An adventurous life

Poopy emergency! Poopy emergency! I called out to my oblivious children.

It was a beautiful irony. The older kids were at the dining room table playing the game of Life, and here I was running around the apartment searching for more evidence of warm brown baby dookies on my carpeted floor, playing at Life, for real.

I snatched up the offending toddler whisked her off to the bathroom, straight into the tub, pulled down her wet pants, and discovered...NO DIAPER!

I lathered her up with gobs of suds, sprayed her down, and strapped her into a new diaper. I dressed her in a snap-crotched onesie and denim overalls, the type with lots of snaps and buckles, in the hopes that her diaper was now secure. At the very least, it kept her busy for the next several minutes trying to extricate herself from my trap. And then I set out to find a discarded, abandoned diaper somewhere in my apartment. I sniffed around like a bloodhound, searching in drawers, toy chests, closets, and under beds. The diaper was nowhere to be found.

Kids, this is important. I need your help finding your sister's poopy diaper.

"Um." Began a guilty looking big sister. "She took it off before we left the house."

You're sure? I demanded, incredulously. Before we left the house was hours ago; before the trip to the pharmacy and before the trip to the library.

"Yeah. I saw her."

And you didn't tell me? "I did, but you didn't hear. She threw it in the garbage."

I took out the stain remover and saturated the carpet, all the while thinking, I need a vacation. But I don't blame my kids. They're doing what they're supposed to do: explore their world, explore their bodies, and unfortunately, their bodily functions. I should have been paying better attention, but I blame it on the diet my husband and I have begun together.

Winter has finally ended, but the extra insulation we padded on is still there. After months of watching the scale creeping up, we finally decided to take action. On Sunday, we took out the diet book (South Beach, if you must know), planned out our menus for the week, and put together the massive grocery list, and then my husband went out to stock up on loads of healthy, but otherwise unexciting provisions. Vegetables, low-fat cheeses, plain yogurts, meat, chicken, and fish. No yummy cereals, pastas, or breads to satisfy the stomach, or soul, for that matter. For a woman who is happiest while stretching her creative culinary muscles, this was not going to be fun.

On Monday, we packed up PB and J's on homemade challah, string cheeses, and fruit leathers for the kids, and chopped salad with tuna, plain yogurt with artificial sweetener, and celery sticks for the chubby grownups, and we drove downtown for a Memorial Day adventure: a double decker bus tour of downtown Chicago.

We started off near the law school, sitting on top of the open bus, enjoying the cool but glorious day, half listening to the tour guide squished up in front of us. We admired the amazing architecture of Chicago's majestic skyscrapers, and learned a thing or two about its storied past.

After an hour, we disembarked at Millenium park for a snack in the shadow of the Cloud Gate sculpture, locally known as The Bean.

The kids got a kick out of seeing their distorted and multiple reflections.

They asked a million questions.

"Why did the artist make it reflect?"

"Why do I look so funny?"

I had a few myself. Who cleans all these fingerprints?

We elbowed past fellow tourists to gaze on our reflection in the great big silver structure, and then went to the famous Crown Fountain, or as I prefer to call it, the Spitting Faces Fountains.

My brave hearted daughter carefully removed her shoes and made a beeline for the water. I watched in amazement as she joined dozens of small children in underwear, bathing suits, rain slickers, and other various conditions of dress running around splashing and playing in the water, while I sat huddling, freezing in the cool mist. After half an hour of shivering, I had enough. It was time to find the bus again.
We rode around on the top of the bus for another half an hour or so checking out the beautiful views of the Chicago skyline, the waterfront by the museum complex, and the famous Buckingham Fountain. Then we stopped back at the Law School for a light and nutritious lunch.
Classes were out of session, so except for a few medical students looking for a quiet place to eat and study, we had the campus to ourselves. The children could not have found a better playground than among the purple couches and giant staircases in the Northwestern Law School atrium.

They stopped playing for bites of their sandwiches, while my husband and I grazed. Our meal finished, we took a vital potty break and found our way back to the bus stop.

Our next stop was Navy Pier, where we enjoyed the indoor botanical gardens and a peculiar steel drum band made up of three white guys in pirate's garb. I was shocked to discover this hidden gem in an place I'd visited several times before. The gardens were lush and tropical and adorned with really cool fountains.

We finally made our way to the Children's museum, finally getting to enjoy our membership card there. The two older kids knew exactly where they wanted to go first: the rope course, where they could climb three stories up in a rope net gerbil cage-like contraption. This was the first time my daughter was old enough to join her brother.

I was concerned she'd get stuck and panic. Let your sister go first! I called out to her big brother. She may need your help! Big brother stepped back and let his sister go first, all the while, calling out words of encouragement and support.

She didn't need them. She scrambled up like a little monkey, with a huge smile on her face. Before I knew it, they were scrambling downstairs to do it all over again.

The next stop was the building center where my daughter became immediately engrossed on the project she was creating. I tried dragging the kids away, but they weren't interested in anything else.

Finally, the task was complete, and we could move on to our final destination: The Ghirardelli Ice Cream shop. I stood in line with the three kids, while my husband got the car. For an excruciating twenty minutes I breathed in the scent of rich chocolate, and watched people shuffle past with bowls of heaping ice cream, whipped cream, and dark chocolate sauce.

It was a bad day to start a diet. My husband pulled up to the curb. We strapped in our three exhausted, chocolate-coated kiddos, and I looked over at my husband.

Any celery left?

Daddy time

The end of the school year is approaching fast. In the next couple of weeks we're planning a full day of touring downtown Chicago, a ballet recital and the dress rehearsal before hand, a piano recital, and a couple of end of school programs. We've scheduled a short trip to Minnesota to visit Granma Susan, and in a blink of an eye, another school year has passed.

A couple of weeks ago I was invited to Author's Night at my son's school. The second graders had been working hard all year writing, illustrating, and publishing their own books. We were treated to a special reading by the authors themselves. I was amazed at the children's level of imagination and intelligence.

My son was so proud of his two publications. One was a mostly true, but slightly embellished, narrative of his seventh birthday party at the JCC in San Antonio. I was thrilled that it made such an impression on him, but it was bittersweet, too. I realized how much he's been missing his friends. He described the games they played, the friends around him, and a fictional play that followed the party.

His second story was his version of Harry Potter's eighth book: "Harry Potter and the Alien". It was so funny and creative, I beamed as I read it. He told a story of a green alien with six eyes, two red, two green, and two blue, and a foot and a wheel, who came to Earth with evil intention. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, of course, saved the day.

Are you playing attention, Ms. Rowling?

My son just completed reading the second in the actual series of Harry Potter books, which, in my mind, calls for another celebration. Pizza, cupcakes, and the Chamber of Secrets DVD are on the docket for yet another acknowledgment of my seven year old's superior academic accomplishments! I'm not sure he'll have read all six by the time the seventh will be released, but he'll have something special to look forward to, assuming nobody spoils the surprise ending for him.

In addition to his reading and writing skills, we're also quite proud of his athletic prowess. My son has shown tremendous improvement in baseball, thanks to a newly emerged dad, free from his scholarly cocoon for the time being. The boys have been spending time together playing catch, working on my son's south paw fast ball, and grasping the fundamentals of batting. It is such a pleasure to see them together, relaxing, playing, and spending time together. His pitching is not the only thing to benefit from having dad around.

I, too have been taking advantage of the fortuitous convergence of some extra free days and sunshine. I've taken my kids out to some beautiful playgrounds and parks for unbridled frolicking and some tennis.

But I'm old news.

Having daddy home and available is the real treat, and the kids are making the most of his attention.

And that's exactly as it should be.

Cheesecake and Cicadas

The big ssshhhhhh noise you hear coming out of Chicago is the sound of a woman finally exhaling. My husband's exams are over, his writing competition is over, and as long as I can block out any thoughts about his results, I can breathe in, too.

Today I even took a nap.

Unless you have at least two children and a workaholic husband, you may not grasp the significance of that statement. Naps for the stay-at-home mom are risky undertakings that rarely occur intentionally. Most of my naps sneak up on me while I'm sitting on a couch watching my toddler prowling for sharp objects or writing utensils. They happen when I'm least prepared, and at the worst possible times, i.e. seconds before said toddler actually discovers a working ballpoint under a chair.

Half an hour later I awaken to a blunt object being bashed into my head, a stream of drool pulling under my chin, gleeful cackles, and black squiggly lines adorning my walls and couches. I ought to have a large sign over my couch reading:

Nap At Your Own Risk!

But today my husband was home with nothing better to do than take care of the kids while I went into my room, closed the door, snuggled under a blanket, and glory of glories, slept like a baby. I mean, the proverbial baby that supposedly sleeps; not my real, sleep-resistant bundles of energy.

And I awoke to happy children and a delicious hot supper. And clean furniture. Ssssshhhhhh.

We spent the weekend in Skokie at the home of one of my Skokie Girls. She graciously welcomed us into her beautiful home, fed us several fabulous, elegant meals, and single-handedly took the weight of the world off our shoulders. Her eight year old son doted on my toddler. He played with her, fed her, and even cuddled with her. She was positively smitten. When he was around, she wriggled out of my arms and reached up for him. Even her big brother couldn't compete with the lure of this sweet, handsome older boy.

And I was too busy stuffing my face with a third serving of avocado salad to care.

My daughter played non-stop with the triplets. I only saw her when she was hungry, or someone took a toy away from her. Big brother kept himself busy, entertained and mostly out of sight with soccer games outside, and toy guns and an over sized Darth Vader helmet inside.

But I was too busy kicking back a cosmopolitan and talking politics to notice.

We didn't even mind the two girls staying up and whispering back and forth hours after everyone else had fallen asleep.

It was a fun, fattening, relaxing Shabbat for us all. I especially loved visiting a new synagogue and hanging out at the playground where I got to see the other Skokie Girls out of their natural habitat: minivans.

On Tuesday, my husband starts his Summer jobs as a research assistant and a teaching assistant for the international LLMs. He'll also be taking a class in Negotiations.

I'm trying to stay optimistic. It won't be so bad. He'll work set hours, and one class won't be too taxing. After all, who knows more about negotiations than the father of elementary school kids? Maybe after this class we'll have a prayer.

On Tuesday we're also expecting the coming of the cicadas. This has been the big buzz in Chicago this week. Brood X emerges every 17 years to terrify squeamish housewives.

The cicadas will be coinciding with Shavuot, the Festival of Weeks. It is one of the most important Jewish holiday, in that it commemorates God giving the Jewish people the Torah. It is our crowning, defining moment. And how do we celebrate it? Think of a disproportionately lactose intolerant people on a cheesecake binge, and you'll get the idea.

I personally love Shavuot. I've been a vegetarian since I was 12 years old, so I know a thing or two about preparing dairy meals. This year I'll be forgoing the traditional lasagnas, blintzes, and cheesecakes for Salmon en Croute, stuffed roasted peppers, and a chocolate and chili oil tart, assuming I can find a kosher chili oil. I may have to infuse my own.

I will not be staying up all night to learn.

I'm actually quite excited about cooking tomorrow. My husband will be home to help out. He's even planning on taking the kids out to the park, so I can cook without having to stop what I'm doing every ten minutes to pull my child off the piano, or the dining room table, or the tops of bookshelves.

And maybe I'll even take a nap.

Without a helmet.

Sssshhhhhhh!

Big day

Birthdays are a big deal to little kids. The presents, the cake, and being the center of attention are some of the highlights of their lives. While I'm not ready to shell out for a Titanic-themed mega event, I do my best to make my children's birthdays special.

What could be more special than a ballet birthday for my new five year old? I invited all of the girls from her nursery school, and the girls from her ballet class as well to a party at her dance school. I ordered a beautiful chocolate cake with white frosting and pink and lavender flowers, not purple, but lavender. And I brought pretzels, crackers, hummus, fruit, juice boxes, water, and some lovely flower lollipops for the goody bags.

I also picked up cards, envelops, and stickers for the girls to decorate for mother's day.

The whole event was planned: 45 minutes of dancing, 25 to 30 minutes for cake and snacks, and 15-20 minutes to make cards. From the moment we arrived to set the party up, I knew my plans were about to go down the drain.

As I set up the fruit platters and gift bags, my birthday girl tore into the cards and stickers. Girls began drifting in early, and were drawn to the crafts table like little butterflies to flowers. Instead of the neat, mother's day cards with a pretty sticker accent that I had envisioned, the girlie-girls plastered every square inch of their cards with as many stickers as they could fit, and then a few more for good measure. I nearly fainted as $30 of stickers disappeared before even half of the girls had arrived.

Once a plurality of the girls had arrived, we marched into the dance studio, and I sat back to watch a dozen or so nursery school girls transformed into princesses, fairies, and ballerinas. Sort of. The birthday girl became a ballerina butterfly princess fairy.

This was her party, and she ruled it with a satiny fist. She led the dancing, and her ladies-in-waiting followed her lead. I watched slightly confused. Was she having fun? Was she bored? It was hard to say. Her expression was enigmatically serious.

After a while, I stopped worrying. Birthday girl was merely taking her party hostess duties very seriously, and what could be more important than leading the procession?

Girls in dresses and tutus followed her in a little Congo Line, looking equally absorbed.

All but baby sister. She danced to her own little rhythms. The baby who has spent months peering in at her big sister learning to plie and leap, had to be content with her role as observer. At last, she had the opportunity to participate.

And she did. The "Most Non-Fragile Baby in the World" danced here.

And she danced there.

With a scarf or a beanbag in hand, she danced everywhere. And occasionally, she would run to mommy's arms for a quick hug, before rejoining the fray.

Halfway through the dancing segment, the birthday girl attempted to lead the Conga Line out the door of the studio, into the room with the birthday cake. I had to lead her back in saying, it's not quite time for that yet!

Five minutes later, she asked again. "Is it time for cake yet?"

A few minutes later, she was a bit more demanding. "I'm hungry NOW!" And with that announcement, we cut the dancing short and allowed my daughter to lead the line back towards the cake. Her friends followed eagerly.

My dear cousin and I served the crackers, pretzels and fruit as fast as we could. "I want grapes!" Demanded one princess. "I want strawberries!" Bellowed another. "Where's my water?" Shouted another. The two of us ran circles around the table trying to meet the demands of the precocious guests. Finally, their demands satisfied, and eerie silence fell over the table as over a dozen pint-sized girls inhaled their snacks.

And then the demands began again. "Pretzels!" Shouted one. "Crackers!" Came another, and three different calls for grapes came at us in stereo.

It was time for desperate measures...the birthday cake.

By the time it was all over, a dozen or so girls dwindled out with goodie bags in hand, chocolate cake goatees on chins, and handmade mother's day cards plastered with stickers and sticky with icing, ready to be lovingly delivered to mom.

And where was the law school dad during the festivities?

Sequestered at home, reading 400 pages of cases for the law review writing competition.

When we got home, the party was ancient history. The more pressing issue was opening the birthday presents. Heavenly Polly Pockets, dreamy barbies, and a cuddly Cabbage Patch doll led to fits of excitement, swoons, of delight, and a particularly adorable call of:

"Okay, okay! Let's calm down now!" from a deliriously happy little birthday girl. She looked at my husband and I, puzzled, as we split our sides laughing at such mature words coming from our sweet half-pint.

The party may not have gone exactly as planned, but it was a rousing success nonetheless.

And with the last present opened, we were ready to put the Spring birthday season to bed.

I couldn't have asked for a better Mother's Day.

One down (Happy one year blog anniversary!)

An English friend once told me, "buses come in fives." I'm happy to say, we are enjoying a spate of metaphorical public transportation right now. The buzz of activity and celebration has taken the edge off of the end-of-semester tribulations. My Skokie girl would say I was being an "Eeyore", but I'm secretly bracing myself for the last bus to pass. In the meantime, I'll try my best to enjoy the respite.

My husband finished his last exam yesterday. He is no longer a 1L, and I am almost a third of the way through my "widowhood". It's a relief for us both. The strain of the final exams has been brutal on us. The late nights and the stress have taken their toll on my weary hubby, and I have been left holding down the fort and its wild inhabitants. We've been exhausted and snarky with each other and the children, which, as any parent knows, makes things worse.

Children are like ocean coral; they are extremely sensitive to the atmospheric conditions. When mom and dad are feeling stress and pressure, the kids sense it and feed off of it. At least mine do. When my kids are acting out and being particularly contrary, it's usually a reflection of my own grumpiness and impatience.

It's the parenting Catch-22.

Fortunately, I'm seeing the first bus pull into the station. My daughter's month-long birthday celebrations are rolling along happily. On Monday, I brought miniature cupcakes to her nursery school for an in-class celebration.

It was surprisingly beautiful and moving, thanks to her wonderful teachers. We were treated to a special birthday story time and songs, but the best part, for me at least, was seeing all of the beautiful birthday cards the children made for my daughter. And as her teacher read them aloud, my eyes became moist, and I felt a small lump in my throat.

I took the packet of homemade cards and promised myself I'd keep them tucked away to share with her years from now, when she'll be able to appreciate the love and effort her friends put into celebrating the wonderful little person she is.

That night was ladies' karaoke night at the pizza place. A couple of my Skokie girls met up with a fellow law school widow, and we let our maternal inhibitions loose. We sang our hearts out, we danced a bit, and we laughed like lunatics at ourselves and each other. I can't remember the last time laughter poured out of me so freely. We were Orthodox "Girls Gone Wild".

We cleared the joint singing "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun", and I'm quite certain I pulled something trying to sing that far above my paltry range. I flubbed Journey's "lights", and did a stirring rendition, if I may say so myself, of Nick Lowe's "Cruel to be Kind", a song clearly written to reflect my own motherly ambivalence.

It's been a while since I've laughed like that. I struggle to see the comedy behind the mishaps and inanity of our daily lives. I am wickedly jealous of moms who still have their sense of humor intact.

I may not be able to laugh at my family, but my husband and I did get to enjoy a good guffaw at the expense of Chicago's incompetent tooth fairy again. On Monday, my son came home with another lost tooth. He slipped it under his pillow that night, and in the morning, I heard his high-pitched consternation.

"Mom!" He shouted across the apartment. "The tooth fairy forgot again!"

I shouted back as I scrambled to find a dollar bill to shove under a couch pillow, Did you check your sister's pillows? You know those Chicago tooth fairies!

My son knowingly rolled his eyes, and said, "Mom, I know the tooth fairy is you or dad!" But moments later, he found the four quarters I'd managed to scrounge, and came running into our room. "The tooth fairy left the money under the sofa this time!" I tried to hide my smile behind a look of surprise.

My husband was planning on taking his last self-scheduled exam on Tuesday, to give himself a day to recover before tackling the writing competition for law review. In anticipation, I had invited over one of my Skokie girls and her husband for a celebratory Mexican food fiesta. She came over Tuesday morning to help me make a flan and veggie enchiladas. As we melted sugar and chopped vegetables, I anxiously watched my husband sitting at the desk studying. When are you going to campus?

"I don't feel quite ready," he admitted. "I think I'll take it tomorrow."

Oh, I muttered, trying to hide my disappointment. That's probably for the best. Silently I fumed. There goes the relaxing evening and my help in the kitchen!

As I predicted, that afternoon was mayhem. My husband studied and napped while I broiled poblano peppers for chiles rellenos, made a tortilla soup, and whipped up a spicy homemade salsa. I watched aghast as my daughters left their toys strewn about the living room I had so meticulously cleaned for our guests. Thank goodness for the new slide the unbeatable Tia Mirth sent for Attila the Toddler's birthday.

And in the midst of this chaos, my son came home and proceeded to lose another tooth.

Maybe you should put it under my pillow. I suggested feeling quite smug at my cleverness. Maybe the tooth fairy will put the dollar under your pillow this time! I silently vowed not to screw up again.

My Skokie girl and her husband showed up promptly. I put her to work peeling the poblanos, put the husbands to work setting the table, and glanced down with embarrassment at the guacamole-stained shirt I'd worn all day. I should go and change, I muttered to my friend.

"Don't bother!" Her husband said with exasperation. "I can't tell you how many outfits my wife changed out of before coming." The guacamole-stains stayed put. I barked out instructions for my husband to make margaritas, extra strong.

With dinner finally ready, we relaxed at the table and gorged ourselves on greasy, spicy, tasty Mexican food and icy, tangy, sweet margaritas. Our guests regaled us with hilarious stories of marriage, children, and Mexican honeymoons gone terribly wrong. And as the cool margaritas coursed through my digestive tract, we played a complicated game of cards, and I felt the week's tensions oozing out of my body.

Sleep came easily for me, although I could sense my husband's rising anxiety over his final exam.

The next morning, I awoke with a jolt, hearing a familiar call.

"Mom! The tooth fairy forgot again!"

Mazal Tov!

There is nothing like joyous occasions to recalibrate our lives, and thankfully, we've had many to celebrate this week. My husband finished his third exam, and has one to go. He's planning on taking it on Tuesday, and I'm planning to commemorate the completion of his first year of law school San Antonio style, with a big grito and a Mexican fiesta!

Well, not much of a fiesta. We're having another couple over for Margarita's and my special Combo Plate #3: Chiles rellenos, veggie enchiladas with tomatillo sauce, and veggie fajitas with homemade salsa, a side of tortilla soup, and guacamole. iArriba!

And because we're old, boring parents with three kids who will be sleeping when the guests arrive (please, God!), we'll be playing cards. It's a far cry from my younger, wilder days, but I'm not the party animal I used to be, either. A night of drinking, dancing, and carousing would near kill me. A night of eating, card playing, and talking about little league is about all my tired, old body can take. Sadly.

Today we had a most wonderful excuse for high caloric consumption and celebration: my dearest dancing diva's 5th birthday! I made a special Cuban Shabbat dinner for her. Arroz con pollo, black beans, fried plantains, and a sinfully delicious chocolate oatmeal cake with coffee frosting.

Gifts have been arriving for several weeks already. A gorgeous turquoise blue dress from one Grandma, a complete ballet ensemble with a purple tutu from the other grandparents, and her absolute favorite toy in the world, Polly Pockets, from the perfectly mirthful Tia Mirth. For those of you with a dearth of five year old girls, Polly Pockets are the toy of choice for the kindergarten crew. They are teeny-tiny soft rubber dolls with even teenyer-tinyer accessories, like shoes, purses, and microscopic jewelry. They are the bane of mothers with toddlers. Ever since my birthday girl received her treasured gift, she has been playing a game of cat-and mouse with her baby sister, trying to play with her Polly Pockets while keeping them away from Attila-the-Toddler.

Daddy also came home with gifts for his princess: a Dora tennis racquet with matching pink tennis balls. The birthday girl was thrilled with her "tennis set". I was a bit put off with the fact that Dora's face was on either side of the tennis ball. Perhaps it's Dora's striking resemblance to my future Shahar Peer. It seems a bit morbid to be whacking poor Dora upside the head.

He also got her Easy-Bake Oven accessories. She looked adorable in her apron, baker's hat, and oven mitten. She was also excited about the small silicone baking pans her daddy picked out. Only, there was one small problem: She doesn't have the Easy-Bake Oven they accessorize. "What?" her clueless Daddy asked. "She needs the oven?"

In case I forget: Thank you, Abuela, for the check. Your great granddaughter will love her Easy-Bake Oven.

The birthday girl received a phone call from her uncle in Minnesota. "What would you like for your birthday?" He asked.

"A Barbie toothbrush!" She answered brightly.

Birthdays drag on for weeks in our family. On Monday I'll be bringing cupcakes to her nursery school for an in-class party. Friday is her Hebrew birthday, and we'll certainly commemorate it in a small way. On Mother's day, she'll have her "official" birthday party at her ballet school. A dozen or more little ballerinas will be flitting and twirling about in their pink, sparkly tutus.

I'm not much of a girly-girl, but I can't wait. There is something so magical and sweet about little girls living out their ballerina fantasies. Perhaps it's the knowledge that it won't last forever. Soon they'll grow into pouty, jaded, edgy teenagers, and the days of barbies, pollies, and tutus will be replaced by snarkier, snider role models. I'm not sure I relish the metamorphosis. In the meantime, I will endeavor to enjoy her dreamy innocence for as long as it lasts.

The most exciting celebration this week is the birth of my new niece! My big sister was thoughtful enough to give birth to her second child, a tiny little black-haired beauty, in the hours before Shabbat, so that I could enjoy the good news. I wish a lifetime of happiness, good health, blessings, and naches to my sister, my brother-in-law, and my nephew. May this new light bring your family joy and pride. Hamza, hamza, mashallah!

And of course, Happy Lag B'Omer to all!

Laissez les bon temps rouler (slowly)!