Summer Vacation, part 1

The kids start summer camp on Monday. Even the baby is going, three days a week, for two and a half hours. It's not a lot, and after I finish driving everyone back and forth, I'm left with less than two hours each day for myself. But it's something. A moment I can carve out for myself each week to exercise, write...aaaw, who am I kidding? I'll spend that time cleaning, doing laundry, and grocery shopping. But, that's okay. What's more important than what I do with my time, is the quiet time I have inside my head. I cherish time to think uninterrupted, or just lose myself in thought, and with three bright, and brightly verbose little ones around, there's precious little silence in my life.

I didn't mind it so much this past week, when we were all together on a family vacation. We kicked off our week driving my mother-in-law back home to Minnesota. It was a seven hour trip that lasted eight and a half, thanks to small bladders. But it was lovely and boisterous good fun. On one of our many potty breaks, we stopped in a small town that was straight out of a picture book. Even the name had a quaint ring: Delafield. Of the field of green grass and perfectly manicured gardens, and lakes, and small shops.

Upon our arrival to the twin cities, we stopped, as is our custom, at our favorite kosher restaurant in Minneapolis, Little Tel Aviv, to a genuinely warm welcome from the owner, and a delicious meal. Our bellies full, and our tushies completely squashed from close to ten hours of sitting, we went to my mother-in-laws, and collapsed with exhaustion.

The next few days were nirvana. My husband, the three kids, and I enjoyed a whirlwind of activity, occasionally with my husband's mom along for the fun. And it was great fun. Mostly I got to sit back and watch the kids play, explore, discover, and learn, in the loving and approving glow of their daddy.

On the first day, we went to ComoTown, the kiddie amusement park in St. Paul's beautiful Como park. It was not surprising to anyone that the baby fearlessly rode every ride on which she was allowed. She rode the "choo choo choo" once with mommy, and once with daddy. She rode the "horse and buggy",

the "race cars", the "jalopies", and the boats, which were all, in fact, the same exact ride, with different vehicles.

She didn't mind. She felt like such a big kid, sitting by herself, turning the wheels, and even following the important safety instructions without too much trouble.

She was happiest riding with her big brother and sister.

They had their own fun on the "big kid" rides, like the "fire brigade" where big brother fought the ferocious flames, and little sister drove the truck. It was the blissful, if somewhat deceptive, image of family harmony.

But nothing was as moving, and as special, as visiting their grandfather's (of blessed memory) most famous work of art: the sculpture of F. Scott Fitzgerald at the Rice Park in St. Paul. It was a heartening and touching opportunity to connect with the grandfather my son had only begun to know, and my girls' had not been blessed to meet. Somehow, it was more tangible, more insightful, and more stirring than a visit to gravesite could ever be.

My children seemed to implicitly understand that their grandpa's hands were directly laid on this work of art, this labor of love.

The next stop on our family vacation was another slice of their family history: their daddy's first job, at the Science Museum of Minnesota, where he spent the better part of ten years teaching innovative science programs to young kids.

The location had changed, and only a name or two were familiar to my husband, but he seemed particularly proud to show us the sights. The kids especially loved the broadcasting booth, where they got to ham it up in front of the camera, mugging, smiling, and being as silly or serious as their hearts desired.

The baby was a few years below the museum's target age, but it didn't phase her in the least. She explored exhibit after exhibit taking in the sights and sounds and feel of it all.

Together my children wandered the big, full, fascinating halls and explored lights,

and shadows,

and the great outdoors.
The next day, law school man stayed home to work, so we went with "Granma Tootin" to the Minnesota Children's Museum, which was built with our baby 'Roo in mind. She especially loved the Curious George exhibit, made for her curious eyes and curious hands. She did her best monkey impression "Ooh ooh! Aah aah!", and explored every square inch of the space, including George himself, who got special scrutiny.

Lest one worries about how the big, mature, science-oriented kids handled such a toddler-friendly environment, let me put your worries to rest. They did just fine.

Granma Tootin did, too.

After days of dragging the kids from one sight to the next, my mother-in-law treated my husband and I to a real forbidden pleasure: a date night. We ran out the door before she could change her mind, and made a beeline to Little Tel Aviv where we shared a delightful meal, eaten slowly and civilly, unlike most of our crazy, rushed meals. We enjoyed adult conversation. I don't remember a thing we spoke about, but I sense it was deep, and intellectual, and meaningful. At least it didn't have anything to do with diapers, and there were no stern admonitions or withering looks anywhere near our table. At least, not coming from me. I didn't shoosh anyone, or beg anyone to eat one more bite. In other words, it was a genuine mommy's night off.

We followed up the tranquil meal with a sunset walk around Lake Calhoun, and two other lakes that were, unbeknown to us, attached to Lake Calhoun. We walked and walked and walked for miles. After an hour and a half, we began to panic about ever finding our way back again. Our legs were starting to ache, our feet were giving out, but thanks to my husband's ability to maintain more than one thought in his head at one time, we made it back to the car in time to speed off to the movie theatre to catch a flick.

We would have kept the evening going, celebrating the San Antonio Spurs' fourth championship title for a start, but we had reached our limit. I felt like an old fogey, but I had to get some sleep. We got home and found everyone snoozing away. Granma survived the ordeal with the help of a co-babysitter, and by allowing the kids to watch the game. I felt a brief twinge of guilt, but I'm sure she didn't mind having the kids to herself for that night.

The week ended much too quickly, but on a high note: a visit from the kids' uncle, aunt, and baby cousin. My husband's younger brother came up with his wife and new baby to spend some time with us. My kids were so happy to have their uncle and aunt around.

The baby was especially thrilled. She got to be the big cousin, for once. It was bittersweet for us. For one thing, it went by way too fast. Minnesota isn't so far away, but it's a hard trip to make with a full household in tow. But this was as much a goodbye as a hello. My brother-in-law and his family were days away from a big move themselves, to New York, where he and his wife would be doing their medical fellowships for the next two or three years.

New York is a wee bit longer a drive.

I've really grown to appreciate those rare occasions when we're all together. One of the hardest things about moving across country to Chicago has been being so far away from family.

The kids love their family dearly, and it shows. The words, "this is your cousin", removes all traces of distance, shyness, and awkwardness immediately. We'll miss seeing this sweet, big-eyed beauty grow up. But those magic words, "this is your cousin" will always close that gap.

Our all-too-brief trip ended with lots of hugs and kisses. We loaded the van and headed out on our next adventure.

To be continued...