Photo Update

Here are some of the latest pictures, in no particular order:

The baby finally let me put her hair up!

Pebbles on her first play date!

A rare, quiet moment

Big sister playing house in the livingroom.

She even has the look of disaffection down!

* * *

Great parenting technique tip: When you're too tired, make the kids prepare dinner!

I set out puff pastry dough squares, a bowl of ketchup, and cocktail franks, the kids created their own little "piggy pillows", then I popped 'em in the oven. I showed them how it was done then sat back and watched in amazement while they worked cooperatively to make a gourmet feast! I only interrupted to remind my son to wash his hands after licking them!

Homework

Everyone is busying themselves with all kinds of work around here. It goes without saying that my husband is overwhelmed with research, writing assignments, study group meetings, and searching for a summer internship. We're beginning to resort to chat sessions over the internet to communicate. I'm actually relieved when I don't see him. I know he's more productive in the library than surrounded by the chaos and insanity that is our home.

The baby has been on a tear. In fact, she puts the tear in terror. On Saturday morning, she climbed up onto a kitchen stool, hoisted herself onto the kitchen table, pried the plastic wrap off my banana bread and helped herself to a chunk. We do feed this child, despite what you may be tempted to think. Later that morning, she pulled the tablecloth off the table and sent the cereal and milk flying everywhere. On Sunday, she was pulling books off the shelves and tearing the pages out. She was also climbing onto furniture to grab scissors, pencil sharpeners, and pens. This afternoon she scribbled all over the couch with a ballpoint pen.

My son, on the other hand, requires attention of a different sort. How's your homework coming along? Is my new mantra. "Oh, yeah, I forgot" is his. Have you gotten dressed yet? Have you brushed your teeth? Have you finished eating yet?

"Oh, yeah, I forgot."

Sunday mornings are his piano lessons, and if I may say so myself, we have a budding virtuoso in the works. We'll have to get over this focusing issue before we start our Carnegie Hall debut, but I am praying this spacey, dawdling, lost-in-la-la-land thing is just a passing phase. Two hours before the piano lesson began I gave him a friendly reminder: time to get dressed for piano! For the next two hours, I was at it again: are you dressed yet? Have you had breakfast yet? Have you brushed your teeth yet? Shoes and socks! Shoes, dear! Don't forget to brush! Ad nauseum. And despite the two hour allotment, and the constant reminders, we still had to rush out the door to get to his lesson on time.

My ballerina is in attention limbo in our house. She's caught between the baby who requires constant surveillance to prevent permanent damage to body and breakables, and the big brother who needs steady redirection to get anything done. For the most part, she manages well. She is content with a sheet of paper and crayons. However, on this particular Sunday, she was feeling deprived, and demanded a complete and in depth appraisal of each work of art she produced over the course of the day.

She produced several.

I would have loved to jog back and forth all day long pulling the baby off lighting fixtures, admiring the Jacksonesque quality of my daughter's "Still life with twistable crayons" series, and dragging my son back to his Hebrew homework, but, alas, Sunday is laundry day, and the mountain of discarded attire couldn't wait. Nor could the Shabbat dishes that had piled up.

With 15 degree temperatures outside, what else was I going to do? So, I did it all. Some of it I did simultaneously: holding the squirming demon child in one hand, admiring a fanciful doodle in the other hand, and helping correct Hebrew grammar with the other hand. I was super mom on Sunday.

Before you admire my multitasking abilities too greatly, I have to point out that I was not smiling. This was no June Cleaver moment. And I wasn't quiet about my displeasure, either. In my own, small way, I was contributing to the chaos in the house that was preventing my thoroughly stressed out husband from studying. I could tell that he was afraid to abandon me in my time of need, but at the same time, he had too much of his own work to do to help me in any meaningful way other than occasionally bellowing,

"Listen to your mother!"

In a rare moment of selflessness, I sent him to the library.

In times of great desperation, salvation comes in many different forms. My second grader had two weeks to write a whole book on a tree of his choice in Hebrew. I spent a year in Israel twenty years ago. My Hebrew is enough to get me into trouble, and almost good enough to get me out of it again. But it's not great. My son stumped me several times over the course of working on his assignment. I called my Israeli friends back home and left countless messages on their answering machines. No one answered and we were stumped. The word "place" in Hebrew is masculine, but when plural, it uses the feminine form. What about the adjectives used to describe it? And when using a color in its adjectival form in the plural, what vowels does one use? My son and I debated, and finally shrugged. We didn't know.

There was a knock on the front door. I peered through the peep hole. A man in a blue uniform with a clipboard stood admiring the Hebrew welcome sign my daughter had made in Nursery school. I opened the door a crack and he smiled.

"It's nice to see Hebrew in Chicago." I thought he was joking. This neighborhood has the largest concentration of Jews outside of New York and Los Angeles. Most people are relieved to see English around here.

The gentleman, an employee of the local gas company, came to sign us up for some gas company something or other, and serendipitously, to help us with Hebrew homework. He was just beginning to explain that he was born in Israel when my son came running across the room to ask another impossible question:

"Mevarchim brachot, so is it hu or hee?"

I looked at the gas man, he smiled at my son, and I signed away at the dotted line. Whatever it was he was selling, it was clear that he was sent by some higher power to bring much needed assistance.

Not all of our homework is so challenging or stressful. My daughter has begun to prepare in earnest for her ballet recital, and the teacher has asked me to practice with her at home. She's in the front row, so she has to have the routine down cold for the other girls to follow. Everyday we stand tall, arms akimbo, practicing our "shuffle step, shuffle step, sway, sway, sway, sway", or as my daughter calls it: "shovel step, shovel step, swaig, swaig, swaig, swaig." The baby is practicing, too. She has her "fuffle pep"s down, and her "wey, wey, wey"s are too cute to imagine. By June, the three of us are going to be ready for Broadway. Or at least, Sesame Street.

Sundays are when I really feel the distance from my family. Back home, the kids generally spent the day with their grandparents, and my husband and I got things done, or just relaxed. That reprieve that lasted anywhere from a couple of hours to a whole day was just what we needed to maintain a level of serenity in our lives.

But salvation comes in different forms, sometimes odd or unexpected, sometimes familiar. On Tuesday, my parents are coming for a visit. My sister and her husband are coming on Friday.

I'm already feeling more serene.

First love

February is just around the corner, and if you ask your average American what that means, they'll most likely think of love, Valentines, red roses, and chocolates. Orthodox Jews do not celebrate St. Valentine's Day, not that we have anything against love, chocolates, or roses. We do have a problem with saints, though. In fact, in ancient times, Jews did have a holiday devoted to love and matchmaking. It occurred at a more reasonable time of the year, in the heart of the summer, called Tu B'Av, or the fifteenth day of the month of Av. How anyone's hearts can turn to thoughts of romance when the objects of one's desires are bundled up in sweaters, coats, hats, and scarves - hardly the attire to inspire the heart's fancy - is beyond me. But it happens.

Rather, I should say, it has happened.

Yesterday, my seven year old son came off the school bus with an enormous, toothless grin, and an unfamiliar twinkle in his eye.

How was your day? I asked, happy to see him so cheery.

"The best EVER! I'm in love with D--!" He blurted out, before he could catch himself.

Motherhood has many challenges. These days I'm mostly struggling with sleep deprivation and frustration. My sweet, angelic baby has turned into a mischievous, naughty, trouble-making imp. She tears through the house causing as much damage as she can. I have emerged from my room to find her sitting on top of my kitchen table trying to pry open a bag of cookies. Earlier this week I found her covered in something sticky and blue. The evidence of a half-eaten lollipop stick was still stuck to her little hands. Later that day I traced a trail of discarded chocolate bar wrappers to her room where she was holding the bar, half-eaten triumphantly in her fist.

We don't allow our children to eat lollipops until they're three or chocolate until they're two. What infant needs (or more importantly, can truly appreciate) sugary, chocolaty treats? I feed her plenty of fruits and applesauces and even the occasional non-chocolate cookie, but I've been saving chocolate for her second birthday, as a really special event to savor. I still remember my son's second birthday, and the expression on his face as his grandfather fed him his first taste of chocolate ice cream. He was beside himself with joy. My son was also pretty thrilled.

But my baby's a smart and stealthy little creature. She just pulled a kitchen stool up to the pantry, climbed up, and helped herself.

That's not even the worst of it! The sweet beasty has been playing havoc with our sleep cycles. She alternates sneaking out of bed for two hours after bedtime and running around like a crazed lunatic with waking up in the middle of the night, jabbing her sharp little fingernails into my mouth, and then running around like a crazed lunatic.

I have not been coping well with the sudden transformation of my sweet, gentle, lovable infant into the toddler of terror. But chasing after psychobaby all day is nothing compared with the shock of hearing your son declare his true love for the first time.

"Mom," he asked, his big green eyes open wide with sincere wonder. "Do you know what a crush is?"

Do you have a crush on D--? I asked, tentatively, fearfully.

"I'm going to marry her."

I looked at my moon-faced angel with the smattering of freckles over his nose and my heart did a glorious swan dive. Simultaneously I shared the joy of the first true love with the anguish of a potential of a broken heart. I both marvelled at his maturity and good taste - she's an adorable, pint-sized doll bursting with smarts, kindness, and personality - and I panicked with the fear of unrequited love. Gabriel Garcia Marquez's association with the scent of bitter almonds came to mind. I shuddered. He's a baby! I thought to myself. This can't be happening so soon, can it?

My husband took it like he takes everything, from dealing with his irrationally hysterical wife to receiving his first semester grades, in stride. "It will just fizzle out in time." He advised. Why, I wondered to myself, did he tell ME? I'm so ill-equipped to handle this! I would have loved to foist the responsibility of coping with the first pangs of pre-adolescent puppy-love onto my husband, but my son urged me not to say a word. This was our special moment. Thanks, I guess.

Motherhood is a double-edged sword. The trauma of feeling incompetent and wholly ill-prepared for the enormous responsibility of being THE mommy are often challenged by reality. When my baby is crying and looking for comfort, she comes to me. When my son seeks guidance and support, he comes to me. It doesn't matter that Daddy is more level-headed or logical, their emotional compasses point due Mom, so competent, prepared, and capable I have to be.

As they say in Israel, "ein breira", there's no choice. I just say as little as possible and consult with my husband afterward.

All of this is running through my head as I think about this past weekend. My husband's brother and his lovely, elegant wife came for a visit with their newborn baby girl. The kids were so excited to host their uncle and aunt, and especially their new little cousin. We also invited my husband's cousin along and she brought her thirteen month old daughter, too. My house was bursting with the happy squeals of cousins at play, and the cooing and bleating of the new, beautiful baby.

The cousins, both new and experienced parents, sat around the dinner table talking about sleep deprivation and parenthood. I moaned about how exhausting my children were even when they let us sleep. My husband's cousin glanced at her precious toddler and commented about how wonderful and joyous having a child was. Her comment took me back to when my son was a baby. I would always tell people that the biggest surprise of being a parent was how wonderful it actually was. When I was pregnant, or even cuddling my newborn to my chest, people would talk about how hard being a parent was. I heard about colic, sleep deprivation, temper tantrums, and even diaper rash.

Nobody ever bothered to tell you about the feeling of love so strong and so deep that your heart ached from it. Nobody told you that it was possible to sit and stare at this small, new life that you created deep in your body and brought into the world, and be overwhelmed by the miracle of its creation. Nobody thought to warn us that we could fall so hard for this tiny, magical creature that was so completely dependent upon us for its nurturing, care, and life. And when my second and third child were born, I was blown away that I was capable of feeling such an intense depth of feeling for more than one.

A wise person told me that when you have more than one child your love isn't divided, it's multiplied. It still rocks my world to have discovered this to be true.

But I had forgotten all of that when I blurted out my parenting trials and tribulations to the new mom and dad, who thankfully looked far calmer and wiser as new parents than I had with my first. I had turned into one of the complainers who had looked so tired and haggard to me when I was still glowing with the love of my newborn in my arms.

My feelings about my son's first crush are mixed, but I'm not going to let the complainer in me forget about the joy and wonder of my first love. My husband is right that it will simply fade away with time, but the memory of it will, hopefully, stay with my son forever.

Adrenaline rush

I am so in over my head with this parenting thing. I have met my match, and she stands a whole two and a half feet tall and weighs as much as my left thigh. She has shortened my life expectancy by ten years in just one day. If this is any indication of what's to come in her teenage years, shoot me now.

This morning, as I was getting my son out the door for his carpool and making the ballerina her breakfast, I heard a loud thud followed by a sickening screech. My stomach sunk as I ran into my bedroom to find my baby pinned under my bedside table and a heavy lamp. I scooped her up, hugged her tightly to me, as much to bring her comfort as to slow down my heart.

Half an hour later, she rushed out the back gate of the apartment and behind a car backing out of our garage. I screamed STOP! STOP! STOP!, dropped my armfuls of bags, shoes, and mittens and ran to grab her. The car stopped and my landlord's wife rolled down the window looking stricken. "I didn't see her!" I collected my things, my girls and myself, and headed to the car, my heart pounding in my ears. I dropped the stuff again, but held on tightly to the baby, and tried to open the door, but it was frozen shut and I couldn't get it to budge. I gingerly put the baby down, and began pounding on the door and sobbing uncontrollably.

It only took me a few moments to pull myself together enough to pile the girls into their car seats from the front seat, but that feeling didn't shake for hours.

At the grocery store, the baby tried three times to wriggle out of the seat belt on the shopping cart and jump off. I shopped with one hand while holding her down with the other.

Later that afternoon, I found her on her big brother's six foot loft bed, jumping.

I'm not a jittery person. My older kids have always been generally well-behaved. They aren't dare devils, and I have had the luxury of being pretty relaxed about their playtime. They are never happier than when they're building an imaginary world of Lego's, blocks, and dolls, breathing the life of their imagination into their creations.

My baby is never satisfied until I've had a heart attack.

Is it childish to think I want to go home at these times? San Antonio is in the grips of an ice storm, the city is shut down, but in my rosy-tinted memories, there is no place warmer or safer.

Postscript

Saturday night after the big party, my husband took the car's remote key pad, cleaned off the circuit board, got a lift to Skokie, and unlocked the car and deactivated the alarm with one click. The next day I got a call from a friend in Skokie,

"Where you in Skokie for Shabbes? Why didn't you tell me? I saw your car!"

Nope. My car was in Skokie for Shabbes staring forlornly into the delicious window displays of Illinois Nut and Candy. I was at home, thinking forlornly about the truffles.

The car made it back home Saturday evening, and life went (mostly) back to normal. Today is Martin Luther King Jr. day. The big kids had school, so I spent the morning with a friend, eating breakfast and walking around the mall, pushing my barefoot baby in her stroller. Nature child kicked off her boots the moment we enter the building. I had to explain this repeatedly to people who looked at those tiny little sausages disapprovingly.

Martin Luther King Jr. represented the best of humanity. An indomitable spirit seeking to live the peace he aspired to for us all. I celebrated his dream by snapping and yelling at my kids like a psychotic lunatic all day. My energy, patience and humor drained out of me an hour after my husband took off for the library. The weekend finally caught up with me.

I've sent the last kid off to bed. He's talking to himself, inhabiting an imaginary world of his own creation, loudly. It's time for me to crawl into bed and pray that my less than ideal parenting won't scar the kids for life. And pray that I won't be woken up at 4:00 am by a child wanting to steal my covers. And pray that I wake up a calmer, cheerier, funnier mom and wife.

Please, God, turn me into Mary Poppins!

The signs

My average Friday afternoon is a hair-raising experience. Regardless of what time the sun descends, I am down to the wire preparing for the Sabbath. This past Friday was fairly typical. I had guests coming for dinner, my challah was baked, my banana bread was ready to go, and my attempt at a chocolate mousse fizzled and collapsed Thursday night. I still had dinner to make, the apartment to clean, and the baby to pry off the furniture. To spice things up a bit, my husband had an extra class that left him exactly an hour to get home before I had to light candles, and a party to prepare for Saturday night. I pushed back my hair, rolled up my sleeves, and bolstered myself with a stiff coffee and a deep breath.

Few things go as planned. I should have read the warning signs in my coffee grounds or in the eerie cloud formations, but I pressed ahead. An hour before the nursery school pick-up, I stopped off at the video store to find Beauty and the Beast for the kids, and then I stopped off at the candy store to pick up a nice gift for friends who were having us over for Saturday lunch. The baby bugged-out at the candy store. Containers, shelves and jars full of brightly colored liquids, powders, and packages sparkled around her. Soft, sweet, enticing stuffed animals beckoned her curious hands to reach out for them. Piles of glossy, deep brown truffles hummed an intoxicating siren song, to me, actually. We were in a very dangerous place. I should have read the signs.

I picked out a cheerful container of sugar-coated gummy bears, shiny ice cream cone-shaped candies, and brightly hued round tart treats, dragged out the whimpering and salivating toddler, and went to pick up big sister. I pushed the remote key to unlock my car door, and...nothing. I tried again and again and received the same sinking silence as my oblivious child pulled me back towards the magical place with the gravitational pull. We went back in and the owner kindly offered his car alarm battery, but alas, it didn't match. His head shook sadly when I asked if there was anything in walking distance. I felt the panic creeping in.

I whipped out my cell phone and started calling the Skokie girls. Help! I implored. Rescue me! I begged. And in seconds, the cavalry arrived. With my battery in hand, my Skokie girl sped off to the pharmacy to bring me the shiny round instrument of my salvation. She arrived minutes later and I grabbed the battery installed it, pressed the button, and...nothing. The same fear tinged silence greeted me once more. I pressed and pressed, turned the thing over and over, and still, the defiant silence remained. The panic no longer creeped, but spread over me. Here I was, stranded with a squirmy toddler, two children waiting to be taken home and no way to get into my car without setting off the most obnoxious alarm this side of Manhattan. I wouldn't have minded driving with the alarm blaring, but the ignition wouldn't even turn when the alarm was set off, so what was the use?

What am I going to do? I knew there had to be a fail safe method to disengage the alarm, but I didn't have a clue what it was. My Skokie girls came to the rescue yet again, giving me, my children, and the other girl we were going to take home, a ride. All of this on a Friday afternoon, when we all faced the same looming deadline, and we all had guests coming that night. Thank the Benevolent Lord on High for true friends.

I arrived home, adrenaline coursing through me like Drano bursting through a clogged pipe. I called my husband frenzied and shrill, as I chopped vegetables with one hand, marinated chicken cutlets with the other, and sauteed spinach with the other. I uselessly AND pointlessly yelled at my small children, still in diapers, to CLEAN UP YOUR MESS!!

The typical Friday afternoon in my Orthodox home. Sabbath peace, indeed.

My husband clearly sensed some new level of shrillness and anxiety in my voice and miraculously arrived in considerably less time than his usual one-hour commute.

I would like to say that the house sparkled, the meal was perfect, and I was showered and relaxed by the time my guests arrived. Frankly, it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but we've certainly had more organized and relaxed Shabbat dinners. And certainly more chaotic and half-baked ones, as well. It was fine. Of course my friend and I were nodding off to sleep at our end of the table while our husbands and the young, single, waif-like law student with the wild partying social life compared exam stories. It had been a long day for law school widows.

* * *

Saturday morning was not an improvement. My husband awoke with a chorus of angry cane toads in his throat, coughing up gobs of indescribably icky phlegm. I just wanted to stay in bed, warm and toasty, and shake the trauma from the previous day from my bones. My baby kept coming in and waking me up.

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" She shouted at me. "Dypo! Quita! Oooohwa! Nack!" She demanded quite insistently, as if I should have a clue.

Uh huh. I muttered half asleep, and then drifted the other half of the way.

Sometime later, we had the same exact conversation. Uh huh. I responded. "Hack, cough! Ggggluuuuch!" My husband added, before he groaned and rolled over again. I finally dragged myself out of bed, fed my hungry children and sent them off to get dressed for synagogue. My husband informed me that he would not be joining us as he was a tad under the weather. At least, that's what it sounded between hocking up goo, and gaging on his own bile. I glowered at him.

For an hour I coaxed, pleaded, and begged my children to get dressed already! while I wrestled the baby into her tights and skirt. For an hour they ignored my entreaties. My husband responded to my requests for assistance with gurgles and snorts.

I lost it.

We're expected at our friends for lunch!!! I shouted at everyone, including the neighbors up and downstairs. What am I supposed to do?! I asked, genuinely not having a clue how I was supposed to get two distracted and defiant kids to stop being distracted and defiant and get dressed. For half an hour I argued with my son to wear his only clean pair of pants.

"But they're too long!" He whined, showing me his preference for high waters. I took a deep breath and proceeded to engage him in a discussion of fashion essentials. It's better to wear your pants a little long than a little short. I sensibly explained. Five minutes later I tried a different tack: Put your pants on NOW! That seemed to work better.

I finally got the kids out the door and to synagogue, after giving my husband a fond, you better feel better, or else! before we headed out without him.

Lunch was a delightful surprise. It was nice to be with friends who looked more haggard and worn than myself, and to see children running around more hyped up and frenetic than my own. From the beginning of the kiddush, the prayer over the wine, to somewhere during the salad course, my friends and I repeated calm down about twenty times, and in about thirty different ways, and then the husband emerged from the kitchen with beautiful glasses filled with a golden-amber nectar. "Amaretto sours," he explained. One was quite enough to turn the afternoon around. We shared child rearing horror stories, and laughed about our attempts to organize our lives.

I arrived home with three happy and chatty kids. My husband fed them and got them ready for bed while I decompressed aware that my work was not yet done. In less than an hour, Shabbat would be over and I would be frantically preparing for a small get-together of a dozen or so law school students and their wives.

* * *

A dozen lawyers are sitting around a table, six Methodists, six Jews, and a rabbi. No this isn't the opening line of a joke, it was my Saturday night married law student's party. I made an 8-layer dip, homemade green and red salsas, crudites and onion dip, a fruit platter, and banana bread. We sat around drinking beer, talking about weddings, bell choirs, and the true meaning of the ketuba, the Jewish wedding contract.

Did you know I'm worth four goats?

We had a full saxophone quartet at the party, including a professional musician who shared the name of another famous musician. The law students had an interesting discussion of the legal ramifications of sharing your name with a celeb. And mostly they commiserated about exams, legal writing classes, and hairy schedules.

I just breathed deeply and thanked the Good Lord Above that I ignored all the signs.

Picture this

We're getting back into the swing of things. The kids (husband included) are back in school, the Skokie girls and I are back to hanging out, swapping recipes, and discussing fundraising. A painful topic if ever there was one.

At my children's school, parents are expected to sell ads for an ad book that accompanies the big awards dinner. It's a fairly chaotic process. When the forms come out, parents start making calls like crazy, trying to beat each other to the punch selling enough ads to pay off their annual fundraising obligation.

It's either that or volunteer at the school.

The second option is out of the question for me with the baby tagging along. So, the school's got me working off my fundraising obligation at home, stuffing envelopes, and occasionally asking a local businesses to take out an ad (only to find out some other rabid parent beat me to it). As I discovered today, chatting with my Skokie girls, we're all in the same boat.

I also discovered, chatting with the Skokie girls, that you can cook a salmon in the dishwasher. Wow!

The kids are happy to be back with their friends and on a regular schedule. Even the baby is getting back to her napping schedule. Thank goodness! My husband is back to late nights reading, and I'm back to, well, my usual tired grouchy self. You wanted Utopia? It's Chicago in January! Despite record high temperatures, it will be in the teens next week, and I will be hiding under my blankets.

I'd better sell those ads before the cold front hits!

This weekend we're having friends over for Shabbat dinner and law school couples over Saturday night for a little party. That was my hubby's idea. He claims he just wants to get rid of all the beer we have left over from Thanksgiving. I think he hates to admit that he's a budding social butterfly and hanging out with all of these youngsters is rubbing off on him. Next thing you know, he'll be begging me, "please, please can we go the Carrie Underwood concert? All my friends are going!"

What's not to be grouchy about? My husband is getting younger while I'm turning into an old yenta who swaps recipes, stuffs envelopes, and sells fundraising ads. Next thing you know, I'll be making Jello molds to take to PTA meetings. And complaining in Yiddish. Oy gevalt, my sciatica is giving me tsuris!

* * *

My dear friend and walking partner in San Antonio sent me pictures of our kids together in San Antonio. Could you die? Oy! Such naches they give me!

My son and his friend

On San Antonio's beautiful Riverwalk

Cool picture!

Hey, mister. Wanna buy an ad to support my Jewish education?

Have you bought your ad yet? Hurry! The temperature's are dropping!

Welcome back

My sports teams have had a rough go of it lately. The Spurs have lost the last three, and the Cowboys, ah well. 2007 is off to a rough start.

Happily, the new year started off splendidly for me - surrounded by friends and family. My parents threw a tremendous soiree to ring in the new year and bid us a fond farewell. Bountiful platters of festive foods, and gallons of spiked egg nog and hot apple cider (Dad! You didn't tell me the cider was spiked!) beckoned me all night, but I could only manage a bite here and sip there. Hugs and warm conversations with my dearest of friends kept impeding my path to the buffet tables. I didn't see my children all night. They were busy playing with their old school buddies. I'd catch glimpses of them in the corner of my eye, as they sprinted off towards the dessert table together. I'm just thankful my father was manning the rum-laced beverages.

As the crowds thinned out, I got the kids to bed in my parent's room, and my husband went to bed early. He was planning on taking the first shift of the drive to Minnesota. I stayed up to greet the New Year with my parents and some family friends. As exhausted as I was, I couldn't bear to see the night and the visit come to an end. It felt so good, so comfortable to be back home. I would have loved to have another week to spend more time with people I only saw briefly, or friends who were out-of-town.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the return home was seeing my children reunited with their friends. I got the feeling that the two older kids experienced a realization of just how much they were missing San Antonio. It was particularly bittersweet for me to see my son with his friends. It was as if he had never moved away. They picked up right where they left off, playing, laughing, being unbelievably silly. He looked so comfortable and at ease, in his natural element. Thank goodness, he's a pretty easy-going kid. He's making new friends in Chicago, but it's not the same. He's known his San Antonio buddies since they played together on the floor of the babysitting room at our shul. They love each other like brothers. Friendships like that are beautiful and rare. I pray that our infrequent visits will be enough to keep them thriving.

Even the baby rekindled her home connections. I took her by her old day care to visit her teachers. I probably enjoyed the visit more than she did, but it was wonderful to visit with her old classmates. They had grown so big!

The best reunion was between my kids and their grandparents. Even the baby savored every moment with her Grandma, Papa, and Abuela.

We packed up and left Monday morning, heading due North up I35 to Minnesota. The trip was mostly uneventful, and we arrived Tuesday afternoon to meet our brand-new niece. My mother-in-law drove down to surround herself with all of her grandchildren. The older ones soon busied themselves with torturing the dog, and

exploring their aunt and uncle's home, but my youngest was fascinated with the baby. As I held the tiny little button of a sleeping angel in my arms, Baby Attila came up to her, pressed her cheek against her head and said, "Huggy!". At first I gently positioned myself between the two cousins. My sweet little angel tends to be anything but. Big, ferocious dogs shy away from her. Tall, strong, muscular adults flinch when she winds up to smack them in the face with a hard plastic toy. She is as vicious and brutal as she is sweet and adorable. Every act of violence is committed with a great big smile and an innocent little giggle.

In short, I feared for the safety of this newborn infant sleeping soundly in my arms.

Happily, my fears were misplaced. My sweet terror was as gentle as a lamb with her baby cousin. No hitting, biting, scratching, or pulling. She just pressed her cheek against the baby's head and said, "huggy!". If only the same could be said about the her Aunt and Uncle's new laptop she attempted to demolish.

Her siblings were busy creating their own sense of chaos in this once calm, quiet home. My son wrestled with his uncle and played basketball in the cozy dining room, and the drama queen found a stash of her Aunt's hats which she promptly distributed to everyone, including the baby: Family reunion as the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.

The new daddy with his wriggly-giggly niece.

Granma with her kids and grandkids.

My husband introduces our little girl to her new cousin.

The boys admiring the newest member of the family.

Everyone looks fetching in a hat.

Even the baby!

* * *

We're back in Chicago, now. The temperatures were reasonable for us when we arrived, but they're beginning to fall back to their normal wintry chills. I wish I could say it's good to be home, but it's not feeling very much like home at the moment. Our family is too far away. My nephew in California broke his arm last week. My mother flew out the day after we left to help my sister out. We're all too far away.

Thank goodness we can stay in touch over the phone, by email, and by Skype. But pictures and words aren't quite the same as touching, connecting, pressing your cheek against someones head and declaring, huggy!