Effort and luck

The leftover turkey is warmly ensconced in a pot pie and three calorie-laden desserts lie in waiting in my freezer: the holidays are over.

And, if I may say so myself, I did good!

With luck, all of the slight imperfections of my Thanksgiving feast were corrected for the Friday night family gathering. The roast and turkey were succulent and tender, according to the omnivores at the table, and the brussel sprouts and potatoes were roasted to perfection! The parade of pies made kids' eyes bug out and grown-up mouths water, and, most importantly, we were surrounded by family.

Living in San Antonio, we rarely had the opportunity to spend time with my husband's family in Chicago. My children had never met their cousins; four boys ranging in age from two to eight, and the most adorable one-year old baby girl with a delicious sense of humor. The twin boys stayed home with their mom, suffering the effects of a recent flu shot, but the older cousins immediately connected with my son. They played board games, legos, and who-knows what else, while the adults chatted. My baby showed off her acts of derring-do, prompting the oldest cousin to comment:

"She is the most non-fragile baby in the world!"

Meanwhile, the baby cousin kept us in stitches with her "weasel face" and snorts.

My mother-in-law is the glue that binds us all together. She gave us the occasion to come together, and will, no doubt, make sure we continue to make the effort. It is so special seeing her interacting with all of her grandkids and nieces and nephews. She radiates such love for her family.

I'm going to love watching these kids grow up together. Cousins my children's ages were one thing we sorely missed in San Antonio. With effort and luck, these kids will become as close as I was with my family in Texas.

* * *

Effort and luck: I can't think of two better words to express the tail end of the year. December is a few days away, my husband is bogging down for final exams. With effort and luck he'll be happy with the results. I can't begin to imagine what the stress and anxiety of law school exams must be like. I watch my husband every night preparing his outlines, and compiling reams of work he's produced over the last four months. The amount of cases he's read and briefed in such a short period of time is mind-boggling. With effort and luck, the information will be readily accessible when he needs it!

With effort and luck, the kids are preparing for their end-of-the-year performances, and wrapping things up at school. My son has his Chumash, or bible, dedication in a couple of weeks. He will receive his very own copy of the Five Books of Moses, to mark the beginning of a lifetime of learning Jewish Texts. Nothing fills me with greater pride and excitement. With effort and luck, he will hold, read, pour over, and absorb the teachings for many years to come.

My daughter has begun to rehearse for her June ballet recital, but parents will get a sneak preview in a couple of weeks as well. Which little girl will we see? The shy, bashful girl who blushes coyly when asked to show us what she knows, or the bold diva, who can't wait? With effort and luck, Miss Katie will bring out the latter, on that Tuesday afternoon, and my daughter will glow with the pride of displaying how much she's learned in four short months.

And I'm beginning to think about Chanukah. With effort and luck, I can bring the excitement, fun, and warm glow that the eight-day festival has come to mean to my family, to our apartment in Chicago.

Chanukah was such a special, beautiful time of year on Sholom Place. All of the neighbors would put their menorahs on small tables outside their front doors. Families would all come out at dusk to light the candles and sing the prayers. My kids would walk from house to house exploring the many different kinds of menorahs: silver, brass, homemade, oil filled, ornate, and plain. The neighborhood glowed with the warm, simple lights of dozens of small flames. Inside, we'd tear through the piles of presents from parents and grandparents, parcelled out a few gifts each night. And we'd enjoy homemade sufganiyot, Chanukah jelly donuts, brought over by friends. I made the traditional latkes, which my children would only eat completely drowned under a mound of applesauce.

Thinking about Chanukah fills me with excitement and anxiety. My husband will be finishing up his last exam on the sixth day. A few days later, we'll be driving home for a short visit. It will take a lot of effort and luck to spend time with all of our friends in such a short span of time. How am I going to get my fill of my parents, my friends, my community, and the warm San Antonio winter in one week? With effort and luck it will be enough to sustain me until the next visit.

* * *

November is sinking into a memory, and I am looking back at the last four months, gobsmacked. How did the time pass so quickly? It feels like just a few weeks ago we were starting to pack for the big move! Despite the kvetching and complaining, it's been really good so far. I've made great friends (shout out to my Skokie Girls!), reconnected with old friends and family, and have had the opportunity to get to know a very cool new city. My kids are happy (when Mom's not cooking for scores of people), my husband's happy (or at least will be when he gets through his exams), and it's in the sixties today!

Did I mention the three pies in the freezer? Mmmmmmm!

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving generated a great deal of anticipation for me and my family. My husband and I were hoping to have my mother-in-law, my bother-in-law and his wife over for the feast, but they couldn't make it. Instead, I invited over one of my Skokie Girls and her husband and two kids, and my hubby invited his whole law school section for turkey n' fixin's.

Thank goodness, only 10 accepted!

For a week I shopped, baked, and cooked like mad, and my children and husband tiptoed gingerly around me. Especially when I was wielding a big knife. I baked 10 pies over the course of two days. I made four sweet potato pies, two pumpkin pies, two cranberry and apple pies, and two chocolate pecan pies.

Pies aren't generally my thing. I am hopeless when it comes to making a good crust. This Thanksgiving did not prove to be the exception. I used the same recipe for each of my ten crusts, and they all came out differently! It's a mystery for the ages that I will surely ponder for many years to come. I also made roast, brussel sprouts and roasted potatoes, which were all under done; blanched green beans and pumpkin soup, which were over done; and turkey, which I got just right. My husband got stuck with the job of pulling out the extant feathers, and I dressed the bird keeping it simple, and praying.

Thanksgiving dinner was a lot of fun. While I finished up some last minute details, my children played with their friends, the baby walked around giving everybody "huggies" (not the diapers, but the embrace), and we all waited for the rest of the guests to arrive.

When you can't be with your family, being surrounded by good friends is the next best thing. And when your best friends are thousands of miles away, making new friends is almost as good. I enjoyed the opportunity to meet my husband's classmates and hear their tales from the trenches. My husband ended the evening thanking our guests for coming and sharing the evening with us. He wished them all success in their exams, and "fewer than six pages of comments on their next paper".

And what Thanksgiving dinner is complete without the after-dinner tryptophan-induced nap?

* * *

My mother-in-law came in today. She missed the turkey day feast, but with the help of my husband's family here in Chicago, will help us polish off the leftovers. When asked at school what she was thankful for, my daughter said, "my cousins". She'll get the opportunity to meet a few more cousins tonight.

I'm thankful for my cousins, too, even if I do a lousy job of staying in touch. I'm thankful for my husband who works so hard, yet always tries to find the time to take care of us and show us so much love. I'm thankful for my children. They are bright, inquisitive, sweet, and kind and a continual source of blessings to me. I'm thankful for my friends, old and new, who lift me up and give me strength and inspiration. I'm thankful for my family who are always there for us, even from a thousand miles away.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Date night

My kids are sitting around the living room. It's Monday afternoon, school's out. My son is doing homework and the girls are coloring. It is the perfect picture of domestic tranquility.

Of course, up until about ten minutes ago, it was anything but.

I have been a bit snarky lately. I blamed it on being stuck at home with little but housework and children to occupy my mind. And that is certainly a culprit in my grumpiness. If I had to guess how many times I ask my children every morning to get ready, I'd say it's approaching the dollar amount of our federal deficit. Our mornings go like this:

Sweetheart, it's time to wake up! (Repeat five or six times)

Sweetie, are you up yet? (Repeat five or six times)

Get up NOW! (Repeat three or four times)

Love, you need to get dressed for school now. (Repeat five or six times)

Honey, are you dressed yet? (Repeat five or six times)

Get dressed NOW! (Repeat three or four times)

Repeat the preceding pattern with getting shoes on, eating breakfast, brushing teeth, putting homework in the backpack, and putting on the coat, and you'll start getting the picture.

Multiply that conversation by three, and, there's my life.

What I really needed was a breather, and thanks to my husband, I got one. On Saturday night I showered, got dressed up, put on make-up, and blow-dried my hair. My husband convinced a fellow law school student to babysit, and we actually went out on a real date. A real date, as opposed to a pretend date, is when we don't have any children with us, we have a meal that doesn't include pizzas and three visits to a "potty", and doesn't end up with one or both parents in a crabbier mood than when we started.

No, this was the real McCoy. Real make-up, real food, real uncomfortable but stylish shoes, and real drinks! No high chairs, bibs, or wipeys anywhere in sight. We started off at a nice restaurant for Mediterranean food, and ended up at a famous Jazz bar where we saw a fairly famous Jazz musician.

It was a glorious evening. At the restaurant we sat at our table, eating slowly and talking, uninterrupted. I can hardly remember what we spoke about - probably our children - but it was such a delightful change of pace getting to actually sit through an entire meal. At the jazz bar we sat close together in a booth, sipping our drinks, and enjoying grown-up music. We held hands and grinned from ear to ear. We probably looked like goofy tourists, minus the cameras. But I didn't care. This was my big night out!

By 11:30 pm, we were yawning and ready to go to bed.

By Sunday morning, I was back to my grumpy self again. I drove for 45 minutes to the middle of some industrial park in a neighborhood I had never heard of in some anonymous suburb to take the diva to a birthday party. It was at this place with rooms full of inflated bouncing games, slides, obstacle courses for kids and adults. When I was a kid we called them "Moon Walks", but the "Moon Walks" of my youth were prehistoric compared to these high tech, high concept "inflatable party zones". Adjacent to what they call the "Arena" was a party room for cakes and apple juice. For an hour and a half, the kids ran around, bounced, and slid at full speed in this enclosed space. The inflatable play areas were enormous, and frankly intimidating. The lighting was eerily bright against the dark walls and carpets. The children began to take on a manic demeanor after half an hour of being let loose in the arena. After an hour, the term "arena" was more revelatory. The kids were literally and figuratively bouncing off the walls.

My daughter hated it.

No coaxing, cajoling, or enticements would get her to enter one of the bouncy chambers. I even took off my shoes and braved one of the mega-slides myself to demonstrate how fun and harmless it was. It was neither. I got a friction burn on my way down, and my stomach flipped and swooped as I careened out of control with a bunch of four year-olds watching, puzzled. I thought I was going to be sick. But I disgorged myself from the tight entrance with a smile.

That was GREAT! You wanna try it?

Not a chance. She did like the birthday cake. We made our trek back home, my daughter finally happy with her ill-gotten birthday booty, and me incredulous that I drove almost an hour each way for her to cling to me like new velcro.

Sunday was also my son's last day of football. I dropped him off at the field and took the girls indoors to the baby gym where my daughter found a play space more her size and speed. They played on miniature slides and mats while I whined, kvetched, and complained to one of my San Antonio sisters. Thank goodness for good friends. Thank goodness for cell phones!

I'm crabby and moody and feeling like a slave! I declared in my most melodramatic moan.

She listened kindly and patiently and let me have my own little, pathetic pity-party for a good hour. I owe her one.

We went to pick up my son and were greeted with the happiest face you could imagine. "Mom! I scored a touchdown and I got a certificate!" He scooted home on a cloud while I ran behind him to keep up with the girls in a stroller. He zipped ahead of us and looked back smiling triumphantly.

What the heck was I complaining about?

Oh yeah. I remember now.

Today I shopped for Thanksgiving and Shabbat dinner. Four stores and five hours later I dragged myself home with a minivan loaded with bags full of the ingredients for the two coming feasts. My son surprised me at the entrance to the apartment.

What are you doing here? I shrieked in a panic.

"We had early dismissal today!" He shrugged.

Once I got my heart rate back down, I unloaded the van and felt my innards sink for a second time this week, It's only Monday, but I have the next four days blacked out for cooking and baking. Pumpkin soups, turkeys, roasts, sweet potato pies, cranberry relishes, roasted potatoes, pecan pies, and salads are on the menus. Emeril and Wolfgang: step back!

The Law School Widow's in the kitchen!

Again.

Dancing update

For those of you wondering how my daughter's dancing career is going, here's an update:

Baby sister has learned a thing or two from her big sis:

THAT, my friends, is naches!

Sabbath peace

The big date we planned for Saturday night didn't happen. I resorted to accosting random teenagers on the street about babysitting, but most looked at me with fear in their eyes and ran away.

Usually after I dropped to my knees and begged.

I did, however, get my much needed break. My hubby got the hint (if I don't get an hour away from these children I'm going to completely LOSE IT!), and offered to stay home while I escaped the confines of my apartment. My big night out consisted of going to a "jewelry party" at one of the Skokie Girls' house. I nearly skipped to the minivan, relishing the feeling of not being attached to a child or a stroller for the first time in months. I almost screeched freedom! as I fled my house.

Don't get me wrong, I adore my children. They give me a tremendous amount of naches, a Yiddish word describe that feeling of pride and love that flows out of a parent toward a child when the child does not embarrass the parent in public.

I am truly blessed by my children. Not only can I not recall an incident where they have caused me embarrassment in public; they often make me look like I'm a really good parent. I wish I could take the credit for great parenting skills, but the truth is, I got much more than I deserve with these kiddos (ptui, ptui, ptui, hamsa, hamsa!).

Take this past Shabbat.

We were invited out both to the Friday night meal and Saturday lunch. On Friday night we were welcomed to the home of a family from synagogue. The husband graduated from Northwestern Law a few years ago. The wife is a beautiful, sweet woman graced with organization and style. We showed up early at her house Friday night because it was raining and we didn't want to walk, so we drove over before Shabbat began. Her meal was cooked, her house was clean, her kids were bathed, and she was ready to go.

Me? If a guest showed up early to my house on a Friday night they'd be greeted with chaos. I'd be in a panic cooking three or four last minute dishes, I'd be yelling at my kids to put their toys away, and my husband would be begging to take a last minute shower. In fact, that was pretty much the scene at my house when I didn't even have a meal to cook or guests for whom to prepare.

In the waning minutes of the week I flipped over a chocolate bundt cake I was making to bring to our host's house while trying to salvage a frosting that wasn't quite cooperating (what on Earth did those Rombauer sister mean by "threading" sugar syrup?). The top half of the cake stayed in the pan. Meanwhile, my husband was showering, dressing some of the kids (we forget to change the baby's stained and mismatched outfit), and putting away laundry. We were all yelling at each other.

Sabbath Peace, indeed.

We abandoned the failed cake, stashed a bottle of wine in the diaper bag, bundled up the kids, and drove over with seconds left before candle-lighting. As we approached their home, the bottle slipped out of the bag and shattered. We arrived wet, stressed, dishevelled, and empty-handed to a peaceful, clean, quiet home.

But the kids made us look good. They were polite, well-behaved, and even complimentary. My son worked valiantly to get the hostess's attention. "Excuse me!" He said, repeatedly.

"Everything was delicious!" He said so sincerely, my heart melted.

And as we prepared to depart in our brightly-colored plastic ponchos, ready to brave the two mile walk in the rain, my daughter looked squarely into the lady-of-the-house's eyes and said,

"You are so lovely."

I walked that two miles home standing a bit taller.

The following morning we got out late, walked a mile-and-a-half in the cold to the new synagogue we're trying out, the one with the great babysitting. I dropped the kids off in the playroom, and before I said hello, blurted out a congenial, are you busy tonight? to the babysitters.

"Um, yeah." They responded warily.

On Saturday we were invited to lunch at the home of the shadchanim (matchmakers) who introduced friends of ours in San Antonio. Our friends had called them to let them know we'd moved to Chicago, and they graciously invited us for a meal. They were a loving and elegant grandparently couple. He was a professor of mathematics, she was a former English teacher and retired social worker. Their home was beautiful in the old, classic Chicago bungalow style: hardwood floors, wood panelling in the well-stocked library, antique furniture, lots of toys for the grandkids.

My children made themselves right at home, asking to be directed to the toys. They played beautifully, ate nicely, and spoke eloquently. The baby reached up to the kindly professor to be picked up. They cleaned up the toys when they were finished, and thanked their hosts who in turn, complimented their behavior, their conduct toward one another, and their good manners.

We may have returned to a less than peaceful and stately home, but we beamed with pride and love at our majestic offspring.

The Sabbath ended, I changed my clothes, and practically raced out of the house to retrieve the minivan and head to the jewelry party. A dozen women sat around the living room, trying on baubles, snacking on salads and cookies, and talking about their children. While it wasn't the "Karaoke Night" we've been threatening to subject ourselves to, it was a grown up social event, and I was thrilled. I talked kids, I shopped jewelry, got a present for my mother-in-law, and stuffed my face with corn salad.

While I didn't exactly come out of the house singing, "I could have danced all night", I did emerge considerably more relaxed. That alone was worth the price of the gift. And I came home to a clean apartment: my husband the saint.

* * *

On Sunday morning I made whole wheat pancakes and my father's specialty, eggs with onions and lox. I picked up a birthday present, took my four-year-old to a party, and came back to hustle my son off to football practice. After practice we walked the scenic route to the kosher Dunkin Donuts.

Do you know why you're getting this treat? I smiled to my chocolate-smudged kids.

"Because we were so good on Shabbat." They answered right away.

You guys are the BEST! I gushed.

"We know."

I don't always remember to show my family how much I appreciate them. I get too caught up in the daily challenges of keeping the house in order, the kids taken care of, and my composure in check. It's a tall order. Some women make it look so simple. It would be easy to resent their clean homes, organized lives, and serenity, but I know all is not as it seems. And while I don't feel like I've got any control of my life, I can't be doing that badly. After all, some pretty amazing kids have emerged from this hectic environment. I can't take all of the credit, but perhaps I can convince myself that I deserve at least some.

Steel dreams

The novelty of being a stay-at-home mom is really starting to wear off. At first I sparkled with the possibilities of a stress-free life, keeping the apartment clean, hot meals for the family every night, and plenty of quality-time with my baby. I imagined I'd have all the time in the world to write, perfect my salsa recipe, and exercise, too. And keep up with the laundry, drop off and pick up dry cleaning, manage doctors appointments, shop for groceries...

What was I thinking?!

The life of a stay-at-home mom is no picnic, and I apologize to all of you ladies whom I ever looked upon with envy or disdain. Even with the support of my Skokie Girls, I desperately crave adult companionship - without an 18 month old on my hip. One of the hardest things about this whole experience has been my lack of a social life. My husband studies late into the nights, so after I put the kids down, I'm on my own. I usually fold laundry, wash dishes, toodle around on the internet, or go to sleep. My husband and I haven't had a date since my mom came to town in August. I've been trying desperately all week to find a babysitter, but the teenagers are busy this time of year. I'm 0 for 5 so far.

I love my children. I adore their smiles, laughs, songs, and thousands of questions while I'm driving, preparing supper, checking my email, and going to the bathroom. They need constant attention; and the more I need to be inside my head, the more they need to be in there with me. By the time I've put them to bed, I'm too tired to think.

My baby was sick this week. She had a gooey nose and a low fever for a few days. She spent the week glued with sweat to my shoulder. She didn't want to eat or play - she just wanted mommy, mommy, mommy. It was delicious, exhausting, and frustrating. I loved the closeness. She held me in her arms, and melted into my body. It is a miraculous feeling to be the only source of relief for your sick child. But it also meant nothing got done: not the dishes, not the laundry, not the cleaning. I just sat around sweating under the heat of her little feverish body. After three days I got antsy to be free of the constant weight of her on my chest.

I'm also desperate for a little help around the house. I guess I never appreciated how much my husband helped around the house last year, but he's checked out of housework for now. Law school studies and events are his morning, noon, and night, and it's all fallen squarely on my shoulders. In my wildest imaginations I never pictured the day when I'd be cooking and cleaning and caring for a family of 5.

I was a kick-ass sabre fencer once.

And a smarty-pants grad student.

And a college lecturer.

I need a break. I desperately need to get out of this apartment, away from my children, and away from my dishes, laundry, and computer, if only for a few hours. I need to strap on some fencing shoes and beat the living daylights out of some unsuspecting man. I need to flex my atrophying muscles, and squeeze my dishsoaked hands around a worn rubber grip, snapping my fingers and wrist, feeling the steel blade cutting through the air and striking the soft cotton of my opponent's jacket with a THWACK. I need to feel my muscles burn and stretch and contract against years of neglect. I need to feel the sweat roll down my spine, pooling in the small of my back. I need to feel the rush of adrenaline as I retreat against the quick movements and metallic flashes of my opponent's blade. I need to smell the acrid scent of sweat and mildew and rust. I need to scream from deep within, out of joy, victory, relief, not anger and frustration.

But right now, my family needs me more.

The Big Pink Pout

If jealousy is a green-eyed monster, what is resentment?

I have been sitting in front of my computer for the last three hours wasting my time on the cybersurfboard, crashing waves of online discussions while chomping down on brownies, cookies, leftover tortilla soup, and pickles.

No, I'm not pregnant. I'm BORED.

It's Saturday night, Shabbat was over before 6:00 pm, and my kids were asleep by 8:00 pm. Why is the hottest Latina-Mama Orthodox woman in Chicago vegging out in front of a computer (pickles technically are a vegetable) when she should be out dancing salsa - dressed modestly, and, of course, only dancing with other women?

Between the time Shabbat ended and my kids went to bed, we loaded up the car, stopped off at the kosher Dunkin Donuts for a couple dozen to go, and drove my husband to O'Hare to catch a flight to San Antonio. My husband is going to celebrate our Rabbi's 36th anniversary and the groundbreaking for the expansion of the synagogue.

That's right. My husband is going to MY hometown, staying with MY parents, and visiting MY friends to celebrate MY Rabbi's 36th anniversary. My husband wasn't there 36 years ago. I was. And lest I forget to mention it, it is 80 degrees there. So what if he is the immediate past president of MY synagogue? While he is basking in the warm comforts of home, I am bundled in long underwear, a turtleneck and a sweater, straining my eyes and neck hunched over the computer, bored.

Resentment - the Big Pink Pout.

I'm actually quite proud of him. Not many people can make the kind of impact my husband made on our community in such a short time. I lived in San Antonio most of my life, but never managed to make the kinds of impressions or leave the indelible marks my husband did in seven years.

It's my husband's nature to matter. He doesn't do it overtly, or with ulterior motives. His desire to be an integral part of his surroundings, to participate, to contribute, to help, is as much a part of his personality as his corny sense of humor. In law school he is already serving on committees, fundraising, and participating in all of the seminars, speakers, and events he can manage between studies and family. He is wringing every drop out of the law school experience he can. I am in awe. I don't know where he has found the energy to be so thoroughly engaged.

If I can make it through the day without yelling at anyone, it's a success.

I've been struggling to feel at home at our new synagogue here in Chicago. Most Saturdays I have come home from the services feeling stressed and annoyed. It is hard to immerse myself in prayer when I'm trading off babysitting duties with my husband and worrying about where my kids are and how many cookies and lollipops they've consumed. The childcare situation at the synagogue we joined is, to put it mildly, chaotic. The kids run around shrieking, fighting, and playing in the halls, the lobby, and even the sanctuary. It makes me crazy. And the thought that my children might one day be found amongst the packs of feral but stylishly dressed children makes me cringe.

Last week, we finally had enough. I spent the morning services in the hall wrestling the baby and chasing the two older kids back into their groups. My husband did the same in the afternoon. As we walked home tired, annoyed, and resentful, we decided to explore other options. A few of the moms from the nursery school recommended another synagogue. We tried it out today. The babysitting situation was a huge improvement. They took all three kids, had plenty of games and activities for them, and healthy snacks, and unlike the other synagogue, the kids got to participate in part of the services.

My husband and I were happy enough there, but my son was overcome by the Big Pink Pout. I couldn't blame him. He has few enough friends here in Chicago. At least in the other synagogue he had a couple of girls from his school to play with. He didn't seem to know anyone here. They also didn't give him as much candy.

The happiest person at that synagogue had to be my baby. For months she has watched wistfully as I've dropped off her siblings at school, ballet, football practice, synagogue playgroups and even playdates. She has been stuck as a spectator, often strapped into a stroller, or pinned down in her mommy's arms. This was the first chance she has been invited to be a full participant alongside her siblings.

As long as the weather allows for the longer walk, we'll give it a shot.

Interestingly, my son is anxious to go back to the Sephardic synagogue. It is curious because there were even fewer kids for him to play with - only two - and far fewer toys. Is it possible that he senses that he is somehow a part of the legacy and tradition of this place? I may be reading too much into it, but he is a remarkably sensitive and bright kid. We'll make it back there, too.

* * *

We had guests this past Friday night. I invited the family with the San Antonio connections who have had us over for a couple of meals already. They were real troopers dragging their five children through the cold to our distant home. I cooked and cleaned like a crazy woman. I made my challah, two soups (tortilla and chicken), two salads, roasted peppers, gefilte fish casserole, a roast, chicken breasts, braised eggplant, Turkish zucchini, blanched green beans, garlic- roasted potatoes, Israeli couscous, and brownies. I cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed the kids' bathroom, and made the apartment shine.

By the time the meal was over the apartment was waylaid with the toys and tracks of wild kids, the meal was almost completely devoured, and I was exhausted, but really proud of myself. I pulled off a gourmet meal AND a clean apartment for once!

There's hope for me yet.

Tomorrow's going to be a crazy day. We have two birthday parties and football practice to juggle, and I still need to buy birthday gifts. I'm also going to have to get my son to sit down and finish his Hebrew book report.

Oh, and my husband is in San Antonio, 80 degrees and sunny, with MY parents and MY friends, celebrating MY Rabbi's 36th anniversary.

Pout, pout.