My Child’s First Hebrew Word

Number of Cockroach Sightings: 3

(2 baby escapees in the flat and the other dead in the yoghurt section of Supersol)

It’s not exactly rocket science.  I mean, what’s everyone’s first word here?

Bamba.  Obviously.

He randomly started asking for it  by name in the middle of Supersol, sounded very cute I have to say.  Husband very peed off as he can’t abide the smell of peanuts, so if I give them to Jojo then he has to be hosed down afterwards.  (I told him I had to put up with a lot more horrendous smells in pregnancy, and he will just have to cope).

I interviewed a lovely doula today, who took one look at me and asked when the baby had dropped.  I told her and she confirmed exactly what I was thinking, baby looks very low.  Slightly concerning as we have nowhere to live and haven’t unpacked our shipment (although thank goodness I packed a labour bag and some new baby essentials in our suitcases – just in case!)  Anyway my new plan of action is to eat loads and loads of food and lie on the on the sofa in a zen-like trance so that the baby decides there is no reason to move out just yet.

We were invited to a brit today, which we declined as we had plans (yes I know you are not supposed to do that but you are also not supposed to be “invited” in the first place)!  Anyway at the last minute our arrangements were cancelled so we called our rabbi-friend 15 minutes before it started and asked how to get there and what the dress code was for these things.  He told us shabbat clothes so I dug up a skirt, the boys got ready in minutes and we bummed a ride with him expecting a dingy hall, casually dressed Israeli with a few burekas and maybe some cake.

Never have I been so wrong in an assumption!

We walked into what looked like a wedding. Beautiful hall decked out all in white, smartly dressed Israelis (yes really!), a gorgeous reception, everything laid out for a proper dinner all centred round a beautiful GIANT throne like you have never seen.  Jojo and I headed straight for the sushi, husband for the meat counter.  I was introduced to the mother of the baby who had that amazingly calm demeanour that some Israeli women seem to have even during stressful times.  The mohel turned out to be the brother of the half-yemenite guy I met in shul.  About 6 foot 5, dressed in white from head to toe and generating the most marvellous atmosphere I have ever witnessed at a brit.  The singing was absolutely beautiful, and seemed to calm the gorgeous new baby, who lay there in a princely manner, enjoying copious amounts of wine (my son was only given crappy sugar water, poor sod).  They handed out hadasim (myrtle branches) to all and sundry, a custom I have never witnessed and the mohel gave the baby a very long sefardi-style blessing, wishing him success in life as far as his chupa.   Of course I started weeping as soon as the little baby did, what with the raging hormones.   Jojo was very excited pointing “baby! baby!” and I was relieved to see that it didn’t bring back his own experience or dredge up any kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.  Not so for the older men though, and although many were standing bravely near the action, I did see quite a few of them turn pale.

Anyway I got hold of the mohel’s card, just in case we need him (apparently he shlepps all over the country and only asks for what people can afford, a true mensch) although I didn’t get much chance to interview him.  He sat at our table and was quickly brought his meal and as he looked rather hungry I decided to leave him be, since in my experience it’s never a good idea to come between a man and his meat.  The food was truly wonderful, it seems that one gets a lot more for ones money in terms of cuisine, which is something we discovered when organising our wedding here, years ago.  The salads in this country are inspired, and people do amazingly creative things with aubergines.  Jojo ate like a king and after helping me with giant slab of chocolate-thing dessert decided to burn off his sugar rush by running and spinning all over the place and chasing a little girl about his size in a red-checked dress.  What a goer.