Hot tamales

Today may have been the last day of warm, sunny weather. It hit close to seventy degrees, and foolishly, I didn't take advantage of the waning Autumn sun. Instead, I folded laundry and washed dishes while my sweet baby napped. During the afternoon nursery school pick-up, the Skokie girls and I discussed going to the park to enjoy the last rays of warmth, but we were called to a higher purpose.

"I have a tree root growing into my kitchen plumbing, and my basement is a disaster." Moaned my official school-mom mentor. This normally upbeat, wry former epidemiologist needed some serious cheering up, and fortunately, I had just the thing for it.

Tamales.

Friendships take work. Laziness and lack of motivation have been the downfall of many wonderful relationships. I am horrible at keeping in touch. Even when I live in the same city as my friends, I am terribly neglectful. Then again, so are they. We're busy with kids, and work, and family. Something about picking up the phone to say, "how's it going?" takes more energy than we can often muster.

It's even harder in a new city. Friendships tend to be established, routines set. It's hard to break into a clique of nursery school moms, but I have been fortunate to fall in with some of the brightest, coolest moms the Jewish day school system has ever produced. They have welcomed me with open arms into their circle.

Being "welcomed" seems like a passive event, as if I showed up one day and was lovingly embraced and invited to tea and given unrestricted access all of their deepest desires and fears. It wasn't quite that easy. After weeks of going straight home after drop-off, I realized something was missing in my life: adult interaction. The next day I began to approach the various moms I had met.

Wanna go for coffee? I asked breezily. After a few rainchecks, I got a taker, and off we went for coffee and bagels. This led to signing up my little one for storytime at the library and Wednesdays at the park, and my circle of friends expanded. What began as a necessity of grown-up conversation for my sanity developed into a playgroup for me and my little girls. Before long we travelled as a pack, six moms and more toddlers than we could count, to museums, libraries, and parks.

And, as inevitably happens when bored housewives congregate, the conversation of what we were making for dinner surfaced like a repressed memory. I happened to be making vegetarian fajitas that night. The woman who once jetted off to exotic locations at short notice to track down scary viruses, looked at me eagerly and asked,

"Do you know how to make tamales?"

The date and time were set for me to come over to her house to teach a very informal class on the art of "tamalestry". I shopped in advance, picking up the corn husks, corn meal, and other vital ingredients. And so it happened, through preparation and good timing, I was ready when called upon to cheer up a friend.

"I have a tree root growing into my kitchen plumbing, and my basement is a disaster." She informed us as we tried to plan an outing for ourselves and our horde of children. It was clear that she didn't have the desire or ability to enjoy the sun.

D'ya wanna make the tamales now? I suggested.

We loosed the pack of wild kids on her thankfully child-friendly home, and set to work in the damaged kitchen, filled with every cool kitchen gadgets you could imagine (except for the kitchen sink, which was out-of-order). We chopped, minced, and sauteed away, gently stirring the yellowish-orangey mash to a perfect consistency of wet sand. We laughed, talked, kept one wary eye on the kids, and folded the concoction into folded corn husks and lowered them into a pot of boiling water and steam.

Twenty minutes later, the tamales emerged a little too dense and a little bland, but they hit the spot. We devoured most of them right there, divvied up the rest for husbands and friends, and finally dragged our tired little ones home.

Friendships take work. The results, like our tamales, may not be perfect, but they do nurture and satisfy our souls.

Family ties

Growing up, I was surrounded by family. Parents, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all lived near me in San Antonio, except for the outliers in Houston. I saw everyone on Shabbat or at the holidays. I have incredibly fond memories of my mother's huge, elegant feasts, and all of us kids playing, talking, singing and hanging out. We were about as goofy as a bunch of kids could be. I can honestly look back on my childhood and proclaim it "happy".

Today, one sister lives in New York. My nephew is in university back in Texas, my niece is spending a year in Israel. My other sister is in California. She has an adorable 4-year old and a baby on the way (que sea en una buena hora). My brother-in-law and his wife are also expecting a baby, their first. They'll be heading out East next year. Most of my cousins are scattered up and down the East coast. Fortunately, I do have a couple of cousins here in Chicago. I'm not completely cut off from the ties that bind.

This week I had a special visit from one of my cousins, a former Houston outlier. He called a week ago to say he had a business trip coming up. I was so excited, I did the happy dance! The anticipation was contagious. My children, who hardly knew their big cousin, if at all, were eagerly awaiting his arrival, as well. When we finally picked him up, the whole car was abuzz with our joy at seeing our Florida visitor. The kids were vying for his attention, telling him stories, singing him songs. Even the baby was getting in on the action. "Jo-Jo! Jo-Jo!" She called out to him.

And to think he was worried that they would ignore him, wondering who this stranger was.

But my kids get it. The have this instinct that family is somehow special. When my cousin here in Chicago came for Shabbat dinner, they were a bit shy with her. When I reminded them that she was their cousin, the coyness disappeared, and they refused to leave her alone. They brought her stacks of books to read, and climbed all over her like a jungle gym. She withstood the excessive and exhausting attention with patience and grace.

I was so fortunate growing up to be able to take family for granted. It's so different today. We are so scattered, so busy, so removed from one another. And it's not just the kids. My cousin from Florida only stayed for one night. We brought him home, fed the kids and put them to bed. Then, he took me out to dinner at Chicago's nicest kosher restaurant. He and I talked and laughed, a little too much and a little too loud. But I couldn't help myself. It had been so long since I'd seen him, and I've always been so crazy about my little cousin. He's grown to be such a sweet, elegant, bright, handsome young man. Of course, I'm not surprised. He was that way as a kid. The smile on my face lasted the whole next day.

With luck, business will bring "Jo-Jo" back to Chicago in the near future. We're expecting a visit from my preggers sister, too. I can't wait to rub her belly. I'm hoping she'll bring my nephew along so he can hang out with his cousins. Tomorrow we're visiting my Chicago cousin and meeting her new puppy. I expect the kids will embrace the dog as a new cousin, as well.

Family is so important. We have been blessed to have the kind of family we not only love, but love to be with. My sister, cousins, nieces and nephews make me smile bigger and laugh from somewhere deeper inside. I see it in my children, too. The word "cousin" causes their inhibitions to fall, and their hearts to open up.

My husband's law school has taken us far from my parents and grandmother, but near to cousins I had not been so close with before. It has also put us in the path of business meetings and other work-related events. With luck, being here will help us to cast a wider net around my family circle, and bring everyone closer in. With luck, my dining room table will soon be surrounded by my big extended family, eating too much, drinking too much, laughing too loud, smiling too big, and singing way, way off key.

Two-way communications

We're having fun with technology these days. My whole family is "skyping", and if you've been hiding out in a cave in Waziristan with the Taliban, you might be forgiven for missing this incredibly cool communication tool.

The decision to move to Chicago was extremely painful for my husband and me. We had made the kinds of friends that come around once in a lifetime. We had settled down in a place where we felt like such an integral and organic part of our community. We couldn't have raised our kids in a better environment. I had a great job with fun, smart, sweet, amazing co-workers with whom I'm doing a LOUSY job of keeping in touch. Most importantly, however, we were leaving my family.

But as tough as it was on us, that was nothing compared to how tough it was on my parents and my beloved abuela. My mother couldn't talk to me for months before we moved. She was too completely heartbroken to trust herself to speak. That hurt most of all.

Two things have made this move less painful than it could have been for my parents. One has been this blog, especially when I post pictures. Mom has been able to keep up with the ups and downs of our new scene. It has allowed her to glimpse into her babies' quotidian growth and development. In someways, it has allowed me to communicate with her in a more complete and personal way than I ever did face-to-face.

The other saving grace has been Skype. Skype is an internet-based program that allows users with their computer, a video camera and a microphone, to enjoy real-time face-to-face communication with other subscribers. It's extremely user-friendly and it's free. Almost all of the family is linked up now. My kids think it's the coolest thing since kosher candy stores. As soon as I get home they start with,

"Mommy! Mommy! Can we skype someone today?"

Their usual skypees are my parents and my big sister. My son has figured out how to log in and call his family and he generally hogs the screen, as well. He chats, he mugs, he tells jokes. He is silly, charming, and sweet and more effusive than I'm used to. The little girls have also caught the skype bug. The ballerina shows off her arabesques, her artwork and her toys, and any other random thing she finds lying about to thrust into the camera.

"D'ya see that?" She asks, eagerly.

The baby sits on her brother's lap and waves at the screen and gurgles and babbles away happily.

And my mom eats it up. What grandmother wouldn't?

Of course, there are downsides to the whole skype-phenomenon.

"What did you do with your hair?" My mother quipped one time. "I see you're doing laundry, she noted while peering into the background of the blurry screen another time.

Yem. I muttered to myself as I smoothed back the flyaways.

There are downsides to blogging as well. I spoke to a friend on the phone the other day. She asked me about my daughter's ballet classes and the snow over the holidays, and some other events I had mentioned in previous postings. Meanwhile, I had no clue what was going on with her or her family, or with anyone else back home! I felt decidedly out-of-the-loop.

I suspect friends and family don't call quite as much, either, because they don't really need to. It's mostly all here. The truth is that I don't mind. I know my friends back home won't forget about me soon, and that I'm still as much a part of their world as they are of mine. This cyber-link back home eases the heartache I sometimes feel when I think of San Antonio.

Shopping helps, too!

I'd tell you all about the delicious boots I bought today after my new, hip friend told me they were all the rage in the Chicago orthodox scene; and the incredibly cute skirt I found to go with them, on clearance. But I won't. I'll dangle this teaser in front of you, so if you want more info, you'll need to offer up some good hometown dish!

The elves

The kitchen elves didn't show this week. Nor did the laundry elves. The dishes and laundry just piled up despite my forlorn glances and not-so-silent prayers and entreaties. So I pulled on the rubber gloves and dug in.

It took me a while to connect the raw, red, itchy, scaly hands with dishwashing. Back home I had a dishwasher. Of course I did dishes by hand, but it certainly was not a daily, multiple hour-long chore. I'd stick most of the dishes into the dishwasher and get the strays in the sink when absolutely necessary. My hands did just fine.

When we looked at the apartment I knew it didn't have a dishwasher, and while alarming, it wasn't my greatest concern. That distinction went to the shared washing machine and dryer three flights down in the basement. And while the neighbors who leave their laundry in the machines, and the lights in the back hall that never go on do drive me to muttering nasty words under my breath, it has been the dishes that have caused the greatest consternation.

I haven't figured out how dirty dishes keep appearing in my sink. I clean, scrub, scrape, and dry, and ten minutes later I turn my back and the sink is full again. At least I finally discovered the benefit of the rubber gloves that have saved my flaking hide. My husband is off laundry and dish duty, although once in a while I can sweet talk him into dragging himself away from torts to haul a basket full of brights to the basement for me.

But he's at the library now, and the elves haven't made their appearance yet.

My life isn't all bland, boring drudgery.

Tuesday was ballet for the Diva. There was an interesting dynamic in class this week. A new girl arrived in class in a black leotard, black tights, and a little black skirt. A little black stetson was all that was needed to complete the high drama of the showdown at high noon scenario.

My little pink-clad belle suddenly clammed up. As the oldest and most coordinated little dancer in the class, she wasn't used to the competition. Little miss thing's mommy was a dance teacher and she knew all the moves. She could plie, shuffle (what my little one calls "shovel"), and leap like a prima ballerina. My daughter got uncharacteristically shy and watched carefully. Her teacher noted this peculiar behavior, and after class Miss Katie commented on her lovely arabesques. My delicate flower just blossomed. In fact, she hasn't stopped arabesque-ing since!

Wednesday was the weekly outing for the stay-at-home mom gang. Six moms and 14 children converged on the Kohl's Children's Museum in Wilmette. I say that as if I know what I'm talking about, but I just followed the caravan of minivans to suburban paradise, led like a blind man by five sweet, smart, and savvy seeing eye-moms (not a dog in the bunch). The museum was a large, modern, open, and bright building with a warehouse feel to it. In it were dozens of individual exhibits and play areas for the children to explore, learn, and play. Each exhibit had one entrance and exit. Pure genius. We set the kids loose in each exhibit, and shmoozed away without a care in the world, except for the occasional, "Get off your sister, now!"

We had the most fun with the six foot wall of pins. Many people have a smaller version of this toy on their coffee table made of an open box and a tray of pins that you can push any object like your face or hand into, and the image will appear in pins on the other end. It is much more fun when you have half-a-dozen orthodox women pressing their chests into a wall of pins and taking pictures of the image on the other side.

Thursday was library storytime. Each week, the same group of sisters take our sweet progeny to the library for storytime and therapy. The kids get the storytime, we provide the therapy. Last week's discussion was about the sleeping habits of four-year-olds. Great advice, suggestions, and words of wisdom were shared like benadril, duct tape, and locked basements.

Friday was all mine. I had a reunion with an old friend with whom I'd spent a year in Israel twenty years ago. We weren't so close on this program, but close enough that I was genuinely excited to see her again. We had such a lovely time, despite the dramatic divergence our lives had taken. I became an orthodox housewife with three kids. She became a lesbian with eight cats. We caught up on the past twenty years, and found common ground discussing our parents' varied responses to our "lifestyle choices". She took me to a cute, trendy part of Chicago, where we window shopped and visited small boutiques. I splurged on a couple of scarves to keep my hair covered and drooled over some very cute (but modest) skirts. The incongruity was almost too much.

Saturday was all mine, too. We had the choice of three major events to attend in the community: a bar mitzvah, an auf ruf, and a baby-naming. We skipped them all and headed North to the Sephardic Synagogue in Evanston, on the other end of the eruv. For me, this was a spiritual homecoming of sorts. Although I grew up in a culturally Sephardic home, there was no Sephardic community in San Antonio, per se. I had never prayed in a Sephardic synagogue, nor heard the prayers or cantillations. This was as exciting opportunity for me, which I was not going to pass up. I dragged my husband and the kids (arguing over who was going to ride on the new Sit-and-Stand stroller next) on a 45-minute trek to the synagogue.

The synagogue was small, and there were very few people there when we arrived. We had to wait twenty minutes for a minyan. Most of the people there were older, and I found out later, not Sephardic, but there were a few, and my family was warmly welcomed. The prayers were slightly different, the melodies were dissimilar to what we were used to, but familiar in a way. Perhaps my sentimental mindset found my great-grandmother's songs in the rabbi's voice. The occasional prayer in Ladino brought tears to my eyes. In this small synagogue with the older members and its diminishing Sephardic membership I felt profoundly sad at the loss of such a rich, vibrant, and beautiful culture that should be my legacy. I felt disappointed that it was so foreign to me.

Yet, it was warming to know that this place exists and I can go and immerse myself in Sephardic learning. I can retrain my ears. And I can contribute, maybe just as a warm body, but with the blood of Cuban, Turkish, and Spanish ancestors coursing through it. At least once in a while. It is an awfully long walk, and it's getting cold now.

The elves have let me down, but I am managing to surround myself with amazingly smart, wonderful, interesting, and diverse people. Despite not working in the stimulating, interesting, and adult environment I enjoyed over the last six years, I am growing. Culturally, and as a mom, I'm digging deeper than ever, and discovering parts of me that were buried far from the surface.

I'm finding my spice.

First snow

You'll be relieved to know that we survived the holidays. This was no easy feat. The first weekend was chaotic and tense. This was followed by a week with my children, all three of them, all week. Don't misunderstand me, I love my children. I adore them with every fiber of my being. But they are exhausting in many different ways.

My oldest is mentally exhausting. He asks a thousand questions a day. They're usually good ones that I have to think about. Sometimes I will get the endless string of "why?", but often he will pry deeper and he will always discover the inherent contradictions, which usually get answered with,

That's a great question...for your father!

My middle daughter, the diva, is emotionally exhausting. She melts into the most deliriously dramatic crying fits you can imagine. She's the proverbial "Sarah Heartburn". Lately, she's taken to shrieking her anguish, a nice trick she's learned from her baby sister.

The baby is physically exhausting. She has two levels: full-speed or asleep. She is either dashing around the apartment, climbing me like monkeybars, or bouncing on me like a trampoline; or she's napping. Each day I get a two-hour reprieve. I used to be a competitive athlete training six days a week, five hours a day. That was nothing compared with this baby.

The first days of the week were tough. Following the first days of Sukkot, I was determined to get my house in order, my ship in shape. I cleaned rooms, bathrooms, washed and folded six loads of laundry, and took out the trash. Despite the frenzy, I managed to get the kids out of the apartment. I took them to a strange Chicago tradition: The Simchat Beit HaShoeva at the Chabad synagogogue. Imagine hundreds of orthodox Jews in black hats, robes, and long beards each surrounded by dozens of hyper kids in long lines to get on carnival rides run by scary, snaggly-toothed, nicotine-addicted carnies.

We didn't stay long. But I did make my children delicious lunches, which we enjoyed in in our green Sukkah. The weather was glorious - 70 degrees and sunny.

It didn't last. By the end of the week, a cold front blasted in. In Texas "cold front" means 70 degrees and sunny. In Chicago, it means snow. Suddenly, our boxy green Sukkah was, in my husband's words, a large kite.

And the Mommy was on a mission to keep her young safe and warm.

Out came the hats, gloves, mittens, parkas, and snow boots. It took me close to three hours to get the kids bundled up to go out and play. Of course, by the time I let them go downstairs, the snow had melted.

Baby in her winter jammies

Big Brother in his new adorable moose sweater that he is embarrased to wear in front of the other boys, much to his mother's dismay.

The Diva in her new turtleneck sweater that she wants to wear with everything, whether it matches or not!

Waiting to play in snow.

Two hours and twelve layers later.

Too manly for Moose.

There's a baby in here somewhere!

During the week we also managed a couple of nice outings to the museum of contemporary art with a friend and her two boys, and to the law school to have lunch with Daddy. Niether were particularly appropriate places to take children, but with a whole week off, any port in the storm would do.

The holidays are over, much to the children's chagrin and the parents' relief. My husband is back at the library meeting with his study group, and I am facing the task of putting my apartment back in order. The older kids will be back in school tomorrow, and I will breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Until the next time.

Sukkah strife

Friday night marked the beginning of the week long celebration of Sukkot, a holiday where the three most unlikely elements meld together with often hilarious results: Jews, power tools, and the great outdoors.

My favorite memory of Sukkot was the year there were three rabbis living on our end of Sholom Place, the year my husband purchased his first "Sukkah Kit". The rabbis and teenage boys were furiously hammering together wood beams according to no plan at all, or perhaps G-d's plan. It was hard to tell. A beam here, some wood there, a tree here, some canvas there. Some carpets, couches, and a few trips to the hospital later, my neighborhood looked like a South African Shantytown.

My husband's Sukkah was a thing of beauty, with delicate trestled walls, and a shelf for my overly elaborate meals. His Sukkah was hung with twinkly little white lights, and shimmered magically in the hot San Antonio nights. This did not stop the constant teasing he got from the neighbors.

"You bought a kit?" They asked incredulously?

"It's a Sukkah, not a patio!" They joked.

But my husband got the last laugh in a kosher version of the three little pigs story. The role of the big bad wolf was played by mother nature herself who huffed and puffed and blew the rabbis' Sukkahs down. My husband's was the only one left standing that year.

Some things have changed. We have a different kind of Sukkah kit this year, no lumber involved. It's a small 6' x 8' metal snap-together number with green canvas walls that fits snugly into the tiny space between the garage and the apartment building. Every other home on the block seems to have a variation of the same kind of pre-fab Sukkah that my husband erected. It's very nice, but it lacks the magic.

Some things have not changed. The kids adorable laminated decorations still hang from the beams. My son's artistic contribution this year involved a whole long-winded explanation:

"That's the Sukkah, and those are some boys playing ball, and the colored stickers are the balls they're throwing on top of the Sukkah, and they're knocking down the s'chach (the leafy coverings), and the balls are hitting them on the head, and, and, and...!" Followed by peels and snorts of laughter. My daughter's, on the other hand, was resplendent with lots of flowers, fruits, and pink. Playing to stereotypes, eh?

The other thing that hasn't changed is my overly elaborate meals. I only had to cook for one of the Sukkot meals, but I still overdid it. Homemade challah, homemade mango ice cream, and my annual specialty: chocolate chili oil tart from the vegetarian cookbook my dad bought for me years ago. It sounds like a strange combination, but it is wonderful.

Of course, not wonderful enough to put my marriage at risk, as it did this year.

I did all of my shopping for the holiday meal on Thursday night, and on Friday, as always, I took on far more than I could possibly accomplish. The plan was to drop my husband off at law school, come home and cook my whole meal, and clean the whole apartment, take the kids to the playground, and then pick up my husband at 2:30 pm. To me this seemed reasonable. To any other rational human being on the planet, I was dreaming. After all, the kids had already begun their week-long Sukkot break from school. Lord have mercy on me trying to accomplish so much with three energetic, stir-crazy kids.

I achieved none of the items on my Friday to-do list by the time I had to pick up my husband, but I did yell myself hoarse ordering the kids to clean up after themselves. My husband came home to chaos, and he was not pleased. The mango ice cream was delicious, and the kids chatted away excitedly, but my husband and I brooded in our small green Sukkot cube.

The next day read like a he said/she said article in a woman's magazine.

He said:
"You told me to go to synagogue, so I went! And then you were angry at me all day!"

She said:
You made me feel horrible last night about not having anything ready, and then you leave me with three kids in their pajamas, and a kitchen-full of dishes to go to services?!

This all came to head the next day as we sat on opposite ends of the couch reading magazines. Coincidentally, I was reading the New Republic's article "The Mommy Wars" as I delved into my own domestic dispute.

We knew this would be hard. My mother worried most about me losing my intimate and wonderful support group of family and friends, and she was right to do so. I had not understood how much I needed them until my husband and I butted heads over the holidays. I came to realize how much of a toll being home with the kids day and night without reprieve, and without the opportunity to commiserate with my girlfriends, was having on me. I could understand that my husband had to leave the house before the kids got up to get to school on time. I readily accept that he often stayed in the library until past midnight. This was the sacrifice we were ready for. I dutifully got the kids up, dressed, fed, and off to school in a timely manner.

What I wasn't ready for was Shabbat and the holidays. I assumed it would be our saving grace: 24 hours of family time imposed on us by the Jewish calendar. G-d's gift to the Jewish people. But Shabbat became a clash of expectations. My husband expected to go to synagogue, and I expected a break.

My inability to get things done on Friday has exacerbated the situation. We would all be a lot more relaxed if we started the Sabbath off with a clean home, bathed kids, and a piping hot meal ready to go. But I have to learn that I can't bake homemade challahs, exotic desserts and prepare a gourmet meal and expect to have time to get everything else done.

"I'd rather just have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and not have a million things to do when I get home." My husband implored.

I need ME time. I whined.

This week will be the real test: five days at home with three kinetic kiddos. Will I be able to keep them entertained, keep myself sane, and have the apartment spotless by Friday?

Or will I end up institutionalized?

Peanut butter and jelly under the starry Chicago skies it is. Happy Sukkot.

My girl

Several weeks ago my husband picked up a pair of student tickets to the Joffrey Ballet's opening night of Cinderella for me and our little ballerina. The excitement gradually built up. My daughter twirled around the house talking about going to the "feeder" to see Cinderella. My son oscillated between being happy for his little sister, and being slightly jealous. He would cover up his bad feelings by saying things like, "Well, I don't really like ballet. I just want to see it." I reassured him that he'd have an opportunity to go somewhere special with his mommy or daddy some other night. This pleased him.

As it turns out, it was probably a good thing he didn't come. I could just imagine the scene:

"Mommy, who's that?"

shhhh!

"Mommy, why are they doing that?"

Shhhh!

"Mommy, what's going to happen next?"

Shhhh!

In the meantime, my gorgeous girl would plie and pirouette about the house with her little sister trailing behind twirling around as only an awkward 18 month-old can do, softly landing on a nicely padded diaper.

For two weeks I warned her that she would have to, no questions asked, no delay tactics whatsoever, take a nap before we went to the ballet. She nodded her head sincerely and assured me she would.

The big day finally arrived. I picked up my angel from nursery school and we went on a reconnaissance mission to the train station to check out the parking situation there. We got home and my girl, without a word of protest went straight to her room and straight to bed.

More than the mapping our routes, more than finding the trains, more than picking out dresses, my daughter's willingness to go straight to bed gave me the sensation that this was going to be a night like no other. With this small but previously unheard of gesture, she showed me how enormous this event was in her world.

When she awoke, she dressed in her pale green "Cinderella" dress with petticoats and a shiny rhinestone trim at the waist. I wore my black ballet length taffeta skirt with petticoats and a green sweater. We both donned red coats with black trim. I know it was a bit over the top, but I couldn't help myself. I tried to convince myself it was for safety, in case (God forbid) we got separated. I Just thought it would be too delicious to match!

We drove to the train station and parked. I asked a CTA employee to guide us to the trains, I asked another to help us through the turnstiles, and yet another for help getting on the right train. My sweetheart sat perfectly still and took it all in. I was worried that she lacked confidence in my ability to get us to the right place. We counted the stations to our destination, and she smiled a big smudgy smile from the black licorice she ate on the way to the train.

We found our way to the theatre with the help of another CTA employee and an off-duty postman. We got our tickets from the Hillel program director and went in. The Auditorium Theatre (like School Academy?) is a beautiful, old theatre with gilded plaster work along the walls, opulent frescoes and murals, and dreamy lighting. My daughter's eyes were huge and she was unusually silent as she clutched my hand. She had never seen anything like this in her life. Later on she told me, "It was beeyootiful like a palace!". This was our special mother-daughter night out, so I treated my little girl and myself to a couple of "Shirley Temples" and a big box of Lemonheads. I should have known better.

"Blech!" said the girl who only drinks water. The usher informed me that there were no beverages allowed in the theatre. What was I to do with 9 dollars of syrupy sweet drinks and tart candies?

I slurped away at my two drinks as we headed up to the balcony. Little 3 to 5 year-old sprites and fairies in their "Sunday best" flitted and twirled about the lobby, and ushers greeted them all with sweet smiles and large pillows to sit on. A half-drunk "Shirley Temple" was abandoned in the lobby as we found our seats in the breathtaking theatre. My daughter was over the moon and the performance hadn't even begun.

The lights dimmed. My daughter whispered to me, "I think the curtain's going to go up soon!", and so it did.

Words cannot do the performance justice. It was beautiful, elegant, funny, and amazing. To my daughter it was pure magic. I spent as much time watching her expressions as I watched the dancers. My girl sat still and upright as she watched with complete amazement the ballerinas floating and flying below. Occasionally she'd reach over and give me a hug or a squeeze to express her appreciation or turn my head to face the stage. I have never felt so loved in my life, as I did this night when the world of beauty and grace was opened up for my daughter. She didn't come back down to Earth, until long after the train ride, the car ride home, and the long walk back to the apartment. Daddy was waiting to hear all about the evening, but all she could say was, "It was beeyootiful. Papa would love it."

All I could do was dry my eyes and squeeze her back. I am in such big trouble now.

Adventures

It's eight o'clock post meridian. The girls are asleep, my son is visiting his imaginary world, loudly. My son often engages in conversations and full-blown play acting all by himself. It's quite remarkable the way he can keep himself entertained and awake past bedtime. I assume this is normal behavior for a seven year old, even if it seems bizarre to my grown-up sensibilities.

My husband is immersed in study, or so he tells me, in the law library. I saw him briefly this morning between his 4:30 am shower and dashing off to synagogue for morning minyan. I saw him briefly again as he scarfed down breakfast before catching the bus. I saw him for another five minutes this evening as he dropped off my tortillas, got our little ballerina out of the bathtub, and dashed off to the library again. He has become a phantom. Did we see Daddy or did we imagine him? He seems happy enough, best I can tell.

We're managing pretty well without him. It's not a cake walk, though. I'm easily frustrated, which is not a helpful trait for any law school widow, let alone one with three children. But we're managing. I went to get my driver's license today. I was advised to visit this particular branch of the DMV because "there was never a line there." That is unless they decide to bus in a dozen elderly folks for their Illinois ID cards and every teenager in town is getting his or her permit for driver's ed.

For two hours I paced, trying to calm my hysterical 18 month old who refused to go down for her nap. My bladder was ready to burst, but I was afraid to visit the restroom in case they called my number and I got shunted to the end of the line. My bladder, baby and I survived the ordeal, and I marched out of the DMV a new citizen of the state of Illinois. Of course, I will always be a Texan in my heart. I consider myself a dual citizen.

Laundry is another example of the daily frustrations of life in Chicago. In San Antonio I was spoiled rotten. My laundry room was situated ever-so conveniently upstairs between the girls' room and the office. My kids were trained (and my husband almost trained) to deposit their dirty clothes directly into the laundry room. I would waltz joyfully down the hall, sort my laundry, and drop a load in. Some days I would be prompt in rotating laundry from washer to dryer. Other days I would let it rest comfortably until I could get back to it.

In Chicago, laundry is a death-defying act. The laundry room is three-floors down in the basement. The lights in the back hallway are equipped with motion detectors and are supposed to turn on when motion is detected, assuming that motion is 6-feet tall. I walk down the dark stairs, waving my free arm above my head like a lost tourist, while clutching 10 pounds of soiled garments in the other. Half the time the light bulbs are burned out or the landlord has neglected to turn them on, so I proceed gingerly feeling my way down the stairs with my big toe, praying I don't miss a step and find myself hurling down the staircase head first. My one bright thought is that if I do crack my head open (has v'halila!), my husband will have the chance to try his first case!

It's not all frustrations and ordeals to survive. Occasionally, I actually manage to get the kids dressed, fed, and out the door in a reasonable amount of time to actually spend quality leisure time with them. The Sunday of Yom Kippur Eve, we went on an adventure. We got out my son's scooter, my daughters Fisher-Price roller skates that fit over her tennis shoes, and strapped the baby into her stroller.

We began with a walk to the kosher Dunkin Donuts, where we saw my ballerina's nursery school teacher. My sweet diva ran to her and gave her the biggest, most delicious hug ever. The kids picked out chocolate glazed chocolate donuts, I ordered a blueberry muffin, which in comparison is practically health food, for the baby, and I treated myself to a cheese and egg bagel and a smoothie. At least I didn't order them chocolate milks, as well! That would have bordered on child abuse!

We took our grease and sugar-laden goodies and headed for the sculpture gardens down the road. We stopped at a picnic bench and dug in. My kids, who get yogurt and apples for dessert in their lunch boxes were in heaven. The baby was covered from head to toe in blueberry muffin mash. She was disgustingly adorable.

After snack was devoured, or just worn, as the case may be, we began our trek. It is interesting to note the inverse relation of the speed of a seven-year old boy on a scooter to a four-year old girl on rollerskates for the first time. On a bumpy pathway, I should add. Add to this picture a baby trying to flip head-first out of her stroller, and you can see that "quality family time" does not always apply equally to all members of the family.

Nonetheless, we did manage to enjoy ourselves, exploring sculptures we usually speed past at 40 MPH.

Note the gleeful look on my son's face by the cheese. He was thinking how much my father, the cheesephobic would hate this sculpture. Notice my daughter's ballet pose in front of the hangers. Such poise and grace!

I asked the children to look "lost and confused" for this photo in front of the street sign sculpture. After a lengthy discussion, they decided that if they were truly lost, they would be very sad, hence the doleful expressions, as they point in various directions. It wasn't exactly the shot I was looking for, but it was sweet anyway.

We walked for several miles, observing art and enjoying the warm, sunny day. On our way home we stopped at a playground for half an hour while the baby slept in her stroller. We made it home in time for lunch, and in time for me to begin the pre-holiday scramble.

My soul couldn't have faced the year's final judgment any more content and full of love and gratitude for God and His wondrous blessings. I just wish my husband could have been there to share it with me.