Snow bound
Snow has descended upon Chicago yet again. Everything is blanketed in layers of cold white fluff. It trapped us indoors all Friday, while I struggled to clean the house and prepare for Shabbat. It threatens to strand us again. I am beyond weary of the cold and slushy. I dread it. I hate it.
It's been a rough week. Besides the cancellation of school and day care on Friday, I had to prepare for a guest for Shabbat. One of my son's classmates was coming to spend the weekend with us. Things started off well enough. My husband took the boys to the synagogue while I got the girls ready to go to a friend's for dinner. The walk to and fro was difficult with the stroller. Sidewalks weren't plowed, and the snow was piled high. We heaved and pushed through snowdrifts, and often resorted to walking down the middle of the street, but we finally made it.
On the way back, we picked up the boys whose evening event was finished. As far as I could tell, that evening event consisted of nothing but eating twizzlers. I came to this conclusion the following morning when I found my son's floor covered in mounds of red vomit. His friend had either overdone the treats or picked up a bug, but he was a clammy shade of green, either way. I sent my husband and son to synagogue, and I stayed behind with my two girls and a sweet, but very sad little boy.
The poor kid had the misfortune of getting sick in a strange house on Shabbat when he couldn't even call his mom, and worse, being stranded with two little girls who were going completely bonkers. "I'm glad I don't have little sisters!" He remarked. Out of the mouths of babes. I hovered over the dear offering tea, toast, dry cereal, blankets, anything to decrease his misery, and make him feel less alone.
By the afternoon he was well enough to go back to the synagogue with my husband and my son. We all felt the relief, except for the two little girls who really hadn't noticed anything out of place.
Sunday was the usual crazy day, on steroids. The weekly piano lesson followed by the weekly swim lessons was succeeded by an ice skating party and a Super Bowl party. Naturally, I took the two big kids to the ice rink, while the baby napped and daddy studied. It was only the second time my son ever ice skated, and my daughter's first time out on the rink.
I learned to skate, as a youngster, in Houston in an enormous shopping mall. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized I had never learned to stop. I had always just slowed down into the wall. I couldn't begin to imagine what kind of advice I was going to give my own children. I asked my former figure-skating Skokie Sistah for advice. She told me to have my daughter march on the ice. Hmmm, it was worth a shot. Of course, Miss Thang would have nothing to do with that suggestion. "I don't want to march. I want to SKATE!" So I held one hand, and with the other, she clung to the wall. Slowly cautiously, we made our way around the rink. My son confidently skated on his own. He certainly didn't need my help! At least, not in front of friends.
After our second slow rotation, my daughter needed a break and I was happy to oblige. Before long, she had struck out on her own, and I was amazed to see her, ploddingly, making her way around the rink solo, often without holding on to the wall. I was amazed and proud of my daring, coordinated, brave and graceful Texans. We showed those Mid-Westerners a thing or two, today! March, indeed!
By the time the Super Bowl party came around, I was done. Stick-a-fork-in-me exhausted, but we had already told our host we were coming. So, we packed our kids in the car, brought fruit and refried beans, and joined friends to enjoy the game. The girls ran off to play with our friend's daughter, appearing, now and again, in one or another Disney costume. My son, the motor-mouth sport's fan, chatted incessantly during the game, cheering good plays, booing bad, and asking a million questions, which our host answered with the patience of a saint. My husband and I just looked at each other, knowingly, and smiled. He'll be at this all night. In my weariness, all I could manage was a blank stare at the big screen TV.
One bright ray of sunshine arrived in the midst of the cold and snow - a gift from Grandma Shooshin. We opened up a plain brown box to find a magical garment inside. A dress, the color of midnight, sprinkled with starlight and moonbeams, was lovingly sewn for my wide eyed baby who thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She insisted on trying it on that minute. A more awestruck little girl could not be found.
The snow is continuing to pile up outside. The kids are warmly tucked into bed, my husband is predictably pounding away at his new computer keyboard, and I am beginning to succumb to my intense fatigue. As my brain gels into mush, words and ideas keep seeping out.
Tomorrow a new week begins: carpool, volunteering at the kids' school, teaching phys ed, ballet classes, dishes, cleaning, work.
My battery is running low, and I can't find my recharger anywhere. Is this, then, the default condition of motherhood?
Or is it the snow?
It's been a rough week. Besides the cancellation of school and day care on Friday, I had to prepare for a guest for Shabbat. One of my son's classmates was coming to spend the weekend with us. Things started off well enough. My husband took the boys to the synagogue while I got the girls ready to go to a friend's for dinner. The walk to and fro was difficult with the stroller. Sidewalks weren't plowed, and the snow was piled high. We heaved and pushed through snowdrifts, and often resorted to walking down the middle of the street, but we finally made it.
On the way back, we picked up the boys whose evening event was finished. As far as I could tell, that evening event consisted of nothing but eating twizzlers. I came to this conclusion the following morning when I found my son's floor covered in mounds of red vomit. His friend had either overdone the treats or picked up a bug, but he was a clammy shade of green, either way. I sent my husband and son to synagogue, and I stayed behind with my two girls and a sweet, but very sad little boy.
The poor kid had the misfortune of getting sick in a strange house on Shabbat when he couldn't even call his mom, and worse, being stranded with two little girls who were going completely bonkers. "I'm glad I don't have little sisters!" He remarked. Out of the mouths of babes. I hovered over the dear offering tea, toast, dry cereal, blankets, anything to decrease his misery, and make him feel less alone.
By the afternoon he was well enough to go back to the synagogue with my husband and my son. We all felt the relief, except for the two little girls who really hadn't noticed anything out of place.
Sunday was the usual crazy day, on steroids. The weekly piano lesson followed by the weekly swim lessons was succeeded by an ice skating party and a Super Bowl party. Naturally, I took the two big kids to the ice rink, while the baby napped and daddy studied. It was only the second time my son ever ice skated, and my daughter's first time out on the rink.
I learned to skate, as a youngster, in Houston in an enormous shopping mall. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized I had never learned to stop. I had always just slowed down into the wall. I couldn't begin to imagine what kind of advice I was going to give my own children. I asked my former figure-skating Skokie Sistah for advice. She told me to have my daughter march on the ice. Hmmm, it was worth a shot. Of course, Miss Thang would have nothing to do with that suggestion. "I don't want to march. I want to SKATE!" So I held one hand, and with the other, she clung to the wall. Slowly cautiously, we made our way around the rink. My son confidently skated on his own. He certainly didn't need my help! At least, not in front of friends.
After our second slow rotation, my daughter needed a break and I was happy to oblige. Before long, she had struck out on her own, and I was amazed to see her, ploddingly, making her way around the rink solo, often without holding on to the wall. I was amazed and proud of my daring, coordinated, brave and graceful Texans. We showed those Mid-Westerners a thing or two, today! March, indeed!
By the time the Super Bowl party came around, I was done. Stick-a-fork-in-me exhausted, but we had already told our host we were coming. So, we packed our kids in the car, brought fruit and refried beans, and joined friends to enjoy the game. The girls ran off to play with our friend's daughter, appearing, now and again, in one or another Disney costume. My son, the motor-mouth sport's fan, chatted incessantly during the game, cheering good plays, booing bad, and asking a million questions, which our host answered with the patience of a saint. My husband and I just looked at each other, knowingly, and smiled. He'll be at this all night. In my weariness, all I could manage was a blank stare at the big screen TV.
One bright ray of sunshine arrived in the midst of the cold and snow - a gift from Grandma Shooshin. We opened up a plain brown box to find a magical garment inside. A dress, the color of midnight, sprinkled with starlight and moonbeams, was lovingly sewn for my wide eyed baby who thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She insisted on trying it on that minute. A more awestruck little girl could not be found.The snow is continuing to pile up outside. The kids are warmly tucked into bed, my husband is predictably pounding away at his new computer keyboard, and I am beginning to succumb to my intense fatigue. As my brain gels into mush, words and ideas keep seeping out.
Tomorrow a new week begins: carpool, volunteering at the kids' school, teaching phys ed, ballet classes, dishes, cleaning, work.
My battery is running low, and I can't find my recharger anywhere. Is this, then, the default condition of motherhood?
Or is it the snow?
posted by law school widow at 9:29 PM
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