A gift from Mom

(JNS) - My mom had duck boots for the rain. And for the snow. Luckily, we wore the same size shoes, so when I visited her last year and it snowed, she let me wear the duck boots. 

They are old-fashioned and not so stylish anymore, but I remember in the 1980s they were everywhere. And practical, oh so practical. They proclaimed to keep your feet dry, and they did!

My mom, Danna Miller Levy, was generous. She gave them to me to wear without hesitation. Just like she'd join groups in her senior living community without a second thought. Christian, arts-and-crafts, the Italian club. She didn't care; she was social and wanted to make friends and be busy.

That's what many Jews still do. Mingle, get along, make friends. We need people to like us.

I like that, and for the most part, I agree. It might be something ingrained in me as a Jew, but I think it mostly comes from my mom because I am so much like her. I even have the same voice.

When her friends used to call on the phone, and she'd be in another room or "indisposed" (her fancy way of telling people she was in the bathroom; she taught us to use that very phrase), I'd sometimes pretend that I was her and handle the conversation. I'd go along until, at some point, her friend on the other end would detect something and say, "Danna? Is this you?"

I was caught!

I didn't say any of these things in Mom's eulogy last year. But I want her to know. Is it too late to tell her now?

My life has continued after Mom left me. Us. And this happens to everyone at some point. But for some reason, I never imagined it happening to me. I never imagined life without my mom. 

How silly. Why didn't I? Why didn't I prepare? I prepare for other things, why not that?

So now I have memories. And thank goodness, I have lots of them. Lessons. Memories. In a way, they are one and the same.

Do you know there is no Mother's Day here in Israel? We don't have such a day. I'm ok, and not sad or anything. I just wrote this [article] because I was wearing her boots and was thinking about her and my son went into the army and all...

I was on the phone yesterday with a friend who lives in Toronto. He was criticizing an article I wrote about Israel and the lack of crime here, but also about the simple fact of terror. He wanted me to write about how our children are all superheroes because they all serve in the Israel Defense Forces.

I thought it was "too much" and sounded a bit like a cheerleading mom on the sidelines of a soccer game. Our children are mature fighters; we don't need to brag about them and call them superheroes. What does that accomplish?

But maybe I'm wrong.

My mom, as an example, was always quick to praise. If we were even mediocre, she would approve, applaud and encourage us.

I was a ballet dancer. Was I good? My mother certainly thought so. My teacher yelled at me, hit my feet and made me cry. My mother couldn't have been prouder. "He pays attention to you!" she would say. That meant I was worth paying attention to ... or in other words, I was good.

Having that kind of encouragement from a parent can make a big difference. It builds confidence. It allows a child to grow, to try things, to believe in himself or herself. I am a spokesperson today because of the things my mom instilled in me. I don't doubt that for a minute.

And I strive to instill the same confidence by being encouraging to my own children. That's a great gift Mom gave.

Today, I took my third son to serve in the IDF in response to his draft notice. His two older brothers were combat fighters, and now he will be, too. He is my look-alike. For years, I'd grab his face, hold it next to mine and say, "See, doesn't he look just like me?"

He was our first sabra. When we made aliyah, I was seven months pregnant. He was born when we were living on a kibbutz, integrating into our new Israeli life. I remember how lonely I was at the hospital. We were six women to a room. Our beds were separated by dividers; there was very little privacy. I could hear everything from the women around me. And they all had visitors. Big families came with food and gifts. But I had nobody.

Being an immigrant has its difficult moments, but I knew it was worth it. I was growing an Israeli family, and my kids would be tough, independent and confident.

So, we plowed ahead. We moved to Susya, a "settlement," with tough Israelis and fresh air, goat farms and vineyards. We grew our family and made our way in an out-of-the-way community, where most of the families have six kids or more, all serving in the IDF, most in fighting units. The fathers serve as well, maintaining a very high percentage of reservists.

Over the years, some of my children have complained about us living here. They'd call it a "hole" and whine at the time it takes them to get to their friends in different cities.

But we held fast. I never really let it bother me. For sure, I had the same sorts of complaints growing up in the American suburbs of Wilmington. I mean, don't all kids complain?

Here, when we are in the news, friends of mine in the United States contact me asking for the full story of what happened. Some reconsider their plans to visit.

Last night, we saw the Iron Dome out our window. We were eating our last dinner together-a special dinner before our son joined the army.

No party for our family. We don't have enough family here to fill up a room. Another reminder of our immigrant status. So, instead, we have a nice dinner and make the best of it.

My mom used to tell me how her family was "small" and how she'd drive around before a holiday to pick up old relatives scattered around town. We don't even have that, but I am grateful for what we do have.

When I tell my son I'm proud of him, I can barely get the words out.

It doesn't matter that we don't have the number of relatives here or the parties or the fancy lawn. I am bursting with pride like so many other parents, and I think the kids feel it no matter what.

Today at the soldier induction center, the sidewalk out front was crowded with mothers like me, as well as sisters and fathers, and babies.

It was nothing like being at that hospital 19 years ago. And my son wasn't alone.

Natalie Sopinsky is the director of development at Rescuers Without Borders.