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.