XY is for Jungen; Z is for Zeit

I thought there weren’t many good options for the letters X and Y—but then it hit me: my life has been shaped, in no small part, by those two little chromosomes. So many boys! My parents have two sons, seven grandsons, just one daughter (yours truly), and no granddaughters. As they like to say, “The Seeligs only do boys.”

Over the past six months, as I’ve watched Rafi and Leo grow and evolve, I’ve realized I no longer have little kids. I have Jungen, boys. I know, I know: gender is a construct; they're socialized that way; f*ck the patriarchy, blah blah. Yes, they love flowers and butterflies; they also roughhouse, compete incessantly, and burp like sailors. They’re loud, wild, and tender, all at once.

But since this is my very last post, I want to linger for a moment on the final letter of the alphabet. Z is for Zeit—time.

Baby Rachel

Today is my birthday. It’s lovely to be celebrating in my birthplace, Vancouver. This morning, I flipped through my baby album (I see where Rafi got his sedentary, chunky physique as an infant) and felt immense gratitude for what was an enchanted childhood.

My parents are spoiling me—my mom does laundry, my dad makes breakfast—offering a sweet little portal back in time. We had Shabbat dinner at my aunt’s house with all the cousins, just like every Friday of my youth, except now there’s another whole generation around the table, and I no longer sit at the kids’ end.

Vancouver family!

Each morning, Erol and I drive past the hospital where I was born, my elementary school, the synagogue where I had my Bat Mitzvah, on our way to drop the kids at day camp at the JCC (where I once spent hours shimmying in hot pink spandex to Madonna’s “Holiday” in jazz dance class). Watching your youth flit by from the passenger seat makes you feel young and old all at once.

JCC Day Camp drop-off

Now, as I settle into my 40s, birthdays feel both more and less momentous. I’ve finally accepted that I’m, unequivocally, an adult—a title I somehow managed to shirk well into my 30s. I take myself less seriously. I’m learning to welcome change, to let go of the ego that once insisted my identity was fixed. I now believe life is long.

Important life lessons with Savta: Gin & Tonic! Cheers!

And yet, I see my parents and their friends aging. I notice my own energy flagging. I watch my husband navigate a rotating cast of ailments. And I’m reminded, in small and startling ways, that life is short.

Being in your 40s is, in a word, ambivalent.

Our past six months in Germany were an indescribable gift. The whole plan came together haphazardly and on short notice; Freiburg was actually our Plan B, after Tel Aviv fell through. When people asked why we chose it, I’d shrug and say, “We visited for a day about ten years ago and liked it.” It's true. But somehow, we came to feel like Freiburgers. We fell in love with the city, its size, its beauty, its low-key vibe. We watched our kids grow more independent, take on new challenges, and—most remarkably—soak up the language.

Six months is both a long time and a short one. Long enough to settle in, build new routines, and begin to feel at home. But also short enough to take things in stride, knowing all along it's temporary. In some ways, it feels like those six months changed me forever. In others, it’s as if I just woke up from a dream and none of it really happened.

Rafi's pony, Zauberwald (Magic Forest), was a little willful yet sweet

We bid farewell to Germany with a first-ever pony ride and an overnight stay at Atilla and Belgin's lovely home in Nuremberg. I'm so glad my boys feel so at home and at ease with their German family.

Finaly family breakfast with Uncle Atilla in Nuremberg

My heart feels a little heavy leaving Freiburg behind. I didn’t expect the way of life there to resonate so deeply with my values: slower days, less striving, fewer purchases, more presence. A respect for tradition, independence, nature, boundaries. Cultivating autonomy instead of obsessing over safety. Prioritizing communal responsibility over unbridled individualism.

Maybe this is just a form of Stockholm syndrome, but I’ll even miss the sheer amount of unstructured together time we had. (That said, I’m positively elated the kids are now in full-day camp. As Erol put it: “I like them better when I see less of them.”)

Thank you for following along on this adventure. It’s bittersweet to say goodbye to this blog. It has been a steady companion through a season of change. I hope it serves as a keepsake for our family—a snapshot of a fleeting, unforgettable chapter.

Auf Wiedersehen.