ImmigRANT Mama

 My son just turned three.

Three is big. Three collects rocks, and insists on sleeping in his Spider Man costume.  Three rides a shiny blue bike, and sings songs about snails at the top of his lungs. Three plays in the mud and kicks his soccer ball on the big lawn and sleeps with a Princess Tiana doll. Three likes stickers and pens and drawing on paper and coloring outside the lines.

Three likes birthday parties.

So much so, that three hada four birthday parties.

One with his Aba.

And two with his Mama.

And today, oh, today. The preschool party.

With balloons.  And streamers. And a special birthday chair. And a cape. And a crown. And both his parents.In the same room.

It’s a production, these preschool parties. Music, and lights, and a sparkling candle that looks like something a Hamas terrorist would love to get his hands on.

“And make sure you bring cake that’s without dairy,” the teacher reminded me each day for a week.  ”Make sure it has candles on it.”

Immigrant mama, get it right. You’re in Israel now, biotch. This is how shit’s done here.  I’ll call you seven times and say it ve-r-r-r-r-r-y sl-oooooooow-ly because you won’t get it otherwise. And then, even when you say you get it, I’ll call your ex husband and tell him I don’t think you understood.

(But I did. Oh, but I did.)

Nearly two years ago, I had my first nervous breakdown in an Israeli supermarket when I tried to buy ingredients for my daughter’s birthday party. But not this time.

This time, I bought the cake in the store, and covered it with cheerful red strawberries and candles shaped like soccer balls.

“Are you sure it’s without dairy?” the teacher asked me again when I brought it.

I pulled out the wrapper. Booyeah: Parve, biotch.  

“Oh, you didn’t make it?”

Immigrant mama, get it right. You’re in Israel now, you stupid girl. Mothers who love their children bake the cake. From scratch. Sprinkled with love and happiness and unrefined flour.

Immigrant mama, it’s never enough. Even with strawberries and soccer ball candles, it is never enough.

We’re that family. Ragtag and a little frayed. But the kids are alright.

The party was a pageant. I shit you not, I swear the teacher probably spent two days rehearsing with the kids. Either that, or they’re Stepford Babies who get off on goosestepping around the room.

(I’m actually not sure which option I’d prefer.)

Everything. Had. To. Be. Just. So.

Even at the expense of a certain immigrant mama’s feelings.

“No, you don’t sit next to him. I sit next to him,” the teacher said.

“No, you don’t get to lift him up when you’re dancing with him. You have to follow the steps I tell you to follow,” the teacher said.

“No, you don’t get to lift your son up on the chair. His father and I will do that,” the teacher said.

Aw hell no.

Except, aw hell yeah. She DID just say that.

Lady, I’ll make a deal with you. You blow out your vagina pushing my son out, then by all means, feel free to sit next to him. You survive 22 – 22!!! – cases of mastitis breastfeeding this ravenous little beast, then sure, go ahead. dance however you wanna dance with him.  You lose sleep over him – both when you’re with him and when you’re apart, then be my guest: Lift him in the goddamn chair.

But I didn’t say that because my Hebrew isn’t good enough. Instead, I stood to the side, arranged the Spider Man napkins,  and took pictures. An outsider at my son’s birthday.