Two years ago I was walking home with the two of them on either side of me, and Sadie was animatedly telling me about Yannai’s talking progress at school. My son Yannai suffered from Selective Mutism (a speaking anxiety), and his friend Sadie had voluntarily teamed up with the school counselor to help him progress up a “talking ladder.” “…And our next step,” she explained with determination unseen in an eight-year-old, “is for Yannai to try and speak out loud to a group of five children on the

"You want to go where?" The travel agent's eyes slowly widened as his finger traced the map north, north, north … until the map ended and his finger was on the bare wall. The northern Ontario community I wanted to visit was not even on his map. I was no less surprised than him. I was an international student from Israel doing my PhD in Linguistics at the University of Toronto with a focus on Oji-Cree. Now the plan was to continue learning in Kingfisher Lake First Nation — despite maps that e

Thirteen years ago, I attended a welcome meeting for incoming students at the University of Toronto, where I was about to start my graduate studies in linguistics. The conversation turned toward Jews and Israel and kosher food. One of my future professors, an observant Jew, announced: “In Israel people don’t keep kosher very much because they think they are Jewish enough without it.” As the only Israeli in the room, I wasn’t sure how to react to that. Apart from the condescending undertones and

I’m watching Martin’s weekly private swimming lesson from the viewing area of the local pool. A girl of about the same age as him is swimming widths nearby, accompanied by her teacher. There is nothing unusual about the girl, but her presence suddenly disrupts the sense of normal that I’ve gotten used to. Every time she answers her teacher out loud, her voice rings like a bell standing out from the background noises of the pool, and I stare at the source of the sound in sheer amazement. I’m so u

I remember when I first felt like an outsider in Israel. It was several years ago, when I was with my then-3-year-old son in a south Jerusalem playground and another child approached him with a ball and asked: “Rotze lesachek iti?” (do you want to play with me). My son looked up briefly and then continued to play with his toy truck. I politely explained to the boy that Yannai didn’t speak Hebrew. The boy’s father and I made an awkward attempt to facilitate a wordless interaction between the kids

Figure out the length of the pause. That was my main challenge in the first couple of months. The pause between the moment somebody asked my son a question and the second I began to answer it for him. Wait too long and it could mean risking him unnecessary embarrassment (as well as putting the asker in an awkward position). Respond too soon and it might deny him the possibility to answer for himself, narrowing the chance that at some point I might hear his voice in social situations. One day my

I turn away from the kitchen counter and see a little person, my son, handing me a piece of paper and a pencil. I quickly wipe my hands off on my apron and take the paper and pencil. But then I remember what happened the last time, after a similar request, and try to cop out by telling the little guy that I don’t know how to draw dinosaurs. I have never drawn a Spinosaurus. So I take a deep breath and carefully outline a bear-like creature with a turtle shell on top, hoping he won’t notice. Bu

When we find out that the local primary school to which we are about to send our son is affiliated with a Christian Methodist church, we begin to worry what it will do to our child’s malnourished Jewish identity. The school has a friendly atmosphere, claims to be tolerant of all religions and views, and aims to raise kind, liberal and open-minded children. But still, the Christian aspect is inevitably there: in the daily worship and the weekly assembly in church, the reciting of prayers, the N

It’s embarrassing but it’s true that I’ve never managed to cross this item off, and I bet it’s true for the large majority of the population. And while it’s easy to feel ashamed about it, we have to remember that we’re fighting an uphill battle here. While we desperately want to take control of our tech habits, tech companies big and small are fighting over who gets more of our finite time and attention. And unlike us, they have highly effective systems in place to achieve their goal. This is wh

Motherhood has different stages. The early months and years are dominated by physical interaction: feeding, cuddling, carrying. At a certain point, however, this changes and new parenting skills are required: answering questions, playing games, negotiating. Tanya Slavin prefers the former phase; Christine Organ the latter. What about you? “Mom! You’re not listening!!!” My six-year-old pulls at my sleeve in frustration. He is right. I tuned out mid sentence, when he was telling me something abou

For many years, I had my own personal tradition that I would observe on Yom Kippur. The day before, I would go to the big supermarket in our neighborhood in Southern Jerusalem and buy myself a watermelon. On the morning of Yom Kippur, I would split the watermelon in half, and declare the official beginning of Watermelon Day. And for the entirety of Yom Kippur, I would eat that watermelon and only that watermelon, scooping it out with a spoon from its shell like from a giant bowl. For the years

“One… two… thrrr…” — He slams his tablet cover closed before I finish saying “three” and throws himself onto the floor, screaming. I sigh with exhaustion. We’re in the midst of another battle over screen time. This scenario repeats itself daily for many months: My 6-year-old son Martin reaches the end of his allotted screen time for the day but has trouble switching his tablet off, and after several attempts to get him off the device in a nicer way, I resort to angry counting. Like most parents

I wake up to a steady and dull thump-thump-thump outside. I look out of the window: grey sky and a heavy wall of rain. It’s Saturday morning. I breath a sigh of relief. I put my head back on the pillow, close my eyes and take in the comforting sound of pouring rain for a few more minutes. Saturday indoors? No pressure to get dressed, get organized, and go “do” things? The complete guilt-free permission to stay inside and let the day spontaneously unfold, guided only by our minute to minute desi

He went on that ride with his Dad. At first I was sure he wouldn’t go. I stood behind the fence and watched them get seated and strapped in, watched the guard lower the safety restraint on them for extra security. Oh how I hate roller coasters. I hate them precisely because you’re supposed to love them. Because every time I admit to myself that I hate them I get this nagging feeling of inadequacy in my stomach, as if some cheerful somebody is about to come over to me any moment, cheerfully grab

Soon it will be Yom Kippur. But I’ll probably be eating a scone with my morning tea as usual. I want to say: this year I won’t be fasting because my husband is away for a week and I’m already in a survival mode alone with two kids. Food is my sustenance and one of my comforts. I can’t afford to give it up right now. It feels good to say this. I imagine a small crowd of understanding non-Jewish individuals nodding their head in support and understanding as I explain to them, that THIS YEAR I’m no

Martin stands at the edge of a swimming pool, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, his whimpering becoming full blown crying the longer he stands there. I am waiting for him in the water, my arms invitingly outstretched, ready to help him in whenever he’s ready. I’m not pressuring him to go in, but the whole situation is: most of the other 4 year olds at this birthday party have been splashing happily in the water for a quite a while now, their happy babbling at stark contrast with his