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.