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.