We don't need no education....

Since making Aliyah two years ago, I’ve faced constant challenges. But none more so than the Israeli education system.

Clever people make Aliyah when they are single and carefree. Or as newlyweds with babies. Or when they are older and retired and finally breathing a sigh of relief at being kid-free.

Not so clever people make Aliyah with three teenage children.

Those people. Are. Nuts.

And it appears that Husband and I are Those People.

Parenting three kids in a new country who feel, ‘you have ruined their lives’ and ‘are never speaking to you again’, has been tricky. And whilst attempting to educate them via the Israeli school system, I have found myself Totally. Lost.

Whilst I wasn’t a SuperMom in the UK (I’ve never even met one), I definitely had the semblance of control. I knew what school each child attended, I knew what time they started and finished and I knew what colour school uniform I had to buy.

I picked them up on time (unless I was engrossed in Netflix, and then they had to wait), signed homework diaries with a flourish, was a professional Class Representative, sometimes even remembered it was ‘dress up day’ (Ugh). And vitally, never once received a phone call from a teacher to ‘come in and have a chat’.

But then I made Aliyah. And any control I thought I had, disappeared immediately, out of the oval shaped window on the El Al plane.

In Israel, I struggle to tell people what grade my kids are in. Is it Yud Aleph? Kita Vav? Where are they supposed to be? And when? Where is the front gate? Is there a uniform? When is parents’ evening? Am I supposed to go? What time do they finish?

It transpired that each day was different. None of this organized ‘the whole school starts at 8 and finishes at 4’ malarkey that I was used to. That would be too easy. Sometimes they started at 8am, but this could change to 7.30am, and you might find out at 7.25am. On a Monday they finished at 1pm, but the following Monday it could be 2.14pm.

I finally acquired their timetables (it would have been easier to have bought drugs) but they were in Hebrew, (apparently that’s the language they use here). Thankfully, I’m no fool – ex Professional Class Rep - and I succeeded in producing masterpieces that I translated into English (Matematica = Maths. Simples when you know how).

I stuck them on my fridge, used yellow highlighters and sticky gold stars for important moments and was ready to be an Israeli parent.

But they didn’t stick to their timetables. They appeared home at all times, sometimes even an hour after they had left. Their excuses varied from ‘lesson cancelled’, ‘teacher had a baby,’ (in the class?) to ‘Mum, I already told you, we only have sports every other month, and only if it contains the letter W.’

Obviously, I knew that one of the prime responsibilities of a parent is to get your kids to school. But I was confused. I tried phoning the school. Sounds easy. But after numerous attempts at battling an Israeli answer machine, there are only so many times you can angrily press ‘shalosh’ before your number is barred as an alleged phone stalker. 

But I wouldn’t be put off. I had managed to acquire the mobile phone number of one of the teachers (I think it was through one of my drug contacts). So I whatsapped her in my best Ivrit enquiring ‘bevakasha, lama lo my kid not b’school?’

It transpired that if a child wanted to leave school premises during the day – they could. They just sort of – left. If they didn’t want to go to a lesson – they didn’t. No one seemed to stop them. I was not used to this. In the UK, there was a stern chap who prevented this from happening. I think he was the Headmaster. But in Israel the kids sort of arrived and left willy-nilly.

I gathered over time that their non-attendance was actually marked down, and parents were notified of their child’s ‘bunking’ at the bi-annual parents’ evening.

I had actually received the whatsapp notification about parents evening, and wasn’t fazed that it was in Hebrew, as I had recently discovered my ‘new best friend’ - Google Translate.

I confidently entered the message, dizzy with happiness that I finally had the tools to parent the Israeli way. Once I had entered the text, Google came up with, ‘The school invites you to meet the new dog, situated in the arena at the end of the lake. It will be chilly at the time of 8.15pm’.

As I didn't really fancy meeting the school’s new dog (I’m not a huge animal lover), or being chilly (sunny is my preferred weather), and I’m usually in bed by 8pm - I hadn’t gone.

This meant I had no idea that the kids were being rather naughty. But once I did know, I put down my best parenting foot and made them attend school on a daily basis.

But obviously only when the calendar month had a ‘W’ in it.

Israeli Barmitzvah - easy peasy

I have a confession to make. 

I'm not great at making a simcha.

You'd imagine I was an expert after two, but then we made aliyah and making the third in Israel was a somewhat different experience.

In the UK, I book my venue two years in advance. I discuss available parking facilities, the size of the dance floor and whether my family would have cause to complain about the toilets.

In Israel, about six weeks before the event, I sit bolt upright in the middle of the night, and yell at my husband: "Why haven't we got a venue? What's wrong with you?"

The next day, I google "popular barmitzvah venues in Israel", go to the first one I find (which happens to be a beach) and book it.

All my guests get lost on the way to the party

In the UK, I am offered a food tasting by my chosen caterer. I attempt to take as many members of my family as possible in order to avoid cooking that night. We discuss the moistness of the chicken, whether we need chocolate with every course and if we should have the lemon soufflé for dessert, as the Goldbergs served it in 2007, and God forbid they should think we were copying them.

In Israel, I book Moishe, the caterer everyone uses. I call him four weeks before the party to discuss the menu. He struggles to remember whether he has my booking. "SHOOOO-GARR-MAN?? I'm not remembering you." I panic slightly. "When is the party that you are having?" I tell him. "Ah, OK. It's not this week? So why you phone me now? I speak with you two days before party and the menu we discuss."

Two days before the party he tells me we are having a barbeque with Israeli salad and chips followed by halva and burekas. Sounds good.

In the UK the photographer shows me beautiful examples of his previous work, I tell him I like the "modern" look and would like the photos to be "contemporary" and not "too staged". He arrives at the venue an hour before the party so he can take some candid shots of the family.

In Israel, I recall someone telling me about a photographer they once used who is cheaper than the others and I book him. We meet on the day. I point out the barmitzvah boy and ask him to take a few shots.

In the UK, everyone plans their outfit six months in advance just in case anyone should turn up in the same frock. Enquiries are made about the shul's dress code etiquette. Are open toes appropriate? Will the rabbi's wife shoot daggers at anyone not wearing a hat? How short can a sleeve be before it is deemed inappropriate?

In the UK I google: "Plus-size dresses for middle-aged women that cover the arms, the knees, fat back and have the ability to make your boobs look three times smaller". This is the only time I forgo my beloved Primark - and only because I know my mum will go mad if I don't wear "something decent for a change." I find the perfect outfit in Tesco, tell my Mum I bought it in a fab-u-lous boutique in Notting Hill, and she says she can "really tell the difference when I don't wear those awful cheap shmutters."

In Israel, it's far too hot to think about anything except not sweating too much, so dress code for parties is shorts, t-shirts and sun-dresses.

In the UK, I provide guests with a map of the venue, instruct everyone to avoid the road works on the A41, and to leave "at least an extra half an hour" for parking. Everyone gets there on time, looking fresh and elegant. I have a pre-simchah cocktail and greet my guests looking relaxed.

In Israel, I email guests with a printable map, a WAZE link, and send out Whats App messages with further instructions and photos of the venue. I feel confident I have done all in my power to get my guests there efficiently. Everyone ends up lost on a petrol garage forecourt, looking confused. It turns out the WAZE link wasn't quite right.

I arrive at my simcha five minutes before it is due to start, (I used the same WAZE link and also got lost). I am sweating and red-faced, have no time to go to the toilet or get a drink. I spend the first two hours of the party apologising profusely to each individual guest for the mishap, and offering to reimburse them the extra 100 shekels of petrol they have used driving along dirt tracks in the middle of a kibbutz. They assure me it's no problem. It gave them a chance to catch up with their beloved family in the car. They managed to have quality time singing songs and hearing about what their teenagers had been up to that week.

You feel relieved, until you overhear them whispering angrily to each other near the buffet table. "I wish you'd listen to me next time we go somewhere, I told you it was left. Why on earth did we have to come to another Sugarman simchah? They're so disorganised!"

I'm relieved I've finished making simchas - for now.

My boys thin small Israeli Barmitzvah

http://www.thejc.com/comment-and-debate/comment/165021/my-boys-small-thin-israeli-barmitzvah

I don't advise breaking your leg

I have a confession to make…

I broke my leg.

Breaking your leg in Israel, 18 months after making Aliyah, when your only form of communication is hand signals, is totally inadvisable.

I wasn’t even doing anything exciting. No sky diving daredevil style for me. No. I was actually getting out the car. It’s not difficult. Honest. I’ve done it loads of times before. But this time, I lost my balance, sort of wobbled, and frantically tried to grab something to hold onto. But there was only air, and I discovered that air doesn’t really hold you up. I heard a snap and fell on the floor.

My husband’s head appeared from behind the car. He didn’t find it strange to see me lying in the road. (I’m often to be found lying down - it’s a favourite position of mine - especially on a sofa). But he could see that my leg was a funny shape. And the fact that I was shouting ‘leg, hurting, could be broken’, might also have given the game away.

He cleverly deduced I wasn’t happy, so shot off to get help.

Whilst he was gone, a large truck appeared on the horizon (well, maybe not the ACTUAL horizon, but it was very sunny and my head was spinning a bit from the pain). It was headed my way. They saw I was in their path and rather than questioning why a large middle aged, sweaty lady would have chosen to position herself in the middle of a ROAD, they assumed I had chosen that particular spot to sunbathe.

They didn’t seem to appreciate the ‘weird twisted leg’ thing and decided to honk and shout. Very loudly. Lots of times. They assumed I wanted to be in the path of a 7 tonne vehicle.

I got a bit scared and tried to recall my judo rolls from when I was 11, but thankfully husband appeared shouting ‘Stop for Gawd’s sake, she’s decapitated!’ (Well I think that’s what he said, but the sun, the pain...I can’t be sure).

Once they realized I was not enjoying a picnic, they were a lot more helpful. By helpful, I mean, they stared unflinchingly whilst I offered my sincere apologies - I’m a Brit -politeness runs through my veins. They kindly turned a deaf ear to my screaming profanities of ‘gosh that hurts’ and ‘golly gee it’s painful’ - well, not quite that - but I don’t seem to be able to swear in print. (Although I am superb at it in person).  

Upon arrival at the hospital it appeared that I really couldn’t walk. My body is not as sculpted and toned as it once was (I think due to a fondness for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream), and I didn’t have the required muscular ability to hop, even whilst clinging on to Husband. A wheelchair was needed. Husband succeeded in finding one that had seen better days (it only had 3 wheels) and off we went to the emergency room where it transpired I had broken my leg ‘very well indeed’ and ‘in quite a unique way’.

I felt I should get a prize.  

My prize, it transpired, was a major operation. I would be out of action for 6 months. Euphoric thoughts sped through my mind - exactly how many episodes of Game of Thrones could I watch in 6 months? If I ate one tub of Ben & Jerry’s every day, how many flavours could I get through? How many packets of Cadburys Giant Buttons could I bribe friends to bring back from the UK?

But then reality set in.

On the first day, they told me I was having my operation later that afternoon and to fast in preparation. I’d done Yom Kippur. (Does a cup of tea really count?). I could do this. But by 2pm my sugar levels were dangerously low.

By 8pm, through a mixture of Russian, Arabic and Ivrit - none of which I am strong in - I discovered the doctor had left for the day.

Not good news. But I was cool. It would be tomorrow.

But it wasn’t tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow.  In the meantime I got myself into a little routine...

Lights went on at 5am. No clue why - none of the patients had a plane to catch. Wheel self down corridor to delightful communal shower. Dress self in attractive green pyjamas whilst balancing on one leg, (very useful skill), wheel self to nurses station, learn some Russian and Arabic swearing, get told I was definitely ‘next’ on the surgery list and therefore 'nil by mouth'..

Starve for 14 hours, get told I’m not next on the list but I'm still not allowed to eat, (this was very upsetting, I like to eat), get told I was definitely ‘next’ on list, learn that being wheeled down a ramp is fun, but being wheeled up a ramp is not, (well not for Husband doing the pushing), get told I wasn’t ‘next’ on the list, become an expert in stalking doctors to ask them about having my operation.

This carried on for ten days, until I somehow found myself parked in the Chief of Hospital’s Office, holding his very nice secretary as my hostage.

I didn’t have a weapon or anything (I’m not totally crazy), but my wheelchair became a useful tool for blocking any movement that she wished to make between her desk and the exit (I had become very nimble in my wheelchair). After 10 days of starvation, dehydration and a crash course in swearing in foreign languages, I was ready to rumble.

Husband and I explained the problem. I had been in hospital for a while now, and although we were very grateful for all the weirdly coloured jelly they had provided, it was apparent that when they told us I was ‘next’ on the list, they were lying, as I was still here and my leg was not fixed.

I was ready to be cut open and to go home please.

Hostage looked slightly ashen-faced as though she might be sick, but managed to call her boss and speak some rapid, garbled Hebrew.

She was breathing quite heavily by that point, so I couldn’t catch everything she said, but I think it involved words such as ‘meshugana’, ‘excellent at wheelchair manoeuvres’ and ‘I’m not paid enough for this’.

Chief of Hospital agreed with her recommendation that I should be permanently removed from the hospital, and I was promised my operation that very day.

Having binged on several episodes of Greys Anatomy, I was cheered up to realize that soon I would meet my dashing doctor who would spend hours with me discussing all the intricacies of my proposed surgery. Instead I was faced with a rather frazzled looking gentleman who spoke no English. My Russian was limited to swearing at angry nurses, so our communication stalled. But he was wearing green scrubs and carrying a clipboard, so I was certain he was good at his job.

My operation was finally booked.

Take my advice. If you ever find yourself in an Israeli hospital, just cut to the chase and take a hostage.

Where it all began..

The decision was made. We were making Aliyah. We had hummed and haa-ed for 20 years, should we, shouldn’t we? (We’re not the quickest decision makers). After extensive internet research and googling ‘Reasons to make Aliyah’, it boiled down to the following pros and cons;

Pros;

1.       Israel is very sunny. I like the sun. My Seasonal Affective Disorder would be greatly reduced.

2.    Israel is a big importer of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Ice cream is one of my favourite foods and it appears to be more acceptable to eat it when the sun is shining, rather than when it's raining.

Cons;

1.       Israeli chocolate is no match for Cadburys.

2.       Israel has no Tesco. Tesco is my favourite place.

3.       The television is in Hebrew. For a TV addict who doesn’t speak Hebrew, (that would be me), this is a problem.

But the weather in the UK was getting worse, (something to do with global warming), so we decided to go.

We heard that a town called Ra’anana was the best place to be if you had zero Hebrew knowledge, so we decided to live there. I hadn’t paid much attention at Cheder 35 years ago, and although our kids had attended Jewish schools, their Hebrew was limited to singing Anim Zemirot and reciting the Shema. If we were going to have any chance of a successful Aliyah, we thought it best not to mix with any Israelis at all for the first ten years, and stick with the Anglos.

Husband and I knew Aliyah was the right decision, but explaining to a 16 year old girl, and 14 and 11 year old boys, why we were moving to a country where we didn’t actually know anyone and where they spoke a foreign language was - tricky. Teenage Daughter immediately declared she ‘wasn’t coming’. She was moving in with her best friend, her life was ‘ruined’, and she was ‘never speaking to us again’.

So far, so good.

Middle Son was 100% on board. His one condition was he didn’t want to go to school ever again and wanted to spend his days surfing. He was 14 at the time, so attending school was a bit of an issue, but it appeared to be a deal breaker. It was at this point I made the best parental decision I could. I lied. It was the only way to get him on the plane. I assured him that of course he didn’t have to go to school ever again, not a problem. And I bought him a surf board.

Youngest Son was really looking forward to it, as long as all his friends could come too.

Packing day was fun. Teenage Daughter lay sobbing and clinging onto her mattress as it was physically dragged out of the house. We had sadly turned down her request to live with best friend, (turned out best friends parents weren’t totally on board). She continued with her lamentations -  ‘worst parents in the world’, ‘life was ruined’, ‘never speaking to us again’ - and the sobbing turned to wailing as she watched her stuff get packed into the Big Metal Box transporting our belongings across the sea. I politely enquired with the removal company whether Teenage Daughter could travel in Big Metal Box instead of flying with us, but apparently human beings weren’t allowed, due to some insurance problem or something.

We had four weeks until Departure Day living in a completely empty house. There was no TV (a major problem for me – see above - proper TV addict), nor was there any crockery or cooking utensils (not a major problem for me, cooking has never been my thing). So we passed the time discussing where Youngest Son’s friends were going to live (apparently they were all sleeping in his room), and watching Middle Son practice his newly discovered surfing skills down the stairs.  

D Day arrived. We made it to the airport in spite of having to manoeuvre 15 suitcases and three kids. Teenage Daughter was still wailing – ‘life ruined, worst parents, never speaking to us again…’, - so once we were on the plane and the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign had been turned off, we locked her in the toilet.

Old Blighty disappeared behind the horizon, and I had a moment of sudden panic that this was a one way flight. How was I getting home?  It took a moment before I realised I wasn’t actually going home, well not to the place I had called home for over 40 years. I was going to a new home.

I drifted off into a blissful reverie of sun, sea, sand, hummous and falafel.........until I was rudely awakened by the El Al air hostess roughly prodding my arm.

Her voice crept into my dream. ‘Mrs Sugarman? Mrs Sugarman? It’s your children.’

“Yes, yes, children, what? Did I forget them?’ (Had Big Metal Box people changed their mind and taken Teenage Daughter with them?)

‘Sorry to bother you, just a few things…could you remove your daughter from the toilet? Other passengers are waiting. Also, your son seems to think it’s OK to use the plane aisle for surfing. And get your youngest out the cockpit. He’s telling the pilot to go back. Apparently we left his friends behind.’

Hmmmm. Aliyah was going to be fun.

I'm not a great housewife

I have a confession to make..

I’m not a great housewife.

I’m sorry. I wish I was. Truly I do. In my fantasies I run an organised household, there are fresh flowers placed on the tables, the decor is tasteful and on trend, and everything is clean. No dust dare alight on my counter tops, and any visitors choosing to use my guest facilities will find everything they require for their bathroom needs. The fridge is full of appetizing but healthy snacks, and two delicious meals are prepared each day which provide for my family’s nutritional needs, but also tickle their taste buds. Breakfast they can do themselves for Gawds sake. I’m not a complete domestic goddess.

But that’s in my dreams. My house is not like that. Dust finds its way onto every surface. Three teenage children means that the bathroom is constantly covered in a colourful mixture of toothpaste, shower gel and razor foam and the toilets are, well, just not acceptable for visitors at a moments’ notice. My house is ‘tidy’. I am always putting things away (squashing them in a cupboard), the kids bedroom floors are cleared of ‘stuff’ and you can see the carpet for two days out of every seven, and on the surface all is well. You wouldn’t walk into my house and think ‘God Woman, what is WRONG with you?’, dry heave and pass out, but you might want to use the neighbours toilet instead of mine, and my kitchen floor won’t be gleaming like you see in those really annoying floor cleaner adverts. (I don’t think they use real people’s houses in those adverts).

In an ideal world I would have a cleaner, and a chef. I don’t think that’s too greedy. I know there are a lot of people that do have cleaners (chefs not so much, I’m not mates with the Beckhams), in fact – ahem - I used to have a cleaner myself before we made Aliyah. But unfortunately an increase in a liking (addiction) for Candy Crush and Netflix bingeing, has led to a subsequent decrease in what I used to do, which was, work. For money. Which ultimately paid for my cleaner.

Weirdly I married someone with a sense of morals, and Husband feels very strongly that if there is no paid work being done currently by me, then there can be no cleaner being paid currently by me. I sort of see his point. 

As Husband and kids are out of the house most of the time, (Husband thankfully has not succumbed to Candy Crush addiction and therefore still goes to work), I am left alone and it appears that as I am the only one here, the cleaning and laundry falls to me. 

I actually wouldn’t mind it so much if I could do it just once. I would pat myself on the back on a job well done and put the cleaning stuff away. Forever. And get back to lying on the couch. 

But the problem with cleaning is that it needs doing regularly. You finish, take off your Marigolds, and before you can say Cillit Bang, there’s a mark on the counter, or someone’s had the audacity to use the flippin’ toilet. Good God People. Can’t you hold it in? Or only use the toilet at other people’s houses?

So half an hour later, all my wiping and scrubbing is for nought, as before my eyes the sparkling sink is covered in food and my clean(ish) floor has footmarks . I count down the minutes, until I have to do it all over again.

Although Husband does not appear to have an addictive personality, (Lord knows how he – or anyone - can abstain from Candy Crush), he does have a mild case of OCD. Which means he likes things to be tidy. And clean. Or he’s not a happy bunny. So before he gets home I move (or hide) all the things that could be a trigger – could be last night’s dinner festering in the sink, or a huge bag of rubbish that he trips over as he walks in the door. (You see - they’re only small things).  

Ultimately, having a Husband that is tidier than me has an upside. Although I do the cleaning and washing, it’s never quite done to his standards. The collar of his shirt is still creased after I iron it, hung it up straight from the dryer, the toilet isn’t clean enough, even though I used bleach on it 20 minutes ago, the week before last. He wants it done better. But we both know that is not in my capabilities. I just don’t have the cleaning gene. So, after 20 years of marriage he has realised that the only way to get it done to his satisfaction - is to do it himself. 

I have to say this seems to be working out very well. He’s happy as his clothes are now wrinkle free and he is no longer mistaken for a homeless person - although we will miss the additional income from his street collection - and I’m happy as I’ve finally reached Level 1,049 in Candy Crush Saga.

It’s all good.