During a work outing several years ago, my colleagues and I were given an opportunity to make ocarinas out of clay. While the others created instruments that looked like delightful sea creatures, dragons and other fictitious members of the animal kingdom, I suspiciously stared down at my lump of clay without coming up with a single idea. In the end, I created a simple, goofy smiley face on one side, and on the other, I wrote “My talents lie elsewhere”, since when it comes to envisioning and creating my own piece of artwork, I’m utterly and unapologetically hopeless.
That’s not to say that I don’t love art however, for I do – it often brings me great joy. I can, quite happily, spend hours wandering aimlessly through art exhibitions and galleries, and the genre of naïve art (discovered after I visited a naïve art gallery in Tel Aviv for an article I was writing) seems to reach into my soul and make my heart race with emotion. It touches me in ways that I simply cannot describe. I love the colors, the detailed intricacies woven into every scene that invite me to stop in my tracks and stare in open-mouthed wonder…
And now I’m going to let you in on a little secret. (more…)by Liza Rosenberg
The little boy – he’s six today; oh how the time does fly
The days that pass so quickly; the months that just rush by
Even now, I gaze in awe, unable to believe
The little boy in front of me, tugging at my sleeve
I take him in my arms, this little boy of mine
As I pull him close, his eyes begin to shine
A swirling of emotions; they take me by surprise
Overcome by love, and tears that prick my eyes
Less than seven years ago, we thought the dream had died
We thought we’d reached a journey’s end and God knows how we tried
But then somehow against all odds we managed to succeed
And suddenly “we two”, had turned into “we three”
To say my heart would burst – it sounds like a cliché
Mere words seem so inept for what I want to say
A thousand dreams could not foretell the love I’d find within
A thousand lights would pale, if held against your grin
And so my little boy, I wish the world for you
Your every heart’s desire, your every dream come true
And all I ask of you, my child, is hold me in your heart
Whenever we’re together; whenever we’re apart
Little One: Mommy, do you want shushi?
Little One: Shusi?
Little One: Susi?
Little One: Sushi. Ok. Mommy, do you want shushi?by Liza Rosenberg
The Little One and I are in the swimming pool, and he is holding onto me. Suddenly, he reaches out, pulls at the top part of my bathing suit and peers inside.
“Little One,” I said, removing his hand from the striped fabric. “You can’t do that. There are other people around.”
“But Mommy,” he said innocently. ” I just wanted to look inside…”
And then he grinned.by Liza Rosenberg
My son the observer
“Look, Mommy. Bubble crap.”
“Ummm, no sweetie. That would be bubble wrap.”
My son the language specialist
“Mommy, do you want me to sing the Ben 10 song in English or Hebrew?” my son asked.
“In English,” I replied. “You know I always like it when you use your English.”
He quickly hums the opening instrumentals, and with great gusto, launches into the lyrics. “A cytoquada aliens…”
I looked at him with a bemused smile and said gently, “I’m not sure that’s right, sweetie. I don’t think ‘cytoquada’ is a real word.”
“Yes it is,” he retorted.
“It’s not, sweetie. I’m sorry.”
Rather defiantly now, “it is, Mommy!”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Okay,” I responded, sighing in defeat.
He starts from the beginning. “A cytoquada aliens…”
My son the sound technician
Snuggled up against me on the couch, the Little One picks up his head and asks, “Mommy, is your tummy rumbling?”
“I don’t think so, sweetie. Why do you ask?”
“I heard something through your nipple.”by Liza Rosenberg
The celebrations began two days ago with a field trip. As the Little One’s birthday falls on Shavuot this year (which begins today), we opted for an alternative sort of birthday party, taking his entire pre-school to the Old Courtyard at Kibbutz Ein Shemer. The kids harvested wheat, made flour (a very practical skill, no doubt), went for a tractor ride to the fields, and made rolls, and because it was the Little One’s birthday party (kudos to me for creating an invitation that included both wheat stalks and Ben 10 – the current object of my son’s affections), he was the star, always chosen to help with tasks and demonstrations. And, during the course of this wonderful, magical morning, there was one moment that stood out above all others, one moment when I knew with absolute certainty that this was my son. The look of pure joy on his face as the baby calf suckled away on his fingers left no room for doubt that my boy was just like me.
I’ve written a lot about the Little One here over the years, and in honor of his fifth birthday, I thought I’d share five of my favorite posts.
Last year’s birthday post for the Little One can be found here.
My original plan here was to post a clip of Danny Kaye singing his wonderful children’s song “I’m Five“, but hours of searching have proved fruitless. I did, however, manage to find a version of Robin singing it on the Muppet Show. The song begins at the 3:37 mark and is approximately one minute long.by Liza Rosenberg
Mommy: Little One, look at the television. Do you see that man? This is a very important moment that we’re watching. We’re watching history being made. Barack Obama is the first black president of the United States.
Little One: Mommy, do you know what a Mercedes is? I do…
Sigh…by Liza Rosenberg
Husband: No way, José!
Little One: Way!
Yet another notch on the American slang bedpost, my friends…by Liza Rosenberg
“Who’s that,” asked the Little One, as we sat in front of the television watching a story about the Kadima party on the evening news. “The Prime Minister,” I responded.
“I want him to die,” said the Little One, rather innocently.
The husband and I exchanged glances over our child’s head. The Little One’s only concrete knowledge of prime ministers revolves around the lessons in preschool about Yitzhak Rabin, whose assassination he learned about last month during the annual memorial. He’s also reached a stage where he’s curious about the concept of death and dying, and I can only surmise that a four year-old’s comprehension of a prime minister’s murder and his limited understanding of death resulted in that rather out-of-the-blue comment.
“That’s not a nice thing to say about someone, sweetie. We don’t want him to die. We just want him to go to jail,” I explained, making the husband smile.
“Okay, Mommy.” He thought for a moment. “Is he bad?” the Little One queried. “Yes, sweetie. I believe he is. He’s in trouble with the law, and the police are investigating.”
“What about him? Is he bad too?” I glanced at the television screen and saw that Tzachi Hanegbi was speaking. “Yes, sweetie. He’s in trouble too,” I responded.
“And him?” the Little One asked. Now we were watching Roni Bar-On. “Yes,” I sighed. “He’s also in trouble with the law.”
Just another day in the Israeli political arena. With politicians like these, is it any wonder that we can’t be bothered to summon up the energy to get excited about the upcoming elections?by Liza Rosenberg
Picture the setting, if you will. It’s late August, and a certain, medium-sized high-tech company is running an onsite day camp for the children of employees. The Little One is among the campers, and he’s the youngest of the bunch. Lunch starts early for the young campers, and their parents are asked to join them for the meal. I find myself sitting next to the Little One at the boys table, as the kids have taken it upon themselves to separate by gender. A colleague sits farther down the table with his two sons, both of whom, have befriended the Little One. We are discussing the virtues of various vegetables and the importance of drinking water, when the Little One decides to change the subject.
“When I was a baby, I bit my mommy when my teeth grew in. But only when I was drinking.”
Cue raucous laughter from all adults in the vicinity while various inquisitive campers ask questions that the Little One is happy to answer.
Better than his passing interest in gynecology, I suppose…by Liza Rosenberg