Love sick

In two days I will be feeding close to a hundred people at the Sephardic synagogue, and nothing terrifies and thrills me more. I love to cook. I thrill to dabble in many different cuisines, constantly experimenting with Mexican, Cuban, Italian, Thai, and occasionally something really exotic like Indonesian or Japanese delights. I'm as amateur a foodie as a kosher vegetarian can get, but cook for 100? That I've never tried, until now.

The timing should have been perfect. My husband just submitted a 45 page draft for the law journal, and has a short reprieve before studying for finals. My mother-in-law just headed back home after a wonderful, but too-short visit. My Chanukah break at work is just around the corner. I squirreled away several hours each day this week solely for the major feat. Yesterday my culinary mentor and I hunted for ingredients at Costco and the kosher market. Today we hit the produce store, piling the basket high with fresh peppers, onions, garlic, squash, potatoes, green beans, and limes. Somewhere between the carrots and garbanzo beans I got a call on my cell phone:

"Your baby has a fever. She's just lying down on her cot right now. Can you come get her?" Of course I can pick her up. Of course I can drop everything in the world to bring love and comfort to my sweet baby. That is the meaning of my life in a nutshell. We finished purchasing the groceries, and I left my friend to bring everything in and unpack the bags. I, leaping tall buildings in a single bound, racing as fast as a speeding bullet (within legal limits, of course), went back to the daycare to get my baby girl.

The moment she saw me, she burst into tears, threw her little hands around my neck, and pressed her hot little face against my cheek. She wished her classmates and teachers a tearful but smiling "Goo bye!" and told me, "I'm too heaby." No, baby, you're not too heavy for mommy. I can carry you." And I did. I carried my toasty toddler, her back pack, an art project or two and her "blan'" up the stairs and into the car.

I rushed her home and spent the remainder of my afternoon curled up in bed with her reading and watching Bob the Builder and Caillou until she finally fell asleep. She thanked me with kisses and the sweetest "Mommy, I love you" I have ever heard. And amidst the love, tenderness, and complete dependence, I selfishly thought to myself, this is the best.

Later that afternoon, my big kids came home on the bus. I struggled to keep them from hugging and kissing and sharing a nasty virus with their baby sister. They clambered over each other to help me out. My son brought tissues, my daughter washed dishes, beaming with pride in her accomplishments. Of course, the moment she turned her back I washed them all again, with the dairy sponge this time. But the effort was greatly appreciated and loudly praised. Big brother did his homework and practiced his piano, while big sister helped out anyway she could. Both went to bed without a fuss. My baby smiled appreciatively, somehow recognizing every one's best behavior was for her benefit. I have never loved my family more.

She is my third child, therefore I no longer panic at the onset of a nasty virus. I have learned to accept the hidden blessings of a sick child: the clinginess, the affection, the siblings on their best behavior, while doing my best to keep her comfortable and hydrated. Thank God it's nothing serious, just enough to bring out the most nurturing aspects of us all. She is growing so fast, my baby. I am preparing myself for the big changes that are coming soon. The preciously mispronounced words spoken correctly. The self awareness and independence. The separation that inevitably takes place as a child recognizes his or her own capabilities, and prepares to be all grown up. It comes way too fast.

Twice now I have watched my babies blossom into beautiful, smart, funny, and independent little people who no longer need to be dressed, bathed, or spoon fed. My heart has broken countless times as my maturing children declare "I don't need you to kiss my boo-boos anymore." Yes, but I still need to kiss them. It's no use trying to explain it to them. They're the ones trying to explain it all to me. I need some explanations, too. Why do I beg for them to outgrow these trying stages only to mourn their passing? How many times have a wished for them to be finished with diapers, only to miss cleaning their little tushies?

Okay, maybe that's a bad example.

I'm not sure what's going to happen tomorrow. Do I try to prepare my lavish feast with a febrile baby in the next room? I feel awful cancelling my physical education classes two days in a row. There are commitments and there are commitments. How much of the world comes to a grinding stop when my baby feels icky? This part doesn't get easier, no matter how many kids I have.

This week should have been perfect timing for me to take on a big challenge, and maybe in a way it still is. My kids are always trying to explain the finer points of life to their obtuse mother, and I have to admit, I need some of their unique insight and wisdom. How, for example, does an over-ambitious busy mom learn to live in the moment? My baby explained it all to me in three words today.

"Mommy, I'm 'shick'."

Down time

It's not often my kids have time to watch television. Our days are usually filled with school, homework, piano practice, nap time for the baby, and an early bedtime for everyone. The TV collects dust.

This Sunday after piano lessons, we planned to go on an adventure but it didn't materialize. I just wasn't up to the challenge of managing the three kids at a museum on my own. So we stayed in. The kids played video games, colored, read, and napped and I did laundry. Seven loads worth. My hubby fled for the library after breakfast, so I was playing one-on-three without enough caffeine in my system. A recipe for a losing battle on the scale of the Alamo.

Remember the Law School Widow!

So I gave in. They're glued to the tube right now watching Mickey Mouse's Three Musketeers.


I'm enjoying the down time, sprinkled with the occasional delicious giggles, and loads of laundry. It's not an exciting or stimulating use of our time, but I'm not sure every moment should be. I had a friend back in San Antonio who dreaded the thought of being alone at home with her kids for any extended period of time. She shlepped them to museums, parks, playgrounds, any child-friendly environment she could find. She researched them fastidiously. "Did you hear about this new place?" she'd query us. The response was invariably, Huh?

As mothers we are always weighing the lesser of two evils: bundle your kids, strap them in car seats, and take them out to a place where they will be entertained for hours versus entertain them yourself. Santa Anna versus Davy Crockett.

When my mom visited we dragged her to children's museums, the planetarium, and any other number of kid-friendly places. "Very nice!" she'd nod her head and smile. On the way back from picking up the kids from school, we stopped at the Romanian Kosher butcher shop so she could pick up some salamis for my dad. I stayed in the car with the kids and sent her in. "Come in! Come in!" She came yelling a few moments later. "It's beautiful in there!" I hadn't seen my mother so happy all week.

A butcher shop is beautiful? I'm a vegetarian! To each his or her own. (What's she smokin'? Ah, yes, kosher briskets).

The truth is, kids need stimulation. They need to explore their world, run and play, stretch their legs. Sometimes, however, they just need to relax, kick back, watch some Mickey Mouse.

According to mom, all they really need is a good salami sandwich.

I've been giving all of this some serious consideration lately. The temperatures have begun dropping. Even the low 40's is enough for me to give going out a second thought. I gained ten pounds last winter, bunkering down in my apartment all season. This year I got smart and followed my Skokie Girl's lead, ordering Home Milk Delivery. My husband has signed us up for Netflix.

This winter I expect to gain 20 pounds.

Thank goodness I have a job, and actually have to emerge from under my down comforter...to dust off the TV.

Angels

Thanksgiving is a week away. Last year we had a dozen law school students descend upon our humble abode for a lavish traditional meal. This year has been a bust. "I must have invited twenty people!" My husband protested. "They were all busy!"

As much as cooking big, elaborate feasts stresses me out, the idea of spending Thanksgiving alone makes me more sullen. Thanksgiving will be a lonely affair this year. I'm especially sad for my children who adore showing off for guests.

They were in prime form this past week when my mom came to visit. Guess who's coming today! I crooned to my baby as I whisked her off to daycare before driving across town to pick mom up from the airport. "Is Granma coming?" she asked in her sing-songy voice. Yes! I responded enthusiastically. "And Papa?" Em, no. "And Tia Myrrh?" She asked. No, not Tia Mirth, either. She proceeded to ask about several other relatives I was surprised she remembered. We hadn't seen any of them since August, a lifetime away for a two year old.

In my rush to get my daughter to daycare before zipping off to the airport, I absent-mindedly cut off a car, turning into the parking lot. I didn't think about it as I rushed my bundle to her class, but as I emerged from the daycare, I was greeted by a young man asking me if I was okay.

"I saw my life flash before my eyes back there!" He explained, kindly. "I thought, for sure, there had to be an emergency." I stammered a lame excuse, apology, and expression of gratitude, and the gentle man drove off, asking me to drive safely. Shaking, I got back into my car and nearly wept. I hadn't realized how completely self-absorbed I had become. Nor how cavalier. A thought occurred to me:

He must have been an angel! I mused to my Skokie Girl. "I was thinking the same thing!" She marvelled. I'm not such a spiritual person, but how else could I explain it? Most people would have cursed me out for such reckless driving. This man set me straight in the kindest, most gentle way: Anti-road rage. It worked.

A second angel flew into my life that day. The moment my mother came down to the baggage claim, I burst into tears. Here I was, a grown woman, mother of three, crying like a teenager with a broken heart. Mommy, I'm so glad you're here!

I had planned to hide my anguish and stress from my mother. Goodness knows, she has enough of her own in life, but the moment I saw her face, my facade shattered. If you can't go crying to your own mother, to whom can you cry?

Mom brought her own spiritual chicken soup to sooth my troubled soul. She cleaned, despite my loud protestations, cooked the ultimate comfort food, black beans and rice, and whipped my children into shape with a one-two punch of love and more love. She bathed them, got them to bed, read to them, supervised piano practice and homework, and every time I tried to butt in, she sent me to bed. I tried not to let her do too much, but she was sneaky. I left her at home while I worked, and I came back to an orderly apartment and the delicious smells of home.

The first thing I did was to bring my mom along to observe the physical education classes I taught. The wry smile on her face revealed the thoughts she would never express, "You do this for a living?" Next, we picked up my kids who nearly bowled her over with excitement. Finally, we picked up the baby, who, for once, was struck silent. She just looked at her grandmother and smiled. I now look back at that moment and realize that my child was busy plotting the mayhem she was going to cause while Grandma was around.

The moment my husband came home, my mother was kicking us out the door. "You two go out." She insisted. "I'll get the kids to bed." I didn't protest quite so loudly this time.

The next day, we got ready for Shabbat. I have to admit, it was nice having someone by my side, cooking and cleaning. We spent Shabbat at home, talking, eating, resting. Mom wouldn't nap, but was quick to send me to bed again. I'm sure I never complied quite so sheepishly as a child.

On Sunday, I dragged mom to the kids' piano lessons. "They're amazing!" She gushed over the phone to my father. Later that day we took the kids to the Children's museum, taking turns chasing down the baby. Once again, it felt nice having an extra pair of hands nearby. The best part of the day was the elaborate performance by my daughter the ballerina. She set up a stage with all kinds of props, including a "cup of poisoned water". She directed her big brother to start and stop the music on the CD player while she flitted and floated about as lovely as can be telling a long convoluted story that none of us even tried to follow. We just relished the moment. "She's so graceful!" mom bragged to my dad later that day.

On Tuesday, the two older kids had a day off. Mom and I took them to the Adler Planetarium. My son had just finished writing a book report on black holes, and a film of the same topic was showing at the StarRider theatre. He was blown away by the 3-D presentation. I was blown away by how much he knew. "It's a singularity! It's a singularity!" He whispered loudly seconds before Liam Neeson's booming brogue announced, "...a phenomenon known as a singularity."

"YES!" Hissed my triumphant eight year old. Mom and I beamed. My five year old didn't get the intricacies of the event horizons or singularities. For that matter, neither did I, but she liked the feeling of flying through space. It just made me nauseous. But I enjoyed holding her hand throughout the 30 minute documentary. I'm a little scared. I confided to her. "I'm not." She responded to my flimsy excuse, but dutifully held on tight through our space voyage anyway.

After the movie, we took Grandma to see the most beautiful view of Chicago. Even my mother, the woman who ruefully views Chicago as the horrible city her son-in-law dragged her babies to, had to admit it was pretty spectacular.

We rushed through the rest of the exhibits through galaxies,

past the sun,

and through the atmosphere to pick up the baby from daycare.

We came home to a great big tray of homemade baklava made by mom and none other than my son, the self-proclaimed sous chef. Mom glowed as she recounted the tale of my eight year old "Googling" and printing the recipe out. I didn't know you knew how to do that! I smiled with admiration. "I watched you doing it a million times!" He said, rightfully proud of himself. "He was so good, so precise handling the fillo dough! I'd never have that kind of patience." Grandma informed me with naches.

On Wednesday, it was time for mom to go home. The baby pouted a sweet, sullen frown. "I go with Granma to Shan Tonio!" We shook our heads sadly. No, Baby. You have to stay here with mommy. I'd miss you too much.

"No!" she insisted, "I go to the ayport with Granma! I go to Shan Tonio!" Mom melted with love, and me with a little sadness. I wanted to go to Shan Tonio with Granma, too.

It was hard saying goodbye, especially having to face a lonely Thanksgiving dinner.

But we'll be okay. Granma Tootin is coming in ten days. Another angel is on her way.

Self-inflicted

My husband often reminds me of the law school adage: "The first year they scare you to death. The second year they work you to death. The third year they bore you to death." I'm sitting here alone, with a splitting headache. The combination of wearing my contacts all day and corralling the wild herd at home, has my head throbbing like the bass line of a bad disco song. The contacts are an easy fix. My kids, not so much.

What do you do with a toddler who, in the span of an hour, takes her diaper off three times, covers herself in globs of sunscreen, and "cleans" her potty with toothpaste? The therapeutic primal scream didn't do much to temper my frustrations. Nor did it do much for the headache. It just startled the kids who went right back to whatever it was they were doing, which is not to say what they were supposed to be doing. I'm just glad the landlord didn't come running upstairs to see what was going on. He'd just see a maniacal mother in the midst of a meltdown.

Sure, the second year has been tough for my husband. Why wouldn't it be? Law journal, externship, president of the Jewish Law Students Association, co-chair of two or three committees, research assistanceships and, oh yes, classes. My husband has never been one to shy away from responsibility. And as a result, he has been up every night this month till well past midnight.

And I've been managing the demands and challenges of each of my children's unique developmental stages with the grace and competency of a Bush Administration Hack. That is to say, horrendously.

To be fair, I don't make it any easier for myself. This morning I was chairing a meeting of my own. I volunteered, fully of my own volition, to prepare a Friday night dinner for the Sephardic synagogue. This morning I presented my menu "Sephardic Cuba" along with the recipes scaled for 100 people, and a shopping list, to my committee. In my defense, I am really excited to be whipping up a grand repast. I've never done anything like this before, and I genuinely enjoy cooking, so it is an act of love for me.

At least, that's how I justify it when I am completely deluding myself. So far, so good!

Oh, and I've convinced the rabbi to teach a class on the Sephardic laws of kashrut, keeping kosher. What else would I be doing with my last free hour of the week?

How can I berate my husband for taking on more than he can chew (only to do a spectacular job at everything)? How can I fault him for being too giving of his time, too generous of his energies? We're cut from the same cloth: a pair of overcommited nut jobs with too great a sense of responsibility to the world around us. And too little for our own well-beings.

In my defense, I need a life away from my family. I love my husband and my children with every fiber of my being, but devoting myself to them 24/7 would leave me a burnt-out shell in no time. I need time away from my brood to do something meaningful, important, and fun. I think hours in a hot kitchen with other adults, whipping up pollo al mojo and picadillo for 100 will be fun. Won't it? Don't you think? Kind of?

The big difference is that I fit my extrafamilial activities around the kids, not vice-versa; therefore, I feel perfectly justified scolding my husband for taking on a few too many obligations. Mine are therapeutic, his are overkill.

We keep telling ourselves things will get easier. Classes will let up, the extra activities are finite. The kids will grow out of it. Who are we kidding? It's who we are: masochistic overachievers. It's why my husband is so cut out for law school. He doesn't want to relax and kick back. It's why I haven't loaded the kids into the van and gone home to Texas. We thrive on the pressure of a deadline.

Perhaps I doth protest too much. Truth be told, I can't wait to be bored to death.