Fast lane

I have not eaten or drunk a thing since 24 hours ago. Today is a Jewish fast day, but of course, the name is terribly misleading. The last hour has slowed down to a crawl. I am all of the things you'd expect: hungry, thirsty, tired, achy headed, and of course, grumpy. Thankfully, these days of deprivation only occur a few times a year.

Today is a day of intense mourning, Tisha B'Av, the ninth day of the Jewish month of Av. In a few months, it will be a day of intense introspection, Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Some years I really feel like I get it. The discomfort focuses my thoughts in a spiritual direction. Today isn't one of those days. The timing is bad.

It is hard to focus my mind on great big losses: the holy temples in Jerusalem several thousands of years ago, my ancestors fleeing Spain five hundred years ago. I am thoroughly embarrassed to say where my mind has been, what loss it has been pondering.

Yep, Harry Potter.

I can't begin to comprehend the power those books have had over millions of people, children and adults alike, throughout the world. But I've been sucked in, too. I was one of those millions pacing back and forth, peering out my window, waiting for the delivery truck to bring me book 7 on Saturday afternoon. Had J.K. Rowling not planned a Friday evening release, I could actually picture myself as one of the goofy masses lined up outside the bookstores at midnight. Instead, I could only wait to receive it with my regular mail. Even then, I couldn't really, technically open the package until after sundown.

Suffice it to say, I devoured the tome in record time. I ignored my children, grunted at my husband, and physically found myself completely incapable of pulling my nose out of the darn book. I wasn't disappointed. At least not too much. J.K. Rowling tied up many loose ends, and left a bit too much to my imagination, but it was certainly a satisfying read.

And now I'm going back for a slower, more leisurely read, to catch the things I may have missed in an effort to not be prematurely exposed to nasty spoilers. My brain is telling me this is a ridiculous waste of time when I have so much other stuff to do, but a guilty pleasure is a guilty pleasure. Mea maxima culpa.

The main thing I should be spending my time on is preparing for my new job. As of labor day, I will be the new physical education instructor at an all girls orthodox Jewish elementary school. I haven't taught young 'uns in years, so I'm starting to plow through my old materials and organize my thoughts and ideas. It's a daunting, but exciting task. On a lofty level, I'm looking forward to the opportunity to change children's' and parents' perceptions of fitness and health. On a baser level, I'm happy to be playing with kids again for a living.

It's not much of a living. Private schools notoriously don't pay well, plus I'm part time. But it will keep me busy, active, and out of trouble. I predict a fair bit of stress the first year, as I scramble to remember all of my physical education stuff, and I get my lesson plans and equipment organized. But I also predict my general mood and outlook will improve. I haven't done too well as a stay-at-home mom. It's been a lot harder than I assumed it would be.

I suspect it will be better for my kids, as well. They'll all be in full-time school/day care programs. Thankfully, my children flourish in busy, organized, structured environments. In other words, not at home. This summer, my baby has been in a three day a week camp program at her day care. For the first few weeks, she clung to me like saran wrap to saran wrap. "I wan' Mommy!" she'd howl for several minutes, as I tried to disentangle her from my legs. Today she runs in without looking back. I stand by the doorway with her two siblings trying to say goodbye, but we don't even merit a glance back these days. It's better that way.

We're not so different, my children and I. we need to have a plan, an organized day, and a purpose. Doing dishes, laundry, and grocery shopping have kept me busy enough each day, but they don't quite cut it for me as a lifetime objective. Anyway, I'm more productive when the time is limited. I'm far more focused when I don't have all day to get things done.

Like read Harry Potter.

Or dive into the depths of my soul.

Half an hour to go till the end of the fast...

Welcome mat

The welcome mat is getting plenty of use this week. It started off with a surprise visit from a friend I had not seen since my son was a couple of years old. I, regrettably, forgot to take pictures, but it was such a treat dragging him around my small world, feeding him my provincial cuisine, and catching up on old friends. It was an especially joyous visit, as he had recently been married, and I got to bask in his warm, happy glow. I particularly enjoyed the looks I got, a short orthodox Jewish woman with a scarf on her head walking around town with a tall, thin Chinese man. My daughter's day care teacher asked me, in Hebrew, if he was, "the father of my child". No, I smiled. He's a friend, I said, using the term that connoted more than just friendship. I mean a friend. I corrected myself, with a laugh, using the term that connoted more than acquaintanceship.

It was a wonderful visit from a different lifetime. I marvelled, as we strolled around my neighborhood, down memory lane, that we had changed so much, me more than he, as I had become a parent of three exhausting, energetic, wonderful kids, and a bit of a religious nut. We talked, briefly, about his own thoughts on becoming a father. I look forward to the visit, after that occurs, when I see what's become of my dear old friend once he's immersed in parenthood. I suspect he'll still be the same, sweet, laid back, warm and wonderful friend I've known for a few different lifetimes; just more tired.

That visit was followed with a long planned, and even longer anticipated visit from a San Antonio Sistah. One of my dearest, bestest friends in the the world came for a two and a half day whirlwind tour of Chicago. We checked out as many kosher restaurants as we could cram into that time. Kosher candy stores, museums, parks, and art galleries were the major stopping points of our agenda.

I had the whole trip planned out, but as happens when dealing with children and workaholics and unpredictable weather, and a devastatingly dippy hostess, most of the plans went awry. The idea was to drop the kids off at camp and let my husband pick them up so we could spend time at the Art Institute of Chicago. Unfortunately, I was experiencing a potent bout of ditziness, and I couldn't find our car parked directly in front of our home. I left my husband several panicked voice messages as we wandered around the neighborhood for thirty minutes, only to find it parked where it always is. At this point, it was too late to take the baby to camp, so we dropped off the big kids at their camp, and dragged the baby with us on a tour of Kosher Chicago. My husband had too much work to do, so our downtown visit was cut too short for the trip to the art museum.

But even that slight disappointment couldn't dampen the excitement of being with my best friend, talking like nary a day had passed between us. We rushed back to my neighborhood to pick up the kids, and took them out for pizza. After everyone was bathed and sent to bed, we left my husband at home to get more work done and we slipped off to see the latest Harry Potter movie. Giggling like little school girls in the dark theatre, smiling at the much anticipated funny bits, and grimacing at the changes from the original text, we picked up everything, right from where we left it off. For a few hours, I was home again.

The next day, I packed up the kids' lunches in their camp bags, and prepared to take them to the park where they were spending their summer. One look out the window, and we knew it was time for another change of plans. Summer camp in the city parks aren't well suited to rainy days, so we dragged the kids along for our second attempt at an art museum visit. The kids managed pretty well for the first hour, but they were getting hungry and grumpy; so I left my artistically talented friend to take in the exhibit on her own, while I found a place to feed my kids in the museum. I hadn't realized how big the Art Institute was. We drifted through Egyptian, Greek, and Asian art exhibits. We lingered over swords and armor, gawking at halberds and pikes, while the baby got hungrily restless.

Finally, we made our way out to the gardens. The sun had emerged from behind the dark grey cover. We wiped down a marble bench covered in a pool of rain water, and munched on our impromptu picnic, while the baby chased butterflies. After a short while, my friend emerged, glowing from the thrill of seeing such exquisite art. I ran the kids in for a potty break while she ate her lunch, as we pressed on, down the Michigan Mile, through Millennium Park, past tempting boutiques, a really cool art space and children's play area called the Art of Play, into a Starbucks and another art gallery, and to the Ghirardelli Chocolate shop where the kids crammed more sweet stuff into their sugar-infused little bodies. I cringed at the nutritional apocalypse I was observing, while my friend smiled indulgently.

We made a couple more detours past the Museum of Contemporary Arts and the Law School, finally heading home to get the kids to bed and prepare a Thai feast. One of the events I was most anticipating about this visit was bringing together my best friend from home and some of my closest friends here. I had planned an exotic menu of a vegetarian tom yum soup with coconut milk and lemongrass, two spicy and sweet curries, Panang and green, a vegetarian pad thai, jasmine rice, and the piece de resistance, a chocolate tofu pie.

Unfortunately, I was having too much fun dragging my friend and my children around downtown Chicago to pay attention to anything as mundane as the time. By the time I got home, I had left myself a mere two hours to whip up this complex repast and get my children to bed. I flew into action while my dearest friend kept her adoring "nieces and nephew" entertained. Any plans I had for showering or cleaning up the apartment flew out the window when my husband arrived home late; with the guests, in fact. I immediately put him to work, getting the kids to bed, while I put the finishing touches on my piquant soup, and the starting touches on my pad thai, leaving my friend to play hostess.

An hour later, we were enjoying a fragrant and sinus-clearing meal, and playing our favorite card game. As much as we missed my San Antonio Sistah's husband, it was a nice twist, like kosher Thai food: an exotic refashioning of a long standing tradition.

The guests have all gone now, the kids are in bed, and my husband is trudging along in the library. I could get melancholy, but there's too much to look forward to: the new Harry Potter book being delivered to my door this weekend and a trip back to San Antonio with my kids in August. Most of my family will be there to show off new babies, and to see how much the old ones have grown.

Mom, dust off the welcome mat for us all. I'll bring the chocolate tofu pie!

Requiem for a diet

We're at the halfway point of summer, and my diet is officially dead. After subsisting off of vegetables, nonflavored yogurts, and string cheeses, and not losing a single pound, I decided I'm much happier with my cookies, ice cream, and pizza, thank you very much. I'll try to slip in a salad every once in a while, but I'm a much pleasanter person when chocolate is one of my major food groups.

But I'm not totally disregarding my health and well-being. In fact, I started jogging four mornings a week about a month ago. I'm completing around four miles each day at a staggering eleven minute mile pace. I'm not going to win any races, and, truth-be-told, I'm not actually losing any weight this way, either, but I remain optimistic. The smart thing to do would be to combine the diet with the exercise, but if you're anything like me, and you find your appetite spiking once you've begun exercising, you'll immediately recognize the major flaw in that plan. There's only so much satisfaction one can gain from a carrot stick dipped in hummus.

One thing I have noticed about my exercising self is that my creative juices are flowing more freely. It's a good thing, too. Just three weeks ago I began taking a writing workshop through the Chicago Parks district. I've never been much of a writer, and prior to the Law School Widow endeavor, I only wrote scholarly essays as a University student. Mind-numbingly boring stuff like the Irish Press' Response to James Joyce's Writing, the Role of Practice in Motor Learning, and, yaaaaawn, the Epidemiological Study of the Growth of Obesity Rates in American Youth.

Creative writing? Hardly.

But things have changed. I'm no longer in academia, and I have discovered writing to be the best way to stay connected to friends, family, and oddly enough, myself. So here I am, every week, trying to narrate my life in such a way that my dearest ones will enjoy hearing about it, and trying to extract the deeper meaning of my existence. It's a whole new ballgame. No Framingham Studies to illuminate me, no Richard Ellmann to shed light on how my childhood has shaped me. No secondary sources whatsoever. I'm flying solo.

By accident, I came across this writing class. Figuring I could use a little time to myself to stretch out those mental muscles, I signed up. It's been interesting. The instructor is a dynamic, charismatic African American woman who has a life story worthy of a saga. We are given specific instructions to write characters, scenes, scenarios, and always we are asked countless questions. "How are you going to show that to your reader?" She pries. "How do we know? Where's this going?"

I found that my legs had lost any spring or flexibility they may have had at one time, when I started jogging again. I plodded along, willing my legs to keep moving. But they felt like lead, and when I got home, I was simply wiped out. Slowly, they're starting to respond to my entreaties. Keep moving! I demand of them. A little longer! I coax. Don't give up on me! I beg them. And little by little, my legs are cooperating. I can't convince them to move any faster, but they are holding on for the longer distances. I actually bamboozled them into a six mile run yesterday. Of course, they're making me pay for it today.

My brain is experiencing the same kind of rude awakening, as I force it to imagine and describe a story of my own making. While I jog along, waiting for my legs to unclench, my brain is undergoing the same kind of process. It's fighting my efforts to follow a story line to its natural conclusions. What happens if my character does this? I ask my brain. How do we reveal that? I prod. My mind, gummy and stiff from years of misuse, stretches itself slowly and cumbersomely around these problems, while my legs shuffle along, fighting each step. Gradually, they both relax and work more supplely. Compliantly, my muscles give up their resistance, while my mind gives up its secrets.

Summer is reaching its halfway point. My children, in the midst of camp fun, are blissfully oblivious to the impending start of their kindergarten and third-grade years. The baby scarcely realizes she's in for a full week of her day care.

For my husband, nothing has changed. He's painfully aware of every passing moment, as he clambers to do his research and complete his assignments for his Negotiations class.

I'll just be happy to lose a couple of pounds before the days shorten again.

Summer Vacation, part 2

"Summertime, and the livin' is easy."

Yeah right, and so is losing the last ten pounds of your diet.

Maybe once, long ago, in some idyllic time and place, summertime was, indeed, a time to relax, kick back, watch catfish jump (aren't they bottom-feeders?), and work on the tan. The only thing I'm watching jump these days is gas prices. I see the numbers rise and rise each day as I chauffeur three kids to and from two summer camps. I see those intimidating numbers as I race from store to store, trying to complete my errands before it's time for the early pick up.

I have my routine down to a science. The kids are out the door by 9:00 am for my baby's drop off, I head straight to the park for the big kids' drop off, get my errands done in an hour and a half, run home, make a "peana-jelly sanich" for the baby, pick her up, feed her in the car, get her home, put her down for a nap, get stuff done around the house for the next couple of hours until it's time to pick up the big kids.

It's a lot of running around, but I'm enjoying it. I'm getting more time to myself, and the kids are having a ball. The baby has stopped crying plaintively, "I want my mommy", when I leave her at camp. Now she just gives me a "huggy" and a "besito", and runs off to play. The big kids don't even bother with hugs or kisses. They're off and running the moment I park.

Who can blame them? I'm doing the same thing! Once they're signed in, I peel out of my parking space, cackling with glee. I'm freeeeee!

It's hard to believe that only a couple of weeks ago, we were in Wisconsin, spending a couple of days in the Dells, relaxed, laughing, enjoying playing and just being together.


The Dells is an interesting place. It's an entire region dedicated to various types of water recreation: fishing, sailing, and the major source of tourist dollars: indoor and outdoor water parks. In fact, the endless string of hotels and motels all boast expansive, elaborate, and outrageous water slides and rides. We found a hotel with a small indoor park designed for the little ones. The kids played for hours without getting tired or bored. Even the baby enjoyed the zero depth water, and gentle slides.

She was fearless running through the spitting turtles and spraying dolphins, but she always checked to see that daddy was nearby...just in case.

I am hard-pressed to remember my kids having a better time in their lives. It reminded me of my family vacations when I was young. Trips to South Padre Island or Miami Beach were heaven for me. The freedom of playing in water for hours was almost as wonderful as having my Daddy around to jump on, swim with, and hang on to.

I saw the same bliss in my kids' faces.

The next day, we took the kids to an amusement park, Mount Olympus. We were told that it had the best rides for little ones, and we weren't disappointed. The girls were too short for most of the rides, but we found plenty to do.

The boys made a bee-line for the go-karts. My son looked nervous, but thrilled tearing down the track with his daddy. The girls anxiously waited and watched. They wriggled impatiently, waiting for a turn of their own.

We found plenty to do in the "Little Heroes" section of the park. Airplane rides, big swings, and spinning teacups kept the girls and their big brother happily entertained.



More than anything, they wanted to ride the giant log-ride with their daddy. I was hesitant. They'll be terrified when it gets to the top! I pleaded. "It will go by too fast for them to be scared." My husband reasoned. I wasn't convinced. Let's see if they can handle the kiddie roller coaster first.

To my delight, they managed the kiddie roller coaster just fine. But I still wasn't sure they were ready for such a big, grown-up ride as the log-ride, a roller coaster in water that begins deceptively, as a gentle boat ride through a calm channel, until it reaches the steep incline where it ascends and ascends slowly to a ridiculous height, and then plunges the riders almost straight down into the splash pool below.

Decades ago, such daring rides would have thrilled me. I used to love the highest, fastest, scariest roller coasters I could find. Today they make me sick and terrify me. I'm ambivalent about my children's new found fearlessness. I want confident, brave kids, but I want them to be safe and smart, too. Am I asking too much?


While I worked up some nerve, I sent my family on some more docile rides: bumper boats, kiddie go karts, and, of course it wouldn't be the Wisconsin Dells without water slides. Once again, the kids wanted the biggest, fastest, and highest rides. I hesitated with my usual worry: they'd get to the top and panic, but their daddy reassured me they'd be just fine. I sat at the bottom, anxiously awaiting my hubby and the two kids shooting down the end of a mammoth slide. I fully expected to see white-faced terror on my kids' faces, but ten minutes passed, and I didn't see them coming down. Did the kids panic? Did they change their minds?

After another five minutes, my very disappointed looking daughter, came over to me. "I wasn't big enough." She pouted. Aaaw, I'm sorry. Next summer! I responded hopefully, while inside, all I could think was, Thank goodness! My hubby ran back up the ten story-high structure to catch up to our son. I waited and waited again. Finally, they came careening down the windy shoot with great big smiles on their faces. I was so proud of my big boy, who immediately went racing off to...

Ride the racing slides? Are you nuts??!!!

"He did it before while I took his sister back down!" My husband responded incredulously. The racing slides were six water slides that must have been three stories high, and came down at a fast slope. My sweet seven year old baby couldn't possibly have come flying down that death trap!

Could he?

I ran over there to see it with my own eyes, ready to whisk him off in case he needed his mommy for comfort and security. Finally, I saw him at the very top, clutching his rubber mat, next to a line of adults and a bigger kid. He looked so small, so vulnerable. I was terrified for him, but I clutched my camera and got ready to make a record of his gutsy ride. The lifeguard at the top motioned for them to start, I started the camera rolling. I watched as the grown-ups in the lane next to him flew down the watery slides. My son jumped down, headlong toward the bottom, but his 52 pound frame as far too light to pick up much speed. He came down grinning from ear-to-ear, and stopped two-thirds of the way down, unable to get enough momentum to finish the ride. I stifled a giggle, and ran to him, beaming with pride.

The funniest sight of the day had to be the kiddie go karts. They were designated for 5 and up, but my 5 year old was not too experienced a driver, yet. Try as she might, she had a tough time steering the car, but she didn't seem to mind, even as her big brother went zipping past her.

The kids spent another thirty minutes at the outdoor kiddie water slides, and then we decided to start the four hour journey back to Chicago. But they weren't about to be dissuaded. "You promised we could ride on the log-ride!" They reminded me. I reluctantly gave in.

We waited and waited and waited in a line that didn't move. It didn't take long to discover the culprit: the boats kept stalling out at the bottom of the incline. My children were so eager to go on the ride, they begged their daddy to stay in line and see if the problem could be fixed, but after half an hour, with rain clouds forming over head, we decided to forgo the log-ride and go home.

My disappointment surprised me. As much as I wanted to spare my kids the feeling of dread I was certain they'd experience at the top of that great big drop, I sensed how important it was for them to be so brave. I couldn't have been more proud of kids and their derring-do, or derring-almost-done.

It's hard to believe that just a couple of weeks ago, we were so carefree and relaxed. Today we're back to running around like hamsters in a rodent wheel. My husband is busy with his summer research assistanceships and his Negotiations class, and I'm back driving the family "limo" to and fro.

Even though my routine hasn't changed much from springtime, summer just feels different. there's no homework to force my son to do, I'm not even pushing him to practice piano, although I suspect I should. Heck, I even bought the kids chocolate pudding for their camp lunches! Something strangely indulgent and permissive has gotten into me. Maybe it's those extra couple of hours I have to myself three days a week. Maybe the feeling of summer camp freedom is rubbing off on me.

I'm schlepping as much as ever, and the last ten pounds still won't come off. But it's summertime, and goodness, sake, the livin' should be easy, at least for kids.