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.
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.
posted by law school widow at 4:10 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home