The end, part 2

Three and a half years ago I began:

May 10, 2006. In two months and 21 days I will be moving across the country to start my life as the wife of a law student. I am leaving my friends and family, a great job, a house I love, and a comfortable life for the dream of a better future. And I'll be taking my three children along on the adventure with me. The logistics of the move are huge: selling our house, enrolling the kids in school, finding affordable day care for the baby, finding a new apartment, finding me a new job. The details are staggering. I'm told the first year of law school is brutal. I've been warned that I will only see glimpses of my husband as he rushes off to the library, or returns home for a quick shower. I've been alerted to the fact that law school is rough on marriages. But we're strong. We're tight. And if we can survive this move, we can survive anything.

I'm not really the blogging type, but I'm hoping this will be a good way to stay connected to my former life, and understand the new one I'm being thrust into. Blog as cheap therapy? Perhaps. Blog as form letter you plug into? Definitely! Stay tuned for the exciting adventures of the Law School Widow!

Looking back I can say we did, in fact survive. A little worse for the wear, but we made it through to the other side. I did make new friends, but never quite got over leaving my family. I found a new job, but it isn't nearly as great as the one I left behind. I still miss my house, my synagogue, my old life, but I'm okay with that. My hubby did spectacularly in law school, no surprise there. He started his new job a couple of weeks ago, and seems content. The kids, thank goodness, are thriving. They are in a wonderful school, have sweet friends, and are as at home here as anywhere.

It wasn't easy. I have yet to feel that Chicago is my home. I will never, ever, not ever, get used to the harsh and vicious winters. I am still struggling to find my place in a large and rather homogeneous Orthodox community. I've put on close to fifteen pounds (but have managed to lose seven). I'm grumpier, tenser, more prone to snap at the people I love. My parenting skills have taken a nosedive. And yet around me, life flourishes.

The post-Bar trip is a fine example. We couldn't afford our plan to take California by storm, hitting everything from the Napa Valley vineyards (the kosher ones, at least) south to the San Diego zoo. We had big dreams, but as of yet, no income. So we went for a two week trip to Minnesota instead to visit my mother-in-law.

There was no Disneyland, Monterrey Bay Aquarium, or Baron Herzog kosher fine dining, but we managed to have a genuinely wonderful, relaxing, and much needed break. I flew in from Ft. Lauderdale while my saintly hubby drove the kids the seven hour drive to St. Paul. The next day we packed up and drove up north to Lake Superior, hanging a right at Duluth to head back to a place we'd vacationed years ago: Bayfield, Wisconsin.

Bayfield is an adorable, picturesque seaside town on the shores of the lake they once called Gitche Gumee (h/t Gordon Lightfoot). On our first visit I had the distinct feeling of being in a Twilight Zone episode visiting the small town. Something was amiss. The town looked normal, the people seemed normal, but I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong. It finally occurred to me: it didn't smell right. No dead fish and salty sea air. Of course, now I'm used to living on a gigantic lake.

This time, we drove through Bayfield and straight onto the ferry to Madeline Island, the shining star of the Apostle Islands.

Granted, it was a little spit of an almost uninhabited island, but the kids couldn't have been happier, breathing clean air, clinging to their Granma like little monkeys.

Madeline Island has two grocery stores, a handful of taverns, three or more art galleries, and fourteen miles of paved road. It doesn't have the sophisticated marketing skills of your average Californian corporation, hence the name of the cabin we rented, "Better Than A Tent".

There is something to be said for truth in advertising.

It was much better than a tent. Our double double-wide with four bedrooms, two full baths, kitchen, dining area, living room and tiki bar was downright adorable. And stuck in the middle of nowhere in the deep, dark, bug-filled woods of the island.

We had no cell phone reception, no TV reception, and no wireless internet, but we found plenty to do in our little island paradise.

We played tennis.

We visited the local history museum where the kids learned to weave in the ancient way,

and enjoyed the soft, scent-free prized fur of the local skunks.

We built our own "dreamcatchers",

and braved a storm kayaking around the island.

We swam in the recreation center's "heated" pool overlooking the lake and the marina,

and thawed out in the hot tub.

Our most memorable event was sitting out on the dock as the sun disappeared over the horizon and the night bloomed in billions of stars, unobscured by city lights or clouds. We even saw the milky way and a couple of satellites.

Months later, it is what they remember most about the trip.

We spent four days cooking together, eating together, playing Mille Bournes, laughing and snuggling together.

And no one complained about missing the Disney princesses.

Back in St. Paul, the kids explored the Science Museum where their Daddy had once worked.

The spent hours in Granma's garden picking cherry tomatoes and green beans,

and we celebrated our first born's first decade of life with friends and family.

We spent a lovely Shabbat in the St. Louis Park community, and capped the trip off with a trip to the Apple Valley Zoo and the Como Land amusement park.

Back at home, life went back to it's normal, allegretto rhythms. The kids went back to school, my hubby finished of his last few weeks of pro bono work, and I returned to teach P.E. at the girl's school. But even our daily routines are broken up by special events, visits and moments. In the past couple of months we went apple picking,

celebrated Sukkot,

enjoyed visits from a long lost friend (thanks, facebook!),

and from Grandma and Papa. We dragged Grandma and Papa around Chicago from one end to the other.

My hubby, having some free time, took them to the Art Institute of Chicago, and the kids and I dragged them to the Museum of Science and Industry

and a Chamber music concert at the school.

But the moment I'll hold onto most dearly is the week my hubby and I spent together. He was finished with his pro bono work, and hadn't begun working at the firm yet. I was off for Sukkot break. The kids were still in school. We took our own little "Staycation" from the moment we dropped the kids off at school at 8:00 am, until we picked them up at 4. We went to the Art Institute, explored the Cultural Arts Center's Tiffany domes, and spent a day at the Merchandise Mart, dreaming of that bright future we've tried so hard to attain.


And what great gem of wisdom have I gained from these past three years? Nothing too stellar that hasn't been said better by countless others. All I can say is that it was nothing like I expected. It was neither as difficult nor as fulfilling. Law School wasn't the marriage-killing drudgery I was warned it would be, nor has it's completion been a great watershed moment. Life goes on. My husband works, either in a library or an office, my kids grow, learn, test me, thrill me. I struggle everyday to be the best person I can be, and often fail spectacularly. Daily struggles and tribulations are dotted throughout with sublime moments of joy and contentment. I am incredibly blessed to be alive at this time, in this place, with this family. All I can tell you is that I've learned to be grateful for it all.

And for all of you who shared it with me. I humbly express my gratitude.

The end, part 1

The week of the Bar Exam was packed. I had a job interview the day before at De Paul University. It was an interview I was trying to nail down for months, and finally got. Before the interview I asked my husband for his advice. He told me: "answer their questions." Huh? What kind of advice is that? I sputtered. "Just answer their questions. Don't tell them more than they've asked you. Listen carefully and just answer what they've asked."

That made sense. I dropped off my budding actress at theater camp, and found my way to De Paul. I parked across the street and dropped my quarters into the meter. The head of the department greeted me at the entrance to the department offices, she guided me into an office where I met the second woman who would be interviewing me, and they asked me my first question. Within seconds, I had pulled out all of my class syllabi from semesters past, my course outlines, and copies of power point slides. I confessed to being stuck teaching courses I had never even taken, I gave detailed explanations of how I switched from studying Irish History to Sport Administration, why I was one course short of my M.Ed, how I started developing on-line courses when I was on maternity leave. I confided in the challenges of being the mother of three while my husband was in law school, and on and on.

So much for my husband's advice.

Despite being a complete blabbermouth, or perhaps, because of it, they liked me. The hiring processes at universities are fairly complex, so nothing is guaranteed, but I think (and hope and pray) I'll be teaching one class in the spring term. It's a start!

The excitement and giddiness of a successful job interview quickly dissolved into the stress and panic of the upcoming Bar Exam. My poor hubby was studying day and night, pouring over his massive exam guides and taking practice exam after practice exam. The Bar also coincided with the end of summer camp, so we were also dealing with a tan, skinny boy who hadn't brushed his teeth in a month, full of excitement and stories to share.

A week of sleepless nights preceded the Bar, and my hubby tried valiantly to sleep the night between the two days of exams. I stayed awake in some kind of sick solidarity. All day, the kids and I glanced at the clock anxiously imagining the torture our love was enduring.

Finally, it was over. Just like that. In a moment, three years of stress, anguish, hard work, fun, fear, pride, ambition, and accomplishment were over. My husband came home exhausted and drained. I asked him, How'd you do?

"I dunno." Came the tired response. "I'll find out in October." And that was that.

The next day was both my husband's 37th birthday (young pup!), and Tisha B'Av, a Jewish fast day. So much for celebrating.

The following day was the last day of drama camp.

We were treated to an adorable and amusing musical performance followed by Shabbat. The Bar Exam did not precede wild parties and celebrations. My husband's birthday was not a cause for joy and licentiousness. we didn't slide into home plate. Three years of Law School and three months of Bar preparation left us spent.

After another couple of weeks of my husband's PILI fellowship, I continued Camp Mommy with three kids. We hung out at the park, went to the museum,

went to the beach,

went to the zoo,

and the big kids and I spent a day at Six Flags.

They had earned their tickets through a reading program at their school.

It was nice getting to spend time with them.

We giggled, played, and chilled. And except for 60 degree weather and rain every day, it felt like summer.

My hubby and I had our own little vacation. We hired a baby sitter to stay with the kids for twenty four hours, while we booked a hotel fifteen minutes away. We dined on kosher sushi, worked out in the hotel fitness room, shopped for shoes (yay!!), and strolled the beautiful Chicago Botanic Gardens for hours. It was romantic, relaxing, and rejuvenating, and I highly recommend it to anyone married with kids.

Finally, the real family vacation came around. We had planned a dramatic, exciting, and outrageously expensive "Post-Bar trip" to California. The plan was to meet up with the family in Northern California to celebrate my parent's 50th wedding anniversary. Then we were going to drive down to Los Angeles with the kids hitting every tourist spot in the state like Disneyland, Hollywood, the studio tours, the Monterrey Aquarium, San Diego zoo, etc. You name it, it was on our agenda.

Unfortunately, the economic meltdown, the law firm cutting back on hours and delaying start dates were not.

In a matter of weeks our glorious vacation was dealt a reality blow and after some tweaking and revising, was downgraded to four days on Madeline Island off of the Wisconsin shores of Lake Superior and a week and a half in St. Paul, Minnesota with my mother-in-law. It may not have been as thrilling as we had originally planned, but it was wonderful nonetheless. The kids thoroughly enjoyed spending time with their granma and her geriatric dog, Amy. And the vacation, in a quiet and understated way, was as mind-blowing as anything the kids could have experienced in California.

Before we headed out to Minnesota, I had a slight detour on my map: the replanned fiftieth anniversary celebration for mom and dad in Ft. Lauderdale! I flew out on Thursday first class, thanks to frequent flyer miles. I got in at midnight, and on Friday morning, we hit the Florida beaches running. I spent the day basking in the sun with my sisters and their families.

It was wonderful seeing my niece whom I hadn't seen since she was a baby.

It was a treat discovering my niece was blessed with more personality in her pinkie than most people get in their whole lives.

It was also a treat hanging out with my family. Just about everyone was there: aunts, uncles, siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, and more.

But the stars of the weekend were my parents who made it to the big 5-0 and still looked as beautiful, happy and in love as ever.

Family came from far and wide to celebrate.

It was as much a family reunion as a celebration of 50 years of bliss. I got reacquainted with family I hadn't seen in years,

and got to meet a few new faces, too.

We laughed, we caught up, we reminisced. We remembered just how much we loved being together.

And all too fast, it was time to say goodbye and get back to my own kiddos.

Shakespeare had it right. Parting is such sweet sorrow, but a common Jewish sentiment gets it right, too: only in simchas. We should always meet under such joyous, wonderful circumstances. And as far as I'm concerned, the more the merrier. I don't know who said that one, but they're right, too.

Part 2: Post-Bar trip to nowhere!

Winding down

I'm picking my son up from camp tomorrow.

For four weeks he's been away from home, living in a small, dreary, wooden cabin with a half dozen or so boys his age, and two counselors. He's managed to eat, dress himself, brush his teeth (I hope), and get along without me. I'm pretty sure he's been successful, because as far as I can tell, he's happy.

I have three ways of ascertaining his state. For one thing, I received two letters over the past month. The full text of the first letter read: "Mommy, I'm having a great time". The second went as follows: "Dear Mom, Please send me a package of candy. Everyone else has gotten one." I'm sure if he was having a miserable time, he wouldn't have hesitated to tell me.

My second piece of evidence is the nightly posting of photos over the internet. When he wasn't ducking out of view of the camera, he was smiling from ear-to-ear.

It was a tremendous source of comfort to me, but made me think back to my old camping days. My parents also sent me off to camp for close to a month, but without the internet to monitor my every activity and mood. In a way, it was probably more nerve-wracking for my parents.

Then again, maybe not.

Back at the home front, the girls have been having a very different camping experience altogether. My diva, appropriately, is attending a theatre day camp at a park in our neighborhood. They are putting on a complete production at the end of the month based on a 1980 musical flop that destroyed the careers of several previously successful and promising actors. I am, of course, talking about the supremely gawdawful roller disco fiasco known as Xanadu. Olivia Newton John and Gene Kelly were never heard from again, and Michael Beck...exactly. I never heard of him either. How they're going to pull off transforming this abomination of a screenplay into something entertaining and appropriate for 7 to 12 year old performers is only one more of this summer's mysteries I have to ponder.

And while the older siblings are hard at work in the business of fun, the youngest is trying to figure out how such a promising sounding summer at "camp mommy" turned out to be such a dreadful disappointment. That's not to say it has been a complete failure, at least, not on the level of say, Xanadu, but I'm sure it could have been better. For the first month of the summer, I dutifully drove my girls to swimming lessons each and every day. They did head bobs, flutter kicks, teddy bear floats, and streamlines. So far, so good.

After dropping big sister off at camp, things kind of got less exciting for little sister. I met up with my best friend/coffee date/walking partner, strapped the little one in her stroller, and hit the pavement. From the beginning, the summer plan was to have all three kids in camp so I could meet up with my friend for some brisk walking and sugar-free iced coffee to whip ourselves back into shape. Unfortunately, my baby's summer camp didn't end up fitting into our budget, so we fell back on plan B: camp mommy.

We quickly discovered that my little one had low tolerance for sitting in a stroller watching the world whiz by, and even less for not being the center of the conversation. Walks devolved into an exhausting attempt to get our exercise and keep her engaged.

After a while, I spent fewer days walking with my friend and more taking my daughter on "adventures." Many of these adventures took place downtown in Millennium Park where a) I have free law student parking until the end of summer, and b) Target sponsors a giant tent of free activities for children each day.

We have enjoyed concerts, circus activities,

arts and crafts,

and, of course, splashing around in the Crown Fountain.

We've also had the pleasure of spending time with friends and family from our old hometown.

Some just came for a short visit, some have moved here for a longer duration and we have enjoyed helping them settle in and see the sights.


The highlight of the summer for all of us so far, and my third bit of evidence that my son is having a good summer, was visitor's day at his camp. We drove the four hours to middle-of-nowhere, Wisconsin, east of the Christmas Tree Farms, west of nothing, to a tiny enclave of Jewish Mayhem. The moment we drove up to the camp we were greeted by a tall, skinny, tan-as-a-brown-berry boy with a giant grin. He hopped into the car with a warm greeting: "Did you bring me candy?"

Of course, I had.

We were treated to a performance of camp songs and cheers, a meaty barbecue picnic,

and hours and hours waiting in the queue for the zip line. My son was anxious to demonstrate his favorite activity in camp.

After waiting in line for an hour, he scrambled up the rope ladder strapped in his harness, and waited some more for the ten second joyride down a 400 ft. wire.

Once he came down, he ran off to the restroom, and disappeared. My husband and I were stuck waiting in line with the little sisters who also wanted to prove their mettle on the zipline.

Big sister had something to prove. Two days earlier she had chickened out of jumping off the 3 ft. diving board at her last day of swimming lessons, only to be showed up by her baby sister, who leaped off with glee. Big sister had something to prove and that something was the gumption to jump off the 40 ft. platform. She wasn't going to be outdone by anyone.

Well, she scaled all the way up the rope ladder, past the 20 ft. platform, all the way to the top, They strapped her in, and after several harrowing moments of waiting, she took the plunge!

We couldn't have been prouder,

until baby sister demanded her chance at the zip line.

Unfortunately, the zip line was run by several young Israelis who had just completed their army duty, and basically scoffed in the face of danger. "Mamaleh," they reassured me, "she'll be fine!"

"Don't worry" they said, "She'll never be afraid of heights after this!" Reluctantly, and some may say stupidly, I agreed to let my teeny tiny four year old ride the zip line. 20 ft. only I insisted, much to her disappointment. So we waited for another hour for her turn.

In the meantime, big sister had a fit. "I'm bored!" She wailed. "I've spent the whole day in this line!" She howled. Daddy had no choice but to find something more exciting to do at the camp. We hadn't seen big brother in over an hour, what else was there to do? So, he took her for a boat ride, and little-bit and I waited and waited and waited.

Finally, they got the only harness small enough for her teeny tiny frame, and the Israeli soldier who seemed to know what was going on carefully and meticulously tightened each strap, making sure she was snuggly secured.

As he adjusted the straps, my little chatter box interrogated him. "Where are you from?" She asked.


"I'm from Israel." He responded in his thick accent. "From a city called Jerusalem. You've heard of it?" she nodded, silently. "You've been there before?" He asked.

"No." She shook her head. ""How old are you?" Her interview continued. I eavesdropped, melting as my little one carried on such a sweet and mature conversation in her teensy, high-pitched little baby voice.

Finally, she was ready to go. She looked adorable in her harness. So much so, that all of the Israelis asked me permission to take her picture. By now, the zip line queue had grown to a couple dozen campers and their families. The kids asked, "Is she really going up?" My little one puffed up to her full three feet height and said, "Yes! To the high one!" Mommy shook her head. No. 20 ft. is enough this year. You can do the 40 foot one next year. She didn't argue.

Finally, they attached her to the line and pulled her up to the platform. She desperately wanted to climb the rope ladder, but the space between the rungs was bigger than she!

She got to the platform and we waited anxiously, the crowd below cheered her on, calling out her name, giving her encouragement. I could have sworn the parents were looking at me with shock and derision, letting such a small child take such an unnecessary risk. The Israelis kept reassuring me, "Mamaleh, she'll be fine!"

Then she plunged.

It lasted fewer than 10 seconds. She spun around waiving at the cheering crowd behind her. I finished filming, and ran to the end where they brought her down. She grinned from ear to ear. My heart pounded in my chest.

But I sure was proud of all three of my fearless daredevils. And those Israelis were right. Everything was fine, Mamaleh.

We finally found our son, playing tennis with a buddy from Denver.

I got a quick tour of the camp, we bought the kids some ice cream, and we said our goodbyes.

The best part of visitor's day was the final moment when we were getting ready to pull out of our parking spot. That same tall, skinny, tan-as-a-brown-berry boy ran up to the car again to say goodbye.

I've really missed that kid.

Tomorrow he's coming home, and if my old camp experiences are any indication, I expect him to get home, eat supper, and sleep for two days straight.

Then when he wakes up, he'll join baby sister and me for some more camp mommy adventures.

And where is law school hubby while all of this camping is going on? Studying, studying, and studying some more for the Bar exam, which is only a week away.

It's hard to believe three years has already come and gone. In another week, he will no longer be a student, and I no longer will be the Law School Widow. This is most likely one of the last posts of my blog. I'll be winding down the blog as the summer drifts into autumn.

I'd like to hear from those of you who have taken this crazy ride along with me. Please drop me a comment, especially if you've been quietly sharing the experience. I'd like a chance to say goodbye and thanks to each and every one of you.

Showing-off season

I could never go to law school. Forget about the LSATs, which I would most likely bomb, or the classes, which would put me to sleep on a regular basis, or the constant studying and writing; the thing that would really kill me would be the Bar exam right after graduation. I mean, really, what good is graduating when you have to dive right back in to work the following day? What's the point? I would be so burnt out and drained that I'd just say forget the whole thing. Thanks for the nice diploma, but I'm studied-out right now. I'd just wave my white flag right then and there. Hmph, I would grumble to anyone who would listen. I didn't want be a stupid lawyer anyway.

Thankfully, my husband has far greater endurance than I do. I don't know how he manages it.

I guess it's kind of like motherhood. The responsibilities and worries never end. Just when we think we have it made - school is out, summer is here - we get slammed with the showing-off season. It's the Bar exam of parenthood.

First it was the end of soccer season.

My son had an all-day tournament, and my daughter had her final game on the same day on different fields, in different towns. My husband and I have one car. It was a logistical rompecabeza, but somehow, we managed.

While the big kids played their games, the baby kept herself busy teaching herself to climb a tree.

Part of me watched in horror as she scaled the low branch, inching slowly upward.

Part of me glowed with pride at her derring-do and determination. The wise mom in me kept her mouth shut, and watched from a safe distance, letting her experience the pride of her own success by herself.

The look on her face when she made it her way to the "top" was priceless.

I'm so glad the worry wart in me shut her mouth for once.

It's a lesson I'm learning the hard way. My kids are getting to the age where I need to start doling out independence and responsibility more freely.

My kids are pretty good about the responsibility thing already. The two big ones have been taking piano lessons for years already, and they're good about practicing without too much noodging. But I have to admit, I was getting a little worried this past month. They had a recital coming up, and it was getting harder and harder to get them to sit down and focus. Neither of them could get through their recital pieces without seriously messing up. I gulped and said, try again more times than any of us wanted to hear. It was starting to be like pulling teeth.

The day of the recital came, and in the morning we had a nice distraction: my daughter's seventh birthday party.

Speaking of doling out responsibilities, after my baby's birthday party, two houses full of guests, and the graduation party, I was partied-out. I turned to my husband and said, the next one's yours. He came through beautifully, sending out e-vites, and planning the scavenger hunt along with all of the clues and prizes.

He ran the whole thing, and even took the pictures.

I baked a cake that no one but the birthday girl liked, and I put together the goody bags. My daughter had a great time with her friends, but abdicating my own maternal responsibilities may have been an even bigger treat for me.

With that party in the hopper, we put the spring time birthday season to rest, and headed off to the piano recital. Truthfully, I knew my kids worked hard and knew their pieces, and if they messed up, so be it. This wasn't Carnegie Hall. It was the experience that counted. Still, I would have liked to see them see that their hard work was paying off. But I wasn't so sure. After sitting through one botched up practice after another, I didn't see how they were going to pull it off.

A little voice in my head (that sounded an awful lot like my husband) advised me to back off. It was hard, but I'm learning. Once again, I abdicated responsibility to the dad, let him supervise lesson-time, and made myself busy in the kitchen. The urge to noodge was too great.

After the birthday party, we dressed, gathered up the music, and headed to the recital hall. My kids seemed relaxed and happy, and fortunately, it was contagious. We got there early, the kids ran through their pieces on stage a couple of times, and we were ready to go. First up was my daughter playing a lovely, sad piece by Lyakhovitsky, loosely translated by the piano teacher as "Sad Dog". My daughter confidently ascended the stage, took her bow, and played her piece flawlessly (at least to her mother's ear), and then dashed off stage as fast as her little legs could take her.

Next up was my son. His piece, A Short Story, by Kabalevsky, was technically demanding, and required some pretty swift fingerwork. All month long he struggle with getting his hands up to speed. He practiced frequently with a metronome, but couldn't quite get through the whole piece with out tripping over his own fingertips. Once again, I tried not to worry too much. It was a piano recital, not the Van Cliburn competition. He looked so grown up mounting the stage, taking a deep bow, and sitting himself down to play. My son sat up, took a deep breath, and plowed through his piece better than he'd played all month. I marvelled at his maturity and professionalism. When did he get so big?

For the last piece, my son and his school friend played a sweet duet together called Copycat, by Matz. For kids three years apart they had amazing chemistry. Why not? I asked my husband mischievously, we're three years apart!

With that, we sighed deeply and scratched another thing off our list.

Only one more responsibility lay ahead of us before we could declare a start to summer. The following week was the dance recital. All three of my children were scheduled to perform, but not before I had to attend the parent helper meeting, and not before we had to endure the dress rehearsal. Each step was a time consuming and a mind-numbingly aggravating "hurry-up-and-wait" kind of experience.

The recital was scheduled for father's day. I woke up early, made my husband an omelet and a smoothie, while the kids made him homemade cards. Just as he was sitting up in bed to enjoy the morning meal, the phone rang.

"Where are we supposed to drop-off the luggage today?" a friend who was sending her daughter to the same camp we were sending our son asked in what sounded like near-panic.

I quickly understood what panic really was. Drop off?? Today?? I practically screamed into the phone. They're not leaving until Tuesday!

I had three hours to finish the laundry, label hundreds of clothing items, fold and pack them, and get them to the van, and make it to the theatre on time. We flew into action, barking at the kids all the while. Don't ask me any questions now! For that matter don't even talk to me! I screamed anytime a child approached. They backed away slowly with a look of curiosity and concern.

Miraculously, my husband got the suitcases to the drop-off point on time, and I got to the theatre with the girls a little early. No one had their head bitten off by a rabid mother.

If the end of dance classes was graduation, dress rehearsal was studying for the Bar exam, and the recital itself was the Big Test. For me, as the backstage mom, it was one test of patience after another. I was stuck with a half-dozen half-pint three and four year olds who didn't want to stay backstage, in their costumes, with stupid bows in their hair. They wanted to run around and play, or else they wanted mommy. The crusher was when I was getting ready to leave the girls with another mommy so that I could watch big sister's performance from the side of the stage. As I was leaving, a little polka-dotted princess asked me to take her to the potty.

I missed big sister's performance.

We managed to get the girls and boy on stage, fully dressed in time for their dance. My little one decided the choreography wasn't up to her level of expertise, so she embellished, until the brightly colored screen behind her distracted her. With a big smile, a wave to her daddy, and a couple of prat falls, she made it through her dance, and off the stage.

I may have missed their dance, but I did get to see my daughter and her hiphop friends goofing off backstage. They were adorable.

Especially my little hiphop girl.

My son's performance was during the second show. He did an awesome, acrobatic, hiphoppy, breakdancing thing with his Just For Boys group. My husband and I switched jobs. I sat in the audience while he stayed backstage with a pack of wild boys, thereby avoiding the decidedly immodest overweight belly dancers.

Dancing didn't come easy to my son. Several times over the year he was ready to quit. The teacher was sweet and patient, but had an artistic vision that was physically demanding and required tremendous focus. My son struggled with both. But like piano, when it came time to perform, he brought on his A-game. The boys brought the house down mid-routine with a tripod handstand that my son had been agonizing over. I felt him beaming from 30 rows back.

My hiphopper started theatre camp today, but by noon, I was on my way to pick her up. She has a delicate constitution that couldn't stomach peanut butter and chocolate chip challah sandwiches. The baby asked her if she had a "stummy egg".

My son is all packed up. Today I'm putting him on a bus for somewhere in Wisconsin. It will be his first overnight camping experience. I will have four weeks to miss him, worry about him, and fret. No one said this independence thing would be easy. What will my picky eater eat? Can he even make his own bed? I guess it's time to let go, step back, and tell that inner worry wart to stuff a sock in it.

Actually, my inner worry wart will be too busy dealing with the psychotoddler all day. Lucky me, I'll be running my own mommy camp for the two of us.

And you think the Bar exam is hard?

Big days, part 2

Graduation already seems like a million years away. Three days later, my husband was already back at work juggling a Bar Preparation course with a Public Interest Law Internship. Life for us continued as normal, but not before we finished celebrating his major accomplishment.

Graduation was followed by a reception at the law school. The law school thoughtfully provided kosher food in a separate room for the handful of families requiring the accommodation. This was a relief in a couple of ways. We got to eat, after an exciting, but ultimately hectic morning, and it was away from the over-crowded chaos in the main atrium. We had room to relax and chat with the professors who strolled our way.

We dashed out of the reception after an hour of shmoozing, to prepare for Shabbat. We were spending Shabbat in my friend's empty house in Skokie so that the whole family could be together. I prepared the meals at my apartment, which we transferred over in a frenzy to have everything ready before sundown. Miraculously, we managed, only forgetting small things like matches and salt.

Once Shabbat was over, our attention went to the big graduation party. My parents took the kids to piano lessons, and then on a promised picnic to the beach, using my daughter's brand new birthday picnic basket. Meanwhile, my husband and I went into overdrive bringing over foods and beverages to the house, putting up streamers, and trying to get things "just so". It felt like a mammoth task, so much so, I had a hard time just relaxing and enjoying the party. Mostly, I made margaritas and took pictures.

What I did enjoy was seeing all the people who came out to celebrate with us. People from all walks of our Chicago life. Friends from synagogue,

friends from work,

family members,

and friends from law school,

all came to share our joy and eat my fudgy brownies. Towards the end, I finally collapsed on the borrowed futon and chatted with friends.

Somehow, we managed to make it through the weekend and get the kids off to school the next day. My husband, too, was back to school, preparing for his Bar exam. The only evidence that a party had occurred was the abundant leftovers and the exhaustion. It took me a week just to recover.

It's hard to believe a month has passed. While my husband's school year ended several weeks ago, he was right back at it days later, reading, underlining, outlining, sitting through, and occasionally sleeping through, one or two lectures. We also slipped right back into our routine, the kids and I just making it to the end of our school year.

Occasionally our daily doldrums were brightened by surprises. I was recently visited by an old fencing friend who was recently ordained a Catholic priest.

I don't know why, but that tickled me pink. I enjoyed chatting with him at length about his duties, the priesthood, and the state of the Catholic church. I fear I may have interrogated him a bit too much, but he was game. The kids enjoyed having a fresh face to regale with their silly stories and songs, now that all of the grandparents had returned home.

And once again we come to the end of another chapter. In a couple of days, the school year will end for us all. My son is going away to an overnight camp for the first time. Piles of his clothes cover the dining room table, waiting to be packed away. The girls have day camps of their own to enjoy, and I'm getting a real break from work. Only my husband is sweating out between the Bar exam and the PILI Fellowship.

Big days, part 1

I should be sleeping. Instead I am making dinner for a friend who just had a baby. It's a joyful insomnia. It's easy to feel joyous. I have much to celebrate, and for now, I can choose not to dwell on the trials and tribulations around the bend. They'll intrude soon enough.

I am particularly proud of the fact that I made it through the challenges that piled up, one after another, in a week replete with celebrations. The first was my baby's birthday party. I suppose at four, it's inappropriate to call her a baby, but as my youngest, I'm afraid it's a moniker that will follow her into her adult life. After all, I'm still my mother's baby at 40.

This was my little one's first real birthday party.

We held it at the ballet school, yet again. For her, it was a dream-come-true. She dressed in the fairy costume Granma Thuthin made her, blew out the candles atop the homemade cake, and danced like lunatic for a full hour, while daddy ran out to put together goody bags. 

Best of all, she was surrounded by her best friends.

The party was absolutely adorable.

The kids giggled and played, and lived up to their gender stereotype. While the dance teacher sang out the instructions, the girls listened patiently while the boys ran laps around the studio.

Days after we celebrated four years of my sweet abundance of life, it was time to turn our attention to the culmination of our Chicago experience, my husband's law school graduation.

Before we could get the partying started, we had to deal with some logistical issues, like preparing an empty home to be inhabited by my parents, my grandmother, and my family for a week. I am so blessed to have made an amazing friend who was generous enough to move to a new home the week of graduation, leaving her old house ready for a South Texas invasion. She lent it to us not only to sleep in, but to host a party in, as well.

My husband and I set out borrowing beds from another dear and generous friend, moving sheets, pillows, towels, blankets, sleeping bags, table and chairs into the house. I then began the extensive shopping and cooking for Shabbat and a party. I was barely human by the time everyone arrived. Yet, somehow, we pulled it off. In fact, it was a pleasure, a real labor of love.

The week leading up to graduation was filled with events and parties for the graduates and their families. My husband took his mom to the "Last Lecture". I would have loved to have been there to hear the uplifting words of opportunity and gratitude, but I had to work. Instead, I got to go to the "Law School Prom". My husband and I dressed up, left the kids with the babysitter, and headed to the zoo for an evening of drinking, dancing, and celebrating with his classmates.

I was amazed how many of my husband's classmates with whom I had developed a relationship.

It drove home how much of a shared experience this had been for the two of us.

Many of his classmates had joined us at our home for a meal at one time or another.

Many I had met at various law school events.

I just wish we had had more gatherings like this during law school. I'll miss my hubby's buds.

Finally, it was time for graduation.

The process of getting to graduation was a bit crazy. My mother-in-law got there ahead of everyone and tried to save nine seats in a row, enduring name-calling and abuse in the process. In the meantime, I had to run out and get stockings and sweaters for my girls since the weather turned rainy and cold. Already in a rush, we attempted to get my grandmother into our high-up minivan, but her knees protested. we took two cars instead, my parents following with my grandmother in and out of Chicago traffic. At the venue we discovered that a wheelchair would have been handy. The ushers were calling everyone in, "we're locking up in two more minutes!", while my grandmother and I hobbled down the long corridors as fast as we could, until a kindly usher came along with a wheelchair. 

In the end, none of us ended up sitting together, and Granma Thuthin had to give up the nine seats.

Graduation itself was a beautiful and meaningful event for us, despite the chaos of trying to get the whole family there on time. The speakers captured the spirit of the occasion talking about the support and sacrifices of the graduates' families and of the hopes and opportunities of the future. In my deeply emotional and moved state, it all rang true. 

Northwestern University Law School does something beautiful I don't recall seeing in any other commencement ceremony. They invite the children to walk across the stage with their graduating parent. I've always found graduation ceremonies to be a bit tedious and merely endured, but this one was different. We may have been sitting in three different sections, but all of us were there together, all of us having made different sacrifices to celebrate my husband's commencement.

Part 2: Time to get the party started!

Event horizon

Shabbat is over. My husband sits at the dining room table typing away. Already he's hard at work editing a paper due next week. The kids are asleep, and I'm surfing the internet for lack of anything better to do. Well, that's not entirely true. I could be washing more dishes, or being otherwise practical and productive, but it is Saturday night. Although it feels like any other Saturday night, there's one major difference. That paper my husband is working on is his very last assignment for law school, ever. He took his last exam on Thursday. By next Saturday night, it will all be through.

Wow.

Plans for graduation are coming together nicely. My Skokie sister was kind enough to purchase a new home and renovate it over the past few months. She's especially sweet enough to be moving into it next week leaving her old home empty and available for me to borrow. My 90 years old grandmother (hamza, hamza, bli ayin hara'ah, ptui, ptui) doesn't do stairs, so our second story flat won't cut it. So, we'll be furnishing my friend's Skokie split level with borrowed beds, folding tables and chairs, and calling it home for graduation weekend. It will also be party central on Sunday afternoon. I'm planning on decorating the place with balloons and streamers, and preparing a wide array of hors d'oeuvres and my world famous margaritas, and inviting the world to celebrate the end of law school widowhood!!

Speaking of parties, I've planned a birthday party for my angelic terror at the ballet school for mother's day afternoon. My sweetie has turned four, and this is going to be her first real birthday party. She keeps asking me, "is my party tomorrow?" It's rough not having any real concept of time. Big sister's birthday party is going to have to wait for me to get through at least one of the many events on my horizon. She wants a sleepover party, but I think she's still a little young for that. My Cinco de Mayo girl is on the cusp of seven and ready for the Ivy Leagues.

My parents tell me I was an early reader. They love to recount the time I was three and reading the different flavors of Baskin Robbin's ice creams. The kid behind the counter was convinced I'd memorized them all. It didn't amount to much in the long run, so I don't normally get worked up when my kids are ahead of the learning curve, but this kid is the real deal. At the beginning of the year she was struggling with basic readers. By winter break, she was stammering through Ramona the Brave. A month later she devoured the first three books of the Harry Potter series.

This past month her school held a reading contest, challenging the 3rd through 8th graders to read 1600 pages in a month. 1st and 2nd graders could participate if they chose. My little Einstein chewed through Charlotte's Web, Because of Winn-Dixie, Bridge to Terabithia, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and a half dozen other books in a two week period, topping it off with Alice in Wonderland, to take home the top prize: dinner with a teacher. She's six.

Big brother got the top prize, too, but he managed it in three books. Two of them were book 6 and 7 of the Harry Potter series, which already got him three quarters of the way there. I'm surrounded by scholars!

I attribute my kids scholastic success to their father. Seeing him poring over his law books, cliticky-clacking away on his laptop night after night, has clearly made an impression. It's hard for them to moan and whine about having to do homework when they witness their father sweating it out every night. We're going to have to make the most of the week and a half he has before starting to study for the Bar exam. If all I've heard is true, this two day exam is going to make law school look like a picnic.

My dear friend used to say, "buses come in fives." My head is swimming with all of the events we have around the corner. In addition to all of the birthday and graduation celebrations, we've got piano and dance recitals coming up, and if that weren't enough, I'm starting a skating program at my school this week. I will be teaching 150 fourth to seventh graders in-line skating. I haven't been in a pair of skates in over four years, and I wouldn't have considered myself an expert then. It should be amusing. I'm also planning the big field day event at my school with an international theme this year. I've come up with seventeen games from around the globe, now I have to organize the kids and faculty to run it, get all of the necessary equipment together, and pull it all off with panache.

Somehow, it doesn't seem as staggering as it should. For the past three years it felt like life was a great big treadmill. My husband worked and worked and worked with no end in sight. All of a sudden, there are no more exams to outline, no more papers to edit. For once, we're checking items off the to-do list without replacing them with another three. The kids and I only have another six weeks before school is out for summer.

For the first time in three years, I can look down the road to the distance horizon, and see the end of the journey. Or to put it a way my six year old can understand, We're just a couple of paragraphs from the end of the chapter.

Wow.