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.