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.