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 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.
posted by law school widow at 9:02 PM
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