Spring song

I'm afraid to say anything. I don't want to invite the evil eye, the ayin ha ra'ah, but (ptui, ptui, ptui), it looks like Spring is finally here. And now that I've actually expressed this thought, I have guaranteed a late season blizzard.

We awoke on Saturday to brilliant sunlight, and melted snow. Before I even set foot outside, I could feel the change of seasons in my skin. Almost imperceptibly, my muscles and bones unclenched, and my whole body shuddered and sighed in relief. For the first time in weeks, we all awoke healthy and happy. I hustled my husband and kids into their Shabbat clothes, fed them the bread pudding I baked as a desperate measure to rid my home of leftover challah, and set out to synagogue, for the first time in weeks. Maybe months. In honor of this glorious day, I suggested we hike the three miles up to the Sephardic synagogue, and to my giddy surprise, my husband agreed.

I love going to the Sephardic Synagogue. It's a small, older congregation, but the men remind me of my Cuban uncles. The way they dress, their formal, quiet demeanor, their decades old elegance transport me to a familiar, but distant, time and place. And when they recite prayers in Ladino, the ancient, dying language of Spanish exile, it reaches deep into my heart. I have a strong spiritual connection here.

My children like it, too, which puzzles me. There are no other children at the Sephardic synagogue, apart from the rabbi's grandsons, who are fortunately my son's age. We don't come often enough for the boys to have developed a fast bond, but they get along well enough. My children have far more peers, friends, and acquaintances at our usual synagogue, so it's not the social scene to which they are drawn.

I suspect it has to do with the rabbi. After services I went to greet him. He smiled warmly and told me that my children were very sweet. "They came right over to wish me a Shabbat Shalom!" He informed me, clearly impressed. Frankly, I was impressed, too. I didn't realize my children knew the proper protocol and honor to bestow upon a rabbi. But they got it. When my husband was called up to the Torah, the three kids ran up to the bima, the pulpit, and stood by their daddy's side. The rabbi smiled at them, and shook my son's hand. And like a good Sephardic wife, I stood up and beamed, like my abuela and her mother before her would have.

Even my husband likes to go to the Sephardic synagogue every once in a while. It's a nice change of pace, but more importantly, we are always given a warm reception. It's a small congregation, and there is a heartbreaking dearth of young married couples and children, but it's what a synagogue should be, an extension of family.

Buoyed by the sunlight and warmth, and energized by the six mile walk the previous day, I decided to press my luck with the children on Sunday. After my son's piano lesson and a quick lunch, I strapped the baby into her stroller, brought out my son's scooter, and led my brood out towards the walking path and sculpture gardens. We picked up some sugar and fat laden snacks at the kosher Dunkin Donuts and began the second long walk of the weekend. My legs and lungs couldn't get enough fresh air and exercise.

My children are pretty sheltered. They do not watch a lot of television, nor do they see a lot of movies. It's not that I am fundamentally opposed to all television or movies, but I am extremely picky about what I deem appropriate; and I do take very seriously the American Academy of Pediatrics policy that: "Until more research is done about the effects of TV on very young children, the American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) does not recommend television for children age 2 or younger."
(http://www.med.umich.edu/1libr/yourchild/tv.htm)

In other words, I'm a hardcore mom, and my kids live in a cave.

This fact really hit home that Sunday afternoon when we walked down the sculpture gardens, munching on our donuts, to the mall to find new shoes for my daughter. "Where are we going?" My son asked. To the mall. I responded, breezily.

"What's a mall?" He asked, with the naivete of a boy raised in a secluded jungle. I nearly snorted the contents of my frozen latte through my nose

I herded my small brood into the bustling mall, and their eyes popped open as big as saucers. I could see the sensory overload in their dropped jaws. Um. This is a mall. I lamely explained, in utter shock. My children listened with fascination as I told them about the many days I spent just hanging out in malls as a young girl. "What did you do at the malls?" The word sounded foreign in their mouths.

Um...er... I stammered. You know, I just sorta hung out... Walked around... Looked at stuff... With friends.

It was useless. They had no reference point. They asked an endless stream of questions about everything they saw - video screens blaring advertisements, shoe stores, toy stores, department stores, food courts - until we ran into our cousin and her boyfriend. I was relieved for the distraction. This line of questioning was turning out to be more fatiguing than the walk. We left the mall, and as promised, headed to a park.

The baby was sound asleep in her stroller and my son was starting to fade by the time we got to the busy playground full of families enjoying the fabulous warm day. It was getting close to dinner time. I called my husband and made arrangements to meet him at the pizza place down the street. My poor kids had hit a wall. They were exhausted from all of the walking and scootering, and they were hungry. I loaded them all onto the stroller, and pushed them, like Sisyphus rolling the boulder up the mountain, to the pizza place.

Every muscle in my back and legs was protesting almost as loudly as my tired kvetchy kids. My husband showed up dazed from too many hours at the library, and we collapsed in our booth, the five of us, looking like the weekend warriors that we were. It was ludicrous to think we could shake off the sedentary cobwebs of a long, drawn out winter in one short weekend. Or, in my husband's case, make up a weeks worth of work in one day.

We staggered home and collapsed.

My son awoke the next day with a fever. He lay in my bed sucking on Popsicles and drifting in and out of sleep. I vacillated between feeling guilt that I wore the poor kid and his immune system out, and enjoying our quiet time together.

As the weather turns fair, we are emerging from our winter cocoons like ravenous butterflies, flitting about for nectar. We are hungry for the warmth and brightness of the sun that stood so aloof for so long, teasing us with it's light, but denying us the relief our chilled bodies needed. I'm anxious to soak myself and my children in the vitamin D drenched rays of the sun, and to clear some space for my husband to study.

Winter took a toll on us. Our psyches felt the heavy weight of sweaters, coats, and hats. Our bodies were racked for weeks with winter ailments: flu, stomach virus, sinus infection. Even our spirits flagged, hunkered in at home for Shabbat after Shabbat, and even Purim.

It is ironic that with release of the Spring warmth from our cold captivity coincides with Passover and final exams. The timing is like the yin and the yang of freedom and responsibility, tears of sowing, laughter of reaping. But like my son's sudden fever, the return of cooler weather is just around the corner, waiting to remind me that life is never predictable, never stagnant, never so reliable. We get tastes of joy only to be snapped back down to struggle again.

I really enjoyed the time I spent walking with my family. Even my son's litany of complaints on the way to synagogue ("I wish we could drive!", "Are we there yet?", "I need a break!"), couldn't dampen my mood. But the temperatures are going to be dropping again this weekend, and I'm really going to have to get us ready for Passover soon.

But it can wait a day or two.

I'm enjoying the brief respite while I can. Tonight I called my Skokie girls: It's your yetzer ha ra'ah! Put down that scrubbing brush and spray cleaner - it's ladies' night at the pizza place! Women-only karaoke - you know you want to!

Three of us sat at the back of the restaurant, ignoring the timid ballads and off-key melodies of orthodox girls eager to express themselves, and sang our way through the song list. When we finally got up to sing the B52's Love Shack, we belted it out, more chutzpah than skill. And it felt great - like a perfect Spring day.