Purim fever

Mom's visits are always a precarious balancing act. On one hand, I want mom to have great time. On the other, I selfishly want a little break for myself.

I know she just wants to spend time with her grandkids, to get her "fix". I know she also wants to help me out as much as she can. In that regard, her visits are always a blur; not because they go by so fast, but because she never sits still for a moment. She's is a whirl of activity, cooking, cleaning, bathing and dressing kids, breaking up fights, kissing boo-boos, often all at the same time. Sit down! I urge her. I'm getting tired just watching you!

"I can't!" she tells me. ""I can't just sit around. I want to help!" And it's true. I'm not sure I've ever seen her sit still.

And, honestly, I enjoy the help. When mom is here, my husband and I can go out on dates. I can nap. The dishes magically get cleaned. My children are happy, clean, well-fed, and attended to without any fuss on my part. Who wouldn't love it?

But the guilt. Mom works hard enough at home taking care of dad and Abuela. I feel terrible watching her working so hard here, when I'm perfectly capable. Fortunately, I have found a perfect solution: I go into my room, close the door, and sleep. I don't have to watch a thing! I wake up refreshed, relaxed, and open the door to a clean home and the smells of home-cooking. What guilt?

If only.

Mom's visit coincided with Purim this year. Purim is a holiday for children. They dress up, make lots of noise, and eat lots of treats. It's a lot like Halloween, only they're required to sit still for a lot of the time. And instead of going door-to-door to ask for treats, they go door-to-door delivering them.

This year Granma Shushin made an Alice-in-Wonderland costume for the Diva, per request. She couldn't have been happier. My son requested a Voldemort costume, because he thought it would have been cool to have "red eyes" when his picture was taken. "I'll really look like Voldemort then!" he predicted. Granma Shushin scrambled last minute to shorten a graduation robe, find a bald cap, white gloves, which she then stuffed with cotton, and and other accessories to complete the costume.

Before it was time to go, we got my son all decked out in his scary costume, but he emerged from his room minutes later with a sad face. "What's the matter?" his dad asked.

"I don't want to wear it. I look too scary and weird, but I don't want Granma to feel bad." My husband told him she'd understand, and minutes later he bounded back out of his room with his old Kenseido Gi on, three sizes too small, but he was happy.

The baby was a "princhesh", but her outfit was not complete without a "tiyaaaara". I sped around the house looking for something shiny to put on her head, but I had no luck, so I whipped out a sheet of paper, folded it into a tiara-esque shape, and glued some sparkly things to it. I stapled some ribbon to the sides and stuck it on her head, where it lasted for less than a minute. It was enough to get the mob out the door.

The Purim services went on a bit too long. The kids got restless waiting to hear the name of Haman, the villain from the Scroll of Esther, to be read. At this point, they would be welcome to make as much noise as their heart's desire, for a minute or two. The older kids were ready with their school-project noise makers and ears pricked up to hear the name "Haman" in the midst of the Hebrew text. The baby sort of understood, but had to be shushed between the appropriate times. This proved to be a more challenging task than I had imagined. I grumbled as I strained to hear the recitation of the ancient text over her chatting and noisemaker-shaking. SuperMom once again came to the rescue, and swept up my little noisemaker, and whisked her off. I was relieved, but there was that guilt again.

The next day was pure mayhem. We had to prepare the Shabbat meals, as we were expecting guests for lunch, and we had to prepare our Mishloach Manot baskets. I had planned for weeks to jar my homemade salsa, purchase individual servings of tortilla chips, if I could find such a creature, and to bake hamentashen, the traditional Purim cookies. But this was no ordinary year. I managed to buy the ingredients for the salsa, and the Mason jars well in advance, but the chance to buy the tortilla chips, make the salsa, dip the glass jars in the ritual bath (you don't want to know), and bake the hamentashen eluded me. I was overwhelmed with school projects over the past month, so the best laid plans were laid to waste by styrofoam sculptures.

My time had completely run out, so Mom and I were left to run around like idiots on Friday looking for individually packaged tortilla chips and cooking. We ended up buying a crate of individually packaged Pringles at Costco, and a crate of bottled water to replace the hamentashen that never got baked. My husband and I then had to rush off to toivel (dip in the ritual bath) the jars in the mikvah (the ritual bath) after the morning megilla (scroll of Esther) reading. It was insanity, lunacy, and sheer madness, but miraculously, it all got done.

We stuffed a jar of salsa, two boxes of pringles, and a bottle of water in gallon storage bags with a silly poem I composed: "Have a happy Purim/San Antonio style/Our homemade spicy salsa/Is sure to make you smile/The salsa is fresh and pareve/The flavors are from the South/But don't expect the water/To put out the fire/In your mouth". I then dressed the kids in their costumes and sent them out with their father to deliver them to friends, in the snow.

Yes, it snowed on Purim, which fell on the first official day of Spring this year. Clearly, someones idea of a joke.

We received many cute and tasty packages ourselves this year, including my Skokie Girl's "Mother Survival Kit" that included a bottle of Starbuck's Frapaccino, cookies, snacks, and earplugs! Genius!

Shabbat lunch was tasty and the company a delight. We were graced with a visit from a young woman from San Antonio who is in Chicago for school, and her younger brother who was in town visiting. We complained about the weather, caught up on the latest news from home, and watched my children completely melt down in a most cringe-inducing manner.

I used to love Purim as a kid. I've grown to detest it. As an adult, it's a lot of work to prepare for, I end up with bags and bags of pastries and candies, which I feel obliged to eat quickly because three weeks later I'm slammed with Passover. If I were five years old, I'd completely melt down, too.

My son was acting funny all day Saturday, but I assumed it was PPSS: post-Purim shock syndrome. His 102.5 degree fever quickly disabused me of that notion. We loaded him up with acetaminophen and sent him to bed. In the morning he was burning hot. We gave him ibuprofen and water, and tried to figure out what to do next.

My husband had a ton of work to do at home, so I decided to get the girls out of the virus vector, and take them on an adventure with Grandma. We packed up the diaper bag with snacks and went to the Field Museum to see an exhibit on mythical creatures.

We walked around the special exhibit for close to an hour. The girls "oohed" and "aahed" over monsters, unicorns, fairies, and dragons. And when that was done, we had our little picnic in the cafeteria and let the girls run loose. Big sister literally ran around in circles like a puppy chasing her tail. "Shtop wunning awound like a looonatic, Tita!" called out the baby, to the delight and amusement of her beaming grandma.

We found a children's play area in the basement of the museum, and mom and I sat back watching the girls explore,


play,


and play,


and play,

and explore,

and examine,

and play some more.


And when they were done with exploring and playing, they sat down to some serious entertaining.


And for the first time in days, we just let them run wild. My girls were truly happy.

And mom actually sat still...


...for a moment.

We got back that afternoon and my son was burning up with a 105.9 degree fever. Once again we were back in our usual frenzy getting the girls ready for bed, and administering medicine and love and comfort to my feverish son. We called the doctor who advised us to give him more Tylenol and Motrin, push fluids, and come in to the office in the morning.

He ended up tossing and turning all night in the sofa bed with his grandma.

In the morning we took him to the doctor who examined his ears and throat and lungs, and finally shrugged. "It's just a virus." Those four dreaded words make mothers everywhere groan with disappointment. "Just a virus" means no antibiotics that will decisively wipe out the illness. "Just a virus" means keep a miserable kid as comfortable as possible and wait and wait and wait.
My son's fever spiked at 1o5.9 degrees. We called again and were told to keep giving him the Tylenol and Motrin, keep him cool, and push lots of fluids.

Mom was back at work taking care of us all, but only for a few more hours. She had a plane to catch that evening.

Before whisking her off to the airport, I left my sleeping boy with his daddy, and took my mom to the Indian neighborhood down the street where she found beautiful fabrics and clothes to take home. And of course, no trip would be complete without a visit to the kosher butcher shop, where she loaded up on meats to take back to San Antonio.

I took mom to the airport, and returned to a sweltering child. He threw up the ibuprofen, so I dragged him into a bathtub to cool off. My husband called the doctor again. This time, we were completely on our own. My mini-vacation was over.

As guilty as I felt letting my mom do so much for me over the past week, I had to admit it was a G-dsend. Nothing has gotten easier. I spent the day washing and folding mounds and mounds of laundry, scrubbing dishes, and caring for a febrile boy.

Thanks to mom, I was able to do it all with grace and a smile.

Gaining perspective

Earlier this week I was ready to throttle a couple of teachers.

Normally, I'm a very supportive mom. As a teacher, the wife of a former teacher, and a person with a generally high level of respect and awe for educators in general, I tend to give these harrowed, overworked and underpaid professionals the benefit of the doubt. I strive to make their lives easier by staying on top of my kid's work and by not complaining too frequently. In this, I'm usually pretty good.

But this week I had enough!

Two weeks ago it was the Israel fair. We never received an assignment sheet with clear instructions. We had to rely on our eight year old children to communicate the parameters of a project with both a written component and a model. Needless to say, I never got the memo. Fortunately, it was a group project, and even more fortunately, one of the group members had a clue.

The Chicago fair followed soon after. This came with extensive written guidelines. We were to visit our assigned site (Museum of Science and Industry - $14 parking, $11 entry with reciprocal museum membership), our child was to write a report detailing the location, date of completion, architect, and interesting features of our building, and then the child was required to build a model ($40 in Styrofoam, glue, and small dowels).

Sometime that week I was also informed that the children would be putting on a Purim carnival for special needs children. This was yet another group project (thank goodness!). "Oh, and by the way," my son interjected the day before the carnival, "I need to bring a mishloach manot basket," a gift basket of different kinds of foods traditionally given on Purim, "for my Keshet kid."

The museum project was due Monday, the carnival was Tuesday. My mom was set to arrive Monday night.

That week I accosted friends, administrators, and even my sister - anyone who would listen to me vent about expenses and time and stress. I was saving up my sharpest remarks for the teachers who dumped it on us all at once. Teacher conferences were Wednesday. I licked my chops in wicked anticipation.

"Don't stress about the carnival." my wise Skokie Sistah advised me, after I let loose my rant. "We don't have to meet. We'll just divide up the tasks. I'll pick up the prizes and you can make the game. It'll be easy!" That calmed me down, slightly. It was still a lot to do in a short amount of time.

After piano lessons and swimming on Sunday morning, I dropped off the diva and took my son to grab some pizza. A fifteen minute break turned into a nice, long leisurely lunch hour, but the museum, 45 minutes away, closed in three hours! Panic was bubbling directly below the surface.

We finished up our lunch and zoomed across town. I shelled out the big bucks and we flew through as many exhibits as we could in the limited amount of time we had. My son was wide-eyed and enraptured by everything he saw. Frankly, I was, too. The giant model trains, the energy exhibit, the model toy factory, and his favorite from our first visit last year, the Swiss kinetic sculpture, had my boy mesmerized.

We reluctantly left and headed for the crafts store where we loaded up on our supplies, then headed home to whip together an adequate facsimile of the beautiful, but complicated structure.

We did okay!

On Monday, I threw together a bright and tasty mishloach manot basket for one of the Keshet kids, and cleaned my house for mom's visit, between carpools and ballet classes. That evening we had the school's Chicago Fair, a third grade tradition, where we were treated to a tour of Chicago architecture as envisioned by a bunch of bright eight and nine year olds. It was beyond adorable, but I was still miffed at the amount of labor-intensive work the school had piled on my son, and by extension, me.

"So, you know the kids switched around their assignments, right?" My friend asked me, referring to the carnival game the kids were supposed to bring. What?! I snarled, thinking about the little red tin heart boxes and tie-dye pattered foam board I had purchased for the game the day before. "Oh, our boys decided yesterday that we would make the game and you would get the prizes, but don't worry!" She interjected quickly, seeing the steam coming out of my ears, "I'll go ahead and get the prizes. It's not a big deal."

The Chicago fair was amazing, and reluctantly, I admitted to being impressed with the children's ingenuity. Still, it was a lot of things thrown at us at one time. My time would come to voice my displeasure.

That night, my mom arrived, the kids were ecstatic, my doll got a new baby, and immediately, stress lifted.

The next morning, my mom and I drove the carpool, dropped off the baby, and rushed back to the school to help the kindergartners make hamantashen, the traditional Purim jelly cookies. Admittedly, much of the stress in my life comes from my inability to say no. But it was a great opportunity to spend time with my daughter, and let my mom see her in action.

Needless to say, we had a great time mixing the ingredients, flattening out the cookies, folding them into jelly-filled triangles, and interacting with adorable little kiddos. My mom was positively glowing.

But that was nothing compared to the wonderful surprise that followed. I hadn't realized the carnival would be happening right after we made hamantashen with the kindergartners. My son was in costume, grinning from ear-to-ear, posted by his carnival game.

He was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the children with various types and levels of disabilities to come and partake in the festivities he and his classmates had prepared. My sweet, sensitive son had planned a shell game with blocks in each of the tins, so that each child would earn a prize, no matter which tin he picked! I marvelled at his goodness and ingenuity.

My mom and I watched as my son and his friends greeted the Keshet kids with big smiles and excitement.

They played games, did projects together,

sang and danced, and ate lunch together. My son had a great time. While the teachers marvelled about how it was a growing experience that would touch our children and give them a greater sense of maturity and sensitivity, to my son, it was just a chance to make a new friend.

The next evening, my husband and I went to teachers conferences. I was grudgingly willing to admit that the projects were amazing, the learning opportunities tremendous, and the challenges manageable, but I never got to express my consternation and joy.

Each conference began the same way: "Is your child happy?"

Time after time, my children's teachers told me how bright, and sweet, and smart, and sensitive my children were. "Your son was so sad after the carnival," one teacher explained. "He was worried that he'd never see his new friend again."

"He's so creative!" they gushed. "He always has a unique perspective!" they admired. "But is he happy?" they wondered. "Does he have friends?"

"Your daughter gets concepts immediately" her teacher noted, "but she often plays alone."

"Is she happy?"

I don't know. I think so. My kids come home happy. I ask them, How was your day? "Great!" they tell me, "Best ever!"

But when they're tired, frustrated, feeling vulnerable, the sadness and loneliness pour out. "Nobody likes me." They say. I know it's not entirely true. They've made wonderful friends, but it hasn't been easy fitting in. It's a different world with different rules, and they haven't figured it all out yet.

I have spent an inordinate amount of time sweating the homework not turned in, the projects piled on, the lack of communication with the teachers. In doing so, I have almost missed the important thing: my children's happiness.

I have a hard time finding fault with teachers. My children have been especially fortunate in that they have been blessed with sensitive, smart teachers who really seem to get it. The homework not turned in, the haphazard projects; what's that next to an unhappy child? The friends, the learning challenges that fire up the imagination, the opportunities to help another child celebrate with joy, these are the priceless lessons only a harrowed, overworked, and underpaid professional can truly bring to life.

End of waiting

This morning it snowed again. It was just some sparse flurries, but two weeks into March, a blizzard wouldn't have made me feel any worse. This winter has dragged on far too long. Even native Chicagoans are complaining of this endless cold spell. My baby pranced into school one morning this week announcing, "Shping is coming!" The day care teacher next to me muttered bitterly, "Yeah, in July."

Beside my usual irrational fear that I will never be warm again, I have a new panic: that summer will come and go as quickly and toothlessly as a San Antonio winter. Two weeks of tepid warmth will be all we're entitled to. I can't fathom the consequences of such a catastrophe. I would lose my already tenuous hold on sanity.

Just when I thought my mood couldn't plummet any lower, when the winter blues had me in a funk so deep I couldn't even speak to my husband who dragged me to such a God-forsaken place, a miracle occurred. In order to tell my story adequately, I have to go back over twenty years.

After high school, I spent a year in Israel, studying, exploring, testing limits, and being a teenager. I went by a silly nickname at the time whose origin I can hardly recall. On this international program, I met a young woman from England who rapidly became my best friend. She was a beautiful girl with long blond hair, a quick mind, and a slightly wicked sense of humor. My fondest memories of that year were wandering around lost in the Old City of Jerusalem with her on Shabbat. We would always set out with the same goal: to find the Russian church with the gold domes. Invariably, we ended up lost in the same Arab neighborhood, she, warily eyeing the inhabitants, me, blithely skipping along, stupidly fearless.

My friend was the one person I kept in touch with after that year. We wrote to each other for ten years. She moved to Israel soon after the year ended, studied at Hebrew University, and worked at the Biblical Museum. I visited her there five years after our program together, and we still managed to stay in touch. But time marched on. Her mom passed away around the time I married, and we lost track of each other. I tried writing a few times later, but I suspect she moved to a new apartment, and the letters never arrived.

Years passed and every so often I would think of her. At times, I would Google her. She shared a name with a human rights activist and an illustrator of children's book about the disabled. Not a chance, I would think.

About a year and a half ago, I received an email from some gentlemen putting together an alumni organization for my Israel program. I took it upon myself to try to track down the alumni from my year. I even set up a website. Amateurish, to be sure, but it was a labor of love. I had such fond memories of that year, and such a desperate curiosity to see where people ended up. Mostly, I hoped to reconnect with my dear friend. It took me a few months to set up the web site, and I began to search for friends in earnest. I was marginally successful, but I was still unable to find the one friend I couldn't bear to lose.

Last week, I found myself depressed and despairing. The endless winter encased me in gloom, and my busy, overwhelmed law school husband was consumed in exams and papers. Once again, I Googled my old friend. I scanned pages and pages of search results, when finally, on page seven or eight, I found her name on a list of Israeli tour guides. I emailed the company and asked them to have her contact me.

A few days later, I opened my email to find a message from my friend that began, "Yes, it's me!!!" My heart leapt. Spring had finally arrived, at least, metaphorically.

It's been a crazy few weeks that way; full of surprises. My kids -all of them, my biological children and my students alike - are going absolutely, in the words of a fellow Texan teacher at my school, "Bazooie!" I guess it's cabin fever. They're all fighting like cats and dogs. My baby is just going plain bonkers. She's been climbing on my desk, grabbing scissors or "sharpie" permanent markers, and doing as much damage as she can before I can wrestle the weapons of mess destruction from her chubby little hands.

I had a parent-teacher conference at her daycare this morning. The final report: my sweet, angel pushes, hits, grabs toys out of classmates hands, climbs the bookshelves, and eats the sequins off her class projects, but she does it all with a big, sweet smile on her face. She's two, I lamely explained. Her teachers nodded. "Yeah, she'll be fine. We just have to be consistent and firm with her." Good luck, I muttered under my breath.

I still don't get the point of these day care conferences. So my kid eats glue? What two year old doesn't?

She's not going to be two much longer. In fact, she's growing so fast it often takes my breath away. I was driving her to school this morning when she asked me to play the "Me-a-name-I-call-myse'f" song. "I like dat moowie" she told me. I nearly spit out my latte laughing.

This weekend we hit a big milestone. My baby was finally big enough to sit still for long enough to get a "haycut". After a crazy day comprised of an hour and twenty minute long piano lesson (the next student didn't show and the teacher lost track of time), the final swim lesson of the session (the kids got certificates!), and mass chaos at my children's school's Israel Fair, I decided, insanely, to take my kids for a haircut. We were exhausted, frazzled, frayed, and hungry. What better time to ask my children to sit still in front of people with sharp scissors?

As always, the big kids did great. My son patiently explained to the hairdresser that he wanted a "two on the sides and back, and a two-and-a-half on top". Then he proceeded to chat her ear off. My diva sat still as a statue, staring forlornly into the mirror. The baby fidgeted and watched. I asked her again, are you sure you don't want to try? You're such a big girl! It won't hurt!

This time, she solemnly conceded. I placed her on the booster, and the hairdresser placed a smock covered in colorful animals over her. She looked frightened, but at peace. And every time the hairdresser asked her to look up at her, my baby smiled a squinchy-nosed grin.

But she did it! She sat for her very first haircut ever. My Princess Crazy Hair is gone. Like my big swimmers, she also came home with a certificate. It read: "My Baby's First Haircut", and it included a snip of her babysoft brown curls taped on it. We celebrated by giving our big girl her first lollipop ever. She only had to wait two and a half years, which in the life of a toddler, is literally forever.

Waiting to find a long-lost friend only felt that way.

Waiting for Spring is another story altogether.

The rut

I think I'm depressed.

There is a big, wide world out there. Politics is happening. Art is happening. Music is happening. But in my world, only winter and children are happening. Children who color permanent marker on my coffee table, children who harass their younger siblings, children who whine and grouse incessantly, children who make messes are happening.

I'm in a rut.

My husband plugs away at law school, studying, writing, researching ad infinitum. He's engaged, driven, stressed out, and dare I say it, happy. I look around at the endless dirty snowbanks, the messy apartment, the uprooted children and wonder why I'm here.

Forecasts of "wintry mix" have a way of making me feel so homesick. I want to be back in my old house, walking with my friends in the hot evenings, leaving my kids with my parents for a few hours of sanity. But it's not an option. I have to look at the big picture, look to the not-so-distant future when our hard work and sacrifices will pay off.

But the snow and ice are blinding. I can't see into that future right now.

I have found myself taking more and more frequent mental vacations to Hawaii. I've never been there, but in my mind I'm in a small bungalow on the beach with a lush forest behind me, and brilliant blue waves crashing on the shores before me. I am drenched in warm sun, and of course, I'm twenty pounds lighter.

A girl can dream.

And right now, dreams are all I've got to take me away from the harshness of winter and the endless challenges of motherhood. There is a light at the end of this malaise-ridden tunnel. Spring is supposedly weeks away. At least, my mind tells me it is; although my heart is doubtful. And my mother is coming soon, followed closely by my mother-in-law. Their visits always bring much needed warmth, camaraderie, and reprieve.

My husband has been a tremendous source of strength, taking care of the kids on Saturday, while I burrow under my blankets hiding from responsibility for a short while. He's there to "talk me away from the edge", when the screeching and whining have hit a crescendo. But he's only human, and a very busy human at that. He can't make the sun shine brighter or hotter, and he can't make the kids stop being kids.

I haven't fenced in six weeks. I haven't jogged or walked briskly in months. I bake and eat and groan each time I step on the scale. I spend way too much time plugged into the internet. I spend way too much time drifting off to my imaginary Hawaiian island bungalow.

I'm in a rut.

Perhaps I could use a full-blown Hollywood mid-life crisis: the impractical sports car, the impossible cross-country journey with fellow middle-aged companion in tow, the trip to Jamaica, the younger man - wait, I already married him.

That's the problem with life - it doesn't follow the script. I wasn't supposed to be facing down forty, working part-time as a P.E. teacher, living in an apartment in Chicago, raising three children, married to a student, wearing long skirts and baking my own challah. None of that was in the plans.

Thank God I'm horrible at planning things.

I'd rather be in this rut, surrounded by a wonderful, sweet, hard-working husband, and three brilliant, funny, affectionate, and precocious children. Thank God I have two parents I adore and a mother-in-law I'm crazy about. I have a wonderful family I love, and they love me back. I couldn't have planned it better myself.

I don't need a Hollywood script for my life, just some patience. Spring is right around the corner: long walks outdoors with friends, adventures to great museums and gardens with my children, fresh air and no snow. Visits from family, dates with my husband - I just have to hold on a little longer.

In due time, even this wintry mix will pass.

In due time, I may make it to the real Hawaii.