January 2005

Visitors to the Isaacs Elkana manor are accustomed to a warm, if somewhat disorganized welcome. But no more. After bubbling under the surface for months like a puffing volcano, two weeks ago, a new reign of terror erupted, led by the explosive tyrant, Judy. With a passion formerly reserved only for her children and tennis, Judy set about sorting out the house once and for all.

The first target was the kitchen. Cupboard by cupboard, she heartlessly discarded crockery and cutlery, with no sentiment or compunction. The cups and mugs took a bad hit. In cold-blooded fashion, all mugs with broken ears and chipped shoulders were liquidated. Next came a two-pronged assault on the medicine cabinet. We disposed of some near antique medicines. Have you ever seen anti-biotic syrup seven years after its expiry date?

Phase 2 of the battle plan was the children’s wardrobes. Each garment was evaluated and either returned to the cupboard, given to charity or dumped. Hidden microphones picked up murmurs such as “This shirt is torn in four places”; “These trousers don’t reach Elon’s knees”; “You could drive a tank through the holes in this sock”.

Next, Judy called up the reserves and ordered me to fix the cupboard doors and hang pictures, or – and here comes the ultimate threat against a Scotsman - she would call in somebody and pay him to do it. Did I have a choice?

And so it goes. Every day I come home from work to discover overflowing bin-bags blocking the driveway. Inside the house, something else has gone – unwatched videos, unread books, unwanted knick knacks, and the house looks cleaner and brighter and tidier and most important of all, emptier. It’s a pleasure having a house full of only the things you want.

And to our darling offspring
I don’t want to be caught 10 years down the line in a false prophecy, but, if personalities don’t change from birth, as some academics would have us believe, we have something special in Elisheva (3 months). She is sweet, tranquil and funny, and only cries when there is a very good reason (such as when Maccabi Tel Aviv loses in the basketball Euro league). I don’t recall at what age babies start doing all the things that babies do, and I doubt many sixth-time parents leaf through the child development text books whose pages we memorized when Ari was a tiny tot, but I do think it is remarkable that a three-month old baby actually giggles. Yes, giggles. It’s the funniest thing in the world to hear a three-month old giggle. She sets the whole family off with infectious laughter.

Abigail (3) contributes greatly to the colour of the house, metaphorically and, unfortunately literally. Despite Judy’s spring cleaning, our walls, tables and floor-tiles are brightly decorated – at least until the maid comes on Thursdays - with artistic splashes of colour, hand-painted by Abigail and a particularly roguish friend. But you can’t be angry with Abigail. She too has a wonderful warm winning open and loving character, and a smile and laugh that melt icebergs.

Orly (10) has earrings. This may not seem a big thing, but believe me it is. Orly has been begging for earrings since before she could talk. We brushed her off for years with “when you’re batmitzva”, but a few months ago, along came Orly’s 10th birthday party, and Mummy and Daddy didn’t know what to buy her. So, we gave her her dream present; we got a guy with a gun to rip holes in the tender flesh of her earlobes. She was delighted, but since then, we have heard of little else. I come home from work and she says to me “Daddy” in an elongated and expressive voice, which I am supposed to understand. Over time I have learnt to recognize that what lurks behind this single word is: “Daddy. There is something different about me? Haven’t you noticed yet? Look again. Can’t you see? Boy you must be blind. Look. Here. That’s right, where I am swishing my hair to the side. Now can you see? Goodness! Men are hopeless”. At this point, she raises her shoulder length hair, and underneath I espy another new pair of hideous 5-shekel earrings. “Oh! New earrings”, I say, and earn a smile of gratitude that flies her straight to seventh heaven.

Naphtali (12) joined the spring-cleaning fury with Judy. We did some bed-swapping and now Naphtali has a room to himself. Did I say “room”? I meant museum. Naphtali’s room is spotless. Beware the wrath of Naphtali if you cross the lintel with food in your hands.

Naphtali dotes on Elisheva. He’s always ready to hold her and play with her, and gets annoyed with me if I don’t give Elisheva enough attention. If this weren’t such a sexist society, I would say he has a great future as a “ganenet”, but since it is, I’ll assume he’ll become a pediatrician.

Naphtali has also started the long haul towards his barmitzva. It’s interesting teaching Naphtali his parsha. Unlike his two elder brothers, Naphtali is musical, which makes the noisy learning process, somewhat more palatable for the rest of the family.

Elon (14) is our first child to leave home. He sleeps three nights a week at his half-boarding school. This is terrible. Judy and I are distraught. When Elon is away, the house, with just five children, seems empty, deserted, lacking life and vitality. Elon loves his new school with its sports facilities – basketball (at about 1.78 meters Elon is now the tallest member of the Israel Isaacs clan), football, table-tennis, and a gym where Elon builds his muscles. The one drawback of the school is a requirement to attend lessons. Elon tries to keep that part of the curriculum to a minimum, dropping by for the occasional lesson, in his spare time.

Ari (17 this month) has discovered the telephone. He has adopted a near permanent presence on the couch, supine, feet in the air, balancing a cushion on his knees, whispering into the mouthpiece. If you want an appointment with him, he frees up around 3am. Before and after talking on the phone, Ari amuses himself by getting on the Internet and chatting with his phone pals electronically. 17, it seems, is the age of communications (just not with parents).

Least and last, me, Michael, at the tender age of 41, I did it. I ran my first (and probably last) marathon. It was wonderful. Elon ran along for the first 19 kms, and would have run more if I hadn’t forbid him. Everyone is sick of hearing me talk about it, so we’ll leave that story for my next period of writer’s drought.

Love to all, from all

Michael, Judy,
Ari, Elon, Naphtali, Orly, Abigail and Elisheva
Isaacs