Editor’s Note: City Dads Group blog contributor Gidon Ben-Zvi, a resident of Jerusalem, asked us to reprint this piece he originally wrote for The Algemeiner. “I think your readership would benefit from gaining a glimpse into the lives of average Israeli parents coping with difficult questions as war descends upon them,” he wrote in his note. We agree.

Teaching Your Children About War: An Israeli Father Struggles to Get It Right

It’s 3:36 a.m., on Tuesday, Oct. 10, 2023. I’m tossing and turning right now. Our little country is in a fight for its life. Yes, we’ll prevail. But the cost will be terribly high, almost unbearable.

We keep hearing fighter planes as they jet south. The Lebanon-based Iranian proxy, Hezbollah, is saber rattling. They have launched a couple of dozen rockets into northern Israel. In a skirmish just inside the Israeli border with Lebanon, three Israeli Defense Forces soldiers were killed in a battle with Palestinian Islamic Jihad terrorists.

The Israeli Air Force has started to hit terrorist targets in Lebanon and Syria, and is increasing its bombing runs over Gaza.

My wife and I continue to work, or at least go through the motions, at home. Our children are home as well since all schools have been closed since the Hamas invasion began.

To maintain some semblance of sanity, my wife and I continue to get in our morning jogs. In our neighborhood, folks continue to walk along the Louis Promenade, buses continue to run on Hanassi Boulevard, and street cleaners make their daily rounds. But people’s faces have gone pale, and no one seems to stay out for long.

For the sake of our children, we’re fighting not to be overcome with grief. To keep our children feeling safe, we’re trying our level best to explain what this war’s about. We tell them it’s OK to be nervous and scared. Yes, Hamas is out there. We remind them, however, that the fighter planes — and all those soldiers down south — will protect our little family and all of Israel’s families.

It’s a fine line, acknowledging to your kids the sheer evil that has been perpetrated while encouraging them to try and live through this longest, darkest of days with a sense of hope.

A good father’s job is to be a role model, to establish a set of values for his children to live their lives by. What values am I imparting to my kids right now? What lessons am I trying to teach them to make some kind of sense out of the greatest national tragedy to befall the Jewish people since the Holocaust? How on earth can the murder of babies, entire families, young people, and the rape of women be turned into a teachable moment?

To the best of my ability, I’ve been trying to teach my kids that the big life comes at a big price.

I left a different kind of life in the United States. Had I stayed, I eventually would have started to earn well, saved up some money, padded my 401(k), and become a homeowner — no doubt moving to a well-manicured, secure suburb.

Maybe I should have stayed in Los Angeles.

On second thought, there’s no place else I’d rather be. In life, there are observers and participants. I chose to throw my lot in with the latter, come what may.

Why? Well, this is part of what I try to convey to my young children: you only get one shot at this thing called life. So why not live it gloriously? A life with a sense of mission, a sense of purpose, and — most importantly — joy.

We Jews have managed to create a free society that promotes human dignity and thriving out of malaria-infested swamps. In a part of the world widely mired in ignorance, intolerance, and persecution, Israel shines bright as a beacon of hope, an outpost of enlightenment, a country where all its citizens are limited only by their innate talent and ambition.

When my wife told our neighbor living in the new apartment next to ours that we have no built-in safe room since our building was constructed pre-1990s, she opened her home to our family.

“Come to our place whenever you need to. We’re all in the same boat.”

Our neighbor is an educated, successful, warm-hearted, Muslim woman.

The lesson I’m trying to teach our four little children is that what you believe in is worth fighting for. Israel is worth fighting for. All we can do in response to the savagery is fight the good fight, emboldened by the knowledge that — ultimately — right makes might.

Originally published Oct. 13, 2023, on The Algemeiner. Photo: © altanaka / Adobe Stock.

About the author

Gidon Ben-Zvi left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

“What’s that?” asks my daughter, Libby.

It is a discarded dildo, laying on the dusty trail between the train station we just left and her elementary school.

In a flash, two tiny figures appear in mid-air. Over my right shoulder, a fella named Cool Hand Luke goes into high gear: “Don’t be so nervous. She’s old enough to know what’s going on. You better do it now or she’ll learn about it from TikTok and that weird friend of hers … the one who’s been in fifth grade a couple of times …”

“It looks like a branch. Where did it come from? Lemeee …,” Libby starts to reach for the abandoned sex toy.

“Don’t!” I grab my daughter’s arm.

“Why?” Libby, my relentlessly curious 10-year-old, asks. She wants answers. Now. Based on the way her eyes have narrowed into slits and are trained on me, our daily walk will go no further until I produce something sage.

The second member of my invisible entourage chimes in, one Ward Cleaver: “She is too young. I implore you: do not contaminate her mind with inappropriate images. It will play on her psyche. Tell her it is an old piece of rusted pipe.”

With Luke’s little arm wrapped around mine and Mr. Cleaver staring at me with naked disdain, I have a decision to make … and right quick.

“Ah. Well … sometimes … people …”

The words are like lead weights on my tongue. I try again:

“It’s like … when people play baseball … but not on a team … alone … in a batting cage …”

“Dad, are you sick? Your face is all sticky.” A blind man could have made Libby’s observation.

Truth and face the consequences, or …

Cool Hand Luke, swigging down his first beer of the day, sticks his face into mine. We are nose-to-nose: “What’s wrong with you, man? You want her to become a lonely, clingy cat lady? Tell her for crying out loud: you’ll both feel better. Then, we’ll all get a drink and celebrate!”

Mr. Cleaver, who had been scanning my psychological profile, snaps the folder shut, looks at me through rimless glasses, and says: “Do not repeat your father’s mistakes. Libby is entitled to have the childhood you never had. Children, whether they know it or not, need their parents to parent. Your father was … cool … and we both know how that turned out.”

When I was about my daughter’s age, I became hooked on “Choose Your Own Adventure” books, the ones where you got to decide what the hero of the story would do. It was great to be the star. If you chose right, you saved the kingdom and married the princess. But one false move and you were thrown into a dungeon on top of a tower for the rest of your life.

I took those books so seriously. I really thought they could transport me to times and places far away.

Now I’m right smack in the middle of a real-life fork in the road. What kind of woman will little Libby grow into? Depending on the answer I am about to give she will either become a kick-ass, amazon warrior who grabs the world by the tail or a sad recluse with nine cats and nothing but Netflix for company.

Pressure, anyone?

I take a deep breath, take my little girl’s hand in mine, and take the plunge: “OK, sweetheart. Here’s the thing. That thing is …”

“Libby!”

My daughter’s best friend is charging toward her from the end of the trail, right where it links with the crosswalk leading to their school. Libby bolts toward her. They nearly collide halfway between where I’m standing near the dildo and the end of the dirt path.

“What’s going on, Ellie?’”

“They’re gonna say who won. Come on!” Ellie grabs my daughter, and they head off. Today’s the big day. I completely forgot. The principal is about to announce to the entire school the winner of this year’s young architects contest.

Libby had spent hours making sure her Eiffel Tower mockup was perfect. As tired as I was some nights, commuting two hours each way every day, I would instantly snap to attention whenever she wanted to show me the work she had done that day on her masterpiece.

Waiting for me in our living room as I walked into the apartment, my mass of frustrations magically melted away. Libby needed her dad: enough said.

Heading back to the train station, I let out a laugh. I’m no architect: not even close. Chances are nothing I told Libby about her Eiffel Tower will affect the outcome of the contest.

The only thing that matters, the only thing that will decide what kind of woman my daughter grows into, is my giving a damn about her.

Kids are not messed up by bad advice, only bad parents – the kind that can’t be bothered.

Even though the train I embark on for the long ride to work is packed, all is quiet. Cool Hand Luke and Ward Cleaver have clocked out for the day, and my mind is clear.

No doubt they’ll be back the next time I have a Choose Your Own Adventure moment with Libby. Just like those books from long ago, Cool Hand Luke and Ward Cleaver mean well … but should be taken with a grain of salt.

About the author

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Choose your own adventure photo: © Sondem / Adobe Stock.

Jerusalem’s snowstorm of the century began with a toast. My mother-in-law, Jean, was visiting us, and I had bought a bottle of her favorite local wine and a bouquet of flowers to mark the occasion.

As Jean and I partook a second glass of a delicious pinot noir, my wife, Debbie, was hit by a pint-sized rocket.

“It’s OK,” she said. “The contractions are far … ahh!”

Our unborn daughter’s hand had left a deep imprint on Debbie’s belly.

In the seconds following that monster contraction Jean moved with all the swiftness of a cheetah. She called for a taxi, packed up Debbie’s hospital bag, called her husband, e-mailed half of the Jewish population of her hometown, and watered the red cactus we had on our terrace.

Cut to Debbie and me in a fast-moving taxi, being driven by a sullen young man. “Just breathe, I said. “It took Tamar (our daughter) 26 hours to be born. Hold my hand.” Debbie and the taxi driver exchanged a glance that communicated miles: “This schmuck has no clue he’s gonna become a father before that traffic light turns red.”

The hyperventilating cabby blew into the ER entrance. “Get her a wheelchair!” he yelled. I leaped out of the taxi and returned in eight seconds flat with a wheelchair. The taxi driver floored it, racing off into the suddenly blustery night.

With the cab’s exhaust fumes still lingering in the chilly night air Debbie gave birth in her tights to our second daughter, Yarden Tilli Lotte.

Following the snowstorm birth

Elated, I walked all the way home to our four-story Jerusalem walk-up. I was sleeping the deep sleep of a happy, relieved father of a healthy newborn when my cell phone rang.

“If you don’t get me out of here now, I’ll go insane.”

It was Debbie. She was trapped in a room with an orthodox Jewish woman whose father-in-law had bellowed nonstop all day, calling everyone and his uncle, looking for a way to get his daughter-in-law, and latest grandchild transported out of the hospital back home to the city of Bnei Brak about 40 miles away. The fact that the Israeli Ministry of Transportation had announced that all roads in and out of Jerusalem were closed was little more than a detail to work around.

Now it was dusk, and this grandfather of 16 had shifted from yelling in English to whispering frantically in Yiddish about God knows what. Debbie had pleaded to be transferred to another room, but with Jerusalem about to reap the whirlwind, the entire city was in lock down, and every hospital bed taken.

I had to move, right quick. The roads were impassable, so I trudged through the snow-covered streets of our neighborhood, carrying an empty bassinet, sticking my thumb out for a lift to the hospital. The streets were empty, except for one intrepid, or seriously confused, traveler who had braved the elements, saw me, saw my bassinet, and gave me a ride all the way to the hospital.

I rushed into Debbie’s room, bundled her up, picked up our baby girl, and the three of us made tracks.

The arrival of our beautiful, round baby girl with the big brown eyes and forearms like a sailor ushered in the storm of the century. Yet Yarden Tilli Lotte’s entrance onto the world stage wasn’t completely chaotic: she was born 46 years to the day after her grandparents, my wife’s mom and dad, had created the beginnings of a storied love affair by swapping ‘I dos’ at the Highlands North Synagogue in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Sometimes, the line between chaos and creation can be blurry – but it sure is beautiful.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Snowstorm birth photo: © v_sot / Adobe Stock.

My latest paying gig comes with some choice benefits, the best being I get to work remotely four days out of every five. Once a week, I pop in to the office to touch base, sit in on meetings, and sip some damn fine cardamom-flavored coffee.

The rest of the time, I’m allowed free reign. Being able to work from home has enabled me to help my wife with the daily dropping off and picking up at school of our four kids, ages 8 through 3.

While I’m happy to be more available to lend a hand around the homestead, raising young children is trench warfare. Calling it a full-time job is like describing World War II as a series of border skirmishes. And the logistical maneuvering required to make our household hum makes the Normandy invasion look like a walk in the park. Yet whenever I start to feel overwhelmed, frustrated, or just plain bored with fatherhood, I hit the pause button, and then rewind to see how I could change my children’s future.

The movie I play back reinvigorates me: Our children are happy, well-adjusted, boisterous, clever, engaging little people. While I can’t take credit for all or even most of that, my wife and I have made Herculean efforts to allow our babies to see people with their own eyes, feel the world with their own fingers, do as guided by their curiosity, and develop into the strong-minded, independent children they are today.

Our life’s movie could easily have gone off in a very different direction. We know people — lovely, caring parents — who are raising their kids as best they know how. But there’s only so much these parents can do to guide and protect their children. You see, when a child is diagnosed with a developmental disorder or physiological issue of some kind, all the love and trying in the world won’t completely “fix” it. This is a parent’s greatest challenge: raising a child to be a confident, self-sufficient adult under the most trying of circumstances.

My wife and I are thus doubly blessed. First, our fearsome foursome has thus far displayed no health-related, emotional or psychological issues that could hinder their development. Second, we’re aware of how lucky we are. Good health, mental, physical, emotional and otherwise should never be taken for granted.

However, there are danger signs ahead in my children’s future. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and I’m still hot tempered, quick to judge, and reckless in my actions. Yet when I see one of my daughters displaying these same tendencies, I can’t help but smile. For even though I may never get a full grip on my demons, I now have an opportunity to make sure that those demons will die with me. You can rewrite the scenes from your life in which you would have liked to have acted differently, then gently copy and paste that wisdom into your kid’s life story.

If you’re lucky, they’ll even be willing to sit with you and tweak the parts of their own screenplay that really need some rewriting. Just a few minor modifications early on could well turn out to be the difference between children growing into adults who live bold lives lived on their own terms, and gray lives marred by overwhelming anxiety, chronic confusion, and even unhappiness.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Children’s future photo: ©natalialeb / Adobe Stock.

I used to be against the death penalty until I sat through my first and only PTA meeting. That was where I was exposed to a nearly fatal dose of superstar parenting. Maybe the electric chair for these walking migraine triggers is a bit harsh. They should at least be quarantined, as a public health measure.

This night of the jackals begins with a sharp elbow to my ribs. “Excuse me!” a jittery house frau screeches. She rushes by me in the library where the PTA meeting is being held and grabs a seat next to someone she knows.

My daughter’s teacher, Rinat, launches into her presentation right at the agreed-upon 8 p.m. She speaks eloquently about her teaching philosophy. She’s drilling down to the nitty gritty, her daily classroom routine, when the kvetch dam bursts.

“I’m sorry Rinat, but I must interrupt. No other class in the entire district bans probiotic yogurt. My husband’s one of Jerusalem’s best-known pediatricians and he recommends it to all his patients,” a pale, pudgy woman in her mid-40s blurts out.

Another guardian angel, the spokesperson for a cabal of botoxed, overly chatty, suburban goddesses, lobs another log to the fire: “Rinat, we Amazons have your back! We just want to help you keep our kids healthy.”

My daughter’s teacher takes a measured tone: “Yes, I read your emails, texts and WhatsApp messages about the benefits of Actimel. Like I told, wrote and IM’d you: when one of the children brings it to class, it causes a riot — and makes a huge mess that we have to clean up. You see …”

She is shot down like an Iraqi Scud blasted by an American Patriot missile over Baghdad.

“Oh, Rinat, you should try this stuff,” shouts one of the moms. “It helped me get my figure back after I had my son. It’ll help you drop those stubborn 20 pounds you’ve been carrying since you gave birth to the twins …”

I’m now stewing in Dante’s Fifth Circle of Hell when another self-proclaimed Amazon weighs in: “I know you’ve been distracted lately. We all hope that you and your husband patch things up, but that’s no reason …”

I bolt from my child-sized red chair and double-time march out of that viper’s pit. In mid-stride, I send my wife a quick text: “Busted out of Gitmo. Escaped to Chili’s.”

I just about reach Chili’s, which is a decidedly non-Kosher pizza palace here in Jerusalem and not the American Tex-Mex chain (see Dante’s Third Circle), when my phone pings.

“What took you so long?” the text reads. I look up to see my wife’s laughing brown eyes gently teasing me from across the restaurant. My ghoulish fascination had blinded me: I didn’t even see my wife elegantly exit the library five minutes before I fled the scene.

Sure, the PTA meeting crashed like the Hesperus. But my wife and I did get to spend some unexpected and much-needed quality time together, without four mouths to feed, bodies to bathe, or diapers to change. I learned a valuable lesson on my journey to Dante’s Inferno: hatred darkens life, and freshly baked pepperoni pizza illuminates it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

PTA meeting photo: © maccc / Adobe Stock

My wife approves of my keeping one mistress. She happily walks in on me as I’m cozying up with an Abraham Lincoln biography, a Wall Street Journal op-ed page or the latest edition of Time magazine. If she’s out of town, I’m never alone long. I’ll quickly get intimate with Charles Krauthammer, Neil deGrasse Tyson or an elegantly stated case against the anti-fossil fuel argument. But only one at a time: I don’t have the stamina I used to.

These late-night visits to the native English language are my after-hours escape and salvation. You see, I’m an English-language copywriter living in Israel. I’ve worked with dozens of otherwise intelligent, high powered, high functioning Israeli high tech executives who nonetheless believe that the linguistic ocean that separates Hebrew and English can be crossed by copying and pasting words and phrases into Google Translate. The problem is that while English overflows with nuance and subtlety, Hebrew is the language of a people in a hurry: direct, unambiguous, aggressive. They’re about as similar as oil and water, as compatible as Cain and Abel.

So I spend my working days swatting at flies. Countless remarks, memos, meetings and edits have turned my creative writing output into a mush of barely coherent copy. And while eating humble pie allows me to fulfill my financial obligations, there’s more to life than the sum total of our responsibilities.

I adore my wife and adore our kids. Full stop. Still, I can’t settle for being a glorified proofreader with a pension plan. A father who puts a roof over his children’s heads, food on the table and clothes on their backs is doing what a father is supposed to do. You never see anyone taking a bow for paying their taxes, obeying the law and not clipping wings off flies.

If we’re not careful, the pesky brush fires of our daily tasks can grow into an inferno that consumes our dreams.

Revere their dreams and yours

I don’t know where my dreams came from or why they persist. All I know is that they are my soul’s DNA, the magic stuff that puts a spring in my step, sparkle in my eye and smile on my face. My time to shine, as a published novelist, screenplay writer, political commentator or some combination thereof, will arrive. If not, the adventure, the quest, will have still made me the superhero of my own life’s movie.

But there’s much more at stake here than one middle-aged man’s desire to reach his fullest potential. I’m the father of four children — ages 7, 5 and twin 3-year-olds. Their little brown eyes are always watching their old man, learning. Confident, cocky and flush with the bloom of youth, my kids aren’t easily impressed by anyone or anything: as it should be. If me and my wife manage to teach our four headstrong pixie pirates anything, it’ll be to revere their dreams and listen to their hearts. By following their true north they may be delayed, but never lost.

We live in affluent times. It’s too easy to check our ambitions at that door leading into a white-collar office job in southern Tel Aviv. But the price of admission is steep: erase the vision we have of ourselves for a steady paycheck and risk-free existence.

I suppose I never quite grew up. So, I will continue to strive and continue to fail, the way my two little boys continue to try and climb up our living wall like Spider-Man. Thing is, while they’ll never be able to defy gravity, their legs get stronger each time they try and their balance improves each time they fall. Hard fought failures sharpen our instincts, clarify our thoughts, bring us one step closer to our goals and help us dig the person we see in the mirror every morning.

Standing still is not an option. It only attracts flies.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Dreams photo: ©Ivan Karpov / Adobe Stock.

Postmark: Jerusalem, Israel; August 2

Dear Sheila,

How’s Chi-Town? The girls can’t wait to spend a whole two weeks with you. And I can’t wait to receive the hourly updates about all they’ll be seeing and doing during their upcoming adventure.

Danielle and I also look forward to our daughters returning to our home in Israel with Chicago accents and attitudes. Jerusalem is such a mad, mad mix of people, languages and backgrounds. Two little girls jabbering about “Da Bears,” drinking “pop” (instead of “Coke”) and riding ‘The L” will add a bit more spice to the city’s delightful stew of sounds. Am Yisrael Chai!

Since we haven’t spoken since the last time you visited, I thought I’d properly prepare you for Dina’s and Dalya’s arrival. They’re growing into such strong, confident young ladies. But like any finely tuned machine, they require constant care.

Don’t get me wrong: I have total confidence in your ability to look after our girls. Still, Dina will be entering second grade in the fall and Dalya, the first grade. Our family therapist says these are the crucial years in a child’s development. Danielle and I have invested so much time (and money!) on coaches, counselors, rabbis and dietitians. Don’t you think it would be a shame if all our, I mean “our girls’,” hard work was flushed down the drain in just 14 days?

With that in mind, I’d like to kindly but firmly suggest the following:

One. Danielle and I are so proud that our 6-year-old princess has decided to go off bread. She’s been on the keto diet for six months and is brimming with energy. Since shifting to the cyclical ketogenic diet in particular, Dina has even managed to sleep more quickly. Do you know any other first grader who only needs three hours of shuteye? She’s an inspiration. But to make sure that Dina doesn’t fall back into a high-carb lifestyle, I’ll be sending you a link to her daily nutritional requirements in my follow-up to this email.

Dos. We, unfortunately, won’t be able to complete the screening process of your apartment building’s 247 tenants. Instead of canceling the trip, I think it makes sense to install a few pinhole spy cameras around your apartment, inside your building’s two elevators, the lobby and on the two rooftop fire extinguishers. Even though we won’t be around every second of every day, these fun little gizmos will make it feel like we are. Hugs!

Thirdish. Dalya must not be woken up before noon. The holistic rabbi Danielle and I have been consulting with believes that Ray-Ray’s recent rash of pilfering paper and paints from her classroom (such a scamp!) is being caused by teachers who aren’t encouraging her creativity AND us having to wake her up every single day before noon. Poor thing. I’ve texted the school principal about modifying the class curriculum and hours of operation to accommodate Dalya’s unique needs. I’ll keep you posted.

IV. Bath time can be the most wonderful time of the day. However, both girls have been diagnosed with atopic dermatitis and need to be handled with special care. Sweet Sheila, if you only knew how harsh the desert air can be on delicate skin. To prevent any more nasty flare-ups, we no longer use harsh soaps, detergents and other irritants. Danielle heard about an amazing ointment that makes those funky red patches on the hands, feet, ankles, neck and torso disappear. The cream is derived from the Vayambu plant. We order it online from a company based in Kerala, India. I’ll send you a link.

The sixth. As you know, there’s a six-hour time difference between Israel and Chicago. So, it’ll take the girls about six days to get over their jet lag. Danielle and I are concerned since Dina and Dalya are returning to Israel only on August 27 and their first day of school is September 1. Would you be a dear and ask the flight attendants on the flight back to Israel to kindly dim the cabin’s interior lighting? We want to make sure that the girls are primed for a successful school year. Otherwise, they can kiss the student council goodbye.

That’s about it for now. It would be amazing if you could print, sign, notarize, scan and send me back this document within the next 24 hours.

Love,
David

P.S. I understand that you spent a week poodle-sitting for a neighbor. You have such a big heart! But seriously, you do remember that Dina is violently allergic to doggie dander, right? Danielle and I spoke about it and we’d love to help pay to have your entire wardrobe dry-cleaned and house steamed. No thanks necessary.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi, who is not a helicopter parent, is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Helicopter parent photo: © nicoletaionescu / Adobe Stock.

Jogging for a good, hard 35 minutes around my neighborhood in southeastern Jerusalem is no different than dropping acid except for the lack of hallucinations, flashbacks and induced schizophrenia. Running simplifies life as it clarifies thought, dousing everyday trivialities in strong, bright colors whose pleasing afterglow continues for hours.

There’s not much more to jogging than putting one foot after the other, heel-toe, heel-toe. But these steps, run in a pair of worn-out L.A. Gear sneakers, create the mental callouses I need to weather life’s little tempests.

When I begin my run, on the corner of Derech Hevron and David Remez near the Jerusalem Cinematheque, fatherhood feels like boot camp for the soul. Being a patient, supportive, and understanding husband and father requires me to access emotional reserves that I don’t come by naturally.

But Jerusalem is a city built on a plateau in the Judean Mountains. I run up five different hills of varying elevations. As I traverse these inclines, my sharper edges are slowly rounded off, enabling me to bare life’s burdens more gracefully while I become less burdensome to my wife and kids. As Beitar Street becomes Leib Yaffe, the latest outbreak of laziness by the chronically absent lady who runs my twin sons’ nursery flows off me like water off a duck’s behind. My wife’s ailing leg, a growing concern for everyone in the family, no longer seems mysterious, but solvable. Our four children’s frenetic energy becomes a source of amusement, even pride, instead of fatigue tinged with frustration.

As springtime in Jerusalem nudges up to summer, the temperature and humidity rise. And I’m in high cotton. Exhaust fumes, blaring horns, irritated pedestrians and double-parked cars bounce off me as effortlessly as a mountain gazelle gallops through the Ramot Forest. Frayed nerves are magically strengthened as I round the bend and attack the short but sharp Yanovsky Street incline. For a few fleeting minutes, I’m footloose and fancy-free. Home life’s many splendor madness has evaporated, freeing up my mind’s eye to focus on a great issue or two, depending on how much longer my legs can keep pumping.

Jogging frees soul, mind from parenting, world burdens

Netanyahu … what’s his deal? As I’m about to drift off into a SWOT analysis of the French Law, checks and balances, inherent weaknesses of the parliamentary system, term limits and electoral thresholds, a man with a thin mustache and thick bathrobe wanders into my path. Homeboy is chasing down a poodle right as I’m veering left on Ein Gedi Street. I hop over the runt canine with uncommon elan as the owner shoots daggers at me. By the time I regain my bearings, the strengths, vices and possible fate of Israel’s premier have fallen to the street, to be trounced on by a runaway poodle and its gasping owner.

Hezbollah in London. I’m ruminating on the story of the day when the Beatles playlist I’m using for this run’s soundtrack is suddenly interrupted by an Israeli commercial for an Israeli insurance company. The actor’s loud staccato delivery and nonstop punning drill a small hole in my head. I try and use my thumb to find and tap the “Skip This Ad” button, to no avail. I endure the entire commercial with true grit. But when it’s over, I’m not rerouted back to my carefully chosen playlist. Pumping my arms up and down somehow diverts me from Classic Rock (or ‘Daddy Rock’) to an interview with George Will about his new book.

Books. This will turn out to be the final subject tackled during today’s jogging. I’m on a serious reading-losing streak. The last four books I’ve read have been godawful. What gives? Am I trying too hard to expand my reading horizons? Should I stop trying to be an intellectual dilettante and return to the safe and cozy confines of history and biography? Why can’t I grasp even basic concepts in astrophysics? Linguistics? Economics? Why is it that the only information I can retain are song lyrics? Hey, there’s that guy with the mustache again. What happened to the poodle?

As I take off on a final sprint passed St. Claire’s monastery, a final thought: Why is it that after I congratulated a colleague today about the birth of his daughter, he refused to tell me how many children he has?

Me: “Mazal Tov!’

Him: “Thanks, G.”

Me: “How many is that?”

Him: “We don’t count them that way.”

Me: “All righty then!”

And here we are: home.

Another day not merely endured, but lived!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Jogging photo: © kovop58 / Adobe Stock.