Winter break

Last night I was sitting in the Hy Life Bistro, sipping a "Mint Kiss" coffee drink, and remarking to a dear friend from back home how unseasonably warm it was that evening. You brought some San Antonio warmth! I thanked her; as well as news, good and bad, from our quirky, sweet, and tragic little community. A remarkable teacher had passed away this past week. A dear friend has been battling cancer for years while his family try to hold things together. The new building is going up, and people come and go.

Everything and nothing has changed.

That night I slept with warm thoughts of home, but in the morning, the cold realities of Chicago slapped me in the face with 17 degree temperatures and wind that cut through layers of down jackets and long underwear. Chicagoans are fond of saying that in winter you can always put on an extra layer, but when it's hot, you can only take off so much. I am not so fond of reminding them that there is always some sliver of skin exposed somewhere, and it hurts like hell in -9 wind chill. And when you're trying to pry your frozen car door open first thing in the morning, or trying to bundle a squirming and crying child, no amount of sweaters will make anything better. In Texas, all you need is air conditioning or a pool, and a tall glass of iced tea and everything really is better.

We're celebrating our brief freedom by cleaning. We call it the winter purge. Piles of old papers, magazines, receipts, and kids art work have been swept off the desk into piles on our dining room table while we figure out what to do with our trash and treasure. We are plowing through the kids toys and books and stuff, dumping the destroyed dolls, the vandalized tea sets, and the torn pop-up books, all the while trying to convince our sobbing children that it's for the best. Clutter has overtaken our apartment, and, like the snow that piles up below, it's time to dig out of the mess.

It's not all drudgery. We're scheduling playdates for the kids, and my husband is planning on taking the big ones ice skating for the first time. I wish I could be there, but I'm still working. My religious girls school doesn't take off for the traditional winter break, so I'm still slogging away at aerobics, passing skills, and now, badminton! My break comes in late January when everyone else is back to work. Until then, I pretend to be on vacation, drinking a mojito while bundled up in a blanket. It's an incongruity that challenges the imagination, but I'm working it.

My husband is doing something he hasn't been able to all semester: enjoy a football game. Although considering how his Vikings are doing, he's still not enjoying himself.

We're not going to spend the entire break dusting and rearranging. We have a four-day extravaganza at a kosher resort in the Wisconsin Dells planned for next week, and Motzei Christmas, Tuesday evening, we're having some adult friends over for Mexican food, and, you guessed it, Mojitos!

We may or may not get the home front in order. We may or may not keep the kids adequately entertained for the next two weeks. We may or may not enjoy every sporting event we catch on TV. But one thing is for certain about winter vacations: they pass too quickly.

Some moments, however, will linger a lifetime. My eight year old son gave a D'var Torah, a mini-sermon, in front of a chapel full of teenage boys. He discussed the blessing Jacob gave to Ephraim and Menasse, his grandsons. What lesson, my son pondered, do we learn from Jacob's insistence on crossing his hands and blessing the younger Ephraim first? My son concluded that we learn that sometimes we think we know best, but our elders often know more than we do, "'Pecifically our Torah Scholars." I smiled so much it hurt. And when I went to hug my beaming boy, he pushed me away with an "aaw, Mom!" He's growing up too fast.

Winter breaks speed by, my son is turning into a young man before my eyes, and law school? We're halfway through! One and a half more winters to go. I'll take the warmth where I can get it: a brief visit with a good friend, a cup of hot chocolate, the nachat my children give me. I can always try one more scarf or hat, but these amazing days will never be back.

Chanukah haggis

Maybe it's the time of year. Maybe it's the weather. I can't account for the sudden emotional roller coaster I've been on. From the extraordinary high of my husband's surprise birthday outing, to the lows of a grumpy and sad little boy, I've run the exhausting gamut.

Last week, Shabbat ended with a shock. "I'm getting the babysitter. Get ready." Declared my husband, out of the blue. Get ready? I slowly stammered, as the realization slowly penetrated my thick brain. Going out? You're taking me out?

Honestly, the thought hadn't occurred to me. With his first final exam days away, I hadn't even bothered asking my husband if we were going to, maybe, possibly, if he could spare a moment or two, do anything special. It's just a birthday, not an exciting one at all. One I would, in fact, prefer to forget about. But he actually planned something, beforehand. He gave it forethought, getting a babysitter and purchasing tickets weeks, months in advanced!

I was floored.

First came dinner at Chicago's (Skokie's, actually) premier kosher restaurant, where I indulged myself in a fancy alcoholic beverage (the chocolate phosphate, I'm ashamed to admit), and a decadent dessert (the black hat). 3000 calories later, we were on our way downtown. Where are we going? I nudged.

"It's a surprise." Came the terse response. Hating surprises, I pressed on. Hmmm. It could be a movie, but why would we be going to a movie downtown? We could go anywhere.

I looked over at my husband for a sign, but I should have known better. The lawyer-in-training was impassive. Theatre? I continued. But what play would start at 10 pm? Can't be theatre. Once again, I looked over at my husband. I think I detected a smile, but no response was forthcoming.

A concert? Would you take me to a concert? You hate my taste in music, especially the bad 80s stuff I love. I racked my brain trying to remember what bad 80s groups were touring. The truth is, I didn't have a clue. I live in a virtual cave. I don't even know who the current tabloid fodder is. Princess Diana died, right? I don't know why, but for a moment it occurred to me that A Flock of Seagulls might have reunited. I was too embarrassed to ask.

The conversation went on in this vein for about half an hour until my husband pulled up to a theatre. You didn't! I shrieked in delight, hitting him on the arm. I can't believe it! My husband smiled broadly. He was proud of himself for getting it right, unlike my friend's husband.

Just two weeks ago I asked my hubby to call my friend's spouse. Her thirtieth birthday is coming up and I don't think he has anything good planned! My husband just shook his head. "I don't know him well enough to call him and give him advice. I'm sure he has something planned." My worst fears were confirmed days later during our weekly caffeine shock therapy.

"You are not going to believe what my husband did!" Caffeine shock therapy always started with this line. She proceeded to regale us with a tale of such poor judgment that we cringed. "His sisters were going to throw me a surprise birthday party and he told them not to because he didn't think I'd enjoy it!" We just shook our heads and tsked.

My husband bought me baking pans and lingerie. I consoled her. Our other friend shook her head some more, muttering, "Men. Did he buy you a new vacuum cleaner, too?" We laughed at our husbands' endearing ineptitude and let the caffeine work its magic.

Yet, a couple of weeks later, here I was standing in front of the Briar Street Theatre watching the flashing marquee of the Blue Man Group. What promised to be another quiet and depressing night of internet surfing and CSI gazing, turned out to be a birthday extravaganza for the senses: great food, amazing music and theatre, and an explosion of performance art that dazzled my eyes, ears, and brain.

My husband was deservedly proud of himself. It was the best birthday celebration in years. He couldn't help a bit of husbandly schadenfreude. "Do you think I should call your friend's husband and see if he made up for the birthday fiasco?" Tsk, tsk, tsk, I smiled. Of course, I wasn't so disapproving that I restrained myself from blurting out a colorful and animated description of my rapturous birthday to my friend the next day, in front of her hubby. He's young. He'll learn.

But the grateful high didn't last. In no time, my husband had his nose back to the grindstone, preparing for exams, and the kids were as childlike as usual: bickering, kvetchy, grumpy, funny, deliciously cuddly, devilishly mischievous, and downright difficult as ever. My son, especially, was experiencing a rough patch. My sweet, bright, funny, kid was transforming into a vicious grumpisaurus in front of my eyes.

Simple misunderstandings turned into dramatic rants and violent verbal rages. While he never actually hit me, I still was on the receiving end of a few painful verbal lashes. Is this normal? I desperately asked the school social worker. He's a sweet sensitive kid! Where's this coming from?

She was calm and measured in her response. "It's not the worst I've heard. It's probably nothing to panic about. Kids get this stuff from TV, video games. It's not unusual." TV? Video games? My kid doesn't watch anything more violent than Scooby-Doo, when he does watch TV. And video games? He plays on WebKinz where he grows a cyber garden, mines for virtual gems, and plays internet air hockey with an animated monkey.

He's not getting it from TV or video games. I insisted. It's not like him at all.

"We'll keep an eye on it," was the best she could offer. Unfortunately, it wasn't an isolated incident, and we're still desperately lost for answers. Parenting is so hard sometimes.

It's not just the puzzling emotions. Sometimes it's just the predictable and messy that baffles. This morning I took the kids out to lunch for pizza bagels and hot chocolate. The baby accidentally spilled her cocoa all over the table. I jumped up and got napkins and paper towels to mop up the mess. Minutes later, her big sister followed suit, sending the remainder of her hot chocolate into her lap. I impatiently sighed and went for the paper towels again. The kindly old lady at the cash register reassured me:

"The important thing is that no one got hurt." Tell that to me in twenty years, when, God willing, I have grandchildren. I'll be better equipped to take it in stride then, I thought to myself.

It hasn't been all stressful, though. I took my children to the bookstore to spend the gift cards from Tia Mirth. The kids had so much fun figuring out how to spend their Chanukah loot. My son picked out a 3D Hogwarts puzzle, and the girls various Backyardigan/Disney/Dora activity books and stuffed animals. Everyone left happy. I treated myself to a paperback: The curious incident of the dog in the night-time. I can't wait to dive in.


This was a great year for gifts. Grandma Tootin' did particularly well with a gorgeous dress she made for my little fashionista, and a Clan Maclaren tie for the Chieftain to match his dad's.


A funny aside: at our wedding we discovered that my dearest friend from San Antonio also was descended from the Maclarens of Scotland. We joked about being the Jewish Maclarens and the Mexican Maclarens. My husband's ancestors must be turning in their graves: "We gave our lives at Culloden for this?! Aaach!" I wonder if there's a kosher recipe for Haggis...

Whatever turmoil our Scottish-Cuban-Texan Jew is experiencing, one thing is for certain: the kid's got talent. The highlight of my wonderful birthday wasn't the rich, gooey, chocolatey center of the "black hat" or the percussive delights of the Blue Man Group. It was my son's first piano recital. Dressed up in his finest corduroys and flannel shirt, he dazzled us with London Bridge, French Children's Song, and the Chanukah Song. He was poised, serious, and breathtakingly musical. A completely different child than the restless one we've been trying to cope with.

At times I get so frustrated I want to dangle my children by their shoelaces. Often I just want to hug them tight until the frustrating moments subside. Mostly I just don't know what to do. The exulting in their successes and despairing at their difficulties has left me emotionally drained, and no amount of caffeine or chocolate can revive me from that.

Winter is here

Winter is here. The Chanukah menorahs are bunched up by the window like small children watching the snow accumulate below. Fresh wax has hardened on the homemade chanukiahs and presents are piled up on the table. Chanukah has begun, and in the age-honored Jewish tradition I have wrapped up packages of socks and underwear in sparkly paper and curly ribbons to give to my family as gifts. This may help to explain why they have been so very challenging these days.

I made the obligatory latkes, and then ate them after my children turned their noses up at my intensive labor. Really, I pleaded, if you put ketchup on them they taste just like french fries! It didn't work. Begging, pleading, and outright lies have yet to succeed in convincing my children to eat what I feed them. And it's not that I'm a bad cook.

My big catering debut was last week, and much to my relief, nobody died of food poisoning or ran out screaming, "I paid for this?!" Actually, the meal was quite the success. The Yemenite soup was a tremendous hit, and even the black beans and rice earned rave reviews. And despite slicing my finger open on the first onion I diced, it was a lot of fun. Of course, my children were not impressed, and barely deigned to try the chicken. You can't please 'em all.

My husband finished up his last class presentation yesterday, then called me in a panic from the bus stop. "I left my wallet on the bus and I can't get home!" I called the landlady downstairs and asked her to send up her daughter to babysit while I braved the frigid and snowy weather to rescue my stranded husband. We spent the next half hour chasing down the bus to to retrieve the wallet. As we passed the university my husband called out, "that's the bus!" I stopped my van, forced it to U-turn against its lugubrious will, and followed the bus in hot pursuit for a block or two. My husband, Indiana Jones-style, jumped out of the van, ran down the block chasing after the bus. He flung himself onto the bus, and minutes later emerged victorious, with a huge smile on his face and the wallet in his triumphantly raised hand.

We returned home to our ecstatic children, up past their bedtimes, playing Life with our adorable teenage neighbor. I looked around at the piles of folded laundry, the torn wrapping paper on the floor, and the sinks full of dishes, praying the landlady hadn't noticed. Despite the embarrassment of displaying a disorderly abode, I was relieved to see my children smiling and laughing, even if it was an hour and a half past bedtime.

It dawned on me that I don't plan enough fun activities with my children. I have been promising to bake Chanukah cookies with my daughter for several days now, but the time keeps slipping away from us.

I was heartened. Tonight was the synagogue Chanukah Party and the kids were bound to have a great time; pizza, cotton candy, cream-filled doughnuts, tubes of powder candy, decorate-your-own cookies, oh, and a magician, were the on the docket for the evening. I was certain we'd have a sure-fire winner. "I don't want to go." My son declared. "But I do!" my daughter responded angrily. A battle erupted between the two while I cowered in the front seat of the van, hoping to stay out of the crossfire. I finally got them to agree to go, but the baby then decided to stage her own protest.

My husband was in the library, and I, once again, had the unenviable chore of taking all three children to an event, and bringing them back home again. It sounds simple enough, but the kids have been on a holiday high all week. The sugar-and-fat buzz didn't help matters. I had teenagers chasing after the baby to get her back into her coat, I had a screaming match with my son about why he had to throw out the tube of saliva-melted discolored mush of powder candy when he got home, and I had to threaten my children with all sorts of horrible punishments if they didn't brush their teeth. I'm still chasing a sugar-rushed infant back into bed every five minutes.

It's one thing if I were making my children clean their rooms or do their homework, but they put up a fight when I offer to take them to a party! And a word of thanks when I do drag them out and they have a great time? Fat chance. I suspect it's just the age, and gratitude is not yet written into a child's DNA. I know they are gracious, fun-loving and polite children to everyone but me. My friends and their teachers, and complete strangers tell me as much.

Moms get the special treatment. We bear the brunt of their rapidly developing emotions and social skills. We see every nuanced and not-so-nuanced mood their brain chemicals produce. We see them at their sweetest and at their absolute worst. I suppose I should take it as a compliment. Who else has the privilege of being called "the meanest" by the child she bore in her womb for nine months and endured a C-section to bring into the world?

Parenting is the most exhilarating roller coaster ride in the world: the highs of tender and affectionate moments, the lows of bitter strife. At the end of the day I'm a wrecked shell of a woman, only to wake up again to the sweet smiling face of a toddler climbing in bed for a morning snuggle.

My husband is now studying for final exams. At long last there is a light at the end of this very long and dark tunnel known as the 2L fall semester. It won't come a moment too soon. I'm ready to stage my own sort of protest soon, and I've had more than enough examples to emulate.

I'm getting grumpy again. Winter's here.