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.