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.
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.
posted by law school widow at 9:43 PM
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