Losing it

My husband is taking his Constitutional Law exam right now. He's been up every night studying into the wee hours. Curiously, I'm the one with the congestion and hacking cough. Again. On Thursday he'll take his Property Law exam, and the following week, Torts II. I've been amazed watching him studying night after night, with his outlines and his books spilling over our desk. His attention just zooms right to the computer screen or to the page and everything else is completely blocked out.

I can't do that.

Children squeal, scream, bicker, and play around him, but he is oblivious to them. When I'm in the middle of their chaos, my blood pressure elevates, my shoulders tense up, and I explode. Can't you see I'm trying to work? I say, a tad more shrill than I had hoped. My children sense when I struggle to attend to something other than them. The moment the phone rings, they are by my side, asking questions. And when I try to blog, my diva decides to make up a new dance.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" She insists, "Watch me!"

I try to distract them, to take out toys and books and paper and crayons, anything for a few quiet moments to concentrate on something other than art projects and picture books. Of course, even when I succeed in involving my children in an activity of some sort, I am treated to a constant logorrheic play-by-play. I know these are the best times of our lives, and they fly by so fast, and I should cherish each moment of my childrens' lives, but who are we kidding here?

Am I really expected to cherish each and every single moment of their childhood? Can't I gloss over the moment where my baby massages oatmeal into her hair? Can't I doze off during the thirtieth picture of blue, grey and highlighter scribbles representing the thirtieth variation of "Mommy in Hat"? Do I truly need to be "in the moment" when my baby starts kicking during a diaper change.

There are many times in my children's lives, many phases in their development, I secretly wish would last forever. I have watched my little cherubs for hours, awed with their beauty and perfection (ptui ptui, ptui, hamza, hamza). I have read thousands of books and stories, and admired tens of thousands of artful creations. My children do not lack in creativity. Nor do they want for energy. Yes, yes, a blessing each and every one.

But right now, I'm overblessed, and could use a few moments for myself.

In the middle of final exam frenzy, I caught a cold, more of a springtime sniffle, but I felt horrid. My nose ran, and I coughed until my ears rang. We were invited to a fellow law school student's home for lunch. "You can't get him sick before finals." My husband wisely noted, so I agreed to stay home for some needed rest and recovery, while my husband took the kids to synagogue and lunch. Only, the baby was sniffling, too, and there was no way he was going to take all three of the kids. So my day of rest and recovery became a day of isolation and insanity.

The baby and I did great, at first. We read, and played, and napped, but by noon, I was starting to run out of ways to keep her entertained. All I wanted to do was sleep. All my baby wanted to do was play. By three in the afternoon I was eagerly awaiting the return of my husband and two older kids, so that I could finally get some rest. By five in the afternoon I was beginning to panic, and by six in the evening, I began to cry. At seven they returned to a completely frazzled and puffy-eyed mother, too tired, angry, and sick to say anything more than, you left me home alone and sick with the baby for ten hours.

My husband apologized profusely and explained the circumstances: the long lunch, the inevitable stop at the park, the genuine desire to keep two whiny kids out of my hair. But the damage was done.

Sunday was not much better. My husband had to study, and it was my motherly and wifely duty to shlep the kids around and keep them out of my his hair. It was another Sunday of piano lessons, little league, parks, playgrounds, and pizza. I brought them home, made dinner, gave baths, and put everyone to bed. And everyone complied except the baby who had a late nap, and didn't fall asleep until nine. Have mercy, I begged.

This morning, the diva woke up coughing and sniffling.

My husband left early to take his exam, I drove the carpool, and came home with not one, but two little attention-demanding girls. My diva was sniffly enough that I thought better about taking her to school, but she was well enough to want to draw, play, and talk all day. Only, I wasn't well enough to keep up with her demands on me.

After lunch, it all came to an explosive head. I gave the baby a sippy cup full of water, and while I tried to sit for a few quiet moments, big sister began to narrate her drawing for me and ask me how to spell out the story she wished to tell. "How do you spell 'once'? How do you spell 'upon'? How do you spell 'a time'?" And so on. Meanwhile, the baby started whining for milk. "Leche!" she demanded. No, I explained, Agua! "Leche!" She demanded, louder. No, baby, I explained, you need to drink agua. It's good for you! "Leche!"

I put the sippy cup on her table and sat at the desk ignoring the "how-do-you-spell"s on one hand and the louder and louder demands for "LECHE!" on the other. I was quickly approaching the cracking point that most mothers reach at some point in their lives.

And crack I did. Like a raw egg on pavement, like china in a Greek restaurant, like a mom under pressure.

I marched over to the baby, opened up her sippy cup, and dumped the water over her head. I then filled it up with milk, screwed the lid shut, and handed it right back to her. She looked at me completely shocked for a moment, her eyes wide, and her mouth agape, water dripping down her face. But she took the sippy cup, and drank it without any fuss.

For a moment, I was completely shocked and horrified by what I had done. But only for a moment.

"Mommy, how do you spell 'house'?"

* * *

The insanity has been mitigated by short visits from family and friends. My aunt from San Antonio came with her son, my cousin, while the kids were out with their father, bringing books and a brief ray of San Antonio warmth. Another cousin came from Florida a few days later. He was here on a short business trip, but we had a chance to share pizza and stories. My children and I really enjoyed spending the few hours we had with him.

I also had the briefest of visits with a surrogate mom from San Antonio, visiting her real kids for the weekend.

Exams will be over soon. I look forward to turning all three kids over to their dad while I get a chance to recover my sanity and recharge my batteries.

Hopefully, it will be enough to get through the second year.

Day in the Zoo

Aaaah. I'm typing very slowly to not disrupt the luscious silence in my apartment with the clackity clack of my keyboard. It's easy to type slowly. My baby finally went down for her nap and my thoughts are just oozing in like thick goo right now. I'm still recovering from the first sunny, hot Sunday in Chicago.

Sunday was particularly chaotic. I must have clocked close to one hundred miles on my car. Bright and early, I dropped my son off at his piano class. Normally, I sit through his classes and take diligent notes, as per orders of his teacher, the venerable Russian maestra. But there was no way it was going to happen today.

After leaving my son to his teacher's mercy, I whisked the diva off to a friend's birthday party, apologized to the parents for not hanging around, and sped back to pick up my son. The baby, strapped into her carseat, complained and cried the whole time. She resents being left out of the excitement and fun.

I picked up my son from piano and asked, How did it go?

"Good!" He responded. "I'm not as distracted as when you're there!" Me? Distracting? I dropped him off at baseball practice, and shmoozed with the coach's wife for a bit. "I don't mean to butt in," she said gingerly, "but we learned the hard way to wear pants to practice." Doh!

And with that word of sage advice, I was off again. I ran to pick up the party girl, and ran home to pick up sweat pants and a cap, and scarf down three bites of salad, and headed back to the ball park for the thirty minutes of my son's practice. He waved off the pants and took the cap, and I followed after my daughters, racing to the playground.

My ballerina found a little three year old to befriend, and they ran off through tunnels, over balancing bars, and down slides together. It's remarkable how small children can make friends so easily. What's your friends name? I asked. She just shrugged, and squealed, "Come on!" as they raced off together to another adventure.

Meanwhile, the baby was creating her own adventure. She climbed the highest ladders, went down the fastest slides, and squealed with glee at my nervousness. I'm learning to relax around her, but just barely. She has no sense of fear, and the bravery and spirit of a wild lion cub. Deep down I'm really quite proud of her, but it is my job to protect that busy brain of hers from her own insouciant nature. Lord help me.

Practice was over, but the coach took some time to help out my son with some batting practice. It was touching to see him eagerly focused on the batter, but it would probably have been more effective had he been focused on the ball instead. He'll get there, and I'll make sure his dad helps him, once exams are over. My efforts would only make things worse.

From baseball practice, we grabbed some slices of pizza, and then hopped back into the car for the big adventure of the day: a trip to the Lincoln Park Zoo. I couldn't imagine a better way to spend a glorious, bright day in the big city.

Neither could half of Chicago.

I pulled off of Lake Shore drive and swallowed hard. Traffic was backed up to the exit ramp. And it crawled like a geriatric snail. We longingly glanced as passersby with their ice creams and balloons as we passed the zoo entrance. All parking lots were full, and cars lined the street, every legal spot was taken. For the next hour I had to endure an anemic air conditioner in my car, and shouts of,

"You missed a spot! There's a spot!" Yeah, if we want to get towed.

In desperation, I called my husband, but got his voice mail instead. I need your help! I pleaded. I can't find parking! It's been close to an hour and we're getting desperate here!

We finally found a spot, only I didn't know where we were. I saw water and boats and lots of cars, people and dogs. I knew we had to be close to the park, but I was so turned around, with my luck we would have ended up in Indiana.

"I know how to get to the zoo!" Said my confident cub scout. "Follow me!"

I loaded up the stroller, smeared on the sunscreen, and off we went to find the zoo. My cheerful children bounced along side their trapped sister, and smiled at the people walking by. "I like your skirt!" My daughter said to one. "I like your necklace!" She said to another. "I like your shoes!" She told someone else. "We're trying to find the zoo!" She confided to yet another complete stranger.

"You're going the right way!" She told us. My cub scout beamed. And urged us along.

Lincoln Park was balagan, an expressive Hebrew word for chaos. People were everywhere, in cars, on skates and bikes, pushing strollers, and running with dogs. My cloistered daughter was horrified. "That man's not wearing a shirt! That woman's not wearing pants!" She was particularly shocked by two young ladies walking past in their bikini tops and short shorts. "Oh!" She exclaimed. "Why are they walking around in their underwear?"

She turned to her wise brother and asked, "They're not Jewish, are they?" He pronounced a definitive "No." I wasn't so sure.

When I was growing up, we used to tease our friends by saying your epidermis is showing! That joke didn't really work in Chicago in Winter. It had been a full six months since we had seen as much as a knee cap. And in Orthodox communities, they're even rare in Summer. Even mine were tucked away on this broiling hot April afternoon. For my neighborhood, though, I was dressed fairly flashy: a snug fitting short-sleeved t-shirt, a long wrap-around skirt, and a jaunty cap.

I soon discovered that wrap-around skirts are even more obscene in the windy city than the micro-minis my children were gawking at. I awkwardly pushed the stroller with one hand and held the skirt closed with the other, as much to shield innocent pedestrians from the sight of my pale hairy legs, as any act of modesty.

The zoo was delightful, if not entirely overpacked with hordes there for the free Earth Day concerts. I watched my children like a hawk, and eventually, we picked up another child who followed us from exhibit to exhibit, his parents apologizing profusely. But we didn't mind the company. My daughter made a second little friend in one day.


When my kids clambered into the extensive climbing structure in one of the children's exhibits, the little boy followed them in, only to panic and freeze. He cried as his poor parents looked on helplessly. There was no way an adult could fit into the waving undulating patterns above. I yelled up to my son for the second time this year, Help the little boy! And I watched with pride and amazement as he once again came to the rescue talking to the boy, guiding him, and directing him out of the labyrinth, into the arms of his anxious parents, who thanked my son profusely.

We went on to look for wolves, bears, and beavers. The baby was particularly fascinated with the turtles, and they with her. I tried to take pictures, but she saw my fiddling with the camera as an opportunity to escape my grasp.

Bedtime was closing in, and my hungry, tired kiddos were getting restless. I promised them a ride on the little trains before it was time to go.

The two big kids took their little sister and the small train went around and around two or three times and slowed to a halt. We paid a passing visit to the floppy-humped camels, before trying to find our way home. For dinner, a bath, and bedtime.

I had such big plans for the night: dishes, laundry, and the blog. But by the time I got my reluctant kids to bed, I was done, kaput, cream crackered. I put a half finished sudoku puzzle away, and hit the bed with a loud snore. Monday would come again too quickly, and the balagan would start again.

Sweet dreams

Great achievers and children have one thing in common: the capacity to see the greatness in themselves. I had it once. I dreamed of becoming a notable scholar and a world class athlete, and living in a fabulous beach house. I did come really close to accomplishing some of my dreams. Okay, so it's an apartment, and it's a couple of miles from the shores of Lake Michigan, but I'm not finished dreaming yet.

My husband has it, too. What else can explain his confidence in being able to start life over as a law school student? Behind the quiet, secure exterior, I suspect he is simmering with big dreams I have barely had a glance at. I can understand the desire to keep secret ambitions under wraps. Dreaming takes daring, it takes chutzpah. Dreams that are so seductive, so thrilling, and so desirable in our minds, sound so silly and shallow once they are uttered out loud.
Once that dream has escaped the confines of the imagination, it loses it's luster. Sharing that fantasy anchors it in the real world. Suddenly, you're faced with the challenge to "put up or shut up". What are you going to actually do to make it happen? What concrete steps will you follow to live your dream?

My husband didn't back down when the time came. He gave his reveries substance, and breathes life into them every day. He can't fantasize away the hard realities of succeeding in law school while emotionally and financially supporting a family in a strange land.

And neither can I.

Once my husband shared his dream with me, it became my own: all of the glitz and glamour, and the sweat and stress. This is the real heart of life as a law school widow. I'm an integral part of my husband's enterprise. And as difficult as it has been, I wouldn't have it any other way.

I envy my children. Their dreams are so exciting and beautiful. Children's fantasies are known as "magical thinking". Until around age ten, they dream without limitations, without a sense of reality to diminish their imagination. My son has it. In his world, he's the smartest, toughest, and most athletic kid in second grade. He's not completely delusional, though. Just last week he gently chastised me for my own delusions.

"Mom," he said in that slightly impatient but pleased tone, "I'm not as smart as you think." Ha! I thought to myself, The jokes on you! You're far smarter than I would dare let you know I'm thinking!

There's smart and then there's smart. He has a incredibly keen and facile mind, but he still young enough to be blessed with magical thinking.

On Tuesday, I took him to his first Little League practice. My son has never played organized baseball, but several of his classmates are on the team, and the father of one of his friends is the coach. I thought this would be a good opportunity to socially engage with some of the boys in his class outside of school, but I almost immediately regretted it. The Monday after I signed him up, he skipped home from the bus, happy as usual, but informed me that the mean boys in his class were angry that he was going to be on their team. It didn't seem to phase him, but my heart sank.

We got off to a bad start on Tuesday. We got out a little late, which tends to happen when you are trying to herd three spacey little ones out the door, and then got hopelessly lost trying to find the playing fields. We arrived half an hour late, but my son hopped out of the car and ran straight onto the field, ready to go.

I watched with a tremendous sense of dread as my son missed ground ball after ground ball in the drills. Occasionally he'd catch one in his glove and toss it in the wrong direction or short of its intended target. The reality was that most of the seven and eight year old boys missed, and some completely missed the point of the drill. He wasn't the worst one out there. But I felt bad for him. A few of the kids I recognized from his class suddenly looked years older as they easily scooped up the ball, and sent it soaring with precision. Ugh. was all I could muster, thinking about the teasing he'd be subjected to by these weirdly athletic second graders.

The coached placed all of the boys around the field and pitched to one at a time, while the others practiced fielding. My son was in his own world out on the field. He pitched imaginary balls, fought off imaginary space aliens, and day dreamed exciting adventures out in right field. At least, that's how it looked to me.

I felt terribly guilty, too. For a physical education instructor, I am incredibly ignorant about baseball. I never played it as a kid, and never really had much interest in the sport. I could get away with that in San Antonio, a one-sport town, but here in Chicago, it's unforgivable. Look! I said to his cold and bored little sisters, pointing to third base. You're brother's on first base! An amused father sitting on the bleachers with us looked at me with pity. His seven year old son piped up, "That's third base!" I smiled sheepishly and thought,

My kid's doomed, and it's all my fault!

He was the last one up at bat. He swung and swung at everything that came in his general direction. And he missed. Three, four, five pitches lobbed past him. Once in a while he'd connect and the ball would wobble harmlessly past the foul line. I silently shook my head worried that my good intentions had guaranteed my sweet son a life of being hopelessly uncool. Sigh.

"Run this one out!" The coach mercifully called out.

Time slowed and I cringed with each pitch. It seemed like hours passed as my boy eagerly but ineffectively swung the bat at each ball. After a dozen or so attempts, the bat finally made contact with a pitch. It didn't exactly make a powerful "crack", and the ball dribbled more than soared, but my dreamer went flying toward first base. The short stop scooped up the ball and threw it to first base. The kid at first base lunged at it and missed. The ball bounced and rolled past him.

I unclenched my teeth and fist and started screaming, Run! Run! Run!

The kid at first base grabbed the ball and threw it towards second. The ball rose and fell in a stunted parabola landing feet away from the plate and rolled past the second baseman.

By now I was standing, yelling and cheering for my son. Run! Run! Run!

The second baseman scooped it up and threw it to third base. The ball went wide and the third baseman ran after it, grabbed it and threw it home. The catcher was in position halfway between third and home when the ball came sailing directly to him. My son tried to dodge him, but there was no escaping the tag. He ran off the field beaming.

I shook my head, as much at his dumb luck as my over enthusiasm. For goodness sake, I thought, it's only practice.

So, I asked nonchalantly as he came off the field, how was it?

"Great! Did you see me out there?" Yeah, I thought, I'm afraid I did. Outwardly, I told him he looked great and ran fast.

My children are natural dreamers. It's probably due to our severe limitations on their television and computer game time. My home is daily transformed into imaginary lands, and my kids into wizards, princesses, ballerinas, and mommies and daddies. When my daughter rehearses for her ballet recital she becomes a different person. She stands taller, moves slower and more gracefully. She is a prima ballerina, and no one can tell her differently.

I wonder what my toddler is dreaming about when she draws on the couch, or climbs onto the tables, or laughs maniacally as she pulls books off shelves.

Magical thinking means never having to think about the hard realities of pursuing a dream. The challenges, the obstacles, the risks of failures don't exist in a little kid's world.

I hope my children are internalizing the lessons their father is teaching by example: the late nights he spends hunched over books or tapping away at his laptop. I try to stress the benefits of diligence and good effort. I try to praise my son's processes more than his successes.

Weekly, his piano teacher is surprised and pleased by his quick progress. He is a natural musician with a tremendous ear for tones and rhythm. "Mom!" He boasts, "My teacher told me that I'm her best student and I learn everything faster than anyone else!"

That's because you practice so hard every day! I smile. When you work so hard, it makes everything seem easier!

At least that's what my husband is hoping. Anticipating challenges is very different from actually facing them, but he isn't dissuaded. He just plugs away night after night. And the kids are watching.

The nicest thing about magical thinking is never having to fail.

My parents skyped us yesterday. "How was your first day of baseball?" They asked my son. My jaw dropped when I heard his response:

"Great!" He brightened up at the memory. "I hit a home run, but they got me out inches from home!"

Dream on! I thought. And I really, really meant it.

Survivor: LSW

Life is returning back to normal.

When you ask a person how their Passover was, the reply is rarely, "Great!". Just about everyone I've asked has responded, "I survived it." It's a strange answer. Passover is just a week long. Granted, the preparations are onerous, and the seders are a big undertaking, especially when you have guests. But why is a week without bread perceived as so tedious that it is beyond enjoyment? What is so trying about Passover that to complete the week is a matter of survival rather than celebration? Are we Jews a bunch of drama queens, or is there a deeper spiritual meaning here?

I'll leave that one to the Rabbis.

Actually, we did have a really nice time. I hadn't realized how many friends we made in Chicago, or how many of them are Rabbis. We were invited to five meals, four of them at Rabbi's homes. It may be that Rabbi's families tend to be more hospitable, but in our case, I simply happened to befriend a bunch of Rabbi's wives. What can I say? I'm drawn to "Women of Valor".

My husband toyed with the idea of becoming a Rabbi. He would have been a tremendous one, too. He has the mind for the laws and practices of orthodox Judaism, and the heart and soul of spiritual guide. But he settled on law. It was in part a practical decision. The Rabbinate is emotionally satisfying, but rarely financially so. Then there was the "get real" moment. What? Me? A Rabbi's wife? Are you kidding?

I've been fortunate enough to watch the best in action. They're the best combination of Martha Stewart and Oprah Winfrey. Hospitable, warm, kind, great cooks, bright, and friendly. They welcome everyone into their homes graciously, feed them till they're ready to burst. They're knowledgeable, often as much so as their husbands, and generally modest about it. I have yet to meet a Rebbetzin who hasn't blown me away.

I think being a lawyer's wife is more my speed. No on expects me to know as much as my husband. I just have to be presentable in public. I hope I'm up to that task. It's probably a lot harder than it sounds.

This has been a tough semester for my hubby. He missed a week of classes when he was sick, and then another week for Passover. As a result, he has been throwing himself into his work with even more rigor, staying up later at school, reading and working on outlines and briefs. I suspect it will continue at this pace until exams are done next month. I'm not sure which one of us is looking more forward to the summer. Even though he'll be working over the summer, he is eagerly anticipating the slower pace. I will be happy to see his face in daylight again.

It will be nice just to have daylight again.

I'm told the weather has been unusual, even by Chicago standards. We had an early November snow followed by an unseasonably warm December and January, followed by a harsh February and a late April snowstorm. Snow in April? Whose idea of a joke is this? My mother mumbles when she tells me the temperatures in Texas. She wants to cushion the blow. I cry when I tell her the temperatures here in Chicago. My body is yearning, aching even, for warm sunlight. I'm beginning to despair of ever being warm again.

My ballerina is sharing my anguish. The look on her face when the first flurries of snow fell on Passover were enough to break my heart. "Mommy, I don't like this Winter-Spring", she told me mournfully. And I concurred. She has been such a sweet child lately. Perhaps it's the age, maybe it's the gender, but she has been volunteering to help me out whenever she can. She pipes up in the kitchen, offering to set tables or stir up some ingredients. In the rest of the house, she's quick to put away toys or clothing. I hope I'm adequately conveying my appreciation for her wonderful, giving spirit. I'm praying for sun for her as much as for myself.

My son is taking the horrible weather in stride. It's a matter of pride for him to wear as little as possible in the cold. With snow falling down in wet clumps, he'll still insist on wearing short sleeves and a light coat. It's killing me. I know he won't actually suffer hypothermia, but my maternal Texan urge is to dress him in long underwear, sweaters, a parka, and three other layers. But he's in a rough second grade class with tough Skokie boys, and the humiliation would be too much for him to bear; so I clench my teeth, and let him go out as he wishes.

I've been doing a lot of teeth clenching with my son lately. Homework, piano practice, computer games, which we've just started allowing him to play, and meals are our hot button issues. We're struggling with growing pains. He's my oldest, and I am feeling my way through the clamor for independence. He wants to eat what he wants when he wants, to dress how he wants, and to cross streets all by himself. Most of his requests are perfectly reasonable as far as I can tell, which is not far at all. What is a reasonable expectation for a seven (and a half) year old boy? How's a mom to know?

There is nothing sensible about a two year old, I am rediscovering anew. My baby is getting more adorable and more frustrating with each passing day. She is saying so many new words and showing such an incredible grasp of the world around her. We're going to go pick up your sister now! I tell her as I wake her up from her nap. "No!" she calls out with a big smile, "Hoowa!" She tells me. Hoowa is what she calls her big brother. No, I say, Hoowa comes home on the bus! I smile. "No Baw!" She tells me coyly. No bus. It's her favorite game, scrambling the family members up.

She also plays a little game at bedtime. As I'm trying to sing her to sleep, she sits up and grabs me in a hug then lays back down, sucks her thumb and pulls the threads off of one of seven hand knit sweaters and blankets, her "blans", she has strewn on her bed. Just when I think she's finally dozing off, she'll sit up and hug me again. That would be fine with me, but as soon as I leave the room, she's jumping on her sleeping sister's head and turning on and off the light, "la looo!" I've begun strapping her into her high chair with a "blan" in my darkened bedroom. It sounds cruel but it's the only way she'll fall asleep. In fact, she's begun to request it.

Once again, I'm struggling to find the right balance between discipline and independence. At times I just shake my head and tell myself, she's only two. But she's a smart one, and sometimes just the mischievious glint in her eye tells me she gets it and I'm being played for the sucker. How's a mom to know?

My life is in flux: the new climate, new expectations, kids weaving in and out of developmental stages like a pack of drunk drivers. The end of my husband's first year is around the corner. In a month, god willing, we'll sit back, clink a couple of glasses of champagne, look back at the upheaval in our children's lives and ours and say,

We survived it.

Seder disorder

April 1, 2007

I'm really excited about my parsley, which is unusual enough during a reasonable time of day. At 2:30 before the meridiem, that imaginary line that delineates sanity from idiocy, I'm way past the threshold of idiocy; hence the enthusiasm for a simple, green herb. It can only be chalked up to delirium. But it is really beautiful parsley: Big, broad, dark green leaves, and a sweet, tangy taste. It's going to give a lovely flavor to the braised eggplant with yellow and orange tomatoes and garlic cloves. The one that's cooking right now at 2:30 a.m. My flan is still cooking, too. I tried the Sephardic Orange-Almond flan recipe from the New York Times. It should have been finished half an hour ago, but it's not in a hurry to set.

I, however, am in a hurry to settle into bed.

We are our usual pathetic pre-Passover selves this year. At least this year I have the excuse that my Mom and Abuela aren't here to help me, and I'm in a new kitchen without my familiar utensils. And up until today, I've had little help from my husband, who has to go to school tomorrow to make a presentation he's not prepared for in his torts class. It's all true, but it does not excuse waking up our little ones at 2:00 before the dreaded meridiem to perform the customary search for the Chametz. We are shameful, but at least we're consistently shameful! Year after year we promise ourselves that we'll have the place cleaned, kashered, and ready to go at a reasonable time. After the meridiem. Before the witching hour when I traipse into poor decision making, like starting a brand new untried recipe at midnight. One that involves braising and grinding almonds. And separating a dozen eggs.

Some things are never a good idea past midnight.

And then there's the cleaning. My husband and I laundered eleven loads of clothes, sheets, bedding, and towels. And we scrubbed the floors, vacuumed, and dusted. Every year we delude ourselves. No, really, dear, there isn't that much left to do, except for all of the little things that we forget about. Did you check the fridge? Did you remember to check the piano seat? Oh! We forgot...and so it goes, every year.

But it can wait until the morning.

* * *

April 5, 2007

It's the day after, and as we do every year, we survived.

Passover in Chicago is very different from Passover in San Antonio. For one thing there is the Dunkin Donuts phenomenon. On Monday morning I took the three kids to Dunkin Donuts for the last chametz before the holiday began. The place was packed with Orthodox Jews with the same idea. Packed with more Jews than are in all of San Antonio. The line of cars for the drive-thru wrapped around the corner, and the line inside snaked around the length of the whole shop, and out the door. We waited anxiously, the 10:38 a.m. deadline when we were no longer permitted to eat chametz was 30 minutes away. People chatted amiably and nervously looked at their watches. After about 5 minutes, a reporter from Chicago Public Radio came in and started interviewing people. He asked me what we were going to order. The kids wanted the pink strawberry donuts, but a bagel sandwich sounded good to me. When I got to the front of the line and realized how little time I had to eat, I went with a donut.

Bad choice. I don't really like donuts. The kids giggled as I chocked the greasy thing down.

The fifth-grade girl in our carpool came over after the donut to be my "mother's helper". A mother's helper is a child older than your kid, but too young to be left alone with your child, who eases your burden by keeping your little ones entertained while you run around like a frenzied lunatic cooking for far more people than you've invited.

At least, that's my interpretation. She did a great job.

The kids watched the old animated "Hobbit" movie while I baked, sauteed, and roasted my heart out. We took a break to do the customary burning of the chametz. My husband always handled that task. He took the kids over to the synagogue and performed some sort of mysterious ritual that I was never initiated in. But my husband was in school, and I was left with this important task. We cheerily loaded up the kids into the stroller, and walked over to a synagogue where I saw a small fire in a metal smoker in the parking lot. Several men and boys in black suits stood around watching the fire, occasionally tossing in a chunk of bread, or some fuel for the flames.

I explained, to no one in particular, that my husband usually managed this task. I asked what I was supposed to do. The men barely looked at me, and one shook his head in the direction of the fire. I took this to mean we were to throw our bread in. My son and I began taking bits of bagel out of the little plastic baggies we hid them in, and gently tossed them into the smoking pile. Occasionally we missed, and a man would reach down, pick it up, and throw it in. When we finished throwing in our offerings, I looked around expectantly. Was this it? Was there something more I should do?

Once again, the men barely looked up from the pit of burning bread. Some muttered something I couldn't understand. Finally a young boy who looked familiar offered something more useful.

"Yeah, you have to say a prayer, but you can do it at home. It's in your prayer book."

Chastened and slightly embarrassed, we turned the stroller around, and headed back home to my cooking.

The meal was ready in plenty of time to straighten up. Chicken soup with fluffy matzah balls, gefilte fish casserole, which I forgot to serve, roast, roasted chicken with rosemary, potatoes, eggplant, zucchini, and asparagus were on the menu. The orange-almond flan never set quite right, but was delicious, and as a last minute treat, I made the chocolate and olive oil mousse from the same New York Times article. It was my first successful mousse ever, and it was superb, served with fresh blackberries.

The food was great, except for the undercooked potatoes, and the company was genial. I had a house full of law students, and the father of a law student who was visiting from Israel. My children were dressed in their new outfits, and on their best behavior. My little diva stole the show. She stood up next to her chair several times during the evening to belt out a song. Some came from the Haggadah, the special prayer book for the Passover seder, some came from her nursery school class. Our little Shirley Temple gave a stirring rendition of the four questions, followed by several songs about slavery in Egypt ("Bang, bang, bang, hold your hammers low"), the ten plagues ("Frogs here! Frogs there! Frogs were jumping everywhere!"), and a Passover counting song ("Who knows one? I know one!"). Baby sister followed her big sister's example with a boisterous singing of "Dayeinu" bouncing up and down on her chair.

My shy son held back the first night, but, without any guests on the second night, he railroaded the proceedings, and completely took over the seder. My husband sat back with a smile, and let him amaze us with his knowledge and brilliance.

On Wednesday morning, we awoke to a surprise. Another major difference between Passover in San Antonio and Passover in Chicago was the 40 degree drop in temperature accompanied by snow flurries. Never, in my 38 years of life, had I experienced anything but a hot Passover. Passover is a sweltering Spring holiday in Texas. Snow in April? Not even in January!

But when we awoke on Wednesday morning, and prepared ourselves for the three mile hike to the Sephardic synagogue, we were faced with an arctic blast.

"Are you sure you want to take the kids out in this cold?" Asked my Minnesotan husband, hoping to appeal to my Texan intolerance for cold. We're invited to the Rabbi's house for lunch, I reasoned. We can't just not show up! I responded, mortified.

We were back to the familiar sight of jackets, hats, and mittens. My heart sank as we plunged headlong into the wintery air. The baby cried the whole time until I picked her up and carried her, bundled in a blanket, for over a mile. My husband looked at me with a nasty look I was not used to, as if to say, "I told you so." But we made it and enjoyed a delicious, congenial, informative, and fun lunch. One thing that is the same in Chicago and San Antonio is the warmth, kindness, and great cooking of the Rabbi's wives. I felt right at home in her bustling kitchen, serving matzah ball soups, salads, and platters of steaming kugels of all types, sweet and savory. And one, lonely, Sephardic dish. She shrugged, and apologized. But it was all delicious and homey.

At the Rabbi's house I met a fellow Juban and his lovely wife. We traced our family trees back and made common connections. The Rabbi expounded on differences between Sephardic and Ashkenazi traditions (i.e. toothpaste on Shabbat is a no-no for Ashkenazim, but fine for Sephardim, a run-through of an empty dishwasher with soap kashers it for Sephardim but not Ashkenazim, and bar soap on Shabbat is also permissible for Sephardim, but not Ashkenizim). We left full of comfort foods and knowledge, and a few good laughs. In the end, it was well worth the miserable trek there.

* * *

Today my son had a piano lesson. He has improved dramatically. His petite, patient teacher is blown away by his intelligence (he gets it), his talent, and his hard work. she even blurted out at one point that he was her best student! I beamed at him, and sat in awe as he sat still in front of her piano with a look of concentration and determination I hadn't seen before. Who was this kid playing so smoothly and deftly at the piano? Who was this kid who didn't wiggle or squirm as he played through challenging pieces? Who was this kid who asked so many questions between songs? Oh, yeah. I recognized that one. But he shared my pride in his accomplishments, and that's just as it should be.

My children gave me a lot of naches this week. Their knowledge of the Passover seder, their mature behavior, my daughter's fearless singing in front of our guests, and my son's disciplined piano playing filled me with wonder and gratitude. Where did these amazing children come from? I am so thankful for their talents and their personalities. I am in awe of my kiddos, even the baby who's boundless energy and determination never seem to ebb. All I can say is Ptui, ptui, ptui, bli ayin ha ra'ah, hamza hamza, mashallah. And if that isn't enough, I'll bite my tongue till it bleeds.

Eew.

Passover is hard work, but it brings out our best. Everything is elevated to a higher level: the cooking, the cleaning, the hospitality, our behavior, and our learning. Of course, it also highlights everything we need to work on for the year to come: our organization, our neatness, and my patience. Passover is that fine line between diligence and obsessiveness, between naches and hubris, between godliness and goofiness.

Passover is my meridiem line separating the sanity from the sublime.