Seems strange, doesn’t it.  Jarring.  This is supposed to be a blog about my chaotic and beautiful family’s shenanigans, what’s with the Zionist propaganda?

Welcome to an Israeli kind of day.  We are rural and urban, young and old, brash and shy.  This diversity is reflective of our land:  Green mountains of the Galilee, cool evenings.  White mountains of Judea and dry winds.  The midnight sky of the Negev desert, the heat of the valley, the saltiness of the sea shore.  The stones of Jerusalem are our heart.  And then our people are attacked and no matter where we might be in life’s narrow bridge, our world comes crashing to a halt.  How can we enjoy even the smallest pleasures knowing that within our nation three families are suffering so terribly?   With too many in the world cackling and pointing fingers, delighted to explain how we deserve to be hunted like rats.

Our family isn’t going to personally search house-to-house, that’s a job for our soldiers.  We aren’t going to demand retribution from the Arabs calling themselves “Palestinians”, that’s a job for our elected officials.

We also aren’t just going to sit idly by, and pretend that everything is ok.   I know that Extra-Ordinary families get it.  We so often encounter people blindly pretending that everything is perfectly all right with the world, while our children are suffering.  And we have to yell, and fight and get creative just to accomplish the goal of making people aware that no, we haven’t yet achieved perfection here.  You can’t have perfection when someone is left behind.

So this post is about me not sitting idly by.  I’m going to do what I can to make sure this doesn’t drop to a second-page story.






Fourth Daughter was born on March 25th!  Thank G-d, she is healthy and happy, and not very skilled in the sleep department.  I’m even thanking G-d for that last bit, since I had a high-risk pregnancy and Fourth Daughter was jaundiced.  Alert, active and healthy are all blessings that I’m grateful for.

Which is one reason why I haven’t had so much time to blog.  Or sew.  Or shower.  But it’s Lag B’Omer, the holiday where we light the country on fire and roast marshmallows, and so my older girls are home and happy to take care of their baby sister.

That doesn’t mean I’ve had any kind of break in our ADHD life.  In fact, while in labor in the hospital, the school psychologist called.  I was eager to speak to her, since I had been waiting several months for her to get in touch with me.  The call wasn’t what I had hoped for, since the psychologist had looked at my First Daughter’s grades, spoken to First Daughter’s teacher, and then called to tell me in several different ways that First Daughter was far too intelligent to have ADHD.  With a laugh she said “Why do you think your daughter has problems?”  Which prompted contraction-driven screams from me, because that’s the last thing a hormonal, laboring Extra-Ordinary mom needs to hear.  Which prompted her to respond with the Hebrew equivalent of “Well, I never! Oh my! Oh Dear!” – basically her voice sounded like one of those always-fainting soap opera heroines that just never know what to do with themselves when their husband is cheating, the vixen is conniving, or the evil arch-enemy comes back from the dead for the fourth time.   Since I don’t deal with women who diminish us as a gender, I hung up the phone, and proceeded to focus on bringing my Fourth Daughter into the world.

“Mazal Tov!” yelled one of the bedside nurses, “And may the next one be a boy!”

Really? What makes them think I’m going through this again?

With Second Daughter’s birth, Third Daughter’s birth, and Fourth Daughter’s birth, my prayer has always been for an easier babyhood and childhood than what First Daughter had.  Which produces incredible guilt, which causes me to do a major chesbon nefesh (introspection):  What exactly am I afraid of?  First Daughter rocks, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.  I love everything she is in this world: bright, caring, overly sensitive.  She’s at the age where she and I can have heart-to-heart conversations about Life, The Universe, and Everything.  I’m also slowly getting her into sci-fi; she’s trying to get me to like the latest hip-hop acts.

First Daughter was a nearly two-year-old toddler when we made the move to Israel.  Right away, she entered daycare here, learned to speak Hebrew almost immediately, and quickly earned the title “Shovevah.”  The word in Hebrew translates as “naughty” but it’s really an affectionate term to refer to a little one who is always getting into stuff.  It’s a sign of intelligence.  While all other kids are dutifully taking their naps at the appropriate scheduled time, the Shovevah is running around the daycare and imitating the staff’s directions to the kids about how to lay on their mattresses.   Or during coloring time, when the kids are dutifully picking up one crayon, and coloring monolithic  designs on paper, the Shovevah takes all the crayons at once and makes rainbows everywhere, including on the walls.

Second Daughter was never called Shovevah.  She always radiated kindness, serenity.  Even today, when her third grade teachers have to send yet another note home on account of Second Daughter routinely forgetting or losing some vital school supply, the note is always prefaced with something like “Second Daughter is such a sweet, beautiful girl, but we do have a teensy problem…”

Third Daughter also earned the title of Shovevah, due to her constant raiding of the daycare dresser and stealing the other babies diaper rash cream.  She did it with a giggle, and the staff learned that while other babies needed a pacifier to calm themselves, Third Daughter required a tube of diaper rash cream, which must have felt really good on her hands.

I liked hearing the word “Shovevah” applied to my girls, their spunky personality.  Then First Daughter was diagnosed, and I began to realize that her ultimate Shovevah activities were actually symptoms of her medical condition.   In my spare time (not often) I would wonder about Third Daughter.  Overall, Third Daughter wasn’t as hyper as First Daughter had been at that age, but there have been issues:  Bedtime is difficult, she’s the only of my girls to continue to sleep with the weighted blanked every night (First Daughter only used it for about 6 months), we’re seeing an increase in the amount of tantrums, and her first grade teacher is reporting that Third Daughter is having concentration problems more often.

So when a friend saw that Fourth Daughter, lying in her crib, had spit out her pacifier, and she politely murmured “Shovevah” to the baby, this time I cringed.  Not again, I can’t go through this again.

But what exactly is it about a repeat tour of ADHD that has me worried?  The truth is that my fears have nothing to do with my kids.  My kids are great.  What worries me is to be moved yet again to the “penalty box” so to speak, of school-parent relationships.

It’s draining to be the parent who makes life difficult for the teacher, principal and other school staff.  That’s where my stress lies – in having to start and continue arguments with people who are regarded by others as good decent fellows.  It leaves me feeling lonely.  It drives me crazy how my daughter’s school uses her diagnosis to get additional funds, but then denies her services. “After all, don’t you think your daughter is intelligent?” is this year’s line used to handle my objections.  If my daughter is intelligent, then she doesn’t need assistance, so goes the reasoning.   The staff must be baffled as well:  They’ve told me that they regard me daughter as “normal” – what more could I ask for?  Why can’t I be satisfied?

It’s funny how “Shovevah” stops being attractive the older you get.  That’s my demon, being regarded as the shovevah parent.  Therefore, there is nothing about my children that should give me any kind of pause.  They are wonderful and perfect and unique, each of them.  We can handle each other, no matter how difficult the outside world gets.

If you haven’t checked out the Facebook page of “A Very Special Needs Resource” yet, I strongly recommend taking a look (and liking their page.)  Lots of uplifting memes, and very interesting articles.  The other day included this article called “The Conversations We Should Be Having About Special Needs” .  Here’s my favorite part:

Three out of four moms of kids with special needs have heard an insensitive remark from another parent. But among moms of typically developing kids (I fall in this group) only one in five acknowledge making such a comment. We may be clueless, unwilling to confess… or what constitutes an insensitive remark may be open to interpretation.

A few things did emerge as clear: Moms of kids with special needs don’t want pity. They do want understanding. They would prefer that a fellow parent approach and ask a question about their child, rather than see her turn nervously away. They don’t really want advice, however well meaning. “I don’t want to be told ‘Your child will be okay’ or ‘I don’t see anything wrong with your child,'” one mom of a child with special needs commented in the Parents survey. “I know they try to make a nice comment but if they are not parents raising a child with special needs, it’s really annoying.

We do have friends out there who understand our daily battle is to be seen and loved for exactly who we are, on our own terms.  Which is starting a lovely little tune in my head… hope you Extra-Ordinary Mommies and Daddies are old enough to enjoy.

Making Pizza

Organization is always a good thing.  Just because it’s not something you naturally excel at, just because the thought of such an exercise has you running for your bed covers, doesn’t mean that it’s not something you should attempt.  Over and over again, even if you do it badly.  There are points for trying.

I’ve decided to replace our signature “Oh-no-what-will-we-feed-the-kids-for-dinner!’ hootenanny hoedown, with a written out meal plan for the coming week.  My friends have assured me it makes mealtimes as easy as pie.  I tried pointing out that I don’t really make pies unless I can buy a pre-made crust, which they don’t seem to have in this country, but I was encouraged to give it a go anyway.  Surprisingly, it actually has been a great solution.  Sure it’s a bit more work, but the result is a reasonable meal with a great presentation – I mean the kind that actually requires place settings, everyone sitting together at the table, and napkins.

However, I’m also a working mommy, and some of my uncomplicated meal plans have required a bit of prep.  Namely, our make-your-own pizza night.  The problem is that the dough needs to rise for an hour before you can split it up into sections for the pizzas, and our beautiful brand-new stainless steel oven is apparently on the small side, and we can only fit two pizzas in it at a time.  So my solution was to call my sweet and capable First Daughter, and see if I could walk her through the act of making the dough in advance.

I’m a good mother, so I prepared her for this for at least two days.  “Would you be willing to help me with dinner tomorrow by making the pizza dough by yourself?  If I call you on the phone and tell you the steps?”

“YES! YES! YES!” eagerly cheers First Daughter.

Day two:  “First Daughter, are you still willing to help me make the pizza dough this afternoon?  I will call you around 5 p.m. to help you…”

“Yes! Eema, I will so make the best pizza dough ever!!!” cheered First Daughter.

So at 5:00 PM (17:00 hours), I called home while holding the recipe in front of me.  If you are new to this blog, I should probably point out that not only does my First Daughter have ADHD, my husband also has ADHD.  I also seem to have quite a few of the symptoms of this disorder, so all of us problem-solving together are quite entertaining.

Me, calling First Daughter from work:  “First Daughter, are you ready to start the dough for pizza?”

First Daughter: “Yes! Yes!  I’m going to start making dough, I’m going to be cooking!  Yes! Yes! Wait, I need to get some supplies – there are broken eggs in pizza dough, right?  I’m getting the eggs now!!”

Me:  “Wait, first let’s try getting all of the equipment out.  Please pull out the plastic blue mixing bowls.”

First Daughter: “Ok, plastic blue mixing bowls- ”

Me: “Wait! Did you wash your hands first?  When was the last time you touched the dog?”

First Daughter: “Ok, let me wash my hands, hold on.”  After thirty seconds of silence, First Daughter returns to the phone.  “Ok, I’m ready now.  What do I do?”

Me: “Get the plastic blue mixing bowls out.”

First Daughter:  “I can’t reach them!”

Me:  “Go get your father.”

First Daughter:  “Abbbaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Husband:  “WHAT NOW!?!  I was finally able to read a paragraph!  I can’t even read a paragraph in this house?”

First Daughter:  “Eema needs the mixing bowls.”

Husband:  “Eema’s not here right now.”

First Daughter:  “No – I’m going to start cooking, and Eema’s telling me what to do.  I need to get the mixing bowls-”

Husband:  “Who came up with this idea?”  (Note to self:  Next time also prepare the husband.)

First Daughter (sighing): “Eema’s on the phone now, and she’s telling me what to do and I AM MAKING PIZZA DOUGH!  Now I need the blue plastic mixing bowls.”

Me:  “Yeah, the really big one, and the really small one.”

First Daughter:  “Eema says the really big one, and the really small one.”

Husband:  “Fine.”  Husband rattles around in the cabinets.  “I can only find the really big one.”

Me:  “Ok, so use any other small plastic bowl.”

First Daughter: “Eema says any other small plastic bowl is fine.”

Husband:  “No, I can find the small blue one.”

More rattling in the cabinet.  First Daughter begins yelling that her father isn’t listening to her, and husband is insisting on finding the blue bowl, after all he had to purchase it at some point, therefore it should be in the kitchen.    I complain that I can’t understand two voices at once, and please just pull down any friggin’ bowl.  Husband eventually does succeed in finding the missing blue bowl.

Me:  “Ok, now let’s set the yeast.  I don’t know what it’s called in Hebrew, but there is a small red bag in the door of the fridge, that looks like brown powder.  Take a few spoonfuls and add it to the small bowl.”

First Daughter rattles around a bit:  “Got it.  Eema, if you don’t know what it’s called in Hebrew, how do you know where to find it in the grocery store?”

Me:  “Let’s leave deep philosophical questions aside for the moment.  Once you’ve added the yeast to the small bowl, add a small spoon of sugar to the bowl.”

First Daughter:  “Done!”

Me:  “Now add a warm half cup of water.  You know where the measuring-”

First Daughter: “Yes, I know where the measure cup is.  Ok, done.”

Me:  “Great!  Now the big second bowl.  Let’s add four cups of flour to the really big bowl.”

First Daughter:  [Working and clattering of utensils] “Ok, done! I’m so good at this I can’t believe it!  I’m having so much fun!!”

Me:  “Ok, now this is the part where you might need Abba to watch you.  Now we will need to add the small bowl to the big bowl.  But first, let’s measure out 4 cups of warm water, with the big measuring cup -”

First Daughter:  “Eema, right that I’m really good at this?”

Me:  “You rock.  Now let’s make sure the water is in the measuring cup –

First Daughter: “Done!  I put it in!”

Me:  “What’s done, what part?”

First Daughter:  “I added all the water to the big blue bowl.  Now what?”

Me:  “Which water, all of it?  The small bowl and the full measuring cup?”

First Daughter:  “Yes…. was that bad?”

Me:  “Um… maybe you should get your father.”

[Silence, a bit of rustling.]  Husband:  “Ok, now how do we fix this?”

Me:  “Just add more and more flour, until you have pizza dough.”

So, 2 kilos of flour later, Husband and First Daughter made pizza dough.  And while everyone had pretty thick pizza crusts for their personal pizzas that night (plus a side of garlic bread), for a change we didn’t end up with any waste.

Success!   Now we just have to get the same results, night after night after night.

Are we friends again?

Depression hit me hard a few weeks ago.  So hard, that at 2 AM I fled my apartment and collapsed in tears on our balcony.  What pushed me over the edge?  A mosquito had invaded my room.  The last straw.

All I had been praying for were uneventful nights.  Days were overwhelming with conversational topic-surfing like a meth addict who’s taken the tv remote hostage (does that even make sense?)  Here’s what I mean by it:

First Daughter:  “It’s NOT FAIR!!!”
Husband:  “I DON’T CARE!  I SAID SO!”
Second Daughter:  “Look, I made a new rainbow-loom bracelet!”
Third Daughter: “Can I go outside and play?”
First Daughter: “Eema, Third Daughter is wearing my underwear!!”
Me: “How the hell did you figure that out?”
First Daughter:  “Why can’t I have new clothes, nothing fits me!”

Repeat, each and every day, all day.  If it’s not about clothes, it’s about the dog, or the computer, or the blasted rainbow-loom trend that has taken over our house and left little stupid rubber bands all over the place, littering our floor with chokables, just in time for the arrival of the new baby.

Couldn’t I at least get a quiet night- without something poking me and causing me terrible pain for days on end?  The mosquitoes here in this country don’t just bite you and move on.  If you don’t kill them, they keep biting over and over, and you will wake up in the morning covered in so many spots, you’d swear you are a victim of the plague.  No sympathy in my house, since the mosquitoes pretty much target only me.  Everyone else feels quite safe, as long as I’m in the room.

It’s the little things in an ADHD life that push our extra-ordinary warrior families over the edge.

So, there I was at 2 AM on the balcony, lying on the hard tile, and feeling incredibly sorry for myself.  It was just all too much to handle.  It was also Shabbat, so it’s not like I could get in the car and run away to a brand new life, free from responsibilities.  I also couldn’t run to a neighbor’s house – then they would KNOW we were all crazy.  The art therapist had called a few days earlier and confirmed “Your First Daughter is definitely not as well as last year.”  Which I knew.  But to hear it from a trusted partner in the raising of my beautiful first-born daughter, it suddenly became more real.  The medication had been recently changed, and so far we had been seeing good results, but it wasn’t enough to make up for all of the previous blow-ups.  And I was so tired of it all, and no one was giving me a break.

A fellow ADHD mama once described her child’s meltdowns in the following way:  He screams, yells, insults, and five seconds later, when she’s still reeling from the cruelty, he’s genuinely shocked that you are still angry with him.  Yep.  ADHD philosophy 101:  I’ve forgotten it already – so haven’t you?  And while you stay angry, in your perfectly reasonable reaction, your child is confused and hurt.

2 AM on the balcony, under a beautiful starry night, and I want to give up.   Why must I schedule endless appointments with the school and the doctors when everyone just seems to shrug their shoulders and politely inform us that there isn’t a solution.  But that’s the big joke, there is no option to give up, we’re stuck in this mess.  And taking away toys doesn’t work, taking away privileges doesn’t work.  Indulging, punishing, empathizing – nothing works.  Reaching out for help invites only criticism.

My resentment builds, and I’m worried that I’m losing her, my first born.  The little girl who made me a mother, who made me an attachment-parent baby-wearing advocate because she screamed bloody murder if I wasn’t constantly at her beck and call.   And the truth is, when I’m away from her at work, I think about the young lady she is growing into, and I really and truly admire her.  She’s an amazing artist, incredibly sensitive and mature, and extremely bright (in between melt-downs, that is.) But our time together is fraught with so much bickering and anger.  I don’t want to lose her.  A few days earlier, during a calm period in between fire-meltdowns, she asked me “Can we please be friends again?”  And I was still holding on to my anger and refused to answer her.  It was too much to ask for, I thought.  How much am I meant to actually take?

“Come back to bed,” my husband tells me, as he kneels down next to me on the balcony.  “Please.”

I ignore him.  I’m waiting to be rescued.  There’s absolutely no point in giving in and returning to all that pain.  Husband shakes his head and goes back inside.

A few more minutes under the starry sky.  Doctor Who isn’t coming.  Honestly, I never wanted to be that kind of woman anyway, the one who lives vicariously through fandom and fabricated memories because real life keeps beating her down.  The housewife who wastes away into a shell of reactions, because she lost herself a long time ago.    Besides, name a companion who actually survived – and being left in an alternate dimension doesn’t count.  The only ladies who make it through are the ones who give up the fantasy and return to themselves.

Design by Karen Hallion

Design by Karen Hallion

Husband returns again to the balcony.  “By the way,” he says, “I killed the mosquito.  I saved it to show you the evidence.”

A minor-rescue.  I pull myself up, relieved, and return to bed.  Conquer the mundane, and you start to believe again that anything may just be possible.

Ice Storm on Hallelujah Mountain

“Shine bright like a diamond.”  Head-bop, head-bop.

“Shine bright like a diaMOND!”  Head-bop, head-bop.

“Shiiiiiine bright like a diamond.”  Head-bop, head-bop.

I glared at First Daughter, who was plugged in to an mp3 player, while typing away on her netbook.  Theoretically, homework was involved.  I took a deep breath.  Didn’t work.  Took another.  My glare melted somewhat into admiration.  I don’t know if I’ve written about it before, but First Daughter really is quite beautiful.  She was wearing her leather jacket, and looking ultra cool.   Watching her grow into this lovely lady has been such an awesome experience.  She has her own tastes in music, clothes, and that’s fine.  Her glossy dark hair was pulled back from her face, showing off her perfect dark skin –



Nonplussed, First Daughter looked up from her computer and replied “Music is awesome, it helps me THINK!  She went back to head-bopping and typing away, while I started growing a gray-cloud lightning-storm above her head.

Husband entered the room muttering about “Real music”, and “Paul Simon knows diamonds,” before exiting the other side of the room.

We’re still recovering from the remnants of a nasty ice storm up here on Hallelujah Mountain.  It started off beautifully.  An inch of snow fell overnight, and therefore, school was cancelled since the roads were closed.    We don’t have snow plows here in Israel.  Or maybe we do have snow plows but they forget how to operate them each year.  Anyway, the girls bundled up and made snow angels.  Hot tea was made, warm baths were drawn… it was such a fairy-tale experience that I was actually humming “Tender Shepard” from Peter Pan.  And then the power went out.

Israeli homes are not insulated (on purpose, it helps keep them cool in the summer), and it was a few days of frozen hell.    Despite trying hard to make it work, we were snapping at each other, taking turns tantruming, and panicking as we began to see our breath inside.  Clearing the snow from the stairs to our apartment involved a hammer, a rake and a soup ladle.  No one here had ice scrapers or snow shovels. They must be stored with the snow plows.

As there was no electricity, there was no television. Tensions were soaring.  No phone, no internet, but the big crisis was the non-functioning tv set.  I don’t think ordinary families appreciate how important the television is to an ADHD family.    Television soothes the marathon brain.  It should be covered by health insurance.  We managed to finally escape down the mountain to a bed and breakfast, that thankfully had a large flat screen television.  Snuggled in bed, we let the television drone on and we felt relief.

Once the power was restored, it took a full 18 hours for the house to get reasonably warm again.  A full 48 hours after that to get our boiler working.  We’re still bundling up in multiple layers, chilled from the memory, rather than our current situation.  The puppy has taken to hogging the floor heater.  Really, we should probably start trying to get back to normal.  At least our version of normal.

We can’t be better in times of stress, no matter what the cause.  We can hold each other once the storm passes, and offer apologies.  Love and hugs, kisses and giggles.  Of course, the kids are asking when the next snow fall will happen.  They can’t wait for a repeat performance.  Isn’t that exactly what all parents want to hear – that children only keep the happy memories?

Despite the ice storm, and despite the fact that Rihanna unfortunately is still releasing music, life is pretty good up here on Hallelujah Mountain.  Sure there’s too much noise and chaos.  And yelling.  And be-bopping.  And phone calls from teachers.  And notes from teachers.  And praise from teachers: “Really, your First Daughter is so smart, does it really matter if we implement the IEP recommendations?”  And doctor’s appointments.  And birthday celebrations.  Second Daughter and Third Daughter have begun sewing projects.  First Daughter has started keeping a diary, in English.

As long as you can hide under the covers every once in a while – who wouldn’t want a life like this?



“You are sooo getting spayed!!!” I screeched at the puppy (now a officially a dog) who had assumed an extremely inappropriate position involving my leg.

“Ooh, eema, she’s hugging you,” said Second Daughter.

“THAT’S NOT A HUG!” I shout back.

“Why?” asked Second Daughter.  “Why is that not a hug?” said her sweet innocent voice.

“Nothing, never mind.” I snapped.  We’re a religious family, and we don’t talk about these things.  Actually, it’s more that we spend most of our time in complete denial, assuming that these kind of conversations will only appear at pre-scheduled times, with the comfort of holy texts and authorities on hand to actually convey the message.  An absolutely ridiculous approach, one that I’m ashamed I ever supported.  Our whole community should be ashamed, and most of us are, as newspaper articles continue to expose instances where minors where sexually abused, and where community authorities worried more about how to hide the problem, than how to solve the problem.

But how do you draw the line?  Where do you start? We’re all walking around with our heads hanging, but no one has any idea of how to actually effect change.

And in our family, what we talk about and how we talk about it, is never planned.  We all react:  One person screams, which causes the other person to scream, which causes the other person to cry.  One person gets over the anger, and another is still reeling, even hours later.

“Eema, why are you angry?  Do you not like hugs?” asks Second Daughter, so innocently.  She’s always like that.  Everyone in this house yells back and forth at each other, and none of the anger ever seems to stick to Second Daughter.  She is such a delight, such a comfort, and I’m so frightened about what it’s like for her growing up in a house like ours.  Second Daughter deserves a stay-at-home mom, warm oven-baked bread… and other touchy-feely stuff.

My parents have always insisted that I’m a terrible mother, and that my children are harmed just by my being present in their lives.  They believe that the ADHD diagnosis is just an excuse to cover up for my abysmal parenting skills.   Good parenting, in their opinion, involves expensive clothes, the latest toys (or else the child is deprived) and a large home in America.  Most of the time, I ignore their judgments, and I am incredibly grateful for the different life that we are leading.  But there are other times,  even happy times, when their barbs come back to haunt me, and I get concerned that we aren’t making the right kind of home for our kids.

We’re doing the best we can, and I do know that the outbursts of anger are also matched by the outpouring of love.  At least we have that, if not ongoing serenity.  I hope that when they become adults, if they recall and judge the chaos, at least they also remember the fierce hugs and declarations of affection.

I take every ounce of strength I have, sit down across from Second Daughter, and focus on her.  “I love you,” I start.  “And I’m sorry for yelling,” I add.  I then launch into an explanation of why puppy dogs shouldn’t be allowed to hug legs, where new-born puppies come from, and how an operation is in the dog’s future.



“WAHHHHH,” yells First Daughter, “I don’t even know what a turn-up truck is!!  EEEEEEMAAAAAAA!!!”and starts off yet another melt-down.  Although perhaps the meltdown started earlier when First Daughter started peppering us with questions that made absolutely no sense, resulting in the argument where my husband felt a need to declare his aversion to root vegetables.  Or maybe it’s all the school’s fault, with First Daughter being confined to a hard chair for too many hours.  The experts say that triggers should be identified and dealt with.  Maybe it was the Cocoa Pebbles for breakfast.  I must write a complaint letter to Post.

“First Daughter,” I tried to start, “Sometimes-”

“IT’S NOT FAIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! WHY IS EVERYONE ALWAYS YELLING AT ME?! WAHHHH!!” and she’s off to her room.  We live in a small apartment (though quite nice by Israeli standards).  Her screams were heard throughout the entire place, and probably down the block, for the next hour and a half.  What are you supposed to do during a melt-down anyway?  We usually wait until the child has returned to reason, and then have the conversation about what could be better in the future.  Which is a bit of a silly conversation, in my opinion, since First Daughter has no control over the outbursts anyway.  Telling her to do better in the future is a hollow line.  She wants to do better in her future, she really does.  And when the house is quiet and I can think clearly, I can appreciate everything she is.  Her beautiful determination, her brilliance, her joyfulness.

There have been a lot of these meltdowns lately, much more than we can endure.  And the school phone calls are increasing.  I think I need to find a better neurologist…


Third Daughter will not be outdone.  She is a fierce little warrior, who thinks if everyone screams, she gets to scream too.  Second Daughter prefers not to participate when First Daughter goads her, but Third Daughter will battle.  Third Daughter will talk back, and her words aren’t the best in English, but she has a lot of them.

“THIRD DAUGHTER TOUCHED MY STUFF!!!” shouts First Daughter.

We groan, and hope we can hide from this request for parental attention.  Really, who cares if stuff is touched?

“Owie,” cries Third Daughter, as she bursts into tears.  Now we have to interfere.  Maybe if we had done something earlier, Third Daughter wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

I pick up Third Daughter in my arms and run to my bedroom, leaving First Daughter in the front room with her Father yelling at her not to hit her sister.  Third Daughter isn’t really injured, but no one should be expected to shake-off a slap.  Why does she have to aggravate her older sister anyway, doesn’t she know how fragile she is?  Probably not.  She probably only understands how fragile she is, just at almost-six-years old, and not allowed to touch things that interest her.  It’s not fair.


And throughout these past several months, Fourth Daughter has been making me incredibly sick.  Throwing up each morning, blood-pressure drops, bouts of flu without the aid of decongestants.  There were days when all I could do was lie in bed, not having enough strength to give my kids a clean home.  And the perfection dreams are returning:  For the large nursery with flowing curtains, rocking chairs and bumper pads:  Serenity.  Which is not us, and never will be us.

Even now, when she’s wiggling in my tummy as I type, Fourth Daughter is insisting she’s also going to be a force to be reckoned with.

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