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.
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.
posted by law school widow at 2:52 PM
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