Picture this

Today was picture day at my baby's daycare. I dressed her in a corduroy blue jumper with red trim, white stockings, and pigtails. She was as cute, as an old "drinkin' and dancin' Baptist" friend of mine from Alabama would say, "as a pup under a red truck durin' pokeberry time". I buckled her in her carseat and took her to nursery school.

By the time we arrived, she had pulled out her pigtails, torn a hole in her stockings, and had viscous green goo coming out of her nose and plastered all over her face. She looked more like a pup run over by a truck during pokeberry time. I smeared the green goo over her face with a used napkin, and brought her into class.

I had her all done up this morning, I told her teacher, handing her the pigtail holders. Do the best you can before the pictures, I pleaded.

"She'll look adorable no matter what!" She answered perkily.

Yem. I muttered, dubiously.

I thought of my mother and smiled. She once gleefully revealed to my then fiance: "I would dress your bride-to-be in a beautiful gown. She'd be immaculate, her hair done in a little curl on top. You couldn't imagine a prettier baby. I'd sit her down for five minutes - she wouldn't move a muscle - yet, when I'd come back, her hair would be completely undone and she'd be covered in dirt. I could never figure it out!"

My mom also said, "Just wait till you have kids of your own!"

I could never understand why my mother was so amused when my niece and nephew threw monumental tantrums. I would look on appalled, and she'd just smile. Aren't you going to do something? I'd demand, incredulous.

"They're not my kids!" She'd smile, broadly.

Mom is coming to visit next week. She'll get a kick out of my little pigpen. I imagine she'll smile wider than the Mississippi when my child emerges from her carseat in a predictably dishevelled state.

Israelis have a great word for a mess resulting from chaos: balagan. Balagan perfectly describes my daughter. It's my house right before bedtime. Balagan is my baby before her nap. It's my life encapsulated in one word.

Having my baby in full-time day care has opened up so much free time for me, even though I'm working part-time. Sadly, I have all too eagerly whittled the free time down to a couple of hours a week. I volunteer at the school one day a week, I have a class on the laws of Shabbat with a Rabbi one morning, and CST, Caffeine Shock Therapy, with the Skokie girls once a week.

CST is the most important morning of my week. I desperately miss my dear friends. Our kids are no longer in class together, our Wednesday afternoon playdates are history, but we've recently begun to reconnect over lattes. It's the time of week I most arduously anticipate. Nothing brings you out of a self-pitying morass than hearing a friend say, "Yeah, I can relate."

We spent last Shabbat as one of my Skokie Girl's house. It was as enlightening as it was enjoyable. We ate, laughed, talked, and chilled as much as one can with seven lunatics running around underfoot. Every hour or so, my petite pal would call up a stentorian bellow, twice as big as her frame, and set the kids to work putting away toys. If they dared ignore her demands a garbage bag would instantly be whipped out. "Any toys not put away are going in the trash!" she'd threaten.

I looked on in awe. Here it was: clear expectations, fair warning, instant consequences, everything I have been aspiring to as a parent. Yet, despite her success rate and her freaky ability to stay completely calm, something quite disturbing occurred to me. Her kids were no calmer, no more attentive, and no more sweet and polite than mine. Her parenting technique produced no better results than my lack of technique had. Her house was no less balagan.

It dawned on me that my problem wasn't tactics, but philosophy. For the third time this month, it was time to rethink my parenting approach.

So now, I'm trying to be a more positive parent. Instead of negative consequences, I'm trying for positive incentives. Losing out on ballet or soccer is being replaced with the lure of a pizza and movie night once a week. I'm looking for good stuff to add to our "ma'asim tovim" jar, good deeds. I'm trying to smile more and demand less. Smiling in the face of a child wilfully ignoring me is no easier than demanding full respect and obedience. I'm just hoping it's more successful.

I'm beginning to realize that what I imagine to be wilful disobedience is often just a genetic disposition for spaciness. That one I chalk up to law school dad.

The spontaneous mess-making is all mine. Balagan is in my genes.

I'd better learn to love it.

The crackdown

Is it me?

Every mother on the planet must ask that question at least once a week. A day? In my case, an hour. I have become the queen of second guessing myself. Am I being too strict? Too permissive? What's going on here?

My children have simultaneously found their wings. The baby doesn't want to put on her jacket. She wants to take off her diaper and run around. She adamantly refuses to let me put her hair up in the morning. The middle child cannot be told anything without descending into a puddle of tears and anguish. My son just completely tunes me out.

To make matters worse, my students are doing the same.

Parenting and teaching are painfully humbling experiences.

We're not taking it sitting down, though. My husband and I have put our heads together and we have come up with a battle plan. We have armed ourselves with stickers, charts, and all kinds of incentives and disincentives to encourage the behaviors we want to encourage and to squash the ones that are getting on my nerves.

Today, I finally had a breakthrough: actions speak louder than words. Yes, yes, I know, this is elementary stuff, an adage as old as the hills. But, I finally discovered exactly what it meant. My son forgot his lunch at home, despite being reminded twice to put it in his backpack. When I got the call from school this morning, I shrugged and said, Give him cereal. The old me would have run myself ragged delivering it to the school. The new me has a clue.

This afternoon, my baby refused to put on her jacket. Again, I shrugged and said okay, you'll go without. The moment we stepped outside, she asked for her puffy yellow coat. The old Mommy would have immediately bundled her up shrilly pointing out that she wouldn't be cold had she not been so stubborn. The smarter version of me smiled knowingly and merely sympathized. Yes, it is cold, but we're almost to the car, dear.

This evening, my son wanted dessert. Put your plate in the sink and put on your pyjamas, and I'll give you some banana bread! I perkily agreed.

Twenty minutes later I found him fully dressed in his room, reading a comic book. I guess you didn't want that dessert, I concluded.

"I do! I do!" He insisted, getting into his pyjamas in record time.

Well, you would have put your plate in the sink and put on your pyjamas when I asked you to, if you had really wanted it. It's too late now. My son was shocked, angry, appalled, and incredulous that I could do such a thing. And he let me know it. For the first time in months I smiled in the face of such an onslaught of emotion.

You know, I told him, usually, I would yell and scream back at you for being rude and disrespectful, but it always made me feel rotten later. I don't want to feel bad because you didn't follow instructions, I'd rather feel okay, and let you feel bad about it.

I asked him to brush his teeth and go to bed, which, of course, he didn't do. But I didn't let it turn me into the shrieking shrew tonight. I nodded my tacit assent. Fine, I'll let your father know when he gets home. And I walked away.

To you great moms out there, rolling your eyes at my slow uptake, I must inform you that this was a huge step for me. Like a lifelong smoker going cold-turkey, an alcoholic pouring the beer down the drain, a chronic overeater saying no to pie.

I'm the law school widow and I'm a shriek-aholic. I'm addicted to confrontation.

But today I walked away from a useless battle.

I don't know if I'll be able to keep up this zen-like pacifism. I'm not even sure it will do much to change any behaviors, although, I suspect it already has. My Sarah Heartburn got into her jammies in a jiffy, put her dishes in the sink, and sat patiently waiting for banana bread.

And she doesn't even like bananas.

There's hope for us yet.

Ego boost

So, there I was, sitting in a heavy-duty, high-tech, padded, folding soccer-mom chair with cup-holders, watching my son at soccer practice while the two girls squealed, raced around, and played. What are you doing? I asked, incredulous of my toddler who was running laps around me. "I'm wunning awound like a loooonatic!" She declared with a huge grin on her asymmetrically dimpled face.

I nearly fell out of my chair laughing.

She has been an absolute riot, lately. The child who was single-handedly responsible for the vast majority of my grey hairs has recently become the source of my laugh lines.

Last week we were watching big sister at her ballet class. The teacher came over and asked my baby, "Are you ready to take ballet classes?" My baby looked crestfallen as she responded, "I'm too wittle." I melted.

"Are you taking me to Gan? She asks me, as we head for her daycare.

Yes, I tell her, It's time to go to Gan.

"I wan' a go to kinde'garten." She knows what she wants. Whether it's her "tippy cup" or for her Mommy to "weed to me, please?", she always asks with a sweet smile and a lilting sing-songy voice. It's hard to say no.

The child my mother-in-law once lovingly referred to as my birth control has become the child I want to put in a box so she will never grow any bigger, and never stop saying the sweet and funny things that make every negative thought in my head disappear.

She's still hell-on-wheels, and just about the most destructive thing in a diaper, but it's hard to stay mad at a kid who hugs and kisses me and says, "I law joo, too, Mommy!", which I immediately recognize as her declaration of love.

Today a little girl hugged me at school. I found her crying during a game of footy cricket, and I asked her what was wrong. "I cheated" she whispered full of remorse. How? I asked, genuinely confused. "I threw the ball instead of rolling it."

I told her she did just fine and played the game beautifully, but she wouldn't hear of it. Her heart was heavy with remorse and shame over breaking a poorly defined rule in a silly game. Half astonished at the sincerity of her contrition, and half annoyed at the misplaced angst, I turned on her and demanded,

Who's the referee here, me or you?

"You," she conceded sheepishly.

Well, as the referee, I say it was a perfectly played pitch, you got her out fair and square, and I'm proud of you.

The eight year old turned to me with a look of relief, gave me a great big hug, and ran off to join her class. I was astonished. That was the most uplifting event in my first month back teaching elementary school physical education after an eight year reprieve.

And it's been a rough month. My attempts to be the sweet and cool P.E. teacher were met with ridicule and derision by these pint-sized, pig-tailed, religious girls who trampled me like fresh-mowed field turf. So, I followed the advice of all of the veteran teachers who told me to get tough and not put up with even the slightest bit of nonsense. Overnight, I turned into the grouchy P.E. teacher with a loud whistle and a bitter attitude. After days of coming home ready to cry at my inability to control even a small class of sweet little pipsqueaks, I finally decided to pay a visit to the principal with my tail between my legs, begging for help.

Help came in the guise of classroom teachers and the principals sticking around the class glowering at even the smallest infraction, lecturing the girls hardily on respect and cooperation. It was all I could do to keep myself from sticking out my tongue and saying, nyaa nyaa nyaa!

I have since received reams of beautiful, hand-decorated notes of apology with flowers and hearts and the words, "I'm so so so so so sorry!" plastered all over them. "Do you forgive me?" they've begun to ask, sweet as molasses. Of course I do, but remember, the apology is only the first step, dear! I'm not letting up, yet.

I learned a valuable lesson from all of my self-recrimination: praise helps. Small compliments to my girls produce better results than scowls. They work better for me, too. My principal kindly took me aside and said, "I know you're having a tough time, but I've gotten great feedback from the parents."

I must have walked a bit taller that afternoon, the deflated balloon that was my ego regained its buoyancy. Funnily, it was an unexpected comment from a surprising source that really lifted my spirits. This afternoon, the old Romanian maintenance man gave me a smile and told me I was a very good teacher.

If I were an eight year old, I might hug him.

Or maybe I'll just wun awound like a loooonatic!

Autumnal anxiety

Autumn is a beautiful time in Chicago. The leaves have taken on the crisp and twinkling tones of twilight. The ambers, burgundies, oranges, and ochres blanket the streets in an elegant tapestry, turning the city that works into a city that saunters. The children prickle with anticipation; winter is weeks away.

But we don't slow down for anything. We embrace the season and devour each moment like the succulent tartness of an apple picked fresh from a tree.


We savour the diminishing daylight, and grasp the dwindling warmth to us, like a dear friend, soon to part ways.

We bask in the dying glow of summer.

And we buckle down to the task at hand. For the children, this means adjusting to the rigorous quotidian challenges of being back to school. Spelling tests, book reports, and early bedtimes are vexing, yet they bring comfort and stability along with fear and discouragement.

We are in the process of potty training the baby. This is one of many parenting skills at which I have traditionally failed miserably. But we are seeing some encouraging signs. Like her father, she will do almost anything for candy. She will sit valiantly on the potty straining with intense concentration to earn her one candy for pee pee or two for poopy, humming the little ditty I made up for the occasion:

Poopy in the potty,
Peepee in the potty,
Then we wipe front to back!
We drop the paper in the potty,
Then we flush the potty,
Then we wash our hands!

All of this attention and reward has caused a regression in her big sister, who has reverted back to pull-ups at bedtime and temper tantrums during the day. She is having a rough time of it. Yet, she is quick to brag that she is the smartest girl in her class, and the second smartest in kindergarten. It's a perception I encourage. I don't worry so much about her over inflated ego as much as the inevitable deflation that tends to occur during adolescence. Anyway, I suspect she may be right. She is as perceptive as she is persistent. From a learning perspective, it's a winning combination. From a parenting perspective, it is maddening as hell.

My son is not immune to the turbulent transitions. He is not timid in his displays of manliness, but his triumphalism falters in private moments. "I'm a stupid boy!" he exclaims when struggling to write sentences for school. That you are not, I declare with certitude. "You're just saying that" he pouts back. "I'm the worst soccer player on my team" he moans. Yet he goes out there each week, bubbling with excitement. This week his coach commented that he did a great job as goalie, despite literally taking one on the chin. "He bounced the whole time!" He observed.

I was the substitute teacher at my children's school last week. I taught some physical education and some 7th grade science. It wasn't too terrible. The best part was getting to peek in on my kids during the day. My son's third grade teacher called me in to inform me that he had done poorly on his spelling test for the first time. She wasn't too concerned. "We can drop the grade and move on, or I can give him another chance." Let's ask him, I suggested.

I was so proud when he piped up, "I want a second chance!"

Moments like these - my baby plugging away, if you pardon the expression, at the potty; her big sister recovering from a melt-down to show off her math skills; my son taking his lumps and running back into the game - offer as much comfort as anxiety. I worry about their ability to cope with failures and frustrations. I worry that I lay too heavy a burden on them to be more grown up than they are capable. But they're resilient, and determined, and yes, stubborn as hell.

But that's all part of the rich tapestry: the vermilion and gold of an interesting textured life. Fall's deceptive beauty is ushering in the bitterness and cruelty of the Chicago winter. We are hunkering down for another year of law school and life. The agony and intensity of classes, externships, research, and hours away from the family have opened up fabulous offers from some of the top law firms in the nation. They're actively recruiting my husband sending (non-kosher) treats, inviting him to receptions, having their lawyers wine and dine him.

My husband reassures me that his hard work and long absences are paying off, but I'm not so far-sighted. I'm like a child, living and coping with the here and now. And my daily reality is the struggle to manage the kids on my own while facing another brutal winter.

My husband and my kids are amazing. They are so adaptable to the climate, to their new challenges, to the changes around them. The temperatures drop and they just pull out their jackets and keep going. Life throws them a curve ball, and they're back in the game.

Not me. Each change is a shock to my system. Each transition is a maelstrom in my life. I get so homesick sometimes I just want to curl up in bed and cry. I'm overwhelmed by every bump and dip in the road. Lately, I've felt so pathetic and resentful, unable to adapt, bounce back, change with the circumstances. I tell myself that it's temporary and in two years, God willing, life will be easier. But life isn't like that. There will always be challenges and obstacles.

There will always be change.

Fall always follows summer, winter always follows fall, and spring always comes again. What am I so worried about?

Yin and Yang

Six loads of laundry are folded and mostly put away. The dishes are done, except for the dishes of devoured late night kosher Chinese take-out. My year-long curricula are compiled, and my lesson plans for the next month are almost ready to go. But, I'm not quite yet ready to pat myself on the back.

I don't mean to be a Naderian "Nattering Nabob of Negativity", but I am a Jewish mother, so I notice things: the unswept or mopped floors, the piles of stuff that haven't been sorted, the toys that avoided earlier detection. I feel like I'm suffering the affliction of missing the silver lining for the cloud, missing the forest and the trees for the dirt ground, counting curses not blessings.

How can it be, after the holiest days of the Jewish year, days of spiritual renewal through prayer, fasting, and repentance, I'm right back to square one?

I have read often that happiness is a state of mind one does not pursue, but chooses. Perhaps it is time for me to set another path for myself, time to find joy and contentment in the life I have, not the life I'm waiting for.

I have a fabulous husband. He is working hard, day and night, to provide a better life for his family; yet he takes the time to shuttle kids to soccer games, hair salons, and pizza parlours, giving me the free time to accomplish my household chores. He prepares meals when I'm just too tired.

I have amazing kids. My son is having a wonderful year at school, he's making good friends, he practices his piano everyday without a fight, and has even gotten better about cleaning up his room. My older daughter scored her first goal in soccer today! She is growing into a poised, graceful, gorgeous little girl. She is frighteningly smart, and knows what she wants in life. The baby is developing such beautiful language skills. She soaks up everything like a sponge. She comes home singing new songs from daycare every week. She is learning to go on a potty, and she is already showing such gracious manners, greeting me each morning with a polite, lilting, "will you read to me, please?" Hamza, hamza.

I have a great job, that I'm excited to go to each day. I am truly enjoying teach physical education to young, bright, beautiful girls. My co-workers are kind and supportive, and the administrators are appreciative of the work I do.

I have the opportunity to volunteer time to my children's school once a week.

I have time to breathe, and think, and dream, and organize, and plan, and create.

Life is good, thank God.

It's a funny irony: Jews, Yehudim, are the people of thanksgiving. The root of Yehudah is hodu, thanks. Yet, we are also the people who have elevated "kvetching" to an art form. How do the two contradictions exist seamlessly in one people's psyche? Thankfulness and appreciation are truly spiritually elevating qualities. Complaining diminishes the soul.

A fluff piece in the news caught my eye this evening. A journalist A. J. Jacobs "lived" the precepts of the bible for a full year, growing a full beard, dressing in white, wearing sandals, and less superficially, refraining from gossip. Jacobs, a self-professed Agnostic, discovered giving up gossip was the hardest, but most life-changing part of the experience for him. He felt it made him a better person.

But it's hard, and therein lies the rub. We know that being thankful and positive and careful in the way we speak of others makes us better people, uplifts us, brings us closer to God, but it's so much easier and immediately satisfying to kvetch our way through life. It's the Jewish Yin and Yang.

Tomorrow, life goes back to normal. The Succot break is over and we're back to our daily life schedules. I'm good with that.

Consistency, predictability, reliability. It's boring, but it's a parent's best friend. My kids do well on a schedule. There are fewer fights at bed time, it's easier to get them to do homework or practice their piano. I'm more relaxed, too. After struggling over the past month with the "big stuff": atonement, repentance, gratitude, it will be nice to sweat the small stuff for a change.

But I have to remember the good things, too.