Lemons, tequila and just another Monday morning

I have two choices when life pummels me in the head with lemons on a Monday morning — all before 8 am.

I can weep and moan about how hard and sour they are, how today sucks and life isn’t faaaaiiiiirrrrr…

Or I can slice them up, add a little salt, and do tequila shots.

I considered option A. After all, I do like a good cry from time to time…

But the sky is blue and the sun is out so I’m pivoting — and besides, you all know how I feel about a good drink — so I’m turning this shtshow of a morning into a story for your entertainment.

You’re welcome.

Bring tequila if you want. Or we can make lemonade, if that’s your thing:

My morning was meant to begin with a steaming hot shower.

I stood under the tap, coconut hair mask already in, poised for steam and soap and five minutes of something resembling a spa day.

But instead: a hiss of forlorn air.

Right.

The water was shut off last night in our pocket of the Old City.

I heard about it. I meant to write that down. SPOILER: I never write things down.

Which means no shower.
No water for the kettle.
No coffee.

And then — at 6:43 a.m. — a WhatsApp message:

“Don’t forget to bring the cake to gan for your son’s birthday!”

Party hat emoji

Fck the party hat emoji.

I swear the gan birthday was tomorrow.

Except tomorrow is Lag BaOmer.

So… wasnt it Wednesday?

I check the calendar, which — believe you me — is an act of wild optimism.

Nothing.

Again: I never write things down.

No cake.
No balloons.
Definitely no party hat emoji.

Look, by the third kid you’d think I’d have my sht together. Or at least some kind of system in place to cosplay being an adult.

But no.

I’m a neurospicy mother of a neurospicy kid, living in a neurospicy city where scorpions and tsaddikim wander the streets, and I run mostly on whimsy and vibes — not schedules.

Also, there was a war, see.

And I’m still living somewhere between missiles and milestones.

We are, of course, also spectacularly late.

My son is up, rummaging in the refrigerator — another act of hope in a city that runs on fumes and faith — and I am praying we have his favorite yogurt.

We emphatically do not.

His favorite yogurt is still at the grocery store.

With the cake.
And the balloons.
And the party hat emoji.

But do, however, we have a banana.

And some cheese.

So I wrap it all in a paper towel, because who even knows where the lunch bags are, while standing there in a hair mask and one earring, trying to find the other earring.

I get halfway dressed.

One flip flop on.
The other flip flop breaks.

We make it out the door anyway — faith, fumes, and flip flops flip flopping.

Downstairs, my son climbs into his little white Mercedes.

And I just have this moment where I hope my ancestors are laughing their asses off — that this Jewish woman, with coconut hair mask in her hair and one earring and one functioning flipflops, is pushing her Jewish son in a toy German car through the ancient alleys of our forefathers and foremothers.

History is freaking wild.

And then I realize:

I forgot his bag.

We are already five minutes late.

I have a full Hillel vs. Shammai debate with myself while balancing on one flip flop.

Do I go back up?

Do I not?

Can I leave him downstairs?

Will he roll away into history?

I am completely and ineffably paralyzed.

And then I see a father with his kids — organized, calm, clearly in possession of their lives — and I ask him to watch my son.

He agrees.

I sprint upstairs, grab the bag, sprint back down.

My kid is thrilled. Living his best life.

I, meanwhile, have somehow lost my earring again.

Mother of the year.

We start moving.

Over uneven cobblestones.

Through narrow alleys.

Toward the shuttle.

And then —

a river.

There is a literal river running through the Old City.

Good news, everyone: the water is back on.

Party hat emoji.

Bad news: the streets are flooded.

And because timing in this city is a form of performance art, the municipality has apparently chosen this exact moment to wash the streets.

With soap.

The entire Old City is now a bubble bath.

My son — who hates showers — is suddenly fully aligned with the concept of water.

He wants a bath.

He wants a rubber ducky.

He wants to live here now.

Not since Moses parted the Red Sea has there been this level of determination.

I am missing a shoe.

I am missing an earring.

I am missing any remaining illusion of control or dignity.

We crash straight through a bar mitzvah photoshoot.

There are people in white.
There is a photographer.
There is probably a drone.

We are now part of the memory.

My son is yelling:

“I WANT A BATH!”
“I WANT A RUBBER DUCKY!”
“I WANT YOGURT!”

The teachers are messaging me about the cake.

The farkakte cake.

And then — because this is Jerusalem — three municipal workers appear and help me lift my son’s tiny white Mercedes like it’s a chariot, carrying it through the rushing, soapy water.

Like this is completely normal.

Like this happens every Monday.

We make it to the shuttle just as it’s about to pull away.

The driver looks at me — one flip flop, damp, hair mask slowly dissolving into my scalp — and just nods.

No questions.

Jerusalem knows. It was there. The city gets it.

My son climbs on, radiant, like a kid who just crossed a sea — which tracks.

The teachers will survive without the cake.

The balloons can wait til Wednesday.

The party hat emoji can go to fck itself.

Because here’s the thing:

I didn’t give him perfect.

I gave him a morning with a river in the Old City.

A chariot ride through floodwater.

A mother running beside him, half-dressed and fully committed.

And in a city where we are all living between sirens and small miracles, maybe that’s enough.

Also, at least the whole city knows the water’s back on.