Happy Chanukah!
Tonight the children and I lit six candles for Chanukah. My husband was passed out in bed. His last exam is tomorrow morning, and he's been up late every night studying. After a 45 minute cat nap, he's back to the grindstone. I'm exhausted just watching him hunched over his books. We're a pretty sympathetic couple. When I was pregnant, my husband gained thirty pounds. When he takes exams, I chew my nails. I'll be every bit as relieved as my legal scholar when it's over and done.
It's been a busy week for me, too. On Saturday night we went to a Chanukah carnival at the school. On Sunday, we had three parties. I hosted a small one for my son and four of his closest friends. That evening we were invited to two Chanukah parties, and we could have gone to two carnivals, if we had the time.
I threw a small party to celebrate a major milestone in my seven-year old's life: he finished reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. At almost four hundred pages, it took my son several weeks and tremendous perseverance to get through it, but I offered him an irresistible incentive. If he completed the book, I'd let him watch the movie.
Most children my son's age have seen the whole series of Harry Potter movies several times, but I have resisted the temptation. My son does not deal well with dramatic tension. The slightest hint of something startling or scary sends him out of the room with an, "I just want to play in my room now". When he was three years old we took him to see "Finding Nemo". He lasted ten minutes. Last year I took him to "Pooh's Heffalump Movie", and he squirmed. I couldn't subject him to trolls, three-headed dog's, and Voldemort until he was ready.
My son acquitted himself beautifully. The kids trickled in one at a time. Two girls and two boys came over. We started off decorating gingerbread cookies as their favorite Harry Potter character. The results were not surprising. The boys smeared frosting all over their cookies, and jammed as many candies as they could all over them, and finished up with a squiggly line on the forehead.
That must be Harry Potter! I observed as I walked past each candy-laden cookie. The boys grinned proudly.
And the girls? Hermione Granger, of course. I could tell be the blond hair they gave her, and no squiggly line. They ate more candies than they piled up on their cookies, which I reasoned was a good start. The movie started and the kids grew quiet.
Of course, that didn't last.
"Who's that?" My son queried. "What's he doing?" He demanded. "Where are they going?" He asked a few moments later. "Why are they doing that?"
His friends, having watched the movie several times, were thrilled to share their wisdom. After the first hour, the friends began drifting off to my son's room to find something else to do. This movie was old news. But not for my son who sat mesmerized, watching the pages of his book come to life before his eyes.
While they watched, I baked homemade pizzas, something I hadn't done since we moved to Chicago. Every second restaurant in this city serves pizza, why bother making it? For one thing, I knew my son would appreciate it, so I created two enormous and oddly shaped whole wheat pizzas with my special homemade sauce. I followed it up with cupcakes decorated with chocolate frosting and yellow gel in the shape, more or less, of broomsticks, lightning bolts, and golden snitches. All served on black paper plates. I felt like a regular Martha Stewart, without the centerpieces. Or the police record. Or the pay check.
Once the party was over I whipped up a banana bread and my special eight-layer dip, a heavenly Tex-Mex treat, to bring to that evening's main events. Once again, I piled the kids in the car to give my husband the space he needed to study. We arrived at the first party and I knew it was going to be a long night.
Friends of ours had invited us to this party, at their cousin's house, and asked me to bring something "Mexican and spicy". I showed up with three excited kids, a pan full of eight-layer dip, and a big stain on my sweater from the dip. Beans, guacamole, sour cream, salsa, cheese, tomatoes, olives and jalapenos do not look good on a lime green sweater.
The cousin's house was a brand new McMansion. We walked in tentatively, I put down the dip, and ran off to find my children, who had already disappeared into the basement with the other kids, and a bathroom, to clean off my sweater. The friends who had invited us were nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, my kids had made themselves at home in the basement, which was large enough to fit my whole apartment. I swallowed hard, and went upstairs to introduce myself to all of the strange faces. Each conversation began with a friendly,
"And who are you?" I swallowed hard again, and waited for my friends to arrive.
Thirty minutes later they strode in, the rabbi, his wife, and their five children, carrying trays of latkes and other assorted foods. Food was spread out, introductions were repeated, and the feast began. I watched tentatively as Midwesterners served themselves spoonfulls of my dip. It is common enough in San Antonio, but they eyed it warily before taking a bite.
"My mouth is on fire!" One woman complained. I apologized profusely, and mumbled something about warning her next time. "Oh, don't worry! This is my third serving!"
The kids came upstairs and helped themselves to marshmallows and chocolate fondue from a chocolate fountain. The hostess followed behind them with a rag, cleaning up the drops of chocolate that trailed behind the children. After five minutes she gave up and hid the whole chocolate contraption. That signalled the time for me to gather up my children and go to the next party.
With a banana bread in tow, I dragged the three kids to the next party. It was past their bedtimes, and they were beginning to meltdown, but I had explicit orders to tire them out before bringing them home. As I half dragged, half-carried the squirmy baby up three flights of stairs to the party, I muttered under my breath to no one in particular, my husband owes me BIG!
The party was fun and relaxed. I recognized people too! My son's lovely, adorable Hebrew teacher was there with her two year old baby and her swollen, pregnant belly. She told me lots of wonderful things about my son. She smiled as she recalled the first few days of class. My son had apparently picked up a strong Yemenite accent in San Antonio! Not bad for a peaches and cream complected kid with a smattering of freckles. I couldn't be prouder.
The home was a large, but cozy apartment, practically childproofed. And no chocolate fountain. We shmoozed, talked, played, and ate for an hour, but I was pushing my luck. At close to nine in the evening, the kids were beginning to melt down. So I gathered them up again, literally picking up children, putting shoes and coats on their limp bodies, and half dragging and half carrying them back to the car.
Tired, but happy, we made it home and collapsed into our beds, with thoughts of steaming latkes and spinning dreidels sprinkling our dreams. At least in the movie version.
As much fun as my daughter was having opening her Chanukah presents from her grandparents each night, nothing beat the excitement and anticipation of the Family Observation Day in her ballet class. For four months she waited anxiously to show her daddy her "shovels", plies, and "Greleves". Chairs were brought into the studio, parents, grandparents, and siblings watched as their little princesses engaged in graceful, organized chaos. Video cameras rolling, they aaahed and ooohed at their beaming girls. Then the "free dance" portion of the class began.
It's been a busy week for me, too. On Saturday night we went to a Chanukah carnival at the school. On Sunday, we had three parties. I hosted a small one for my son and four of his closest friends. That evening we were invited to two Chanukah parties, and we could have gone to two carnivals, if we had the time.
I threw a small party to celebrate a major milestone in my seven-year old's life: he finished reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. At almost four hundred pages, it took my son several weeks and tremendous perseverance to get through it, but I offered him an irresistible incentive. If he completed the book, I'd let him watch the movie.
Most children my son's age have seen the whole series of Harry Potter movies several times, but I have resisted the temptation. My son does not deal well with dramatic tension. The slightest hint of something startling or scary sends him out of the room with an, "I just want to play in my room now". When he was three years old we took him to see "Finding Nemo". He lasted ten minutes. Last year I took him to "Pooh's Heffalump Movie", and he squirmed. I couldn't subject him to trolls, three-headed dog's, and Voldemort until he was ready.
My son acquitted himself beautifully. The kids trickled in one at a time. Two girls and two boys came over. We started off decorating gingerbread cookies as their favorite Harry Potter character. The results were not surprising. The boys smeared frosting all over their cookies, and jammed as many candies as they could all over them, and finished up with a squiggly line on the forehead.
That must be Harry Potter! I observed as I walked past each candy-laden cookie. The boys grinned proudly.
And the girls? Hermione Granger, of course. I could tell be the blond hair they gave her, and no squiggly line. They ate more candies than they piled up on their cookies, which I reasoned was a good start. The movie started and the kids grew quiet.
Of course, that didn't last.
"Who's that?" My son queried. "What's he doing?" He demanded. "Where are they going?" He asked a few moments later. "Why are they doing that?"
His friends, having watched the movie several times, were thrilled to share their wisdom. After the first hour, the friends began drifting off to my son's room to find something else to do. This movie was old news. But not for my son who sat mesmerized, watching the pages of his book come to life before his eyes.
While they watched, I baked homemade pizzas, something I hadn't done since we moved to Chicago. Every second restaurant in this city serves pizza, why bother making it? For one thing, I knew my son would appreciate it, so I created two enormous and oddly shaped whole wheat pizzas with my special homemade sauce. I followed it up with cupcakes decorated with chocolate frosting and yellow gel in the shape, more or less, of broomsticks, lightning bolts, and golden snitches. All served on black paper plates. I felt like a regular Martha Stewart, without the centerpieces. Or the police record. Or the pay check.
Once the party was over I whipped up a banana bread and my special eight-layer dip, a heavenly Tex-Mex treat, to bring to that evening's main events. Once again, I piled the kids in the car to give my husband the space he needed to study. We arrived at the first party and I knew it was going to be a long night.
Friends of ours had invited us to this party, at their cousin's house, and asked me to bring something "Mexican and spicy". I showed up with three excited kids, a pan full of eight-layer dip, and a big stain on my sweater from the dip. Beans, guacamole, sour cream, salsa, cheese, tomatoes, olives and jalapenos do not look good on a lime green sweater.
The cousin's house was a brand new McMansion. We walked in tentatively, I put down the dip, and ran off to find my children, who had already disappeared into the basement with the other kids, and a bathroom, to clean off my sweater. The friends who had invited us were nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, my kids had made themselves at home in the basement, which was large enough to fit my whole apartment. I swallowed hard, and went upstairs to introduce myself to all of the strange faces. Each conversation began with a friendly,
"And who are you?" I swallowed hard again, and waited for my friends to arrive.
Thirty minutes later they strode in, the rabbi, his wife, and their five children, carrying trays of latkes and other assorted foods. Food was spread out, introductions were repeated, and the feast began. I watched tentatively as Midwesterners served themselves spoonfulls of my dip. It is common enough in San Antonio, but they eyed it warily before taking a bite.
"My mouth is on fire!" One woman complained. I apologized profusely, and mumbled something about warning her next time. "Oh, don't worry! This is my third serving!"
The kids came upstairs and helped themselves to marshmallows and chocolate fondue from a chocolate fountain. The hostess followed behind them with a rag, cleaning up the drops of chocolate that trailed behind the children. After five minutes she gave up and hid the whole chocolate contraption. That signalled the time for me to gather up my children and go to the next party.
With a banana bread in tow, I dragged the three kids to the next party. It was past their bedtimes, and they were beginning to meltdown, but I had explicit orders to tire them out before bringing them home. As I half dragged, half-carried the squirmy baby up three flights of stairs to the party, I muttered under my breath to no one in particular, my husband owes me BIG!
The party was fun and relaxed. I recognized people too! My son's lovely, adorable Hebrew teacher was there with her two year old baby and her swollen, pregnant belly. She told me lots of wonderful things about my son. She smiled as she recalled the first few days of class. My son had apparently picked up a strong Yemenite accent in San Antonio! Not bad for a peaches and cream complected kid with a smattering of freckles. I couldn't be prouder.
The home was a large, but cozy apartment, practically childproofed. And no chocolate fountain. We shmoozed, talked, played, and ate for an hour, but I was pushing my luck. At close to nine in the evening, the kids were beginning to melt down. So I gathered them up again, literally picking up children, putting shoes and coats on their limp bodies, and half dragging and half carrying them back to the car.
Tired, but happy, we made it home and collapsed into our beds, with thoughts of steaming latkes and spinning dreidels sprinkling our dreams. At least in the movie version.
As much fun as my daughter was having opening her Chanukah presents from her grandparents each night, nothing beat the excitement and anticipation of the Family Observation Day in her ballet class. For four months she waited anxiously to show her daddy her "shovels", plies, and "Greleves". Chairs were brought into the studio, parents, grandparents, and siblings watched as their little princesses engaged in graceful, organized chaos. Video cameras rolling, they aaahed and ooohed at their beaming girls. Then the "free dance" portion of the class began.
posted by law school widow at 11:30 PM
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