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.