Peanut butter and jelly

T.S. Eliot may have considered April to be the cruellest month, but this February is giving it a run for its money. The snow is relentless and my husband's cold has spiralled into a nasty flu. His breathing sounds like Darth Vader, and he's so contagious his doctor told him to wear a face mask that makes him look like an oversized, hairy duck. I have a pretty bad cough, too, but I haven't succumbed, yet. I simply can't. I can barely keep up as it is!

My biggest challenge at the moment is the pint-sized lunatic currently strapped in her booster seat in the dark kitchen. I know it sounds cruel, but for the past hour and a half we have tried everything to get that child to go to sleep. Big brother sang to her, I sang to her, her daddy sat by her bed breathing loudly and rhythmically in his duck mask, then I sang to her some more. She just kept climbing out of bed and waking up big sister, usually by yanking her hair. Or climbing out of bed and running out of her room. In desperation, I hauled her into my room, and said, Now what?!

My husband, feverish but wise, said to put her into her chair for ten minutes; but after ten minutes, she hasn't stopped talking and singing to herself. She's quieted down a bit, so it may be safe to put her back into bed again. But I'm afraid to risk it. I could potentially provide the impetus for a second wind.

Do they make kiddy kennels?

This child is something else. I have never seen a baby as endearing, engaging, sweet, and maddening, wrapped up into one tiny package. She is a little spitfire of energy, charm, and determination. She climbs on any and all pieces of furniture, often falling off, just to return to it with greater resolve. I find myself hugging and kissing her with all my heart one moment, and grumbling and cursing at her under my breath the next.

Love and frustration seem to be the peanut butter and jelly of parenting.

My son isn't so much the cause of aggravation, as the collateral damage. He came home sad today. No one would play with him at recess. He's having it rough as the new kid, and I don't know what to do. My first instinct is to email his teacher again, but what can she do? She's still dealing with the last wave of emails I sent her about the bullying.

I know it's not him. In San Antonio he was dearly loved by his peers. When we went back to visit he bounced from one friend's house to another, and kids showed up at synagogue just to get a chance to visit with him. He's a funny, happy kid.

"No one thinks I'm funny." He groused. But he is. Genuinely, intelligently, good-naturedly funny.

I am running out of ideas. Scheduling playdates is only so effective. He has no problem with any of the kids one-on-one, but that group dynamic is vicious. Hang in there, I reassure him. You won't be the new kid forever. And then I email the school counselor. Please help him! I know it's a normal part of growing up. What kid wasn't on the outs at one time or another? But this isn't just any kid. This is my boy!

So I'm counting my blessings. Thank God my kids are healthy. Thank God they're doing well in school. Thank God all of these small, nagging experiences are temporary; the colorful threads that beautify the tapestry of our lives. Thank God my children continue to grow, learn, and live a life so rich, and interesting, and nourishing.

My son came home a few weeks ago and asked me if we were rich. Do you know what it means to be rich? I asked. He rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah. Being happy with what you have." Not quite believing it himself. Yep! I responded assuredly. That's exactly right! "So we're rich." He responded, unimpressed.

Filthy rich (ptui, ptui, ptui! Hamsa, hamsa!).

The baby is finally drifting off to sleep. My husband is snoring softly in bed and the snow is tapering off. And I have my answers: Count my blessings, be content with what we have, and wait it out.

These are the best years of our lives, as sure as peanut butter goes with jelly.

Life lessons

My kids have been having a rough time lately. My son has been having problems with a bully in school. It really came as quite a surprise to me. He is the easiest kid to get along with. He is goofy, sweet, mild mannered, and lots of fun. In San Antonio, he was adored by kids and adults alike. How could anyone in their right mind not be completely taken in with my freckle-faced delight? We had been warned early on that this was a "tough class". But, how bad could that be in a Jewish Day School?

"Hey, Shlomo, you play the violin like a girl!"

The first sign of trouble was the friends my son was making. They were all girls. This was not entirely unexpected. He is a good looking kid, and a real charmer, after all. But then he started coming home grumpy, angry, even. Finally he started to complain about a kid in his class who was bothering him. My husband and I spoke with him about the boy he described as his "arch enemy". We comforted and advised him. His grandpa taught him how to fight like a sailor (we hope that's the only sailor lessons he's teaching our boy!). He always insisted that he didn't need me to intervene, but last week he finally admitted, "Mommy, I can't handle it by myself anymore."

My heart sunk, but I snapped into action. I emailed his teacher and the education director. I consulted my Skokie girls who knew the ins and outs of the classroom dynamics. I spoke with his teacher and the principal. I would have called in the national guard, if I thought it would help. And I sat my son down, hugged him, and shared my own experiences of being tormented by peers in elementary school.

My son with his teacher.

My son and the Principal.

My son is very bright, and has the emotional depth and maturity of a forty year old man at times. So I laid it to him straight. Watch this kid carefully. Watch how the other boys are treating him. Happy kids don't tease and bully other kids. He's unhappy and he's taking it out on you 'cause you're the new kid. My son wasn't buying it. At least not right away. But I know him: he'll watch, and with luck he'll see that he's being singled out not because of anything he's said or done, but because kids can be cruel and the new kid is almost always on the bottom of the pecking order. I'm not too worried. He's strong and resilient, and his Papa has taught him where to aim a good, swift kick.

My son's contribution to the President's Day Slide Show. It reads:

"Calvin Coolidge was the 30th president. His birthday was July 4th. He was a lawyer like my dad, before he was president!! He was president from 1923-1929."

None of this conflict was apparent during the second grade President's Day performance. My son beamed as he belted out patriotic and American folk songs. He opened his mouth wide and sang with all his heart, and I smiled as I picked out his voice above the crowds. His baby sister danced around, so proud of her big brother. He spoke his lines loud and clear, the confidence of a kid who won't let anyone drag him down.

The President's Day Performance.

Reciting his lines.

Hugging his #1 fan.

#1 Fan needs a snack.

My older daughter is quickly regaining her status as "queen bee" in her nursery school, but, like her mommy, she's struggling with the cold weather. She asked me for two days why we weren't moving to San Flores. San Flores? I puzzled. Where is that? I racked my brain trying to remember if we knew someone in San Antonio who may have come from a San Flores. Was it in California? How would my four year old know if it were?

Finally, she explained. "You know. The warm place where Abuela goes with her friends. Where my cousins live!" Aaaah, I said. Florida. My four year old wants to move to Florida to be with cousins, and to be warm. I didn't know she knew Florida existed, but who can blame her? Miami Beach sounds wonderful right now.

My husband insists that I will enjoy Chicago more if I learn to love winter. His hypothesis is that if I am engaged in winter activities, I'll appreciate the beauty and possibilities of snow. I imagine he's talking about sledding, skiing, and ice skating. It sounds plausible, and I don't mean to dismiss it out of hand, but I'm not buying it. I don't see how spending more time outside, freezing my kaboochie off, is going to make me suddenly say, Wow! Numb buns are great! How did I live so long without losing the feeling in my posterior?

The tingling tuchas phenomenon has been the most surprising part of this first winter in Chicago. I get the freezing fingers and toes. I know to keep my head and ears covered at all times. I've got the earmuffs, but rear muffs?

The ballerina will be going to a birthday party tomorrow morning, so I had to run out and get a gift this evening after Shabbat ended. It had begun to snow earlier this afternoon, so the roads were slushy. I decided to walk to the neighborhood bookstore. I was actually looking forward to a little stroll. My husband and I have been feeling pretty crummy lately, and today we succumbed to the nasty colds we'd been passing back and forth. Neither of us could drag ourselves out of bed longer than to feed the kids or change an occasional diaper. The children ruled the roost while we lay helpless in our beds drifting in and out of consciousness. Princess Crazy Hair did surprisingly minimal damage considering her relative lack of supervision. Kudos goes to the big brother who is a competent and benevolent dictator to his little sisters.

By the time Shabbat was over, we were still in our pajamas. My cold was feeling better and I was going stir crazy. I bundled up and headed out for the bookstore. From the window, the snow looked so fluffy and soft. It didn't take me long to realize this wasn't snow at all, but ice pellets falling at high velocity. I pulled the brim over my eyes and trudged to the bookstore, stopping for a latte on the way. Something about being outdoors, walking around in the silent, but stinging snow felt so liberating and exhilarating.

I dropped off the gift at home, wrapped my face in a scarf, and went for a longer walk. I must have walked close to six miles in the freezing rain. The roads were quieter than usual, but Chicagoans are tough, and some were out before the plows could clear the roads. It was eerily bright out as street lights and headlights reflected off the blanket of ice pellets that shimmered all around me.

I came home with a thin layer of ice covering my parka and scarf, feeling sore, numb, and achy, but surprisingly energized. My husband smiled smugly at my shining face. "See? You'll learn to love the winter after all!" Maybe he's right. Like I tried to teach my son, all is not what it seems. And lurking somewhere under the cold, hard, frozen ground, are the buds and tendrils of Spring.

And as my old man taught me, it also doesn't hurt to know where to aim a strong, swift kick.

Snow doubt

I am ambivalent about snow.

On one hand, snow can be a source of tremendous misery. It makes driving and parking difficult, especially when the plows just push the dirty slush onto the sides of the roads where the cars are parked, guaranteeing that no one will be leaving or getting back into their spots. That is, unless they drive a Hummer. I'm told this lack of basic civil services is unique to Chicago. The snow banks are piled so high that I have to carry my children from the sidewalks to the cars, lest they sink waist high into the grey mounds. They wouldn't mind so much. They think it's the neatest stuff on Earth! You can throw it, build with it, eat it, and slide on it! It gets you wet and icky, but doesn't stain. What's not to love? I suppose my problem isn't the snow itself, but the way people around here simply ignore it, or shove it to the side, making it somebody else's problem. Snow brings out the worst in Chicagoans' nature.

Winter has been hard on us. The single digit temperatures have turned me into a recluse, and by association, the kids as well. Friday night brought another couple of inches of snow and another dip in temperatures. But by Sunday, things had begun to warm up a bit, and our synagogue was sponsoring an Uncle Moishy concert that day. I finally had a compelling reason to escape the warmish confines of my apartment, and release my stir-crazy kids.

I strapped the baby into the cantilevered stroller and headed out on this balmy 32 degree day to the synagogue with the two kids skipping and stomping in their snow boots by my side. This was my first time to venture outdoors since the first snows of the year fell. It felt great to be breathing in the fresh air.

The joy lasted about 50 feet, when I came across the first stretch of sidewalk covered in snow and ice.

The front-heavy stroller struggled against the slush, and ground to a halt. I put my back into it, hauled up the nose, weighted down by my toddler, and wheelied it through to dry ground, which lasted another ten feet. More ice and snow followed another fifteen feet down. and another ten feet after that.

I grumbled and muttered under my breath at the lazy thoughtless Chicagoans who carefully cleared a parking space in front of their buildings and blocked them off with plastic chairs, yet made pushing a stroller an impossible, back-breaking task. The closer we got to synagogue, the worse the sidewalks got. By the time we were a block from the concert, I was in tears, flushed from the strenuous effort, and yelling in my cell phone to my law student husband,

Who the hell can we sue?! This whole damn city is out of compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act!

The low point came when, stuck in a river of melting snow and ice floes, I threw up a fist and shouted to the closed windows of an empty house, Just shovel your darned sidewalks! The girls looked at me with a mixture of amusement and fear. My son raised his fists, and shouted alongside his hysterical mother, "Yeah! Shovel your sidewalks, you lazy..."

Okay, dear, we're going to be late for Uncle Moishy! I stammered, embarrassed at the horrible behavior I had just modelled for my impressionable son. Horrible, but thoroughly justified.

Uncle Moishy is the Orthodox Jewish world's Captain Kangaroo. He's a plump and jolly fellow with a bushy beard, disarmingly sweet big front teeth, and a black hat with a paper Hebrew letter "Mem" taped to it. He even has a "Mister Greenjeans" type sidekick who runs out on stage in a series of half-priced Halloween costume rejects, like an adult-sized Bob the Builder (sorry, Boruch the Builder), the Cat in the Hat (whose name happens to be Ketzel), and a giraffe (a kosher animal, in case you didn't know). He's been doing this shtick for decades, entertaining kids with songs about Jewish laws and customs like keeping kosher, keeping Shabbat, and I swear I snapped out of my stupor long enough to catch a ditty about circumcision. It went something like:

I'm so happy to be a Jew!

All the mitzvos I get to do!

Keeping kosher is the best

And Shabbos is the day I get to rest.

But none of the mitzvos get me as weepy

As when they cut off the end of my peepee!

Oy! Avraham did it and Moishe, too

Who said it's easy to be a Jew?

We just missed the target age for Uncle Moishy's audience, which apparently is between two and three. Princess Crazy Hair lost interest in the music after the third song, and started looking for spotlights to pull down. The ballerina clapped along half-heartedly, but looked at me beseechingly between songs. "Can we go yet?". My son sulked and pouted, and complained that it was giving him a headache. Mostly he ducked under his seat hoping no one would see him there.

A friend informed me that, had I set foot outside of my apartment anytime during the last dozen or so Shabbats, I would see bands of strollers cruising down the middle of the streets of West Rogers Park, as families went to and from synagogue. I pictured them in tricked out strollers and leather jackets, drag racing down Mozart street. I thought I'd give it a try, but West Rogers Park is a different place on Shabbat. Fewer cars roam the roads. On a warm Sunday afternoon, they were all out, crawling at a snail's pace behind me, my kids, and the stroller. And they were honking for me to get out of the way, which meant pushing the kids straight into a snow bank.

All I could do was raise my fists and shout, Shovel your darn sidewalks! My kids raised their fists in solidarity.

Our first outing was a bust, but I was determined to make sure we had a better time on Monday, President's Day. I was intent on finding pleasure in the precipitation.

In the morning I loaded the kids into the minivan. Our first stop was the hair salon for a much needed trim. The ballerina got her usual, "Dora cut", and my son got his usual, "number four". Whatever that was, he looked quite handsome.

Looking clean cut and dapper, I took the kids to a place I have been excited to take them since we moved here: Illinois Nut & Candy, the largest kosher candy store in the Midwest. My children's eyes grew big, and their jaws dropped as they looked around at shelves and shelves of shiny, brightly colored treats and mouth-watering chocolates. I smiled as I informed them, it's all kosher. And I let them pick out one candy each. My daughter went for a big brown and white Fantasia Purim chocolate, and my son grabbed a chocolate mint candy stick. I stuffed a few red Swedish Fish into the baby's mouth to distract her from her search and destroy mission. It was mostly successful. I only had to buy a couple additional candies that I had not intended to eat.

The sacrifices of motherhood.

After that we headed for one of my Skokie girl's homes for pizza. In addition to her four kids, she was babysitting another little four year old. While I drove out to grab the pizza, she cranked up some music, and transformed her home into Daycare Dance Fever. The two toddlers Ring-Around-the-Rosied, the three preschool girls flitted about on tippy-toes, and the three boys BREAKDANCED? I didn't know my kid knew what that was, but there he was, trying to spin around on his posterior. We fed them, bundled them up, and headed to the "slopes", which were more like a gently sloping drainage area.

The boys ran off in one direction with their sleds, and in no time were jumping off of snow mounds, "catching air" (at least two centimeters). By the end, they were riding their sleds down snowboarding style, talking about their "Whack" rides, and "shredding".

Who was this breakdancing, slope shredding kid? Could it be that my son was that cool? It dawned on me what an affront Uncle Moishy was to his burgeoning manhood. Mea maxima culpa.

I was amazed at how bravely my diva attacked the slopes with her sled. Usually shy and dainty, she went after them with a fearless ferocity. Until her mittens got wet.

The cutest part of the afternoon was putting he two toddlers on a sled and pushing them down the hill. They looked like a couple of stay puf't marshmallow men with nothing but eyes and fingertips peaking out of their snow suits. They slowly sledded down the hill, and stopped at the bottom, unable to move, just sitting there at the bottom looking around, unsure if this was fun or not. Unsure of what to do next, they sat, puffy and confused, and cute as can be. My Skokie girl and I ran down, picked them up, and carried them up the hill, put them on the sled again, and gently pushed it down again. At the bottom, they didn't move, they didn't speak, they just sat wide eyed, and never protested when we did it again, and again, and again.

I got my workout, which was good, considering the extra candies I was forced to eat.

We sledded for over an hour, and came home happy and exhausted. I gave the kids hot chocolate, a bath, and supper, and sent them to bed early, fully expecting them to collapse.

But nothing ever works out as planned. Snow, which was a bitter impediment the day before, was a catalyst for fun the next day.

And kids, who should have been thoroughly tuckered out, found a second wind at bedtime.

Snowed in

My Mother-in-law came in for a short, but wonderful visit. We packed in a lot of fun and family time into a few days. She got in on Friday morning, and got to witness my Friday afternoon frenzy as I prepared Shabbat dinner for a small crowd. We enjoyed a quiet evening, just my family, my mother-in-law, my husband's cousin, and a young family friend from Minnesota. It was a warm, lovely, and relaxed evening, thanks to the presence of two young, experienced aunties.

Saturday night was live music night at the kosher pizza place. My son was completely fascinated by the tall skinny man with the long white beard playing guitar and singing old 60s folk songs. He marched right up and introduced himself. "You're really good!" He volunteered. He proceeded to tell the musician all about his piano lessons, his guitar, his grandfather who plays clarinet, his mom who played drums, and his dad who played trombone. He stopped long enough to eat a small slice of pizza and went back to gawking at the musicians. My son clearly has an ear and a fascination for music. It stops him dead in his tracks. It doesn't take long to realize that my son has a unique relationship with music. It takes hold of him like a direct line to his brain, unlike his mother's voice which has a direct line bypassing the brain.

After Open Mike Night at the pizza place, we put the kids to bed, and my husband and I got ready to prove once again that we're old, not that we need too many reminders. One of my husband's classmates was celebrating her birthday at a bar in a trendy part of town. I dressed as hip and funky as one can in longish skirts and longish sleeves. I settled on a knee length stretchy denim skirt and a fur-collared sweater and my tall brown boots, over the obligatory long underwear, of course. I wrapped my hair in a scarf, and bundled up against the 9 degree chill. We found our way downtown and drove around for half an hour looking for the bar. Finally, my husband suggested we park and just walk around looking for the place.

It's nine degrees out there, I reminded him. I'm dressed for fashion, not frostbite, I noted. To no avail. We parked, and made it half a block when I realized I had lost feeling in the most amply insulated part of my body. My tush is numb! I panicked. I was wearing long underwear and a skirt, yet my buns were tingling. Never in my life had I experienced such an improbable event.

"Are we on speaking terms anymore?" My husband asked, half-joking.

We'll talk when the temperature gets above 40 degrees. I answered between chattering teeth, not joking at all.

We turned back, got back into the car, and I laid down the law: We will pull up to that convenience store. You will go in and look up the address to this place. You will drop me off at the front door. You will park to your heart's content. When it is time to go, you will get the car, you will turn the heat up, then you will pick me up at the front door. And that was that.

My husband dropped me off at a dark door with no sign. Just two young, tough looking men with no hats standing guard out front. The looked at my ID and sent me inside the loudest, smokiest place I had been since college. I walked in clutching my purse, and cast my eyes about looking for a familiar face, and thankfully found one. One of my husband's classmates, a fellow frozen Texan greeted me with a warm and sympathetic smile. Without a word, she understood, as only a fellow Southerner could, that we were on completely uninhabitable terrain. "I'm wearing two pairs of stockings!" She confided. I pointed at my legs: long johns.

While I waited for my husband, some strange young man approached me, took my hand and attempted to dance with me. Part of me wanted to laugh. I was the only woman in the bar not wearing a small black camisole with a plunging neckline. I was the only woman with any kind of head covering. I was probably the only woman in the whole place with proudly earned stretch marks and crow's feet. I was probably the only person there over 30!

Another part of me was horrified. I yanked my hand away and rushed over to my husband. I was just accosted by some guy! My husband laughed and puffed out his chest. Oh, please. I rolled my eyes. After attempting a few conversations with classmates by positioning our mouths inches from our interlocutors' ears and shouting to be heard over the din of the dance music, we gave up, and headed home, ears ringing and clothing reeking of smoke.

Do you know how old I am? I queried. The only music I recognized was the background riffs sampled from songs I grew up with. I deposited my smokey clothes into the laundry, showered, and went to bed.

The next day was abuzz with activity. My Mother-in-law and I took my son to his piano lesson, then we packed a picnic lunch and loaded the whole family into the car. We dropped my husband off at the law school and went to the Field Museum. The Field Museum is remarkable, not least of all for the amazing collection of stuffed animals that wind through exhibit hall after exhibit hall. The taxidermists in early twentieth century Chicago must have had the lowest unemployment rate of any sector in this city. I could just imagine them flocking to Chicago to stuff all types of wild cats, buffalo, deer, rodents, lions, giraffe, apes, gorillas, and monkeys. Thousands and thousands of diverse creatures found their final resting place on display here. But far from feeling like a place of death, it was bright, vibrant, and full of life. It may have been the only place in Chicago my baby could be content to stay in her stroller. Princess Crazy Hair bounced up and down pointing at meerkats, armadillos, octopodes, and wart hogs shouting "doggie!"

My Mother-in-law and the older kids found themselves lost in the winding, ascending and descending labyrinth of the Egyptian exhibit, marvelling at artifacts and mummies. We met up in time to rush home for a quick bite before I had to chauffeur my son to a cub scout meeting armed with a hammer, a set of pliers, a flashlight, and a towel.

My son recently joined the Yeshiva boys troop of boy scouts. My husband and I felt that it would be a great opportunity for him to bond with the little men in his age group. My son, at the age of seven, is already a bit of a ladies' man. Perhaps, that's overstating it a bit, but he has found more kindred spirits in his new class among the young girls. It is easy to understand why. The boys in his class tend to run a bit wild and aggressive. The girls are sweet, cool, and fun.

The task for this week's cub scout meeting was to create a tin can lantern by hammering nails in the shape of a design into a tin can filled with frozen water. Since my husband had to study, it was left to me to assist my son in this manly task. I was vetoed on the Fleur De Lis pattern, but otherwise, it went off without a hitch, and only two sore thumbs between the two of us.

My Mother-in-law left on Monday, but only after visiting her grandson's school, and helping her granddaughter build a family of snowmen. After a sorrowful parting at the airport, we headed back home for supper and bedtime.

On Tuesday we awoke to what I consider a blizzard. Snow was whipped about by the wind, swirling around my window, and blanketing the earth below. I lay in bed listening to the radio and watching the school closing reports. My children's school was not listed, yet, but I was convinced that school had to be shut down. The radio repeatedly blared out a warning: "The conditions out there are pretty bad, don't go out if you don't have to!" Who would send children out in those conditions? Apparently, their school.

In a panic, we got my son ready for his carpool. The poor kid was bitterly disappointed that school wasn't cancelled. A whole day of fresh, fluffy snow would be wasted! My husband took my daughter to school, and I stayed home, safe and warm. A big hug and thanks goes out to the Skokie girl who braved the wicked elements to bring my ballerina home safe and sound.

Princess Crazy Hair put on her hat and neck warmer, ready to dive into a bank of fluffy snow. Sadly, Momma Crazy Hair had no intentions of putting one toe outside. Standing one step above the foyer of our building was enough for me. The ground, inside, was covered in two inches of snow! Snow blew in each time the door was opened. It was enough for me to barricade myself back indoors. Chances are school will be cancelled tomorrow as the city digs itself out of the snow. Unfortunately, the law school will continue unfazed, and my husband will be forced to trudge through a two hour commute downtown, leaving me with three kids anxious to go out and play.

It's time to dig deep into my psyche to find the inner child who looks at the cold white fluff as uncharted territory to explore, dig in, dive in, and revel in. She's in there somewhere isn't she? Perhaps she's wrestling with my inner bear, wanting nothing but to hibernate for the rest of the winter.

* * *

One of the nicest elements of staying at home has been the unexpected bond I've forged with my niece. As far as teenagers go, she's the sweetest, coolest, smartest, prettiest, and funniest I know. She's in Israel for the year, and every few days she IM's me just to chat. It has been such a treat getting to hear about her adventures first hand: the great concerts, the exciting trips, the funny and fascinating experiences she's had. I'm reliving my year in Israel vicariously, and getting the chance to escape to a warmer, more interesting and exotic land. At least in my imagination. Occasionally I get to practice my Hebrew, too. Toda raba!

My niece (left)

Winter blues

"SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a type of winter depression that affects an estimated half a million people every winter between September and April; in particular during December, January and February."

from: http://www.sada.org.uk/

Most people just call it the winter blues. I call it the snag in my husband's plans.

For me, seasonal affective disorder is less a feeling of depression than the daily experience of being buried under an avalanche of coats, hats, mittens, and scarves. It's the drudgery of dressing your children in long underwear, shirts and pants, sweaters, snow pants, boots, hats, and mittens - and then undressing them again to go potty before you have to leave. It's the heartbreak of wrestling down the baby who doesn't want to be stuffed under so much clothing that she can't stand up. It's misery of having to pull off your gloves to buckle the kids into their car seats when it's ten below. It's the horror of driving around in the snow and ice before the plows show up. It's the indignity of wearing sweatpants under my skirts. It's the monotony of staying indoors because going out is just too much trouble.

The five pounds I've put on since December haven't helped.

The temperatures plummeted in the past couple of weeks. 30 degrees is uncomfortable, but in a jacket and hat it's quite pleasant. 20 degrees requires an additional layer, but in small doses can be honestly described as "brisk". 10 degrees begins to be unpleasant. Gloves and long underwear are mandatory. At zero degrees the kid gloves and just about everything else in my wardrobe are on. Ten below is painful. No amount of clothing suffices. Exposed skin burns like flayed flesh. the cold seeps deep below the skin, past the protective layer of adipose tissue, through the viscera, into the bones where it spreads like creeping vines from the extremities towards the warm core. Once it reaches the core, you're done. Physically and emotionally, I shut down and despair. Will I ever feel warm again?

My parents and my sister and brother-in-law came to visit this past week. It was a small glimmer of Texas sunshine in the midst of this drab Chicago winter gloom. They came bearing Longhorn and Spurs regalia and grandparently love. We soaked it in like the rays of a sun lamp.

My parents read me like the chic lit uber drama that I am, and set out to give me a week off, taking me and the kids to the finest kosher restaurants, and best of all, letting the kids camp out in their hotel room for a night. It was heaven.

On Thursday night, my parents and I bundled up the children, their sleeping bags, and suitcases. Just getting the kids out of the house was a two hour production. Even with three adults, dressing the kids, packing up their suitcases and backpacks, and getting directions and strict instructions (have them at school at 8:30 sharp!), was a trial. My parents just shook their heads and muttered to themselves, "How do you do this by yourself?"

According to the Seasonal Affective Disorder Association: "Light therapy has been shown to be effective in up to 85 per cent of diagnosed cases. That is, exposure, for up to four hours per day (average 1-2 hours) to very bright light, at least ten times the intensity of ordinary domestic lighting."

The other fifteen percent have children.

My husband and I made the most of our freedom. We went to a bar for a law school association party. I don't know what association, and after my second drink, I wasn't even sure which law school. We left the party and wandered into a movie theatre to see what was playing. After some debate we settled on "Pan's Labyrinth", a beautifully conceived, filmed, and acted fairy tale story set in Franco's Spain. It was gripping, sweet, violent and heartbreaking.

A poor choice for a woman in the grips of the winter blues.

Even better than staying out late on a fun and fascinating date with my husband, was getting to sleep in late. Not too late, though. I still had to drive the carpool the next day.

The best part of the week was Friday night, Shabbat dinner. My sister and her husband flew in from New York, joining my parents, my cousin and her boyfriend, and us for food, relaxation, and laughter. And great, sparkly and soft slippers from the aptly named Tia Mirth, Aunt happiness.

On Sunday we went out for a Middle Eastern brunch and a last hug goodbye.

Light therapy doesn't work for all who suffer from SAD. I found the perfect antidepressants, at least for a short term treatment.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.