I wrote a post on motzai Shabbos. I did. I know I did, because my husband read it over my shoulder and said, are you really sure you want to post that? Because it was about the hardest week we've had since we've been here--the fevers, the ruptured eardrums, the mean lady at Meuchedet, the miserable kids, the fun visit with Shanna that happened without me, what happened with the dining hall and why we can't really eat there anymore, and every other thing that went wrong, at intervals of five minutes or less, all last week.
Apparently, Blogger decided I really didn't want to post that, because it ate the post. It's not even saved in drafts. Just gone. I only realized when I sat down to post today.
So... I was going to post today about how things have gotten a little bit better, but since you don't know what happened all of last week that wouldn't make much sense. But when digging through my drafts folder I found a post I started writing about four years ago, and thought I might as well just post that instead.
Original title:
Do not read this post if you are my sister-in-law.
Don't read it, Sara.
Really. Don't. I'm going to talk all about how badly behaved your kids were and how we don't ever want you to come back. It won't be pretty. You'd better step away from the computer (careful though--don't step on the baby).
Why are you still reading when I told you not to read it?
Are you gone yet? Good.
(Isn't it nice to have such a cooperative family? I think so too.)
So, my sister-in-law and her family were here for Shabbos. Let's call them the Vintshelves. Barak loves the Vintshelves. He loves their kids. The oldest, Nephew #2, is almost six; they also have a four-year old (Niece #2) and a two-year-old (Niece #3) who is eleven days older than Barak. There's also the baby, otherwise known as (hang on a minute while I figure this out) Nephew #5, who just turned one. The Vintshelves live a goodly ways away; when we go there, we fly, but since the Vintshelves would need quite a few plane tickets to do this, they drive here in their very frum eight-seater minivan. We love it when they come; for a few days, there is lots of noise, lots of toys, lots of treats, lots of chaos, lots of staying up way too late schmoozing, lots of hanging out and feeling happy. I like it especially because, as I may have mentioned, my DSIL (Domestic Sister-in-Law, as distinct from my Israeli Sister-in-Law) is eerily like me in many ways. Barak likes it especially because of the toys, treats, and chaos part.
We expected them late on Thursday night. It's a long drive, and they usually pull in at around ten or eleven. I was running pretty well on schedule; the shopping was done, the house was clean, and both kids were in bed. I was in the process of taking out the trash, heading into the kitchen with an empty garbage bag in my hand, when I heard the doorbell ring. I thought it was one of our neighbors. It wasn't. I heard my husband calling me.
"Imma! Guess who's here!"
It was the Vintshelves, three happy kids and one hysterical wailing two-year-old who'd been awake the whole way until the last fifteen minutes. They all poured in with their stuff. And Barak wasn't quite asleep yet. There was nothing for it. I went into his room. "Barak," I whispered, "Come see who's here."
What's this?! Barak looked up at me with the face of a prisoner in the Bastille when told of a certain beheading. "Come out? Imma come out please!" I picked him up, red pajamas and all, and carried him into the kitchen on my hip. I really wish we'd had a video camera--his look of shock, bliss, and incredulity was not something you see every day. He started giggling, and they all started giggling, and I started making macaroni and cheese for everyone.
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Hmm. Why didn't I finish and post that? I don't know. I remember that evening and I even have pictures of it, which say it all--Barak in his high chair, the Vintshelves grinning with their mac and cheese (this was before the days of dairy allergies). Family is good. My ISIL is now my DSIL, and the SIL formerly known as my DSIL is now my CSIL (Canadian sister-in-law). Hopefully they'll join us here someday too; we miss them.
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Deb, a cartissia is a bus pass. You buy a pass with ten punches for an adult and 20 punches for a kid under 18; either of these punches also carries the right to bring one additional child 5 and older, but not an open stroller, which counts for an additional punch. I have a monthly pass, but there's no such thing as a monthly youth pass, so I buy cartissiot (plural of cartissia) for Barak.
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