#MyFirst... Act Of Rebellion

Today I am starting a new Blogger Challenge.
Why?
Because all of us bloggers need ideas.
Because all of us readers want great content.
Because it will be FUN.
And because I really want to read what you guys have to write.
So.

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)

I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First (Insert Topic Here) on your blogs anytime during the week. If you have never done that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.

Then link to your piece in the comments below, or on my Facebook page.
Also tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.
 
 Ready? Let's begin.

Today's First is

MY FIRST ACT OF REBELLION

I was always a conservative child. I did the right thing and came home on time and studied for exams and wore my skirts at an appropriate length. (Then again, it was the 80's. We wore our skirts down to our mid calves. It wasn't fashion at its most provocative.)

I was anxious, and so I was careful to do the right thing; less, I suspect, from a sense of moral obligation, than from a sense of terror at what might happen if I didn't.

But one day it all changed. One day, I pushed through the wall of fear and embraced my inner rebel. And it was Good, I tell you.

It was very, very good.

I was in Year 11 at school, and I was hot, and bored. It was a Hebrew class. I didn't like Hebrew. I had no intention of moving to Israel and I didn't think that Hebrew would be particularly useful for my future career as an actress. But I went to a Jewish school, and Hebrew was compulsory right up until Year 12. Recently, however, the school had relented and agreed not to make us study Hebrew for one of our HSC subjects. We were, however, required to study Non-Hebrew - an absurd, non-assessable class for a couple of periods per week for those not taking the subject formally.

Well, you can imagine the motivation of the students in Non-Hebrew. A bunch of pubescent girls in short (okay, mid length) skirts, a bunch of pimply boys in short (okay, mid length) shorts, a teacher from Israel who could barely speak a word of English, and zero interest in the subject.

It wasn't pretty.

I kept talking to my friend D throughout the class (no doubt about Josh Goldenbum, who I had pined for unrequitedly for the past two years) when finally the poor teacher snapped.

Something in Hebrew! she cried. I didn't understand her. I didn't speak Hebrew. Still, even I could interpret the intonation, and I figured from her vigorous pointing at the door that she wanted D and I to exit the room.

We did.

But that was not the act of rebellion.

You see, as we stood in the corridor outside the classroom, I noticed a gap above the door - a space of about five inches between the top of the frame and the ceiling.

And an idea came to me. A horrible, brilliant idea.

"Let's get some paper," I told my friend D. Several lockers in the hallway were open, and we pulled various bits of paper out and began scrunching them into balls.

"Here goes!" I cried, and I lobbed the first ball over the door frame.

I heard a titter from inside the classroom. Adrenalin surged through my body. This is what it feels like to be bad, I thought. D and I threw ball after ball of paper over the door. The laughter grew stronger. The Hebrew teacher kept teaching.

And then suddenly, it came. The sweetest sound I had yet heard in my short life.

"BULLSEYE!!!"

I had hit the teacher on the head with one of my missiles.

It was a moment to cherish.

What happened after is irrelevant now. What matters is that I faced my inner demons and learned to be at one with my own darker urges.

For the record, though, I got put on detention. It was even more hot and boring than the stupid Hebrew class.

How To Have A Funeral

Today we farewelled my Nana Mim. She was 95.

Jews have very particular traditions regarding death and mourning. I'm not religious at all, but the structure that the Jewish law gives at times like this is incredibly comforting.

I'm fascinated by other people's customs when it comes to grieving. I have only been to a couple of non-Jewish funerals and found them to be very different to my own experience.

When a Jewish person dies, they are transported almost immediately to the Chevra Kaddisha, which is a central funeral home. All Jews use the Chevra Kaddisha. There is no need to pre-plan a funeral or find a funeral director because there is no alternative. All Jews are buried in the same way.

From the time the person dies, they are never left alone. A special volunteer known as a 'shomerim' (guard) stays with the body until it is buried. The body is cleaned in a special way, wrapped in a sheet, and placed in a plain coffin. This is because there is no distinction between rich and poor; everyone is equal in death.

Jewish people are buried very quickly, usually the next day. I find that this can be a bit sudden - there's not much time for people to arrange to come from interstate or overseas, and in an unexpected death mourners can still be in shock. However, the formal period of mourning ('Shiva') doesn't start until after the funeral, so in a sense the grieving doesn't even begin until after their loved one has been buried.

After the funeral family and friends generally congregate at the home of the principal mourner. That evening, and sometimes for several evenings, a 'Minyan' is held at the mourner's home. The rabbi attends and says a few prayers, a short eulogy may be delivered, and friends gather to pay their respects.

You can never offend anyone in mourning by saying the 'wrong thing'. However, if you are ever invited to a Jewish funeral, here are some guidelines:

• You don't send flowers to a Jewish funeral. We are Jews. You bring food to the mourner's house.
• When expressing your condolences, the traditional expression is to wish the mourner long life. "I wish you long life," you say. It is a reminder that life goes on, and that there will still be joy ahead for them in the future. 
• People generally do not drink at Minyans. We are Jews. We eat.
• It is traditional to cover mirrors during a period of mourning, so don't pull the sheets down.
• The mourners traditionally sit in low chairs. Don't offer them a pillow.
• You don't have to be Jewish to come to a Jewish funeral. You are welcome and wanted. Especially if you bring a plate.

Welcome To My Fridge

I have cupcakes. About seventeen thousand cupcakes. I tried to put them all in the fridge and freezer but they seem to be breeding, multiplying, spilling over into drawers and cupboards, turning up in the most unexpected of places. Bathrooms. The front garden. A little nook under my desk.

And it's not just cupcakes. I have sandwiches. Platters and platters and platters of them. The entire family will be able to eat sandwiches every day for a month, which is fabulous, except that the sandwiches are all chicken, and - having attempted to eat my way through a quarter of a platter today - I can tell you that chicken sandwiches get old very quickly. In every way.

The better news, of course, is that we also have boxes of Magnums - Mini-Magnums, to be precise, which are the perfect size for a treat, provided that you eat three of them at once. We also have scones, lemon tarts, and about seventeen kilos of chocolate cake, as well as litres and litres of soft drink, bottles of pink champagne, and several thousand sachets of herbal tea.

The cause of all of this largesse is my son's barmitzvah, which took place on Saturday. It was a small celebration held at home, but instead of catering for around sixty tiny little Jewish people, the caterers became confused and brought food for the 2012 Australasian Sumo Wrestling Awards (or some other sport which involves having a giant appetite for cupcakes, ice cream and lemon tarts).

Ironically, despite having bucketloads of sweet foods, I don't have any real food in the house - no fruit, no vegetables, no meat, no cheese. After all, I didn't have time to shop for a week before the barmitzvah, so busy was I with preparations and worrying about what to wear. But I'm not concerned, because we have about twenty five billion calories per cubic metre of fridge space, so we can derive all our energy from sugar for at least a year and a half. 

So if anyone wants a sweet treat please feel free to drop on by. I can offer you a variety of delicious options, washed down with a beverage of your choice.

Just don't expect any milk in your tea. But if you want pink champagne, we've got you covered.

Funny.

We laugh a lot at the House Of Sackville. Frequently we laugh because really funny things happen. Even more frequently we laugh because, well, if we didn't, we'd cry.

Here are three of my big laughs this week:

1. The Name

Gab The Tattooed Babysitter has been with us for a long time, and is now an integral part of our family. We decided that, as an Honorary Sackville, it was time for Gab to also become an Honorary Jew, which in turn meant that she would have to be given a Hebrew name. (Every Jewish person has a Hebrew name in addition to their regular name. Mine, for the record, is Devorah. Please do not speak of it.)

I Googled 'Hebrew Girl's names' to find a name suitable for my darling Gab. There was Gavrielle (too obvious), Jordana (too common) and Tova (means 'good' so not appropriate for my badass babysitter). None worked.

And then, there it was. The perfect name. It means 'Melody', which is delightful. Strangely, it is no longer very popular in Israel, but I can't for the life of me see why. The name is 'Mangina'. And from now on, that is what Gab shall be called.

2. The Glasses
As many of you will know, I recently got glasses for reading, because I am 150 years old and falling apart. The other night I kissed Boo goodnight, went upstairs to work, looked for my glasses, and realised I had lost them already. It had been five days. It was ridiculous. I couldn't believe it.

I stomped around, searching for them everywhere, getting angrier by the second. Under the bed, on my desk, in the kitchen, on my head... they were NOWHERE. The Architect arrived home and asked me what I was doing.

"Shut up," I said.

"I'll go kiss Boo goodnight," he replied.

Five minutes later he called, to my great irritation.

"Kerri, Boo isn't asleep yet, and she wants you to come down."

"I'm BUSY," I said. "I'm looking for my glasses."

"Just go down to her," he told me. "Find your glasses afterwards."

I glared at him (I don't need glasses to glare) and trudged down the stairs.

"What is it?" I asked Boo crossly, as I entered her room.

"Hello Mummy!" she said cheekily. And there she was, sitting up in bed, looking adorable.

Wearing my glasses.

3. The Truck Driver

As I was filling up my car with fuel, a huge, tattooed truckie was almost run down by a female driver as she was reversing.

The truckie starting yelling in rage, waving his tattooed fists and hurling abuse.

But what did he scream?

"You idiotic bitch"? "You dumb fuck"? "You careless, worthless ho"???

No.

"Stupidhead!" he cried with passion, and charged back to his truck.

It was a fine moment for profanities. And another magnificent day for me.

God, That Hurts

I don't publish pictures of my kids on my blog. Generally, this is for their own protection. Today, however, it is for mine.

This morning, three year old Boo looks like she's been in a war zone, and if the pictures were leaked, there would quite possibly be criminal investigations. And the whole thing happened in a House of God.

The family and I were in synagogue yesterday to witness the Batmitzvah of a close family friend. A Batmitzvah is the coming of age ceremony of a twelve year old Jewish girl, in which she addresses the congregation, and does not cause any injury to the three year old children who are there to celebrate with her. This, you see, is the job of the children's mothers.

At one point Boo wanted to stand on her (pull down) chair to better see what the Batmitzvah girl was doing. Being a completely irresponsible parent, I let her. The chair flipped into it's upwards position, and Boo sort of slid down the back feet first, leaving nothing but a blue-floral clad torso and a little blonde head peeping out.

She wasn't injured, so clearly I hadn't tried hard enough. I hauled her out, and she twisted her foot in the chair, causing minor pain but a rather loud squeal. Still, the recovery was quick and we returned our attention to the service.

Ten minutes later Boo needed to do a wee wee. Not a problem. I carefully lifted her out of her seat (no chair flipping for her again) and we walked to the loo. After she went to the toilet and washed her hands we went to leave the bathroom. Boo was right behind me as I went to open the heavy door. Except that she wasn't. She was right in front of me. And I opened the door directly onto her head. Hard. I'm telling you, I could hear the thump.

Boo howled in pain. I howled in remorse. We both stood and howled in the loo. Luckily, the congregants were by then singing a rousing song of praise to the lord, so no-one could hear us wail. Except for God, I assume. It was his house, after all.

Fifteen minutes later the festivities were over and we were walking back to our car. All was well, Boo had regained her cheer, and I had regained my composure. Which of course was unacceptable, so Boo fell flat on her face in the middle of the footpath and bashed up her forehead and  both of her knees. God knows we couldn't get away that easily.

Now, I'm not especially religious, and I'm starting to know why. Visiting the Lord is far too dangerous. From now on, I'm going to worship from a safe distance.

Me No More

After eleven years and ten months, I have finally lost my battle. My life has been completely hijacked and I have absolutely none left.

The kids have won.

Now, obviously my kids were supposed to take over my life. That is the nature of parenthood. As a mother, I was supposed to gracefully accept that my wishes and needs would forevermore come second to those of the small people in my care.
But still, there were things I did to protect myself from utter annihialation, to make sure that somewhere inside the Mum there remained a bit of ME; to enure that I retained my sanity when all around me were doing their absolute best to drain it away.

For this to occur, there were three Golden Necessities I had to maintain:

1. The kids had to be in bed at a decent hour so that I could get 30 minutes of child-free chore-free time before collapsing  unconscious on my pillow each night.

2. I had to have 15 minutes of peace each morning in which to eat my breakfast and read the paper to allow my brain (and sanity) to kick into gear before the long day ahead.

3. I needed to keep after school activities to a minimum - no more than two afternoons a week - to prevent a mad homework/dinner/bath rush every single afternoon.

And it worked. I stayed sane. Until now.

It began with bedtime. The older my son has got, the later he has gone to sleep (and damnit! he keeps getting older!). Now, at the age of eleven, he is rarely asleep before ten. This is absolutely fine, except that he insists on calling me into his room every five minutes to give me a detailed update on his failure to slumber. Which means no uninterrupted TV, no sex, and no relaxation for me until well after ten. I'm not so worried about the sex part, but the rest really bothers me.

The after school activities have also got completely out of hand. From just karate on a Monday and dance on a Friday, we suddenly have the addition of Barmitzvah* practice on a Tuesday, soccer training on Wednesday, debating Friday, softball Saturday and a soccer game Sunday. I am a slave to the diary. I am the Queen of Schlepping. And I HAVE NO LIFE.

Thankfully, though, I still have my precious fifteen minutes at the breakfast table every morning. I sit down with a nice steaming cup of WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I haven't had my special breakfast time since last year when Boo started creche and I actually had to feed and dress her before we left the house! I'm lucky if I get to gulp down a Berocca before 9am.
But it's fine. Really. All this racing around is no big deal. I may be a little flustered and short tempered, but I'm absolutely in control. And this twitch in my eye will pass any day now.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's 9.50pm and my son is calling me. And then I'd better go and have my coffee and eat my breakfast, because I sure as hell won't have time to do it in the morning.

*Barmitzvah - a coming of age ritual for the Jewish boy when he turns 13, in which he reads from the Bible in front of friends and family, and prays that his voice doesn't break in the middle of it.

Christmas.... From The Outside

So, as many of you know, I am experiencing Christmas from the outside. As opposed to most of you, who are experiencing Christmas from the inside. NOT that I'm implying that you're in jail, which is a different 'inside' to the one I'm referring to (er... not that there's anything wrong with being in jail (er... actually, there is)).

No, I'm talking about being Jewish at Christmas time, which is an interesting experience, given that most people in Australia are not.

Being Jewish at Christmas time is like waving everyone off to a huge annual party that you're not invited to. You've never been invited to this party, and really have no great interest in going, as you have your own annual party just a couple of weeks earlier*. Still, you do feel slightly wistful when you think about all the goodie bags everyone else is going to get, and wonder vaguely what a real Christmas turkey tastes like.

For those who don't know, Jews don't 'do' Christmas. Jews believe in the existence of Jesus, but do not recognise him as the son of God. So we do not celebrate Christmas, just as people outside the British colonies do not celebrate the Queen's birthday. It is just not relevant to us.

However, in this country, the irrelevance is irrelevant. Because here in Australia, Christmas is EVERYWHERE, and it does feel a little disenfranchising to be so obviously removed from the dominant culture (or, to use a slightly less technical term, it makes you feel kind of left out). This isn't such a big deal for me - I mean, most of my friends are Jewish and none of us celebrate Christmas - however it can be odd for the kids.

All three of my kids are bombarded with Christmas images in the media and in the shops. They are forever being asked what Santa is bringing them, and if they're excited about Christmas. My big kids are old enough to understand, and just smile politely, or say 'we don't celebrate Christmas'. Three year old Boo, on the other hand, has completely bought into the propaganda, asking frequently when Christmas is coming (er, soon) and if Santa is coming down the chimney (er, no). And she simply doesn't understand why we don't do Christmas when iCarly and the Simpsons and Spongebob Squarepants and Shrek and every other significant character in her life (okay, fictional character, but she doesn't quite differentiate at this stage) does.

Still, there are definite advantages to not celebrating Christmas. For a start, I don't have to buy presents for everyone I know, which I can only imagine is excruciatingly difficult and time-consuming and expensive, fraught with the potential for error and hurt feelings. Of course, I don't get presents either, but that's a pay off I can live with (except when I buy Chrissy presents for my non-Jewish friends as a mark of respect, and, as a mark of respect, they don't buy presents for me. In this situation, I'd rather disrespect.).

Furthermore, I imagine that it must be tremendously difficult for many of you to have the wonderful Christmas day that is expected, particularly for those of you from broken or blended families, or who have suffered the death of a loved one. As someone who has lost a family member, I'm kind of glad not to have another formal reminder of her absence.

So what do I actually do on Christmas day? Well, everyone is on holidays so it's a great time to get together with the people I love. When I was young, I used to go to Bondi Beach with a huge group of my Jewish friends, and hang out in the sun with the British backpackers while the rest of the country was inside eating ham. These days, I go to my parents' house on the coast with my husband and kids, and we have a barbeque lunch. There's no tree and there's no presents, but we do buy Christmas crackers because it's fun for the kids. And, whilst there's no turkey or ham or bizarro white desserts, my mum makes a brilliant fruitcake, which we devour with custard, simply because it's yum.

And there's my Christmas on the outside. So a very happy belated Chanukah to all my fellow outsiders (and a generic Season's Greetings to those of other (or no) faiths).

And to all of you celebrating Christmas from the inside, I hope your day is everything you wish for it to be, and you get all the presents you'd want for yourself (with maybe a couple of extras thrown in that you hadn't thought of).

Merry Christmas guys.

Love, Kerri

*Chanukah, the festival of lights, which admittedly isn't as big as Christmas, but also starts with a 'Ch'

The Pain Of The Unfulfilled Ox Seller

I went to a Jewish school, yet what I don’t know about religion could fill a (holy) book. For some reason, though, there are two pieces of Jewish law that have stuck with me over the years. One is the law that Jewish husbands are required to please their wives in bed (a fine reason to convert, if you ask me). The other is the law that shoppers must never ask the price of items that they have no intention of buying.

Both laws follow the same principle: it is wrong to get a person’s hopes up if they are not going to be fulfilled.

I try to be a good Jew – and I certainly encourage my husband to be one (in the bedroom)– but that law about shopping is impossible to keep. Thank god we Jews don't celebrate Christmas, because clearly, whoever wrote it didn’t bargain on the hard sell techniques of the 21st century.

Following the Jewish law of shopping is far more challenging today than it would have been two thousand years ago. In ancient times, if you didn’t want an ox, you simply wouldn’t visit the ox seller. You certainly wouldn’t have to worry about hurting the ox seller’s feelings. After all, if he didn’t sell his ox he’d just ride it himself, or eat it, or do whatever one did with oxen in those days.

But in today’s consumer society ox sellers are far more competitive. They have very sophisticated sales techniques. They approach you in shopping centres. They send you letters and emails. And they phone you late at night. From call centres in India.

Now, I can deal with unsolicited ox sellers if I don’t have to see them. I can rip up brochures, delete emails, even hang up on telemarketers (especially if they’re calling from India, where there’s a very small chance of running into them on the street).

But put me in front of a live ox seller and I crumble. I’m terrified of hurting their feelings. Even when I have no intention of buying their product, I have to listen to their entire spiel. Even when the product is completely ridiculous, I have to examine it with feigned interest, thank the salesperson for the information, then inform them with a look of pensive contemplation that I’ll ‘think about it’ before hurrying guiltily away.

It’s a real problem. Just the other day, for example, a quick trip to the chemist to buy face cream turned into a twenty minute ordeal, when I was approached by a sincere looking sales assistant wielding a menacing hand-held buffing device.

“That cream is no good,” she whispered confidentially. “What you want is the Home Facial Dermabrasion System.”

My heart sank. I really wanted my cream, but I didn’t want to insult the nice saleswoman. “No, I…” I stammered.

“Great!” she said brightly. “I’ll give you a demonstration!”

And so, with the flick of a switch, I was led into sin. I submitted as the poor, hopeful saleswoman took my left hand, buffed it vigorously with the device, then applied goo to make it soft. Then I meekly joined her in marvelling at the amazing silkiness and rosiness of my left hand, which in fact looked exactly the same as my right hand, only gooey. Then I asked her the price of the device - knowing full well I wasn’t going to buy it - before thanking her and telling her I’d definitely think it over.

My sin, however, did not go unpunished. I left the store without my face cream, and now I’m too embarrassed to go back. Still, it could have been much worse.

I could have left with an ox.

Wak Attack

There was an article in the paper today about Cassandra Parker, a mother of seven kids between the ages of 10 and two months, who home schools her entire clan.

Cassandra freaks me out. And her story reminds me of another family who freak me out - Haya and Zephaniah Waks, featured in a TV documentary a few years back.

The Waks, an orthodox Jewish couple from Melbourne, have raised 17 children. Both parents stay utterly serene at all times, and still manage to pray three times a day.

Compare them to me, who struggles with just three children, experiences motherhood as a constant, barely restrained state of crisis, and barely finds time to wash my face in the morning.

So what’s going on? Are orthodox children far easier to raise than other children (and I do suspect my son generates as much work as a dozen or so orthodox kids), or am I just hopelessly inadequate?

Haya, in between growing an entire community of people in her womb, also works as a wigmaker, and effortlessly prepares meals for 300 guests every time there’s a birthday or festival.

I, on the other hand, am still recuperating from giving birth 20 months ago (at least that’s what I tell my husband), get exhausted just thinking about what to wear to go shopping, and as for cooking, well, let’s just say that if the frankfurt hadn’t been invented, my kids would surely have starved.

Haya Waks looks impeccably groomed and attractive at all times. Now this really bewilders me. Firstly, how does she find the time to dress in the morning (I, mother of three, have been known to leave the house in my slippers)? Secondly, why have her kids left her looking so youthful and vibrant, when my three kids have stamped lines on my face and bags under my eyes (although that’s possibly just because I haven’t had time to wash my face in a decade)?

Thirdly, and most importantly, why does Haya allow herself to look so attractive all the time? If I was a mother of 17, I’d be doing my best to be as physically repugnant as possible – anything to keep my husband at bay and save myself from another pregnancy.

The Waks family can’t afford a nanny, but this doesn't pose a problem. They simply employ their own children, with each older child being responsible for a younger sibling.

Well, I tried that with my kids and it failed dismally. The only thing my son took responsibility for was to pinch his sister when I wasn’t looking, teach her to say ‘smelly bum bum’, and cut out big chunks of her hair with a pair of kitchen scissors.

Haya Waks believes that the role of the Jewish mother is to bring more Jewish souls into the world. (I agree with her. It's just that in my case, the souls have been brought into the world to test me.) And she is inspiring. So much so that when the documentary was over, my sixty-something mother sent me a text message announcing that she'd decided to have 15 more children.

I’m delighted. Truly. Better my mum than me. For one thing, I can’t be sure that my next children will eat frankfurts. For another thing, I’m still tired from giving birth.