About Nicki

South African by chance and Californian by choice, I live in the California Bay Area with my husband, four kids and Pretzel, the aging dachshund. As a reluctant yet full-time, barely-at-home mom, writer, avid reader, country music lover and wannabe surf diva, I write it like I see it - with tears, humor, skepticism, and truth. Keeping it real, for me. And hopefully for you too. I wear my red cowboy boots whenever I can - they make me feel like I can do anything, and when I do it, I'll rock it (that may or may not happen, depending on the day and also if it's raining - cowboy boots do not do well in the rain). They have come to represent the part of me that does not love being a stay-at-home mom, the part that wants to wander, explore and discover, and that sometimes does get to do all of that - both in real life, and on the page.

Growing Up Gilbert

Posted on June 11, 2015 by Nicki

There is a redwood tree in the back yard and a few hydrangea bushes in the front. And behind the black front door at number 58:

“Ssshhh,” I whispered as I tiptoed passed their bedroom. They ignored me.

“Boys. BOYS! Sssshhhhhh.” My teeth hurt I clenched them so hard. “The baby’s sleeping,” I rasped at them. “SSHHHHH.”

The forceful sibilance twisted its way around the back of my neck in a painful spasm. My neck was stretched so taut, I thought my head would snap right off any minute. It would snap off and roll into the room and land in the space between them. They would look at my scary flashing eyes and the ugly, angry scowl on my face and kick my head straight through the window, shattering glass and decibels all over the floor.

They would not, could not hear me.

The doorbell rang. The dog barked. The baby wailed. So did I.

“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!!” I think I yelled it. My throat hurt so I must have yelled it.

I don’t remember who was at the door, but the dog was still barking and the baby was still crying and, “Juice, Mommy, juice!” She had tried to do it herself and there was apple juice on the floor and in her shoes and dripping onto the cucumbers in the fridge.

The tension marched up and down my spine like an army of angry red ants, gathering in a pinching, hurting cluster along my shoulders. My blood boiled with unexplained rage, or rather perfectly explained rage: all I needed were two hours of quiet so the baby could nap. Two hours. In a 12-hour day packed full of fun and activity and “Dora the Explorer” and crackers and a gazillion sippy cups full of apple juice, were two calm, drama-free hours too much to ask for? Obviously yes, if you’re three, six and eight. And then the dog peed on the rug. GODDAMMIT.

***

The doors are all closed. The dog snoozes in the corner, too old and worn out to hear the doorbell anymore. I hear the TV turn on downstairs and someone is playing the drums in the boys’ room.

From the quiet of my bedroom I look out the window at the giant redwood tree, the green fronds of its branches reaching up to the baby blue sky. Like my own babies reached up to me from their cribs after naps, arms outstretched.

It has grown in the last nine years, this majestic tree.

I didn’t notice while I was nursing and changing diapers and shushing infants to sleep and siblings to keep quiet. While I was overwhelmed by mothering and what felt like too many little children eating and yelling and playing and sleeping. And growing. In this house. Number 58. Behind the black front door, with the big redwood tree in the back yard and a few hydrangea bushes in the front.

I didn’t notice.

***

I didn’t notice the rage, that bubbling, boiling rage, slowly reduce to a gentle simmer. To a soft heat that flared only occasionally when a now tween-age boy talked back or rolled his eyes, when an inquisitive little girl experimented with lipstick not only on her own person but on every bathroom surface, or when an impulsive toddler found a marker in the minivan and decorated the car seats.

As the redwood tree moved ever upward in silence, I didn’t quite notice that the stretches of peace and quiet lasted longer and longer. They could write their own names and fix their own snacks, shoot baskets outside and read to each other. Slowly, imperceptibly, over nine tumultuous years Mommy became Mom, and the fiery cauldron of overwhelming and angry fatigue quietly ceased bubbling on a burner in my belly… and then there were no more babies behind the black front door at number 58.

***

No more babies, but a teen, a couple of tweens and a little boy who stares up in awe. “Is this a redwood tree?”

This summer we say goodbye to the house we’ve grown up in. I stare out my bedroom window and listen. There is no rage rushing through my veins, no sssshhhh hissing from my lips. There are muted voices gently bouncing off the walls and an old dog snores softly in the corner.

And there is a very tall redwood tree stretching silently up to the sky in the back.

This post is dedicated to my friend Matt who first coined the phrase “Growing up Gilbert” about nine years ago, while sitting at our dining room table behind the black front door at number 58. This summer we say goodbye to number 58, but not to our memories and all that we have loved and learned in this house.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “This summer…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Lisa from The Meaning of Me, Reta from Calculated Chaos, and Allison from The Latchkey Mom.

What I Learned About My Children At The Rabbi’s House

Posted on June 9, 2015 by Nicki

When we were invited to Shabbat lunch at our Rabbi’s house, I expected I would learn something new that day: an insight into the weekly Torah reading perhaps, or a custom I wasn’t aware of. Maybe I would learn a new blessing or a song, and I would definitely learn more about the Rabbi and his lovely family, who moved to our community less than a year ago.

I describe the lesson I did not expect on Kveller.com. Spoiler alert: the teacher was not the Rabbi!

Something Is Not So Fresh At The Supermarket

Posted on May 21, 2015 by Nicki

I first notice her between the bananas and the piles of crisp Fuji apples. I catch a glimpse of her long, straight auburn hair and wonder if it’s her, but I need three English cucumbers, and I’m distracted by the bright green mint and beautiful flat-leaf parsley. How is everything still so fresh and abundant in this drought? It’s probably best that I don’t know, and I suppose not everything is from California.

I remember she told me how much she loves shopping in supermarkets in the U.S. Plentiful produce, clean floors, organized shelves.

I turn back toward the cart with my cucumbers and see she is no longer there. I breathe an almost inaudible sigh of relief and shake my head at myself.

This unsociable version of me is new and not all that welcome. Not because she is more reserved and quieter than usual, and not because she would rather be home alone than almost anywhere these days. This is unlike me, but I understand it can happen with age and circumstance and lots of children around all the time. Introspection and inward focus are good things. I’m okay with it. For now.

Antisocial me is unwelcome because she displays a reluctance to greet people she’s recently met. A reluctance, an almost-fear, to meet new people, and a strong desire to blend into the leaves of lettuce and kale for fear of being recognized. If only she were wearing green.

What has me worried and bewildered is that I may be perceived as rude and aloof. Or worse, snooty and unfriendly. The large crowd at the event the other night overwhelmed and frightened me and I stood alone, half-hidden behind a pillar in my brightly colored dress. Silently I prayed nobody would notice me. Nobody would notice me being rude and unfriendly, because how would they know that it was because I was terrified of saying hi to someone new? Terrified to introduce myself to a stranger and embark on a conversation, a connection. Even though it might turn out to be wonderful. The colorful, social butterfly that loves to flit amongst new flowers is suddenly fearful. The flowers look daunting and enormous, and what if she laughs too loud or not at all?

***

I met the woman with the long red hair just three days ago. She and her family are new to town, and she is lovely and friendly. They’ve been living abroad and she seems excited and happy to be back here, close to family and stores that are clean and convenient.

I don’t remember her name but how welcoming and friendly it would be if I walked up to her in the supermarket. Reintroduced myself and asked about her day, her kids. Connected over the brilliantly red strawberries or the boxes of Capri Sun. Five, seven minutes, at the most, of hello and how are you and a smile.

Of course, it’s possible she is feeling as antisocial as I am. Maybe she doesn’t want an almost stranger interrupting her solitude and thoughts. That is possible, but I can’t know for sure.

What I know is that I don’t want to say hello. And I’m disappointed in myself.

I wander around the store, tossing pasta and the organic two percent milk we are always running out of into the cart. Oh good, they have those new yogurt squeezables the kids have been asking for. Of course I forget the cream cheese, which is what I came to the supermarket for in the first place.

I find the shortest checkout line and unload my groceries. I look up from the cart and there she is again, in line right next to me. This is my chance! I can redeem myself, and be the warm, welcoming person I want to be. I take a breath. I open my mouth. The “hi” sticks in my throat and will go no further. It’s a good thing she’s not looking at me.

Suddenly I can’t wait to get home, to unpack all of this, and leave my rudeness in the cereal aisle where it belongs.

I will be back at the supermarket soon enough (probably tomorrow since I forgot the cream cheese). Fresh produce and a fresh start.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “It started in the line at the grocery store…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Dawn (this week’s sentence thinker-upper), and me here at Red Boots.

Protective Edge

Posted on May 11, 2015 by Nicki

Last year, we spent an unforgettable summer in Israel. Unforgettable because Israel is the place where my heart and my breath are one. Unforgettable because it was the first time we showed our kids the land, the history, the life of our people. Unforgettable because my children met aunts, uncles, cousins they had never met before, and the love and connection transcended all distance, time and language. Unforgettable because on a beautiful, hot summer morning we celebrated my oldest son’s bar mitzvah at the Kotel in Jerusalem in the midst of a war.

The summer of 2014 was the summer of Operation Protective Edge. It was the summer of intense conflict between Israel and Gaza. It was the summer my children and I learnt words in Hebrew we didn’t know existed, and some we’d never even heard in English: Iron Dome (Kipat Barzel), alert/siren (azakah), protected room (mamad).

It was the summer my children learnt more about the country of my dreams and desires than I could ever have taught them.

My kids appeared unfazed by the relentless sirens and rocket attacks. We spent time in a bomb shelter somewhere almost every day, and they seemed to accept this as part of life in a complicated country.

Since we returned, I have wondered what they absorbed from that unforgettable summer. What they remembered, and would remember as time goes by. How the experience would color their imaginings, views, hopes of the world, that country, their own lives.

My fifth grade boy, Zak, wrote a memoir essay for school last week:

Unfair by Zak Gilbert, age 11

What does fair mean? Is it fair if you get two cookies and your sister gets one? Is it fair that your brother gets $20 for cleaning his room and you get $7 for doing the same? Is it fair to do an activity that your sibling really wants to do without them? Is it fair that there is a very nice, unfortunate old lady down the road?

Is it fair that in some places in the world there are children who are stuck in a bomb shelter for half their summer break?

We finished dinner and went to play at the park near the restaurant. Suddenly out of nowhere the siren went off! I heard that annoying loud sound that signals a near coming bomb.

Again? I thought. I tried to pick up my baby cousin. I grabbed her from behind but she felt like a crate of baseballs. I put the cute little crate of baseballs down and yelled to my big brother, “Take Stella!”

I ran but looked back to make sure Daniel had her. I continued running and soon jumped over the plants and dashed down the shelter stairs and looked around for my mom and aunt, who was sobbing. “Where’s Stella?!” she screamed. “STELLA!”

I knew where they were. I needed to get this information to this freaked out, 30-something-year-old, first time mom who was on a different continent in a bomb shelter without her three-year-old. “She’s fine. She’s with Daniel, don’t worry,” I said calmly.

“Are you sure, Zak?”

No, Mom. I thought sarcastically. I gave her to some random shop keeper. Out loud, I said, “Yeah.”

I looked around and thought, This is not fair. Maybe someone was about to propose, or maybe someone was going to meet their mom whom they haven’t seen, but are instead in this crowded shelter. It’s not fair that I’m in a bomb shelter in Israel when my dad is in California working at his office, safe from bombs. Or how I’m only here for 2 months, but people have to live here all the time. My cousins who live here may not even start school until September, maybe even October because of the bombing, who knows. It’s not fair for my brother, who’s not even 13 years old yet, and he’s looking after three kids in a bomb shelter.

What I’ve come to realize is, whether I like it or not, life is sometimes not fair.

Eventually, the sirens stopped and we reunited with the others in the park. We took about several minutes to recount the recent events and catch everyone up.

Now I know. Now I can relate. Now I understand that sometimes life will be unfair. Sometimes you’ll get two cookies and your sister will get one and that isn’t fair but, hey, at least you got a cookie so in a way it is fair. If your parents only let you watch TV after you’ve done your chores, and then don’t let you watch TV then that’s not fair because they change the rules and that’s not fair. Life is unfair.

I don’t like that things are unfair, and before the bomb shelter experience, I knew life was unfair. But now I really know. Things will be unfair and sometimes you just have to accept life the way it is.

This essay has been published with the permission of the author.

My Boobs Have Grown And I’m Too Old For This

Posted on May 7, 2015 by Nicki

source: les-dessous-de-la-lingerie.fr

I pulled my sweater off with my back to the mirror. My sunglasses slid off the top of my head and I threw them on the pile I’d amassed in the corner: jacket, messy handbag, cell phone. The skull motif on my turquoise scarf looked up at me slyly. They knew, those skulls.

I didn’t need to look in the mirror. I knew too.

Absently, I scratched a dry patch on my hand as I leaned against the wall. My back hurt. I shifted a little on the balls of my feet. Did I need to pee again? I decided to ignore the muted signals my bladder was misfiring to my brain. It was less than an hour since I’d gone.

“Alright honey. Let’s take a look!” She was warm and friendly. Her hair fell in beautiful, black tresses around her face. She beamed with her eyes as well as her mouth.

I turned toward her and gave her a tired smile back. I glimpsed my reflection in profile. I think I heard the skulls snigger.

She sized me up without judgment or a tape measure. I think that’s the secret. “You are definitely in the wrong size. We are going to get you up!” And with that she left, in a flurry of promise and hope.

I turned toward the mirror.

I don’t know when it happened. The aching back. The tired feet. The hands that feel dry no matter how much cream I rub into them. My grandmother’s hands. Long knobbly fingers. Covered in lines.

Was it overnight? A dark quiet night, some time between turning 40 last year and 41 next week? I don’t remember that I woke up on any particular morning in the last 12 months feeling and looking different, older, sweatier, grayer. No matter how much I sleep, the eyes that look back at me in the mirror always resemble an ancient raccoon.

I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know when I started to smell like a teenager in between showers, or when I decided I need a bunch of new bras because mine were suddenly way too small. Puberty for 40-somethings? I don’t remember the details from the first time around, but I do know there is little to control and way too much to relinquish!

“Ookaay hon, what do you think of these?” Beautiful lace in cream and black, pale pink and purple beckoned from her outstretched hands. The delicate colors took my breath away, but it was the wide satin straps and underwire that I was after.

No matter how confidently time marches all over my body, my boobs were not going to be casualties of this hormonal battle!

My hair turns gray when nobody is looking. And every time I sneeze or laugh too hard… well, you know. It’s bewildering and confusing, when and how this happens. In the dead of night or right before my eyes.

I looked at myself once in the mirror. Smiled a real smile, and gave my new friend a big, grateful hug. I gathered up my belongings and shoved that scarf deep into my bag.

I had new underwire. No need for anything else.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “No one was around when it happened.” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, Lisa (this week’s sentence thinker-upper) from Flingo, and Jessica from Ramblings of an add mommy. My wise friend, Samantha, told me, “Our boobs deserve the best.” She’s right.