Making do

Where has the time gone?

It seems like just a week ago we celebrated my baby's third birthday. Of course, she doesn't like to be called "baby" anymore. She's my big girl. She wears big girl panties. She eats big girl foods, and insists on doing everything, and I mean everything, by herself. To be three and on top of the world. It's exhilarating, freeing, and slightly maddening.

Of course, a three year old can't do everything by herself. And that dependence breeds frustration, and occasionally anger. I took my son to soccer practice last week and brought along the ballerina to get her out of the house. When my "big girl" realized she'd been left behind with her daddy she threw a fit of glorious magnitude. She jumped up and down with her little fists clenched in helpless rage for the full two hours we were gone, sobbing angry, hot tears of betrayal. How could we leave her behind?

When we got back, I got an earful of hurt and fury. "I (sob) wanted (sob) to go (sob) to shoka pactish (bitter sob)!" My poor husband looked worn and stressed. "I didn't get any work done." He lamented.

Since her birthday, Passover has come, and come, and come, and reluctantly gone. I planned, I shopped, I forgot things and shopped again. I cleaned, and I cleaned, and I cleaned. Slowly it all came together. Why am I stressing out like this? I demanded of my husband. I'm cooking one meal. And it was true. I had no cause to kvetch. I hosted the first Seder at my house and it was a small one, too: my husband and kids and two law school students.

It was a huge disappointment and a small relief. The Passover Seders are a chance for my kids to really shine. They show off their singing voices, their charm, and their amazing knowledge of all things pascal. And what fun is that without an audience? Our guests were smart, interesting, gracious, patient, and suitably impressed. And who wouldn't be? My darlings performed formidably up until the last gasp of the Hallel services. They did the four questions, sang "Dayenu", delighted and informed us from the beginning strains of "Kadesh U'rhatz" sung to "Stairway to heaven" to the closing battle cry, "L'shana haba'ah b'Yerushalayim," Next year in Jerusalem!

At the same time, it felt lonely.

I have fond memories of Passover Seders in my mother's house with the whole family and various friends around the table. To me Passover is rented tables and folding chairs, thirty people including half a dozen misbehaving cousins, and platters piled high with sumptuous steaming delights. At least we had the last part. I even made my Turkish/Cuban Sephardi grandmother's gefilte fish recipe from scratch.

For the next three festive meals, we were invited out to friends' houses. Each meal was more delicious than the next, and the company warmer and more delightful. Who needs Passover cruises? There's nothing like surrounding yourself with family and friends on the holidays. It more than made up for our anemic Seder turnout.

During the next several days, I made a concerted effort to get my kids out and about. We were blessed with warm, and mostly sunny weather. I took them to an indoor amusement place, aptly called "Go Bananas". Since it was during a public school day, the establishment was loaded with observant Jews on their Spring break. I hooked up with a friend and her kids and we let our kids run loose while we kept a wary eye on the youngest ones.

For the twentieth time, my three year old slipped my watchful gaze. I searched for her all over the place, only to discover that she had convinced my son's classmate to take her on the indoor rollercoaster. It wasn't a giant 60 mile-an-hour double loop monstrosity, or anything. It was a kiddie-ride that climbed a small hill, sped down and took a sharp turn. It was more jarring than speedy. I ran to the ride's exit anticipating howls of terror, but was greeted with a stunned look of disbelief as if to say, "you didn't warn me!" I didn't know!

I expected tears but got, "I wan' go again!" instead. What could I do? I shrugged and sent her with her big sister, proud of my fearless wonder.

The next day we went to the zoo, and the following day to the Kohl's children's museum, loaded with fruit, Passover snacks, and Passover chocolate chip cookies. Passover isn't the easiest holiday to eat healthily. Matzah is known as the "bread of our affliction", and is also known to cause great digestive afflictions.

For eight days we "make do" without our usual fallbacks: bread, pasta, tortillas. We eat matzah-related foods instead. But we don't "make do" in the scatological sense. In recent years I have discovered a healthy (and high fiber!) alternative to the rice and grains we are denied: quinoa. Unfortunately, I have been less successful convincing my children that it isn't yucky. So for a week I feed them meat, chicken, cold cuts, and more meat, and I cram as much fruit in them as I can.

And by the third day we are all declaring, "LET MY PEOPLE GO!"

Passover ended last night. I was up until after midnight putting my kitchen back to normal. Today I went grocery shopping and was shocked to find that prices had doubled in the past week. A small jar of yeast was ratcheted up to $7.99. I nearly passed out from shock.

My husband is back to work, preparing for his exams, the kids are enjoying their last lazy days of computer games and videos before returning to school, and I am facing my next challenge: my diva's 6th birthday. It's going to be a "Fancy Nancy" party. The birthday girl is ready to go.


If only I could...

Fishing for fun

It is said that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. We're here in mid-April, and winter is still rearing it's ugly head. Fortunately, we've had so much going on, we haven't had a chance to be bogged down by the cold and wet weather.

Soon after my mother left, we were graced by several visitors. My mother-in-law came for a long weekend, which happened to coincide with a brief visit from my brother-in-law who was in town to take his medical boards, and my father who was in town for a business meeting. They converged, like a harmonic alignment of the planets, on Friday night for our Shabbat dinner. It was the happiest I can remember us being on a Friday night. Normally, we are so beaten down by the long week, compounded by the frenzied cooking and cleaning for the ritual meal, that we don't have the energy to enjoy.

This evening we laughed, talked, caught up on family and friends, and relaxed. The kids were over the moon with all of the love and attention they were receiving. My husband got to spend some time with his brother and mom, and I got to breathe.

For the next few days, the kids got to spend lots of time with their Granma Thuthin, playing games, reading books, trying on dresses, and hugging a lot.

I even got to steal a few hours with her alone, too. On Sunday, my husband took the kids and his mom to visit his aunt and cousins up north while I stayed home to clean. It was a strange sensation. I opened cabinets, pulled out pots and pans, sprayed the cleaner, wiped the shelf, covered it in foil, and...

Nothing happened.

Nobody came running into the kitchen crying or screaming. No one sneaked up behind me with a powerdrive hug. No one demanded a snack, or for me to read a book. In fact, I didn't hear anything but the music I was playing and the "tsh tsh" of the spray bottle.

It was the first Sunday in ages I was away from my kids. It was weird, wonderful, and cleansing. Not the soul-type, but the Passover kitchen type. Who are we kidding? Four hours away from the kids is nice, but it isn't a trip to a Mendocino spa. I'm not exactly sure there are spas in Mendocino, but if there are, I'm eyeing a spot at a mud bath in a few years when getting away from the kids involves airfare.

Mom-in-law left us on a chaotic Tuesday afternoon when I was running a limousine service from one school to another to the train station to pick up my dad from his business trip.

Once again, the kids had a beloved grandparent at their beck and call to read books, tell stories of the Old Country (Brooklyn), and give them more smiles and attention than mom could muster at any given time.

As soon as my dad left, Passover cleaning went into high gear. My husband tackled the desk, the toys, closets and pockets. I got the kitchen. He vacuumed, did laundry, scrubbed toilets and showers, while I tackled the kitchen. He may have gotten the better end of the bargain. Although, I can't complain. He worked nonstop without cracking a book.

This Sunday, we went back to the old arrangement: I keep the kids out of the house while my husband works. Normally, this is a tough challenge. It requires a lot of driving, a lot of money, and more patience than I possess. My hubby definitely got the fuzzy end of the lollipop this time. While he cleaned, folded, dusted, attacked the junk closet with vigor, and even polished windows, I got to play with the girls on the playground, albeit in 40 degree weather, hang out at the swimming pool, and celebrate my baby's third birthday in style.

First, I dressed her up for the occasion.

I packed all three kids into the minibus and picked up the girls from the carpool and took them all to the Old Town School of Folk Music to see the best children's band in the world: Trout Fishing in America.

We had been listening to their CD in the carpool for months, so the kids had their music almost completely memorized. They sang, danced, and laughed for an hour and a half straight. And I, who used to go and see them as a college student three and a half lifetimes ago sang, danced, and laughed along, until I blurted out the punchline to one of their well-weathered jokes in the middle of the set. At which point, I slinked back to my seat and left the performance for the children to enjoy.

When it was all done, after an encore of "When I was a dinosaur I thought I was so cool...future fossil fuel" we got to go out and meet the band.

After the concert, I took the party out for pizza and ice cream. I sat back and watched the hilarity ensue. The dozens of straw wrappers blown across the table, the nasty experiments with water and soft serve ice cream, and the goofy conversations that only eight and nine year olds can have with three and five year olds. Nonsensical, silly, and sweet.

It wasn't the most creative birthday party I've ever put together, but for the older kids, it will be a cherished memory - their first concert experience. For my baby, it will be a happy blur that we will remind her of, from time to time.

The memory for me was solidified two hours later when I heard the unpleasant sound of retching from my son's room. You okay? I was ready to ask before I caught the sight of my son hanging over the railings of his 6 foot loft bed, puking a nasty combination of pizza, ice cream, grapefruit and milk. The splatter radius was impressive.

The inevitable ending to a perfect day.

Recovery discovery

I finally reached my threshold of clutter. My feng shui was way off, and I needed to get my apartment into a manageable order of some sort. Toys, living room furniture, and a giant messy desk competed for space in the area designated as the dining room. Meanwhile, a large majestic dining room table sat lonely in the cavernous space of the living room.

On Saturday night, I entered the rare but familiar Cleaning Frenzy Zone. Once Shabbat ended, I was busy rearranging furniture, flipping the living room and dining room, creating more space for kids' toys, dusting inches of accumulation off of tables and shelves, and finally arranging everything in a way that just made more sense. By the time I got to bed, it was one in the morning.

The baby woke up the next morning saying, "Dat doesn't go theya!"

I consider myself to be a recovering organizational basket case. As the resource lady at my kids' school would describe it, I have some serious executive function issues. In other words, ideas have a tough time translating to coherent action. Information processing gets bottlenecked somewhere before "output". But occasionally, the blockage is cleared, and I have a lucid moment of actually getting something done. Awareness is the first step in my recovery.

But the road to recovery is pocked with potholes.

It took my son more than a week to get over his nasty virus; and after two fever-free days, it seemed to return. He couldn't even look at a chewable tablet without retching, and I couldn't bear to jab a thermometer under his tongue one more time. Enough was enough. Even our improved feng shui couldn't cheer him up.

By Sunday morning, my son seemed to be improving. He finally had a couple of fever-free days. And we were anxiously anticipating a welcome visit from a dear cousin.

Sadly, we rarely get to see her. She's in the middle of planning a wedding, training for a fundraising climb of Mt. Kilimanjaro, preparing a trip to Israel with her father, and juggling a high pressure job. I have no real excuse, but I have three kids. Needless to say, our paths rarely cross, but we managed to nab her for several blissful hours of arts and crafts and much needed conversation on Sunday afternoon. My daughter had a friend over when our cousin showed up with a bag full of scrapbooking paper, ribbons, and stickers she no longer needed.

My daughters were in girly-girl heaven. They drew lovely pictures of princesses and their cousin,

They created collages of paper, ribbon, stickers, and shiny things,

Even the baby lost herself in cutting and pasting

The girls couldn't have dreamed up a better afternoon. My cousin and I couldn't have dreamed up a more frightening one. "No, baby! Let go of the enormous sharp scissors!" My cousin called out on more than one occasion as I tried to gently pry the weapon from my baby's fierce grip.

No, Sweetheart! I gasped. Get off of my couch with that glue! While the girls lost themselves in artistic reverie, my cousin and I tried to catch up with each other's hectic lives. The baby, hell bent on destruction, made this a greater challenge than we had anticipated. Descriptions of wedding dresses were frequently interrupted by one of us lunging at the baby armed with writing utensils.

The end product made it all worthwhile: irrepressible glee.

Unfortunately, my son's fever came back that afternoon, and the artsy thing didn't do it for him. He curled up on the couch, watching the proceedings with mournful eyes. My heart sunk, mistakenly thinking the virus a thing of the past.

On Monday morning, my son's fever was gone again so I sent him to school. By the time he got home, the hot forehead was back like a bad dream. I took him back to the doctor on Tuesday. The doctor examined him yet again, and concluded that it was the virus' last dying gasp. We sent him to school once more.

A couple of days later, he had his first soccer practice of the season. My son practically skipped to the soccer fields. I recognized that tall, skinny beanpole chasing after a shiny ball. It was my son again - no raging fevers, pale skin, or mournful eyes. Just a regular goofy kid chasing down a soccer ball. Life as it should be.

Some recoveries occur as a matter of course. My feverish son needed little more than love, attention, and time, to be himself again. Other kinds of recovery require a great deal more intention, preparation, and execution. My recovery from disorganization and discombobulation will take more effort, and may never come to fruition. Somehow, in fits and bursts, I manage to get things done, and just in time!

Granma Shushin and my dad are coming to visit us this week, and the timing couldn't be better. The apartment is clean, their grandson is healthy (hamza, hamza), and I am, as always, trying to recover my long lost sanity. At least, for now.