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.