Atonement

Tomorrow night marks the beginning of the holiest day in the Jewish Calendar, Yom Kippur. For 25 hours between the haunting melody of Kol Nidre where we annul all vows, to the spiritual and physical agony of the Neilah service, we will fast and pray.

I have been fasting on Yom Kippur since I was eleven. Although I wasn't required to do so until 12, all the cool girls were doing it a year early. In all of these many years of fasting on Yom Kippur, I have had years when I have felt moved to repentance, and other years when I have been moved merely to guilt. I have had years of breezing through the day, and others of suffering. I have trembled in the face of the almighty, and I have snoozed. I have felt prepared to confront myself, and I have been caught unaware.

And this year?

It is strange. While I have not actively sought forgiveness or accounted for my sins, my sins have been paying me visits at unexpected times. Ugly, painful memories have been elbowing themselves into my consciousness, encroaching on mundane daydreams. Is this a message from HaKadosh Baruch Hu or random neural activity? Is it my soul begging to be purged of its soiled spots? I have no idea.

These days I pray for pretty basic things: the health and well-being of my children and family, peace in Israel and the world, and a sense of humor and perspective. I'm also rooting for straight A's for my legal eagle, but I think the good lord is more likely to listen to his entreaties, so I don't push it. My husband can pray for his own A's.

To my friends and family: for all of the times I have been thoughtless or disrespectful, I am sorry. For hurting you, disappointing you, or letting you down, please forgive me. For not being there for you when you've needed me, please accept my apologies. For being self-absorbed and petty, I beg forgiveness.

You are in my thoughts and prayers every day.

Have an easy fast, and may you be sealed in the book of life.

Big chill

I'm not going to beat around the bush here. I'm not going to waste time, or pussyfoot around, although I'm perfectly willing to overdo the cliches. It's time to face the 400 pound gorilla in the room.

Winter is coming.

Probably my greatest fear in moving to Chicago has been getting the kids and me through the notoriously bitter cold weather, and now it's begun. People around here are still walking around in t-shirts and shorts, and that has caused me to panic. I sent my children to school today in what would be considered full-winter gear in San Antonio. My ballerina went to school in a sweatsuit and a parka with a faux-fur lined hood, and my son was bundled in his fleece-lined 4-in-one hooded jacket. His winter coat in San Antonio. And he was cold waiting for the carpool. I'm doubling up on the hoodies and have already brought out the big guns - long underwear.

It's still SEPTEMBER!

I have recently befriended the loveliest women whose children are the same age as mine. One has triplets in my daughter's nursery school and a second grader. Another has a boy in each of my children's classes. It works out really well. After we pick up our 4-year olds we head off to the library for story time, or to the playground to let off some steam. The mothers let off steam. The kids just run around like lunatics.

We are in similar situations. One husband is in his final year of a medical fellowship. another has a great job, but they're putting four kids through Jewish Day Schools. Put into perspective, that's a down payment on a house every year, or a new SUV every year. So our husbands slave away at their respective careers, and we keep the home fires burning because to do otherwise would only serve to make a babysitter wealthy and us crazier than we already are.

My new friends are educated, funny, and cool. They are my guides to life in Chicago. They steered me towards the Department of Motor Vehicles without the lines, and gave me the heads up last week:

"You'd better buy your winter gear now. It won't be around in a month or so."

Winter gear!? NOW?! I panicked.

I went on a shopping frenzy. I bought snow boots, snow pants, long underwear, warm pyjamas, mittens, gloves, hats, and a puffy coat for my diva. I even bought matching outfits for the girls, which is a first, believe it or not. I went searching for a winter coat for my son. This was familiar territory for me. It reminded me of my first winter as a grad student when I walked into Eastern Mountain Sports and announced to the sales staff: I'm from Texas and this is my first winter in Boston. HEEEELP!

I essentially did the same thing in the department store here. I grabbed some random, grandmotherly woman and asked, is this a winter coat? I then launched into my pathetic spiel about just having moved from from Texas. She looked at it and shook her head.

"This is a fall coat."

A fall coat? You need a coat for fall? You need a coat specifically for fall? I was looking at a coat that may have come out of the closet for a week in San Antonio, and this kindly woman, with a straight face, was informing me that I might as well send my kids to play in a blizzard in swimsuits.

I grabbed the shopping cart to keep from fainting. My son looked at the coat and then at me. The gravity of our situation was just beginning to hit him. "This isn't warm enough?" He asked incredulously, feeling the down-filled coat with the faux-fur lined hood and the woolly lining. He looked like an Eskimo in it to me, but apparently, Eskimos wouldn't be caught dead in these things past Thanksgiving.

I went from store to store accosting sales staff. Is this a winter coat?! I'd ask like a crazed idiot. Three days and countless stores later, I still don't have a clue what a proper winter coat looks like. They're not out yet. The snow pants, mittens, boots, and hats are, but not coats. And, apparently, I got the wrong mittens. They have to be waterproof for the snow.

My new sisters are nodding their heads sympathetically. "It won't be that bad," they suggest. "After all, there's global warming!" They offer, encouragingly.

Dearest friends, If you love me you will buy the big gas-guzzling SUV's, and please, write to your congress persons and senators and thank them for nixing the Kyoto protocol. While we're at it, CFC's couldn't have been that bad, right?

Right?

Shana Tova

I am up at 1:30 in the morning waiting for a quiche to cool. That about sums up the absurdity of preparing for the Jewish holidays.

Over the next month I will potentially cook 14 formal meals. Homebaked challahs, soups, salads, fish, turkey, roast, kugels, quiches, vegetable dishes, pies and cakes. I won't cook like that for all 14 meals. I'll have plenty of leftovers, and I'm dividing most things into two smaller pans, freezing stuff in advance. Preparing for the Jewish holidays requires tremendous planning, organization, and a kitchen staff of 8 wouldn't hurt, but unfortunately, that didn't quite materialize this year. I'm on my own.

Let me put this into perspective: 14 Thanksgivings in one month. With three little kids.

I went shopping three times today with the baby. She doesn't like the shopping cart very much. She spent the entire time trying to Houdini her way out of that wire-mesh-covered with a plastic-flap excuse for a seat, so I got to shop one-handed, while wrestling her down with the other hand. She screamed the entire time. People looked at me like I was a horrible mother. I'm quite certain someone actually reached for a cell phone considering whether or not to call Children's Protective Services.

I got the kids to bed and began cooking. Today I finished my round festive challahs, baked a couple of carrot puddings, a couple of Shmuely fishes (an attempt at making gefilte fish more sophisticated), a couple of leek and mushroom quiches, and fruit kugels. The pinnacle of my culinary masterpieces was the turkey with stuffing. I called my mom and got her recipe, and I followed it to the letter. If I may, without sounding arrogant, boast a bit, it is gorgeous. And it better be, for all the work I put into that damn bird!

And I'm a vegetarian.

* * *

It's the Day After.

We survived our first Rosh Hashana in Chicago. I hosted three meals at our home and we ate out for one meal. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, is a time of introspection. It's a time to balance your spiritual accounts and to reflect on the sins committed and to seek forgiveness and repentance. For the most part, I did all that, between baking pies and washing dishes.

The kind of praying one does on Rosh Hashana requires real discipline. In order to truly focus your thoughts on G-d, self, and community you have to be able to block out the enormous pile of dishes stacked up on every flat surface in the kitchen and ignore your little boy who is marching into the sanctuary dragging his baby sister behind him looking for his mommy while the cantor is emotionally listing off all of the horrible sins we have all committed this past year. Certainly you cannot be thinking about the roast you are terrified of serving to your guests on the chance that it didn't cook enough. And, for goodness sakes, deep prayer cannot be interrupted by the thought that your children are probably wandering the halls of the synagogue completely unsupervised while you are selfishly taking time to whine to G-d about not being there enough for them.

But, somehow I managed. I served the last piece of apple cake and berry compote, put my kids to bed, and went to bed feeling fairly absolved of my sins.

It didn't last.

G-d likes to test our faith and our resolve. Avraham Avinu, our holy ancestor was said to have faced ten tests of his faith, most famously with the binding of his only son Isaac. G-d has given me three beautiful, sweet, smart tests of my own, and I fail them on a daily basis.

This morning, my son took twenty minutes to get out of bed, another 15 to get dressed, and a full half an hour to complain about the lunch I made him. I locked myself out of my apartment with the girls still upstairs alone, and after a neighbor let me in, I got the girls strapped into their car seats, and off to nursery school. Seconds later, I had to run back to the apartment to get the backpack my daughter had left behind. In the span of one and a half hours, the first one and a half waking hours with my squeaky clean new soul, I failed utterly and miserably in my resolve to be more patient and calm with my children.

I'll try again on Yom Kippur.

* * *

I spent a lot of time on Rosh Hashana thinking about home. San Antonio, that is. I reflected on the friends and the community I left. I felt so homesick again. Being in a strange community and a strange synagogue was hard. The tunes that cantor sang were beautiful and familiar, but different, and never seemed to reach the soaring emotional heights my cantor back home achieved. The shofar blew strong and true; but back home, the man my kids called "Uncle David" blew a shofar so powerful and resonant you felt it in your "kishkes", as my dad would say, and you could really believe that the sound could bring down the walls of Jericho.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the new community that has taken us in. The services and the people here are lovely. I am appreciative of the warm welcome we have received. We especially enjoyed a delicious lunch with an open-hearted family who asked us to spend part of the festivities at their home. But as L. Frank Baum taught us almost a century ago, there's no place like home.

So, to my friends back home I wish to extend kudos for creating a holy atmosphere of prayer and repentance back home. Kudos for organizing places for children to learn, socialize and grow safely, so moms can put their hearts and souls into prayer without worrying about their kids wandering off unsupervised. Great job bringing in a cantor and ba'al tekiah to help souls soar to the highest heights.

Keep those homefires burning.

And to all family and friends, old and new, have a sweet, happy, healthy, prosperous year full of blessings and peace!

Apple pickin'

Fall is time for apple picking and spiritual reflection. Sunday was a day for neither.

The kids and I finally made it to Apple Holler in Wisconsin for some traditional Midwestern pre-Rosh Hashana apple picking, and a good time was had by all, er, most. We finally got out of the apartment Sunday morning, after wrestling the kids into their clothing and dragging them to the breakfast table, a mere two hours after my intended departure time. I picked up a fellow law school widow and drove one hour North to Wisconsin.

Apple Holler has to be seen to be believed. It's an apple orchard, petting zoo, amusement park, playground, restaurant, and country store compound. My daughter was fascinated by the grassy field that served as a parking lot. "I've never seen parking car grass before!" she marvelled. My attention was on the horse doodie all over the field.

Watch your step! I kept bellowing at my kids as we zigzagged our way to Appleland.

The original plan was to pick a few bushels of apples to sweeten our New Year feasts, but it quickly became clear that apple picking was not the main attraction here. The older kids peddled old-fashioned carts through trails plowed through apple orchards, puzzled through a corn maze, rode a small train, and a smaller, old pony. The baby looked on enviously.

We never got around to picking any apples, unless you count picking a bunch of macintoshes and golden deliciouses out of big bins by the cash register.

The whole experience was a bit surreal. A dreadlocked Rastafarian sat in the gazebo playing guitar and singing a mix of Marley tunes and syrupy songs from the sixties like "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on my Head" while Orthodox Jewish families dragged their kids around gawking at goats and haystacks. I'm still not used to seeing other kids in kipot and tzitzit running around such a banal setting.

The baby wanted so badly to run with the pack, but every time we put her down she'd find something indescribably disgusting to try to put in her mouth. My sister widow and I traded off corralling kids all day. I had intended for us to have a fun outing among the fresh air and apple trees. Instead we ran a zone defense against three pint-sized adventurers. Of course, she never complained and I foisted a purse-full of apples on her for her troubles.

We rushed back after an hour and a half of inhaling hay to get my son to his football practice on time. "Practice" is being generous. Picture twenty six- and seven-year old boys running around a field hollering for a pass they have no prayer of actually catching. As a coaching educator, I was mortified. As a mom, merely amused.

I did notice, happily, that my son has field sense! As someone who has none, I was quite impressed as my son ran a sweep around the clump of defenders and made a sharp cut towards the "coach" who stood patiently, waiting for one of the boys to open up. My son deftly slipped his defender and found a great big opening to position himself for the reception. He waved his arms and piped up, "I'm open! I'm open!" Amazingly, he was. The young man spotted my son and aimed a soft pass right to him. My son reached for the ball, found it with his fingertips, and watched, with a mixture of excitement and disappointment, as it slipped right through his hands.

He smiled as he came running off the field towards me at the end of practice. "Did you see me?" He asked, his sprinkling of freckles glowing with pride. His sisters ran to him like the hero of the big game.

Aaaah, the apples of my eye.

Evil eye

I gave my husband the evil eye, el ojo, ha ayin hara'ah.

Of course, it wasn't intentional, but I should have known better than to brag about how stellar a 1L he is. I got a terse email from him yesterday: "I got hammered in class today." Apparently, sometimes you need to see the trees, too. Getting the concepts and ideas doesn't quite cut it in Civil Procedures where you need to, quite literally, know the exact letter of the law. My husband was asked to explain section 12c or civil code 32.2.c, or some such nonsense, to the last clause. And not just once, but for the entire class the professor came back to my husband mining for precise data, which he could not dig out of the recesses of his memory.

I'm sure it wasn't that bad. I lamely offered.

"My classmates threw a wake for me after class," he responded, despondently.

I never know what to say in these situations. I want to hug him, reassure him, tell him that a few days from now no one will remember and he will have redeemed himself with an insightful question or a brilliant response, anyway. It's so much easier when it's your child who has failed or fallen. A hug, a smile, and a cookie will generally make the world right again. Constant reassurance and lots of love may be required for the greater challenges. But a hug doesn't quite cut it for an adult.

Law School is a frightening challenge for anyone, but for a man who has given up his job and dragged his wife and kids across country for the promise of a better future, it's an enourmous burden as well. Luckily, my husband is a pretty tough and resilient man. In a way, it may have been a good thing that this intellectual drumming happened early on in the semester. In law, you can't just rely on a keen mind and mature savvy. A big part of law school is having detailed facts at your fingertips. Knowing the law and the codes and the procedures better than the other guy seems to be a big part of a lawyer's success. Knowing my husband, it won't happen again. He's probably in the library right now preparing for the next onslaught.

I suspect that's better than a hug or a cookie, anyway.

My husband isn't the only one struggling to learn new and challenging things. (Ptui, ptui, ptui!)

* * *

I want to express my sadness at the passing of Ann Richards, the former governor of the great state of Texas. Ann Richards was a strong, brilliant, good-hearted politician and grandmother who understood her power to have a positive affect on the lives of millions of Texans, and to be a role model for young women everywhere. She led this state with grace, humor, and a self-effacing recognition of her humanity. I truly admired her, and was inspired by her personally. With her passing, an era of colorful, spirited, plain-talking politicians has come to an end. It is a tremendous loss for Texans everywhere.

Happy

I think I'm happy.

I don't mean that to sound like I'm normally depressed, sullen, melancholy, or miserable. I just happened to notice today that I am none of those things. Quite the contrary, I think I'm finding my groove, although not in a Terry McMillan kind of way. No major life-shaking events to report, and no, I'm not pregnant again. I'm just feeling content and relaxed. Those are two states I have not experienced a great deal of since I became a mom (coincidentally, around the same time I had my sense of humor surgically removed).

My husband is happy. He is really enjoying being a student again. He diligently reads his cases and "briefs" them every night. He spins tales of good questions he asked in class, and clever answers he volunteered. I am not surprised that my brilliant husband gets it. That's always been his strength. He can cut through the extraneous details, slice off the irrelevancies, and trim the distractions. Much more than "just the facts", my husband gets to the heart of the matter, or to quote an old Israeli expression, "Po kavur hakelev". The dog is buried here.

Not me. It's taken me eight years to realize that I've got a pretty wonderful life.

My children are happy. My son loves his school. He steps off that school bus everyday with such a beautiful, beaming smile, I can't help but share in his infectious joy. He's making friends, and he's becoming the jock he's always dreamed of being. Now it's just a matter of the first snowfall, and his happiness will be complete. He actually smiles when I ask him about school. Everyday is great, homework is not only bearable, but almost, dare I say it, pleasurable! Even his teachers seem happy.

My daughter is over the moon. Today was her first ballet/tap dance class. I called the dance school on Monday, ran out to Walmart at the scary time of Walmart shopping and bought her a leotard and tights; pink, of course. Today I got the ballet slippers and tap shoes. I picked her up from nursery school, and took her straight to Miss Katie's class. It was right out of a little girl's fantasy: four adorable, sprightly little girls in matching dancewear spinning, leaping, and flitting about like little faeries or forest nymphs. I couldn't stop smiling, either from the sight of my little girl transformed into the Disney princess of her dreams, or from the thought of myself living the mommy fantasy I didn't realize I shared.

Even the baby is happy. She gets mommy's undivided attention all day. We cuddle, snuggle, play, and talk all morning long. I'm getting to see every baby step of her development and growth first hand. I don't have to hear from a day care teacher that my little peanut is now saying her big sister's name, or at least the last two syllables of it stretched out and modulated in a high-pitched sing-songy squeal.

Today I ran downstairs, as I always do, to meet the school bus bringing home my sweetness and light. I looked up at the window and saw my little girls peering down, anxiously awaiting the return of their big brother and best friend. My ballerina was in her birthday suit.

That's when it finally hit me: the dog is buried here.

Let's just hope it stays good and buried.

Fall in

It's 0-100 hours in the morning. The dishes are washed and put away, the laundry is cleaned, folded, and tucked away in its drawers. I wish I could say the apartment was spotless, but it is pretty tidy. I'm too wired to fall asleep, and as my sweet angel tells me when she can't sleep: "My eyes are telling me I'm not tired."

My eyes may be feeling strained and heavy, but my brain is revving too high for idling.

I had planned to take the kids apple-picking today. This time the weather cooperated, but my son did not. He had no desire to go pick apples, he had his heart set on taking the 2 o'clock flag football class at the JCC. How could I deny him the chance to make friends and get exercise? So the little brigade dawdled at home. I found too many things to clean and put away while I waited for the neighbor to get his clothing out of the washing machine on my laundry day. My children made more messes, and made me crazy with nonstop chatter, and the baby, when she wasn't busy targeting her usual path of destruction, napped. All-in-all a day of frustration and drudgery on the front lines.

Meanwhile, my husband, assuming we were going somewhere, decided to stay home and study. As the morning wore on, it became clear that we weren't going anywhere fast, and he, too, grew more and more frustrated. By the time we were ready to take my son to his football class, my husband and I were fuming at each other.

I finally got my son to his class, my husband to the law school, and a modicum of control back into my life. An hour later, I picked up my beaming son. Not only was he thrilled to be learning a mainstream sport, but he knew some of the boys in the class, including the sweet bully from last week's play date.

I am so relieved to see my son having fun, making friends, and being happy. I am worrying less and less about his adjustment to this new environment, and more and more about my daughter's. Big sister is having a slower go at getting settled in. She still talks a lot about San Antonio, and is giving me the biggest behavioral headaches. I'm no child psychologist, but I suspect her odd rashes may have something to do with it, as well.

I have a two-pronged plan of attack for helping my daughter feel at home. I'm going to send in ground troops in the form of play dates with the little girls in her nursery school, and I'm going to go deep behind enemy lines with a stealth ballet class maneuver. With any luck, her need for constant, undivided attention will fall like a house of cards under my social Shock and Awe.

Meanwhile, I am conducting my own campaign to make friends. I'm following the dictum, "an army travels on its stomach". I'm baking, roasting, sauteing, and souffleeing my way into the hearts and minds of my cohorts. I'm handing out shabbat and holiday invitations like a soldier giving candy to the local kids. On Succot, I'm planning an all-out assault on their defensive line: my world famous Succot Chocolate Chili Tort. No one can resist the complex depth of its chocolaty smoothness and nutty textured crust.

Least of all, me. Time to start my pre-holiday physical training. Time to rally the troops for some serious walking.

Well, it's 0-200 hours. Time to make my bed and sleep in it.

Full-time Mom

My son came home from school last week with a note in his pocket. Thank goodness, it wasn't from a teacher. It was from a new friend's mom. My son wanted to schedule a play date, but he didn't know his own phone number yet. The mom scrawled her number on a torn envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.

When my son got home from school, he leaped off the bus to tell me about his new friend. His first impressions of this boy were:

"He's strong!" and "He's helpful."

Our apple-picking plans were rained out, so we invited the little boy to our house to play. His mom brought him over and my son's powers of observation became clear. This kid wasn't just strong. He looked like he was juicin'! This was a seven year old? He practically had a 5 o'clock shadow!

I hear you're really helpful! I mentioned encouragingly.

"Yeah", he responded, "but people think I'm a bully."

What is a mother to make of that volunteered tidbit?

I looked at it two ways: On one hand, my sweet, goodhearted angel is about to be corrupted by the 2nd grade thug. I had a very hard time imagining my incredibly compassionate and sensitive little sweetie as a member of a pack of seven-year-old hooligans. On the other hand, at least he is on the class bully's good side!

The bully turned out to be a sweet kid. He was very protective of my little girls who kept bursting in on their big brother's games and he cleaned my son's room for him. He even made his bed. He may be considered a ruffian, but he's a tidy, well-mannered one.

There was an odd maturity or worldliness about this boy that made sense when his mother explained that his older brother had a rare form of cancer. The kid had been through a lot in his short life and grew up too fast as a result. I began to think that it might be a good idea to encourage this friendship after all, for both boys. I ought to encourage my own friendship with his mom. She seems like a strong, smart, amazing, positive woman.

My son seems to be doing well in school. He does all of his homework and I haven't received another call from his teachers, yet. I sent his teacher a note requesting she call him by his full name. She wrote me back that she would comply. I'm a happy mom again.

* * *

My other child is also enjoying school. No, not my daughter.

Law school is now in full swing. My husband is out of the house by 7 o'clock in the morning, and home by 8 o'clock at night. He gets home just as I'm finishing putting the girls to bed. He eats his supper, submits himself to my interrogations about his day, reads a couple of sports blogs, and heads back to the library until sometime after midnight. He's having a ball. Law school is truly where he belongs right now. My husband has boundless energy to keep up with his reading and assignments. I really admire his determination and positive outlook.

What is it like to find your calling?

* * *

While my husband is finding intellectual stimulation and challenge everyday in law school, I get up, get the kids ready for school, load my son into carpool, get my daughters dressed, take my four-year-old to nursery school, run errands, bring the baby home for snack and nap time, get the laundry or the dishes or internet banking done while she's sleeping, feed her again when she wakes up, go to pick up the middle child from nursery school, and return home.

At this point I generally try to get everything else done that I didn't get around to earlier, while my Grade A Nudnik harasses her sister. Today she bit her little sister for the third time in as many days and then tried to drag her baby across the living room with the scarf she had looped around her neck.

When my middle child isn't putting her baby sister in peril, baby sister is doing it quite nicely all by herself. If I turn my back on her for one second I find her climbing her big brother's 6 foot loft bed ladder, playing with the toilet water, or climbing on various pieces of furniture.

And as this circus act proceeds, I am treated to non-stop nonsensical chatter from big sister. My dearest, creative, smiling child keeps up a running commentary of every little thought that pops into her brain, relevant or not. Sometimes it's not even in a human language. But that doesn't stop her. Sometimes the logorrhea is sung, sometimes it is recited. It is always injected with questions to which my child expects a response. A noncommittal mmmm huh won't do, either. She wants confirmation that I am hanging on every word.

After four hours of this I would like to be hanged.

I may be fishing baby sister out of the toilet, or prying her off the top of the 6 foot ladder, but there she is, my little Katie Couric, following me around the house asking me, "What did you think of my song? Do you want me to teach it to you? Can I draw now? Will you get me crayons and 'flat' paper now?" and so on, ad infinitum, ad nausuem, until she finally falls asleep.

My day continues with supper, clean up, making lunches for the next day, and collapsing. How on Earth did I do all of this and hold down a full-time job before?!

* * *

My husband and I sat down for a heart-to-heart last week. The discussion ominously followed several hours of my husband reconciling bank accounts and paying bills, frowning and expressing the occasional "mmmmmm". These discussions are usually not pleasant, but I was in for a nice surprise.

"It just doesn't make sense, you going back to work. By the time you pay the babysitter and get transportation for the other two arranged, you won't be making enough to make it worthwhile."

Was I hearing this correctly? Was my sage and compassionate husband really telling me to call off the job hunt? Was he truly granting me the opportunity to be a full-time mom? Where was the catch?

On Day One of housewifery I cleaned, swept, mopped, baked fancy pinwheel cookies, and hummed my way around the house feeling strangely free! Suddenly, I could live in the moment. I didn't have to tear myself apart with feelings of inadequacy. I didn't have to spend time with my children feeling like I should be catching up on work, or spend time at work feeling like I was neglecting my children. I didn't have to live in dread of my children coming down with a cold, worrying about how I was going to explain to my boss or my students why I had to take time off again. I was a liberated woman, free to keep my house clean and our lives in order!

By day two I found the catch.

"Mommy? Are you listening to me? I'm hungry! I want to play house. Will you be 'the mommy' and I'll be 'the sister'? Can you read me a story? Read it again! Will you get me crayons? No! Not those! Isn't my song funny? Did you like it? Did you? Did you?!"

Naming rights

My two older children started school this past week. My son started on Wednesday and on Thursday I got the first call from his teacher. "Your son is refusing to write". Well, yes. What did you expect?

Under the best of circumstances my budding genius hates to write. We've been dealing with this for two years now. But this is not the best of circumstances. Last year my son was in a small class in a small school where he's known all of his classmates since day care. All of the kids went to synagogue together, school together, and camp together. His father worked at his school, so all of the teachers knew him since he was a baby and loved him dearly.

In Chicago, he's the new kid.

And they're not even calling him by his name. The day before school started, I met the teacher and explained that we call him by both his first and middle name. It's a mouthful for such a little guy, but if you know him, it really fits. It's a moniker as unique and full of life and spice as the kids it's cleaved to. And if you knew the people he was named after, you'd really get it. He shares their spirit, their humor, their warmth, their creativity, their brilliance, and their loveability. Their souls are tied up in that long, poetic, cultural souffle of a name that invokes a European soccer star or a Latino pop sensation. But he came home with his first name, lonely and naked, on his name tag, folder, and the note his teacher sent home to me. At synagogue, the little girl from his class also called him by his first name alone. My heart sunk.

On Friday I got a call from his Hebrew teacher. She called to tell me that the rest of the class could write in Hebrew script and that she'd be sending home extra work for him to catch up. She also informed me that he had a habit of playing with things in his desk and broke up all of his pencils. So I swallowed hard and launched into my explanation of the difficult transition. But this teacher really seemed to get it. She had called to suggest I send him to school on Tuesday with a toy to keep his hands busy during class.

A toy to class?

That suggestion seemed counter intuitive, but brilliant! I had the opportunity to observe this teacher when my husband and I came to Chicago last year to check out schools, and I adored her then. I like her even more, now.

Friday was a rough day. I had a job interview at a university in the South side of town. It was a one-hour schlepp into a frightening part of town. The campus was beautiful, the head of the department was a charming, vibrant woman, and the pay was abysmal. two-thirds less than what I made in San Antonio with ten times the commute in a dodgy part of town.

Back to the drawing board.

The worst part of the experience was getting stuck in traffic behind construction on the way back. I ended up half an hour late to pick up my middle child from her nursery school. I called ten minutes before pick up to let the school know, and ten minutes before I got there, but I still got lectured by the woman who had stayed behind with my cheerful, dear little girl.

"Twelve is twelve! " she scolded.

I strapped my bubbling, singing chatterbox into her car seat and took her home for lunch. At home we dawdled a bit and then got ready to leave for the grocery store. As I stepped out the door, my son came running up the stairs.

What are you doing here? I asked in shock. It was only two o'clock!

"School got out at 1:30!" He piped. Does it always get out so early on Friday? I asked.

Yes it does. Oy.

So, breathing a deep sigh of relief that we hadn't left two minutes earlier, stranding my son for the next few hours alone, we went to pick up the baby from the babysitter. We ran errands for the next two hours and raced home to start preparing our Shabbat meal.

In four hours I whipped up a lovely Shabbat dinner for ourselves, my cousin, and another law school couple. It was a wonderful meal, we shmoozed until 1:30 in the morning, and after getting through 90% of the dishes, collapsed in bed after 2:00 am.

Aaah, to be young and full of boundless energy again! I wish.

In college I could stay out until 2 in the morning and bounce out of bed alive, alert and enthusiastic. Saturday morning came way too soon, and the chirping voices of my sweet angels dug into my temples like jackhammers. Ugh, Is it 9 already?

We made it to synagogue for Shabbat services. Towards the end of services I was hit by a wave of homesickness, as always happens at the same time each week. In San Antonio the kids pour into the sanctuary, pile up onto the pulpit, and take over singing the prayers. Each week the Rabbi gives them the same priestly benediction I merited as a child. In Chicago, none of this takes place. The kids don't come rushing in, the Rabbi keeps his benedictions to himself, and I cry like a silly, sentimental fool.

After services we had a lovely lunch at the home of a Northwestern Alumnus and his family. Another lawyer and his family joined us. The men, of course, discussed law, law school, law practices, and synagogue politics. The women chatted about decorating and day care.

I'm a certifiable haus frau.

And my husband is officially a 1L. School doesn't actually start until Tuesday, but he's already spent the day in the library. This doesn't bode well for the rest of the semester. With luck, I'll be able to convince him to come apple picking with me, the kids, and my cousin tomorrow. With luck the beautiful weather will hold for this vaunted Midwestern tradition. With luck I'll be baking a mess of pies by Tuesday.

With luck, we'll make it through this semester.