I am on a camel

I’m going to show you a picture, but you have to promise not to show my mother.

That me and my monkey riding a camel. Why you can’t show my mother is because of what we’re not wearing on our heads.

You’ve heard the stereotype about the Jewish mother, right? Well, in Israel, since a lot of the mothers there are Jewish, they have the stereotype of the Polish mother. My mother is (half) Polish.

Not to turn into my mother, but it was pretty terrifying being on a camel’s back with a baby while the camel stands up/sits down. The camel’s legs contort themselves to make it’s body lean in frightening angles, and I had to hold on to Q with one arm and the measly little handle on the saddle with the other. And of course what went through my head was something like “if I or Q fall and get brain damage, my mother will kill me for not wearing a helmet.” In the past, my mother freaked out when she found out Q went on a pony ride and asked desperately, “was he wearing a helmet?!” That’s right. A pony ride.

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