Labor day (the 100th post)

Labor Day, I tried to explain to my inquisitive eight year-old, is the last day of summer, for all intents and purposes. "What does that mean?" He, predictably, asked. Unable to come up with a simpler answer that would satisfy his insatiable mind, I launched into a long-winded, poor description of the seasons, the equinoxes, and the solstices. So you see, although clearly, he did not, the school year begins while it's still technically summer.

This Labor Day marks a bittersweet ending to probably the most wonderful summer in my son's life, so far. For all of us, it marks the beginning of a new chapter. All three kids will be in school full-time. My son starts third grade, my diva starts kindergarten, and the baby goes to full-time daycare. And I am gingerly dipping my toe back into the working world. My husband will be entering the second year of law school.

The summer ended with a flurry activity. Soon after we returned to Chicago, we set about shopping for my son's fourth, and final, birthday party of this summer's birthday season. We dyed the packages of men's t-shirts for the robes, and ruined my landlady's washing machine in the process. We ordered the cake, bought the snacks, and headed to Home Depot for the wooden dowels to make wands.

I convinced an annoyed man-in-an-orange-apron to cut the long dowels into quarters. He protested, explaining that he'd be responsible if he ruined them. They're wands for a birthday party, you can't ruin them. I'd rather some be a little too short and others a little too long, than losing a finger trying to cut them myself! I explained with a smile. He grudgingly obliged. Soon, we had a bag full of wands in need of sanding. As we prepared to leave Home Depot, a large Jewish man with a long beard walked in.

"Don't take your kids out there." He cautioned. "A storm is coming any minute, but it will pass in ten minutes." We looked at him curiously. Storm? What storm? It was beautiful and sunny when we came in ten minutes ago! We walked towards the exit and stood in amazement as clouds quickly gathered in front of us. In seconds, thunder was booming, rain was lashing down, and the wind was thrashing the trees back and forth at the end of the parking lot. The men-in-orange-aprons brought squeegees out and giant fans, trying to fight back the water sloshing into the doorways. I gently pushed the children back into the store as the water drew closer and closer. We stood with a dozen shoppers at the entryway with our mouths gaping. "Someone really pissed off the Lord today!" a loud-voiced woman exclaimed. She repeated herself, when no one responded. We were too dumbstruck.

And just like that, ten minutes later, the turbulent downpour melted into a gentle drizzle. I looked around to thank the mysterious man with the beard, but he was gone.

The next day, my Mother-in-law came, hooded cape in hand, to play the part of Professor Sprout. Together, we picked up some pots of exotic-looking succulents, potting soil, and small pots.

The night before the party, I hastily painted the party hats black, and prepared my signs for Ollivanders Wands, Madame Malkin's Robes, and Gringotts Bank. I typed up a potions recipe, and labelled all of the bottles with sinister sounding names: Bile of Hippogriff liver, Dragon Blood, Essence of Unicorn Blood, etc.

The morning of the party, we loaded up the van, and made several trips to the party site. We set up our Diagon Alley in the basement hallway, hanging robes on the cubby hooks and black party hats in the cubbies. I set up a table with wands (each individually labeled with the type of wood, the type of core, and the length) and glitter and glue for decoration.

We set up the potions class in the basement classroom, and divinations upstairs, while my Mother-in-law set up her Herbology class outside. As we finished setting up, the kids began to trickle in. Chaos ensued.

The party is all a blur to me now. Kids came in, got their robes and their wands, and their chanuka gelt wizarding money. They were all too busy casting "spells" at one another to bother with decorating their wands. One of the prefects I had asked to come didn't show, so we quietly removed the Hufflepuffs from the sorting hat and reshuffled the schedules. The divinations class ran too fast and potions too slow, and in quidditch game was a mad free-for-all. I threw out the golden tennis ball to end the game, and we headed indoors for birthday cake.

All I can say is thank goodness calmer heads than my own prevailed. My Skokie Sistahs and my Mother-in-law were so supremely fantastic as the potions, divination, and herbology professors, and they were equally adept at making sure everyone got their cake, ice cream and anything else needed.

My prefects were equally wonderful, keeping order, and getting the kids to the right place.

I can't say anything worked out exactly as planned. My son decided to be a Ravenclaw when his best friend was sorted into the house of wisdom and wit.

The sweetest kids got sorted into Slytherin,

and the "livelier" bunch into Gryffindor,

and the "bully" who had cast a shadow over my son's first year of school was a last minute attendee. My son didn't even catch the snitch.

But he got his wish and more: a birthday he will always remember, and a surprising new friend.

The robes and wands have finally been put away. After the magic and mayhem of the last week, the excitment of the birthday party has finally died down. As if to formalize the transition into the school year, Grandma Tootin' instituted a new tradition of taking the kids out to buy new school supplies and new outfits, and taking them to lunch. The kids are finally ready for to go back to school...

...even though technically it's still summer.

Home and away

I can't complain because I probably brought it upon myself. I jinxed myself. I gave myself the evil eye. Yes, I did it again.

I should know better than to brag about my good fortune. I should have just kept my big mouth shut about how easy the flight to San Antonio was, because Someone had a good chuckle at my expense on the way back.

To start with, our flight was cancelled.

We were scheduled to fly back to Chicago on Monday afternoon. I had forgotten to check the departure times before we left, so it was no surprise to find the flight had been delayed. My ticket agent was a cheerful young man who reassured me, "I'm almost positive the flight won't be cancelled!" Cancelled? I thought, Who mentioned cancelling the flight? But he seemed confident the delays wouldn't be too bad. He even put us in "executive coach", ignoring my blank stare of cluelessness. Is that good? I whispered to my dad. The boyish ticket agent obligingly handed my parents their security passes, and we marched off through layers of security, removing shoes, emptying pockets, and carrying the baby through the scanner, to the gate.

Two hours later, my sneaking suspicion turned into annoyance, as the gate agent announced the flight had been cancelled. That twerp lied to me! So, we packed up the three kids and the stroller, and trudged back to the ticket counter where a slight, efficient looking man was making vague announcements. "We may re-route a plane from Denver", "We may have more information for you soon", "We may keep you in limbo for the next few hours".

In a few minutes he came back to announce that there would be no plane from Denver. The flight was cancelled. Period. End of story. Tough luck. He then proceeded to make the young woman standing in line behind us, traveling alone with a child, cry. Aaaw! I whispered to my Dad, that wasn't nice. Dad wouldn't hear of it. "People are frustrated" he explained, "tempers are flaring. If you keep your cool, and speak calmly, people will respond in kind. You just have to give them a smile. They're under a lot of pressure right now." Uh huh, I thought.

We got re-ticketed for a flight the next day with no problem. You expect me to travel alone with three small kids through Denver?! So much for calm and smiling. But I got us seats on a direct flight, anyway.

Then we headed down to the baggage claim to pick up our suitcases and car seats, but two of our car seats were missing. What do you mean they're missing? They didn't even make it on the plane!

We went home with a rental.

That evening, it was hard to be grumpy. I got an extra night with my parents, my Abuela, and my way-cool niece and nephew, who were getting ready to go off to college.

I even got my chance to record my grandmother's recollections of Turkey as a young girl.

The next day, I washed a couple more loads of laundry, packed up stuff we'd forgotten, and gave another round of hugs, kisses, and goodbyes.


We went back to the airplane, and stood face-to-face with the ticket agent who the day before made the single mom cry. "Well," he looked suspiciously at my parents' day-old security passes. "I don't normally hand these out, except under extreme circumstances."

I'm traveling alone with three small children. That's pretty extreme. Although I could tell immediately this was something he had never, nor would he ever, experience himself. "Well, he drawled efficiently, I'll go ahead and do it this time, since you already had the passes from yesterday, but I'll need that one," He said, snapping the pass from my mother's hand. "It won't do you any good today."

As he sorted out the passes, I asked him to call downstairs to see if our car seats had shown up. "No." He said, after hanging up with the baggage claim office. "You'll have to keep the loaner. We'll give you a $50 travel certificate." I nodded and rolled my eyes, thinking how useless that would be for me. Then he took a closer look at my tickets. "I see these were purchased with mileage points!" He then proceeded to interrogate me. "Who purchased these tickets for you? What city did they come from? How much did you pay for these tickets?" He demanded.

I stood with my mouth gaping. My sisters and their husbands had pitched in to use their frequent flyer miles to buy the tickets for me and my kids. I didn't know exactly which sibling or brother-in-law had contributed, so I stammered a list of names, where they lived, how we were all related, and the reason for the trip under the glaring eyes of the small, psychotic ticket agent.

In the end he gave me the same, "I'll let it go this time," that he gave my parents about their security passes, "You have to admit it's a bit suspicious" he declared, and waved us off.

My father's ears were steaming. "If I didn't have my grandchildren here, I'd...I'd...that man has issues! He's got a Napoleon Complex!" He sputtered in fury.

So much for just giving him a smile, eh, Dad?


Our trip home was glorious. I love going home. I never feel so loved or appreciated as when I'm seeing my old friends and colleagues. My children feel the same way. We had a birthday party for my son and his old friends.

We invited some of my daughter's friends along, too.

My mom decked out her house in Harry Potter stuff, and I rented a great big castle moonwalk. My son's friends bounced, played, watched some Prisoner of Azkaban and ate birthday cake together, as if no time apart had passed at all.

Unlike Chicago, parents stick around at birthday parties in San Antonio, and for this I am supremely thankful! While my kids reconnected with their dearest friends, I got to reconnect with mine.

Maybe it's just a case of absence making the heart grow fonder, but I really feel like I left the most wonderful place on Earth. Time and time again I heard the same thing. "We really miss you." And I really felt missed. The warmth and love in each greeting filled my soul to the brim.

On the day that was supposed to be our last, I rushed the kids to my old office and to their Dad's to say a quick hello. My former colleagues all asked me when I was coming back, and told me how much I was needed. The kids and I received a special greeting from a woman I consider to be my fairy godmother. I miss your wisdom and advice! I told her. "You can always call me!" She lovingly admonished. And I will.

My visit home to San Antonio was like a visit to a gas station: a fill-up for the soul. I pray the love and warmth that has saturated me will sustain us all through the winter.

We came home to a worn out law school student. He had spent the two weeks interviewing for next summer's internships. The most disconcerting thing about law school is that after your first year you essentially have to know where you're going to be for the next five. During the first summer, law students interview with law firms for the second summer internships. The firms they work for during their second summer are usually the firms they'll work for after graduation.

My hubby has been turning on the charm offensive to full-throttle, and dazzling them with his brilliance and affability. This, of course, means even more interviews and the preparation that goes along with it. Before he's even done with the first round of screening interviews, he's already begun his second round. But he graciously took time to take clean up the apartment, and take me on a date.

There's no light at the end of his tunnel. Classes and his fall externship with the City of Chicago legal department will begin before he's finished with his interviews.

It's hard being back. Being back in Chicago means I'm on my own again with the kids and the apartment. It means getting ready for my new job and my children's school year. It means getting the Hogwarts party in order. I wish I could tell my friends and my family and my colleagues, I really miss you. I really need you, too.

Sometimes, Dad, a smile alone won't do.

Black Hole

My mother's house is a black hole.

Time melts away here like chocolate in the Texas sun. Nature abhors a vacuum, yet, here I am, in my mother's house, a vacuum of time and space, where phone chargers, crucial papers, clothing and toys disappear into nothingness, and time is meaningless. I am in a vacuum where the vacuum cleaner never ceases to run, and items are swept away into drawers, closets, and files, never to be seen again as clutter grows around us. A morass of contradictions.

We've only been here a week. It has been both relaxing, stressful, and invigorating. The trip here was surprisingly easy. I anticipated delays, cancellations, and worse, being stuck on a plane on the tarmac for hours with three excited and tired children. Instead, I was blessed with ease and convenience. My husband was given a security pass to accompany us to the gate. The flight left on time and arrived twenty minutes early. My parents were given a security pass on the receiving end to help me guide my children off the plane. My son even got to visit the cockpit.

My cousins weren't so lucky. But, despite hair-raising travel delays, family from all over the country were soon sucked into to the abyss.

In a couple of days, dozens of siblings, aunts, uncles, tias and tios, cousins, nieces and nephews were lounging around on my mother's soft, squishy couches, eating and eating, and eating great Cuban and Turkish cuisine. Weeks of my abuela's work disappeared in minutes, filling souls and stomachs, hungry for her lovingly made tamales, yaprakes, and borekas.

For several days, we were reunited, a close-knit family separated by years and miles, spun in together, drawn by the gravitational pull of my mom and dad's home and my grandmother's cooking.
Abuela's cooking is an irresistible force, but more than food draws us together. We are drawn to each other out of love and family ties so strong, they often boil up our South Texas passions into fierce battles and fiercer silences.

But this time around, even the battles and silences were wonderful. My kids got to play non-stop with their little cousins, completely uninterrupted, since all of the adults were too busy catching up with each other, and doting on the new baby.


We celebrated some birthdays, a couple of anniversaries, and each other's accomplishments and joys. We criticized each other's weight gains, parenting skills, and fashion sensibilities. The pressure was on for some cousins to settle down, some to have more kids, others to stop having kids.


In short, we celebrated life.


But time moves too quickly in the vacuum. In a flash, it was time to hunt the hidden nooks and crannies of my mother and father's home to find hidden objects, to pack up, and to head back home.


All too quickly, it was time to say goodbye to the people who nourish each other almost as much as they aggravate each other. It was time to kiss and hug the kids who had grown up so fast, knowing they'd again be almost unrecognizable the next time we meet.


As the last of the cousins head back home, we are trying to get together with old friends before our time here runs out, too.

My son turned eight today. We lit some candles on top of a boxed chocolate babka I picked up at the grocery store. San Antonio is no Chicago when it comes to kosher offerings, but in other ways, Chicago is no San Antonio, either.

On a sad note, a dear friend of ours here is fighting cancer. It has been a tough battle, as he and his wife have travelled back and forth between San Antonio and Houston's M.D. Anderson hospital. Their three daughters have stayed here, and the community has pulled together to help out as much as they can. I wish I could do more than offer my prayers and best wishes. Even though I'm not in this community anymore, it's still very much in me.

I had hoped to visit my old colleagues at the university today, and to drop by and visit my husband's old colleagues as well; but San Antonio was on the path of a tropical storm that dropped ten inches of rain in one day. I didn't get out much at all; therefore, my last few days will be a whirlwind, as I try to catch up on the lost time.

My husband is back in Chicago, interviewing with law firm after law firm, for next year's summer internships. He tells me he's missing us, but he sounds relaxed, relieved even, for the peace and quiet. I miss him, but I'm not ready to go back quite yet. There are too many friends to visit and gifts to buy. And I would like, very much, to sit with my Abuela, recorder in hand, asking her to share her memories with me.

When we got here, I thought I'd have so much time to do everything I wanted. But these couches are so soft, and the food is so yummy, and I wouldn't mind one more game of scrabble with my college-bound niece...

Wow! Would you look at the time?

Playing and planning

I need to start packing. In less than two days I'm flying home to San Antonio with my three children. I haven't begun to sort out clothes, toiletries, and activities for the flight. Of course, we aren't leaving until an hour after the kids' bedtime, so toys and games may be completely superfluous. I haven't packed up gifts and stuff for my nieces and nephews and little cousins. I haven't really given a thought to what I'll really need for my big visit back home. I just want to be there already.

I have been distracting myself instead with plans for my son's eighth birthday party. More accurately, I have been going completely insane planning a labor-intensive, ridiculously extravagant party that I will never live up to again. The thought occurred to me one day, and then grew like an invasive foreign weed in my head: Brain kudzu.

My son, like everyone between the ages of four and whatever, loves Harry Potter. He's read the first three books, seen the first three movies, and is halfway through with the fourth book. His wicked mommy won't let him watch the movies until he's completed the books.

He somewhat fancies himself a little Harry Potter. He has the messy black hair, the green eyes, and he lives with hopelessly mugglish people. And his best friend is the most brilliant girl in his class. She's on the seventh book already.

My son's brain is actively working out the challenging bits of Happy Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It's not a book written for a seven year old boy, but he's not daunted. "Mom?" he'll ask me out of the blue, "Why is Draco so mean?" Later, when I'm urging him to get dressed he'll ask me, "Mom? How do they make broomsticks?" And when he's supposed to be brushing his teeth, "How did Harry's name get into the goblet?"

My husband has been reading our daughter the first two books. When my children are not needling and nudging each other, the two of them can be found playing an elaborate game of Harry Potter. My son is Harry, and naturally, his little sister is a mountain troll or a goblin. Once in a while, he'll let her be Hermione.

With Pottermania exploding all around us, even the baby has learned to say "Hermione", it's not surprising that Harry was the first thing to pop into my head when I was thinking about birthday party themes. The first inkling of a thought has multiplied, expanded, and exponentially grown into an elaborate scheme: the Hogwart's party.

It started with an invitation, printed on parchment colored paper with the Hogwarts emblem as the letter head, and the invitation written in green ink. I printed up stickers with a picture of an owl and "delivered by owl" typed on them to seal the envelopes. Then I really got out of hand.

I'm planning to turn a park field house into "Harryland" with a small Diagon Alley, complete with Madame Malkin's Shop where the kids will find men's extra-large black t-shirts cut up the front to serve as robes, an "Ollivanders" wand decorating station, and a "Gringott's Bank" station where each kid will receive a bag of Chanukah gelt. Next will be the "sorting hat". I've printed out stickers with the emblems of the four houses on them: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. The kids will stick their hands in the hat and pick out their house.

I have also recruited a couple of my Skokie sistahs to serve as wizardry "professors" to teach potions (I'm looking for a good recipe for fruit juices and candies) and "divination" (tea leaves, palm readings, and some crazy crystal ball action with a Mickey Mouse snow globe!). I'm going to try to talk my mother-in-law, the garden book author, into teaching "herbology". I'm hoping she'll help me find some exotic looking plants, like Venus flytraps, to rename something sinister, invent a magical property for, and help the kids re-pot.

The piece de resistance is the Quidditch game I'm planning with scooter boards instead of broomsticks, and soft foam balls for bludgers, and two big kids bouncing a yellow tennis ball back and forth for the snitch. Oh, yes, and I've recruited three of my four "prefects", older kids who will be leading the groups from station to station.

No, it's not a seemly way for a grown woman to behave, but this is my son's first birthday party in Chicago. He's been here a full year, enough time to make great friends, and more than enough time to make a few enemies. He really relates to the young wizard, a fellow fish out of water in a new environment. Figuring your allegiance to the Cubs or the White Sox can be as daunting to an eight year old, as deciding between Gryffindor and Slytherin was for Harry. Finding the "right sort" of kids to hang out with, and trying not to make a fool as the new student are themes my son identifies with. I want this party to be special for him.

So I'm scheming and conniving: a snitch-decorated cake, kosher chocolate frogs, and a pinata for the "defense against the dark arts" class. I didn't think of all of these ideas myself. Most of the really good ones came from the internet, but I'm doing what I can with a limited budget, and an even more limited imagination, to give my son a birthday he and his friends will remember.

I hope it will be the right start to a new school year for my sweet little guy.

In the meantime, we're trying to make the best of the remaining few weeks of the summer. Camp ended on Friday with an adorable talent show. The kids performed silly dances with big smiles on their faces. My son even did an amazing breakdance! I'm still kicking myself for not getting it on video. My daughter bounced, hopped, and walked like a little Egyptian. And baby sister watched it all with awe.

Camps only been out for a few days now, but I'm already getting desperate for entertainment for the kids. Thank goodness we'll be in San Antonio in a few days.

On Monday I dragged the poor dears around town running errands. Mostly we shopped for the birthday party. I'm still looking for plastic cauldrons...anybody? We were saved by a call from my son's best friend. "Mrs. Price? Can your son come over for a playdate?" Now? You mean right now? We'll be right over!

And it's not just me. I offered to reciprocate today. The answer was , "Yes, please!" But first, I made my kiddos help me out in the kitchen, drying and putting away dishes and silverware. They were surprisingly enthusiastic. Even the baby didn't want to be left out. Each of them had a dish towel, and I passed them one plastic plate or cup, or one teaspoon at a time. They carefully dried it and gingerly put it away. The whole time I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of this sooner? Of course, the excitement for a new chore fades rapidly. Next time they'll pout and moan their way through this onerous task! "Mom!" I can hear them saying, "it's too hard!"

After the dishes were all put away, we picked up my son's friend and got a pizza. After lunch, I took them to the Kohl's children's museum. It was packed, and all I could do to keep track of all four kids. They ran from exhibit to exhibit, exploring trains,

water,

music,

and theatre.

My drama queen put on a real show.

After the museum, I took the kids down the road to the most beautiful park I've seen in Illinois. It had a water play area, a playground, a garden, a giant sand play area, and a shrubbery maze. The kids splashed around in the 100 degree temperature, and even I walked past the cool mist a couple of times.

The kids had a great day, and frankly, so did I. I didn't mind so much running around trying to keep tabs on all four. They played beautifully together and had a silly, happy, insanely fun day.

They even made me giggle.

When it was time to take our little friend home, she hinted more than once, "I wish we could play longer." I know how she felt. If I could, I'd spend my days planning my son's birthday party, playing in sprinklers, dreaming about being Harry (or Professor McGonagall, in my case), and maybe blogging. But I have a curriculum to devise, classes to plan, and bags to pack.

I just wish I could play longer.

Flight of fancy

I can't remember the last time I flew anywhere with my kids. It may have been a year and a half ago, when my husband and I were visiting law schools and searching for apartments. We took the baby with us, and as I recall, she mostly slept. In a week, I'll be travelling with all three of my angels, on my own. As excited as I am to be going home and seeing my family, I have to say, I'm dreading the flight itself.

When I was growing up, airline trips were probably the most exciting events I could imagine. They meant adventure, seeing exotic and exciting places, eating out a lot, visiting friends and family, getting away. In high school, my best friend and I would drive to the outskirts of the airport watching the planes taking off and landing; and we'd dream of being "anywhere but here". After high school, I took my first transatlantic flights to Israel and Europe. I can still recall the anticipation so real, so sweet, I could taste it as surely as a dark chocolate morsel melting on my tongue.

In graduate school, the novelty was already wearing thin. Most of my flights were to and from fencing competitions. I was anxious to be there, nervous, and often tired. I dreaded delays, or getting stranded in a strange airport. Mostly, I was a poor college kid digging myself deeper and deeper into debt for the glory of competing in an obscure, non-revenue generating sport. Airports were quickly associating themselves with stress.

Now, a mother of three, it's not so much stress as flat-out panic I'm anticipating. I don't fly often enough to be familiar with the security procedures, and I'm trying to figure, logistically, how I'm going to manage with three excited, anxious, curious little ones. The news has been full of horror stories of cancelled flights, or even worse, planes stuck out on the tarmac for eight to ten hours, running out of food, air conditioners off, restrooms clogged. Even a delay of a couple of hours could be unbearable. I'm seriously considering putting the president of the airline's office number in my cell phone speed dial. Is that too extreme?

I'm going home to be with my family, and that's motivation enough to get me on that airplane with my three kids. My parents, my abuela, my sisters, their kids, the new niece I have yet to meet, and my cousins and their babies whom I have also yet to meet are all going to be together for the first time in years.

It's so hard for me to fathom how far we've drifted apart. I was so fortunate, as a young girl, to grow up spitting distance from my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. The "far away" cousins lived a mere three hour drive, in Houston, but we still saw them at least once a month. Today we're scattered to the four corners of the country, and my cousins have babies I have yet to meet. I mourn the dissipation of my tight-knit family, as much for my children's sake as mine. I really love my family, as corny as it sounds. I really miss being with them around a big dining room table for holiday meals, I miss celebrating the happy occasions, and sharing the pain of the sad. I've been blessed with the funniest, sweetest, smartest, and coolest sets of siblings and cousins a woman could ask for. I should have prayed harder for us to stay nearby.

So I'll stifle the scary thoughts, pack up my camera, drug my children (just kidding!) and embrace the airways, as long as they're headed home to my family.