Number one fan

My husband walked into the living room where I was sitting in front of the computer reading, catching up on four days of blogs and news after the first days of Sukkot.

"Your number one fan wants you to catch up on your blog. He doesn't know what's happened in his life over the past thirteen days!"

What can I say? It's been a busy few weeks. The Jewish holidays are like that. We pass from Rosh Hashana to Yom Kippur to Sukkot to Simchat Torah in a matter of weeks. When we're not preparing for meals and visitors, we're in synagogue and eating. And when all of the meals and services are done, we're recovering.

The recovery is hardest on the kids whose schedules are completely out of whack. I look at my mountains of dishes and laundry and sigh; but then I look at my children who have to switch from sleeping in late, staying up even later, to waking up early for the piano lessons for which they haven't practiced in days, and cringe. Not surprisingly, they are completely over-tired and uncooperative. My kids and I are off for the week for Sukkot, but the piano lessons and soccer games don't stop; nor does my need to prepare for my classes. That's the problem with these breaks: the world around us doesn't stop concurrently.

My husband has discovered this painful truth as the holidays have compounded his feelings of being overwhelmed with classes, his externship, and his research. But once the holiday candles are lit, he lets it go. I don't know if he is able to compartmentalize his life better than I am, or if he is simply better at living in the moment. I hold onto each worry, each concern, each fear and dread for dear life. I carry them around like an amulet to ward of the worst that could possibly happen. If I imagine the worst to come, I tell myself pessimistically, it will never happen. It's the converse of Theodore Herzl's famous quote "If you will it, it is no dream". If I dream it, I will it away. My lifetime of magical thinking.

And me, a grown woman.

A miracle has occurred in my home this week. We have had a visit from a dear friend from Texas. She is now living in Washington, D.C. with her sweet, beautiful baby girl, a teething, drooling, bright-eyed and bouncy bundle of love. It has been pure joy having them here. The kids are naturally enamored, and I have had the pleasure of holding and singing to this adorable little creature. I've missed having a baby around. My children have especially enjoyed having her to play with and sing to and entertain. Even my whirlwind toddler has slowed down enough to take in the cooing and gurgling new friend.

The miracle? That I'm able to hold a soft, sweet-smelling baby without the painful tugging of my maternal heart-strings. Maybe I'm just too tired to even think about the sleepless nights and midnight feedings. Maybe my plate's just too full right now.

It is nice to see that my husband hasn't lost his touch. He can still put a baby to sleep better than just about anyone I know, soft-spoken squishy grandmas and preternaturally calm moms, included. Five minutes in his arms or on his chest and babies melt into dreamy mush. It's a skill I always envied and appreciated. I wish he could do the same for me.

The holidays drive on relentlessly. Another week of preparations will be followed by a few more days of celebration, followed by the familiar, but truncated recovery period. We will all hurdle forward sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed, moody and stressed, until...retirement? If then.

The holidays have been beautiful. We have been so fortunate to have been invited out for most of the festive meals, dining al fresco in our friends' decorated and lit Sukkot, the rustic, unstable leafy-topped huts that have popped up around our neighborhood on porches, between houses, in backyards, or like ours, tucked between the garage and the apartment building. Some are made of wood, some of metal and canvas, or blue tarp. It's an annual religious shanty town reminding us of the temporary and precarious nature of life. It's all in God's hands.

So why do I struggle to let go? Why can't I let my problems melt away in my husband's arms, like a sleeping baby? Maybe that's the lessons of Yom Kippur, the day of fasting and atonement, and Sukkot, the festival of canvas huts where we learn that security comes from God alone. A lot of our life is out of our control: the weather, our health, fortunes, children. We have to remain vigilant to protect ourselves and those we love, but at some point we have to let it go, live in the moment, let sleep take us like a limp baby, put our faith in something or someone outside of ourselves.

Like my number one fan. Scootch over, Kiddo. I'm ready for a good night's sleep.

Crazy good life

I haven't been writing much lately. Frankly, I'm just too tired, but in a good way. I'm back at work, and our lives are back into full swing after our wonderfully busy and crazy summer. The past few weeks have made the summer look downright sleepy.

I don't know if it's stranger being back in a physical education classroom or just being back to work. It's been an enjoyably stressful experience, if that makes any sense. I really want to do a good job. I confess, I feel pressure to do more than just a good job. My resume suggests that I should be an old pro at this teaching stuff, considering I've dedicated the better part of my last two or three decades to the profession. I've even taught the teachers. But I wonder if the adage is true: those who can't do, teach. Perhaps that's why I spent so much time in the University, teaching the teachers to do what I'm doing right now.

I put a lot of pressure on myself anyway, but I have been in a full display of anxiety lately. So much so that I'm wondering if it is disproportionate to the amount of stress this profession deserves. We're talking sleepless nights, hours on the internet or interrogating my husband for activity ideas, and saddest of all, color coding my attendance book. Is this normal behavior for a P.E. teacher? We didn't cover this in any of my college classes.

I've had mixed successes, so far. Great days are followed by some stinkers. Last week I read the riot act to a class full of adorable, wide-eyed (but mischievous) 2nd graders, and fretted about it all Rosh Hashana. Every so often my thoughts would drift back to the stern 'talkin' to'. Girls, I said in my firmest teacher's voice, the way you behaved in my class today was unacceptable! I don't want to see that behavior in here again, understand? I punctuated the 'understand' with a severe look. Most of you girls were patient, quiet, and followed instructions, but a handful of you... I paused and looked around meaningfully, as if I knew who the perpetrators were (they all look alike at this point)...have ruined it for everyone else.

So there.

I replayed that speech over and over in my head wondering if their classroom teacher, trying to blend into the wall behind me, thought I was psychotic. I worried myself sick about it all weekend long.

The next school day I sought out the teacher and began to apologize. She stopped me. "I'm glad you said something. I'm having the same problem. We should talk about some strategies."

Strategies? I thought. My dress down won't do? This teaching stuff is going to be harder than I thought.

The principal came to observe that class today, to give me some support. And I thought I was tough? She gave even the most minor infraction a withering glare and demanded, "is that respectful? Is it? IS IT?" I wanted to crawl under the stage with the poor girl. Needless to say, the class went much better. Surprisingly, I received three handmade cards covered in hearts declaring "P.E. is my favorite class!"

I wish I could say the same about the next group of 2nd graders. By the end of class I had eleven hypochondriacs sitting on the stage sniggering about their dupe of a teacher who let them all sit out together. That is, until I made them remain there until their classroom teacher came in. She looked like she could strike a fair bit of terror into their limit-testing hearts, despite the honey-sweet smile. Go get 'em, lady! I thought, from the safety of my "multipurpose room".

For the most part, it's been a really nice experience. Most of my activities have been successful, and the feedback has been really positive. Kids greet me walking down the halls.

"Are these good gym shoes, ma'am?"

"Do we have gym today, ma'am?"

Mostly, I get shy smiles, and hellos. It's a good start, although it underscores the enormity of my task: learning all 450 names, with my faulty memory. I'm doomed.

I'm only working 3 hours a day, but it has made an enormous difference in my life. None of the other demands of my family have diminished. Quite the opposite. In addition to the usual responsibilities of cleaning, cooking, laundry, and childrearing, I now have chauffeuring kids to soccer, ballet, piano, and shlepping the baby to and from day care in Skokie every day to contend with. It's wearing me down, but it, too, has its upsides.

In addition to the predictable benefits of activities, learning sports skills, being physically active, making friends, learning male crotch-grabbing rituals, my children are physically wearing themselves out each day.

Bedtime has never been so pain-free. Anyway, they look so darned cute in their uniforms.

My daughter is back in ballet this year. She is, by far, the youngest one in her class, but interestingly, she is also the most focused and serious. While the other three are clowning around, falling down, and being silly, she stands with her perfect posture in rapt silence, straining to get her body to imitate her teacher's. I asked her teacher if she was perhaps too young, but she shook her head. "She gets the concepts and she's really trying hard. She'll do great in this class." I swelled with pride.

We've just started her on piano with my son's beautiful Russian teacher. She's only doing 15 minute lessons, but, like ballet, she's intensely serious and focused. It's kind of spooky in such a little girl.

Life is borderline overwhelming. Things have not slowed down an iota for my husband. He's still interviewing, still taking classes, still doing his externship and the journal, still president of the Jewish Law Students Association, and still fighting off infections from exhaustion and stress, but he never complains. I complain enough for the two of us.

He listens patiently and says, "Don't worry, in two years we'll be able to afford a (fill in the blank)." My sister insists I need a wife.

I complain, but in truth, I'm happy. I have a purpose, my children are thriving in all of their activities, and even the baby has settled down in her routine.

Still, I won't turn down the dishwasher, housekeeper, or house-with-a-garage in two years. Even a good hectic can stand to be less intense.

In the garden

Havdalah, the ceremony that marks the end of the Sabbath, is the separation between the divine and the earthly, the spiritual and the secular, the extraordinary and the ordinary. Life should always be so clear cut. Sharp delineations between Mommy and friend, teacher and student, family time and work time would do so much to reduce a chunk of the stress I experience each day. How nice it would be to say to my kids, I'm working now, so take care of yourselves for a couple of hours, okay? At noon, we'll light a candle, drink some grape juice, sniff some cinnamon, and then we'll play!

Instead, I find myself handing the kids crayons and papers, and half-tuning them out, while I desperately try to make up some lesson plans, or balance my checkbook. Invariably, I am interrupted by persistent calls of, "Mommy, how do you spell 'Daddy'?" or "Mommy, the baby is coloring on the table!"

Sometimes I envy my husband. He leaves the house around 7:00 in the morning, when the kids are barely stirring, and doesn't get home until twelve hours later, when I'm already putting them to bed. For twelve hours, he is free to think, work, and read uninterrupted. He can eat without having three little faces appearing out of nowhere, asking, "What are you eating? Can I have some? Can I have another bite? Can I have a snack? Something to drink?I'm hungry!" I can't remember the last time I sat down to eat something, and was actually allowed to do so.

Then I come to my senses. Each night, my husband comes home drawn, tired, blurry-eyed, and stressed. The amount of reading, researching, and writing he has to do is mind-boggling. Then there are the extra things he has taken on for himself: the law journal, the Jewish Law Students Association, the summer associate job interviews, and the fall externship. He's swamped. And it's wearing him down every bit as much as mommying wears me down. Only, he gets sick, and I get grouchy.

I don't know which is worse.

I started my new job last week. I'm teaching physical education at a religious girls' school. I have to teach in a long skirt and long sleeves, which takes a bit getting used to. I bought a whole wardrobe of "athletic" skirts, whatever that is. Mostly flouncy or stretchy skirts and leggings that will allow me to move freely within the school's strictures of modesty. I have also found a bunch of cheap Target long-sleeved t-shirts. I bought one of each color, and a jaunty cap of cotton jersey. I look the part, now I just have to figure out how to act the part.

I am quite nervous about teaching elementary school P.E. It's been years since I've done it. And it's a tough age: testing limits, expanding independence, raging hormones, and a general dislike of supervised physical activity. I'm having a hard enough time with my own kids, can I do a better job managing someone else's? I sure hope so.

Thankfully, my kids have had a nice, smooth start to their new school year. My oldest has a good class of sweet, smart kids. It shows on his face when he comes home that he's pretty much free of the taunting and bullying he endured last year. My kindergartner is in her element. Her teacher commented on how sweet and smart and well-behaved she has been. Give her time, I thought. Her true self will emerge soon. I expect it won't be long before I get comments about her stubbornness and inflexibility. She's their problem now!

The baby is also thrilled to be in a daily, full-time day care. She misses me, and I'm surprised to hear myself say it, but I'm missing her, too! I guess I got used to our daily rhythms; the snack time, the nap time, when I would put her in bed and sing to her, holding her hand until she drifted off. That's someone else's job now, too.

It's a new and very different year. I'm working, the kids are all at school, and my husband is busier than ever. So much for the first year of law school being the toughest. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, is a few days away. I'm having a small group of guests for the meals. I'm looking forward to this next division between the old year and the new. We've had a few weeks to get a sense of the things to come, good and bad. Lots of work, and stress, but excitement mingled in there, too. New challenges, new opportunities, and for my children, a new world of learning, friends, and chances to grow, are thrown into the mix. Rosh Hashanah is the perfect divider: some candles, a glass of grape juice, apples and honey, and a fish head. Welcome to 5768.

We marked the divisions between summer and fall, vacation and school, ease and stress our own way last week. I took the kids to a beautiful art exhibit: Niki in the Garden. We had a wonderful time exploring the Garfield Conservatory, and all of the artwork sprinkled liberally throughout.

We saw "nanas" frolicking in the ponds,



And we frolicked on elaborate thrones of mosaic tiles, stones, mirrors, and gems, ourselves!



Even the baby got a chance to preside over a court of ferns, succulents, and ivy.



I love taking my children to museums, art galleries, and special exhibits. They find so much joy exploring and discovering a beautiful new world. This one was particularly enchanting.



It was a fairy land of color, light, and texture for the kids to explore with all their senses.

The beauty of this particular exhibit was being able to walk inside and out many of the sculptures, exploring bright, often shocking images,



only to discover their striking elegance up close.



But while I marvelled at the luminescence and iridescence of glass and mirror and tile weaved together in such a musical mosaic melody, my kids just liked climbing,

exploring,

touching,

and sharing.

And after all, isn't that what art is meant to do?

I don't know if Havdalah is an act of art, but it is the one Jewish ritual that really touches all five senses in such a beautiful and meaningful way, awakening us to all that the coming week can signify. It is the sight of the bright flickering flames, breaking through the darkness of Sabbath's end,

the warm glow of the flame,

the sweet taste of the wine,

and the sounds of prayers sung together.


If only our five senses were so actively engaged to such a higher purpose, each and every day. Instead, life takes over and we plod along, day after day, missing out on the blessings we've been granted.

But kids get it.

The year has begun with a bang; a big bang of activity, stress, and excitement. May this be the year God grants me the wisdom and patience to find the spiritual in the mundane, to separate out the beautiful moments, and cherish every moment with all five senses.