Holiday cheer

I don't know how he does it. I would be in a caffeine-frenzied panic right now, pouring hopelessly over textbooks, my notes, and old exams. I would be chewing my nails, praying, pacing manically. I would be a wreck.

My husband is in bed, watching some late night talk show before cashing in for the night. And he has his second final exam first thing in the morning! We are two very different people. He is calm, collected, organized, and completely on top of things. I am, well, not.

I am trying to help him as much as I can. Mostly, I feed him, keep the apartment in order, and keep the kids out of his hair. This is not as easy as it sounds. My four year old interprets a grownup sitting at a computer as a target for endless questions. The more you try to ignore her, the more creative she gets at drawing attention to herself.

"Can I write a story? How do you spell 'There'? How do you spell 'was'? How do you spell 'a'? How do you spell 'girl'? And in this way, my budding genius will "write" a complete story. It's amazing and brilliant. She knows her letters, she can write them beautifully, and she's unbelievably creative. It really makes us very proud. Unfortunately, she only plays this game when we're working on the computer. It makes us proud and crazy.

The baby has begun climbing on the radiator and flinging herself over the back of the couch...when we're on the computer.

My son has developed a nasty habit of torturing his sisters and making them scream...when we're on the computer.

So my job is to get them out of the house when my husband has to work. This is usually a wonderful opportunity to spend quality time with my children, and on Sunday, I was planning to take them to the King Tut exhibit at the Field Museum. I prepared my children for this major event by showing them an important historical artifact relating to the boy king:

This accomplished the goal of getting my kids completely psyched for our outing.

Of course, the exhibit was sold out.

I almost panicked - in a car alone with three bright, curious kids, ready for action and adventure, I drove through this strange city trying to figure out what to do next. Going home simply wasn't an option.

Heading down Lake Shore Drive, I saw the sign for the Navy Pier, an outdoor tourist attraction with a giant Ferris wheel and a children's museum. I took the next exit and drove towards the flashy signs and throngs of weary parents with strollers. I didn't really have a plan in mind as we parked and entered the main building, but inspiration struck again. This time the sign read:

The LaSalle Bank® Winter WonderFest®at Navy Pier:

December 8th, 2006 - January 7th, 2007

Now in its sixth year, this favorite Chicago holiday tradition will once again delight visitors - both young and old - with a breathtaking winter wonderland of hundreds of trees, thousands of lights, non-stop holiday entertainment and family-style attractions.

Non-stop holiday entertainment was exactly what I was looking for, so I steered my kids towards the glittering lights of the Winter WonderFest® upstairs. A convention hall had been transformed into a sparkling, shimmering, magical playland carnival with hundreds of decorated Christmas trees, giant illuminated snowflakes, enormous gift boxes, teddy bears, and elves. It had an indoor Ferris wheel, ice skating rink, carousel, rock climbing walls, train, and a huge rocking horse. We stopped in our tracks, stunned by the sudden assault on our senses. I thought, how bad can this be? We can easily kill a three or four hours here!

My wallet was fifty-six dollars lighter, not including the twenty-two dollar parking, as we donned our hot-pink activity bands, and headed for the rides. Non-stop Christmas music played overhead as we walked around the Christmas trees from around the world. Consulates from Poland, Ukraine, China, the Czech Republic, Norway, and many more countries donated man-sized trees decorated in flags and other traditional ornaments. Each was more beautiful than the next. At the very end of the sweeping semi-circle of glimmering trees we saw a five foot tall, simple, white menorah with it's nine lightbulbs shining brightly, a gift from the Israeli consulate, and in front of it, a line of people waiting to take their pictures. As we ventured closer, the Christmas music gave way to a 1960s jazzy version of "I had a little dreidel". I was filled with dread. Just then a pair of teenagers dressed up as festive rag dolls with cheery red cheeks stopped my son and said, "Nice yarmulka!". I looked around and realized that for the first time since coming to Chicago, my son was the only one with a kippa.

We got in line for the Ferris wheel. The line dragged on. My son and his baby sister burst with anticipation, but the diva was strangely silent. When we finally got to the front of the line, after thirty minutes of impatience and excitement, she dug in her heels, and could not be persuaded to get on the intimidating ride. None of her big brother's pleas could convince her to give in. In the end, none of us could go, and my son was devastated.

It didn't take long for him to cheer up again. While the carousel was a poor substitute for the speedy, daring Ferris wheel, he hopped on a painted horse and tried to look grateful. The girls sat on their horses waiting for the ride to begin, unsure of what to expect. I held the baby on her steed. Her horse glided forward and rose up gently, and her eyes grew big as saucers. A great big smile spread over her face. Her big brother looked back and squealed, "You can't catch me!"

Even the diva smiled.

We waited in line after line. Four hours passed and we only made it onto five rides. My son wanted to try out the rock wall, but the line was the longest of all. I shook my head and dragged him, pouting, to an inflatable obstacle course that culminated in a giant slide. He ran ahead to join the queue. After ten minutes, he finally got to the front, and jumped in. The diva decided she wanted to try it, too. I sent my son on to the rock wall line and watched my daughter inch closer to the dreaded moonwalk. I was so proud of her as I recalled her fear of these contraptions. It was finally her turn. The attendant helped her in, and I braced myself.

It took less than a minute for my apprehension to be realized. High pitched, blood-curdling screams came out from the belly of the innocuous inflated beast, and the attendant swooped in to free my shrieking daughter from her nightmare. She immediately calmed down and said, "I got stuck" in a matter-of-fact voice. I shrugged and we moved on to the rock wall.

My son waited patiently for what seemed like hours for his last escapade. My girls were not so patient, and truth be told, either was I. It was getting late, close to suppertime. We had been in this overly stimulating, over-the-top fantasyland all afternoon, and it was taking a toll on us all. But my son's heart was set on conquering the great wall, so we waited and waited. We watched little half-pints scrambling up and tumbling down, and scrambling up again. determined to reach the top. Some of the more agile actually did, although most gave up after several heartening tries. I looked forward to watching my son test his mettle against the wall, fondly remembering my rock climbing days in Boston.

His turn finally came. The attendants strapped him into his harness and clipped him to the ropes. My son reached up to grab the handholds and pulled himself up a couple of feet. I stood by the sidelines cheering him on and offering him what little guidance I could. Grab the thingy right above your hand! That One! That One! Go for it! I sounded like the crazy relatives of a television gameshow contestant.

But after he made it up two or three feet, my son suddenly stopped and wouldn't go any farther. He waved the attendant over and asked her to take him down and unclip him. After one try, "It was too hard." He explained. I know the long day had taken its toll on him, too, but I was floored. We waited close to an hour for that? I couldn't get these tired, hungry, and kvetchy kids (and their grumpy mommy) home fast enough.

* * *

As much as the designers of the Winter WonderFest® tried to create magic in the Navy Pier conference hall, real magic happened at my son's school on Tuesday. It was the day of his "Kabbalat Chumash" or the day the second graders received their bibles. They performed a play they had been rehearsing for a month, entirely in Hebrew, and they sang and danced, and showed off all they had learned so far. Close to forty seven- and eight-year olds performed their little hearts out, and at the end, were called one by one to receive the holy texts they would be learning from for the next decade. My son sang every song loud and clear. He got up in his suit and tie and recited his lines clearly and with such an Israeli accent! Who knew he could roll his r's like that? He even danced in perfect rhythm as he sang an upbeat Hebrew song. My eyes welled up with tears of pride as the children told the story of the great Rabbi Akiva who did not begin to learn Torah until he was forty, and they sang a song reflecting his great lesson of loving and respecting one another.

Their performance was remarkable in its beauty and sincerity. More than the menorah in a sea of Christmas trees, or the jazzy, jingly dreidel song, the honest voices of children really remind us of the true meaning of Chanukah. That we are still here to watch our children grow and learn and carry on traditions that had been left for dead time and time again, while we have to pay to see the mighty and great Egyptian Pharoahs in a museum, is nothing short of a miracle.

I'm praying for another miracle right now.

O Benevolent One, please let my husband ace his law school exams. Amen.

Chag Sameach! Happy Holidays!