Supermom by Chana (Jenny) Weisberg

If you live in a place like North America where it snows a lot, then you have definitely never seen anything like the reaction of Israelis to a snowstorm. I spent my first two years in Israel studying at a yeshiva for English-speakers, so the annual day or two of snow in Jerusalem did not attract too much attention from the students. The snow came, and was beautiful for a few hours, and, for me, brought back all sorts of cozy, wonderful childhood memories of waking up in the morning and hearing my mother announce the most fantastic words imaginable, "You can stay in bed, no school today." Snow days were spent in front of the TV sipping steaming hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows, and sliding down hills with my brother on the big orange slide that spent the rest of the year in the basement- our sled the first to leave a mark in the virgin snow.

So, it was not until my third winter in Israel, when I was working in a government office, that I learned that Israelis have a whole different set of associations with snow, not nearly as positive as my own. That winter, with the onset of the annual snow storm, the halls were filled with groups of workers conferring in tense, loud voices about the flakes accumulating on their windowsills. Those with cars locked up their offices and headed for the exit with quick steps as they pulled on their jackets, their car keys ready in hand to turn on the ignition. The rest of the workers lingered a bit longer, peering out the windows with pinched lips, making dire pronouncements like, "They say it's not going to stop for hours" and "I'm getting out of here before they stop the buses," and then calling out to no one in particular as they headed for the elevator, "Be careful, it's dangerous out there!"

And this winter, more than a decade since my first Israeli snowstorm, for the last few weeks there have been rumors flying all over the place that snow is on the way, but all of the promised dates passed like calculated predictions of the Apocalypse, with nothing more than some sweater piercing wind or some skirt drenching rain. And then, this morning, my husband told me that he had heard on the radio that there was a very small chance that there might be some snow tonight. And out of the blue, as I was walking home from Tiferet's kindergarten in the pouring rain early this morning, I started thinking that the rain looked sort of like sleet. Or maybe very wet snow? And by the time I was half-way home, my heart started dancing when I realized that I was definitely in the middle of an honest-to-goodness blizzard. When I reached Betsalel, a four lane street that is usually packed with traffic, I had a big smile on my face, despite the fact that all the drivers were leaning heavily on their horns and mumbling under their breath on account of this white stuff that was making me so happy.

But the snow definitely wasn't sticking. It melted into water as soon as it hit the ground that was wet from several days of heavy rain. So I walked the rest of the way home, said my prayers, and then, after a few minutes, I looked out of the window again, and saw that the snow had started to accumulate on the railing of my neighbor's stairs.

My mind started racing. Dafna was at school, and if the snow continued to gather, within a few hours the steep road leading to her school would be closed to traffic. So, I put on a dry coat, and tried to order a taxi, but none of the companies were even answering, all of the taxis already taken by other nervous mothers. So, I walked to the street, and was fortunate enough to find a taxi that was letting someone off at that moment.

I got in, safe from the swirling blizzard in the overheated taxi with the radio playing at ear-numbing volume, and at that moment I was overwhelmed with the sweetest feeling in the world, maybe even happiness in its essential form. This was a bit strange, since a day or even a few hours of lost writing time usually leave me as grouchy and frustrated as those drivers out there cursing the snow.

But, in that taxi, even at 9:45 AM on a weekday, I was infused with the glorious feeling that I was a mother coming to the rescue of my daughter. In the taxi, I imagined walking into Dafna's class, and how she would get a sheepish smile on her face as she put on her coat and packed up her colored pencils, so incredibly proud that her classmates would see that her mother had come for her- that her mother worried about her, and loved her.

I had this same honey-sweet feeling a few months back, when I realized one morning that I had forgotten to pack Dafna's lunch. After I left off Tiferet at nursery school, I got into a taxi, and brought Dafna a peanut butter and honey sandwich on whole wheat pita along with some apple slices. All in all, it took me an hour to get to her school and back, and it cost sixty shekels or fifteen dollars in taxi fares. When I told my husband what I had done, he laughed, and said, "That was a sixty shekel sandwich! Couldn't Dafna have borrowed food from her friends?" But I shook my head and told him that he had no idea how much nachas I got out of that sandwich, that it was worth even more than sixty shekels to see Dafna's face when I walked into her classroom with that peanut butter and honey sandwich in my hand.

It's true that over the course of the day, I also do countless other unremarkable things for my kids to express my devotion to them. I wake up at dawn to get them ready for school, I fold their laundry in the evening after the long tiring day, and I make sure that they are wearing turtlenecks underneath their sweaters so that they don't catch the flu that has been going around. And I talk to them, and listen to their troubles, and pray for them, and tell them that I love them, and do love them. But those rare times when I can go that extra mile for them, when in times of trouble and distress I can swoop out of the sky and play Supermom- those are the highest, sweetest moments of my mothering life.

And the funny part about it is that, I am not sure who gets more out of this giving, my children or me. Dafna, for example, doesn't understand the sacrifice involved in the shlepping, the financial cost, and the loss of my precious writing time involved in these rescue missions to Har Nof. But I know, even if she doesn't, that in these little sacrifices I am expressing that my love for her is infinite, that she is on my mind even when I am doing other things, that I would do anything for her. And I have discovered what a wonderful, almost unparalleled feeling it is to be able to give in this way.

Maybe this feeling I get is a hint of the great sweetness and satisfaction parents must feel when they can give their children a college education, or a wedding, or help them buy a house. Now that I am a mother, I understand this kind of giving very differently than when I was blessed enough to have found myself on the receiving end. I see now how it is almost a physical need to give in this way, to let out some of the infinite love we have in our hearts and express it in a limited, tangible form.

But it is also no coincidence that all of these Supermom stories I am telling are about my seven-year-old, Dafna. I think this is because now that Dafna is in first grade, and comes home later than her younger sisters, she is simply not around as much as my other children to benefit from the rest of the routine giving I do. She is not there for the daily breakfasts spent joking around with her little sisters and divvying up spoonfuls of my tea into their cups, nor for the long walk to nursery school when we discuss the names of trees and family plans for the upcoming holidays, nor for the meltdowns and giggly reconciliations that often precede lunch. So while I got special satisfaction last week rushing to pick up Tiferet early from nursery school when she had a fever, when I can rush to help out Dafna, I feel especially happy. With these rescue missions I am saying that even though she is growing up, and spending more time with her new friends and new life in school, that she is still on my mind. That even though she is my big girl, she is still my baby.

So this morning in the taxi, when I saw the snow turn into rain, I willed it to turn back into snow again, but it didn't. And the lady on the blasting radio said, "The Municipality has announced that all the nervous parents should not come to pick up their children. The snow will all have melted within the hour," so I told the taxi driver to turn back around. And I felt disappointed to not be able to play Supermom that day, but still, I didn't feel frustrated at all by my partially-wasted morning. Even if I hadn't managed to give a gift to my daughter that day, I had at least given a little one to myself.

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Also in Section Four: Personal essays "First Grade in the Holy Land" and "Independent Children," as well as inspirational readings from author Ruchama King and parenting expert Rachel Arbus