Warning: TMI

For those of you who are sensitive to bodily functions, go find another blog to read today.

Nothing big, but after three years, 2 months, and 12 days of peace, Aunt Flo came to visit yesterday. I must say that it is quite the embuggerance. I smell like a slaughterhouse and feel like a neglected toddler whose diaper hasn’t been changed all day. And don’t get me started on the complementary migraine and my general level of tolerance for Other Human Beings (n/a). Fortunately I still have my shit together to the extent that I am not even remotely considering another baby to give myself another year and some of PMS-free living.

To celebrate my Mom’s birthday, we all went to the Dead Sea area for some history and nature (and A LOT of driving with a toddler in potty-training). On Friday we went up to Massada. Now, having been a backpacking-happy teenager and whatnot, I had already been there on at least 5 different occasions in the past, had gone up and down the mountain in every possible direction, and had toured every nook and cranny of the site, even the less visited cisterns and Roman encampments. And yet, this time it was completely different. First of all this was my first time going up the cable car, which made me feel ever so geriatric. But that’s beside the point. At the risk of sounding terribly cheesy, motherhood gave me an entirely different perspective on the story and made it incredibly real to me. For the first time, more than the beautiful view, impressive architecture, or fabulous air up there, I just felt like I was walking among the dead. The weight of the human tragedy which is supposed to have occurred there was almost too much. I was struck by a powerful sense of Jewish heritage, binding me to this place, drawing a straight line between what had happened here nearly 2000 years ago, cutting through the present, and the future. Our future, as a people on our Earth.

I won’t go into all of it because it is both exhausting and depressing, but that where I was on Friday.

On a more cheerful note, Neta seems to have finally got the point of potty training. So yeah, we had to stop about every ten minutes on the road for her to try to go, mostly without success, and now every time she’s on the potty she makes me sing my hip-hop rendition of “Go Neta! Go Neta! You can do it! It’s your pee-pee!” complete with dance moves and all that. And nothing in the world can beat seeing how proud she is of herself with every success. She is just pure joy.

Here’s to a good week, and Merry Christmas to whoever wants it.

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