Fiesta season

Cinco de Mayo has passed, but I'm revving up my Tex-Mex culinary chops. Once again I volunteered to make a festive meal for the Sephardic synagogue for the holiday of Shavuot. My theme "without tacos there is no Torah; without Torah there are no tacos" was a big hit. Let's hope the enchiladas are, too.

For the past week I've been making salsas, enchiladas, guacamole, and refried beans at home to warm up for the big event. Over the past week I've gained three pounds, but my sinuses are clear.

Work is ramping up, too. The school year ends in three weeks. My physical education program will culminate in a field day, which means loads of preparation and planning. It's a daunting task, but I'm really excited to make it work. Field day is a physical education tradition. It's a day of relay races, picnicking, games, and silly activities like water balloon tosses and tug-of-war to end the year on a high note. My students have never experienced the unrivalled joys of a field day before. This knowledge has motivated me to make it the best ever.

My husband has already begun his summer associate position at the law firm, and so far seems to be enjoying the firm life. The firm hosted a welcome event at the Spertus Jewish Museum in Chicago. We arranged for a babysitter so that I could accompany my husband to this hoity-toity affair. I squeezed into my black suit and quickly teetered over to the train station in my heels to meet my hubby downtown. We boarded the trolley, rented by the law firm for the occasion, to the museum, and were greeted at the venue with a flute of champagne with a piece of fresh fruit covered in bubbles, floating in the glass.

I wasn't shy. I took my glass and drained it. I practically mauled the passing waitstaff for their hors d'oeuvres. Everything was kosher, and pardon the expression, but I was in hog heaven. After literally rubbing elbows with hundreds of lawyers in the jam-packed ante room, we moved up to the ninth floor for the real food. Buffet tables laden with edible delights interested me far more than the spouses I was meeting. I smiled, nodded, nibbled on pastas, Asian salmon, and potato salad, and at one point squirted a spouse on the forehead with green bean fluid. Embarrassed, I skulked over to the chocolate mousse buffet.

After draining the girlie, fruity vodka drink the bartender surprised me with, I thought to myself, I can get used to this. Then I remembered I could barely fit into my little black suit as it was. On that depressing note, we headed back to the trolley, up to my husband's 41st floor office to catch an expansive view of the city, and back home to relieve the babysitter. My husband was grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Nice, huh?" was all he needed to say.

The nicest thing for me, however, is the weekends. For once, I have my husband by my side as I shlep my kids around from practices to games and back. Sunday was the usual piano-soccer hustle. After the soccer game we joined one of my Skokie Sistahs and her kids for a picnic. It was her husband's birthday, and to celebrate, she planned a day of learning for him. From morning services to evening services he stayed in the synagogue, while a stream of friends appeared hourly to learn from Jewish texts with him. My husband was scheduled for the 4 o'clock slot, so after the picnic we raced home so he could collect his stack of seven books. He had a gleeful glimmer in his eye when I asked him what he had planned. "Something lawyerly" was the obvious response.

But Monday, Memorial day, topped them all. We planned a full day of adventure for the little ones. I packed a picnic basket full of sandwiches, fruits, drinks and cookies. We drove to the train station and boarded the Metra train into town.

For my eldest and my youngest, it was the first time they had been on a real train. We could have ended the adventure right there, and they would have been satisfied, but we were just getting started.

From the train station, we walked a few blocks into downtown.

The sky was slightly cloudy, but deliciously warm.

We got onto a bus for Millennium Park, where we spread out the picnic blanket and had our lunch.

The girls were far too excited to eat. They nibbled on a bite or two and then ran circles around us; literally, tight circles around the picnic blanket.

Lunch finally finished, we packed up our basket, and found the next train terminal.

We had some time before boarding the next train, so I treated my family to Starbucks while we waited.

The time came to board the train for Hyde Park and the Museum of Science and Industry.

I'd been there several times before with my children, but this time around it was for the big kid, my husband. My kids can never tire of the many delightful and deceptively educational activities and exhibits there.

Water,

lights,

color,

and cows

are all my children need to be fascinated and mesmerized for hours on end.

But really, this was for my husband. He was more excited than anyone to see the old fashioned firetrucks, the giant model train tracks around a miniature Chicago,

and the Swiss Rube Goldberg contraption he had heard so much about.

We were there for a few solid hours, but it flew by so fast. Before we knew it, we had to rush out to catch another train back, followed by another bus, and another train soon after. Before we made it home, the baby was out for the night.

We fed the big kids a quick dinner and sent them off to bed. I sent myself to bed soon after.

In all of the action and excitement from this past month I have learned something about myself. I don't do things small. I don't do small birthday parties, I don't do small feasts, I don't celebrate small or plan small field days, and I don't do small family adventures either.

For the past year I was seeing a therapist, actually a social worker who was supposed to help me manage the difficult move and the affects of our big transition on the kids. She was remarkably sweet and smart, but I don't know that the whole experience was particularly useful for me. How could it be?

Today was our last appointment. My social working therapist is a graduate student who has completed her degree and is now moving on to bigger and better things than the angst of a harried, tired, overwhelmed law school widow who does it all to herself.

Brain strain

I found myself thinking about another old friend recently. We had fenced together at Boston College, and she had helped me drive back to Texas at some point. When, I can't say. The memories are too fuddled. For the longest time I couldn't even remember her last name, but that thankfully bubbled up from the deep recesses of my under performing brain days after she floated up to my conscious mind. I think she married an old teammate, but some things Google and Facebook can't conjure up.

My brain is also having a difficult time processing other, more immediate information, as well. An enormous decision is tangling up my neural pathways, blocking less urgent transmissions. In other words, I'm stumped.

On Friday morning my husband and I packed all of the kids into the minivan, and drove a few blocks north to the JCC parking lot to await the school bus that would take my two older children to visit the Jewish Day School we had checked out a week prior. All day I was on pins and needles waiting to hear about their experience. It made concentrating on the rapidly approaching Shabbat rather difficult, especially with the dozen or so guests that would be arriving at my house expecting proper meals both Friday night and Saturday for lunch.

Despite my preoccupation, I managed to whip together most of the menu items. As usual, much was left until last minute. But I was pretty pleased with my progress. Two kugels, four challahs, a roast, chicken breasts, Israeli couscous, blanched green beans, two fish dishes and a cholent were filling my home with highly caloric aromas. I threw together a matzah ball soup, and a chocolate oatmeal cake, as well, but the frosting would have to wait.

The pick up time rapidly approached. I left my repast and went to greet my adventurers at the bus stop. Their reactions couldn't have been more predictable. My son bounced off the bus grinning from ear to ear, talking in rapid fire sentences about all of his new friends, how much he loved the school, and how he didn't ever want to go anywhere else. And could he start now? My daughter, on the other hand, had a melancholy look on her face as she shoved large art projects into my hand. "It was OK. I like the other school better." I thanked the principal and smiled. We'll discuss it later. I can't wait to hear all about it!"

But really, I dreaded it. How could I make this Solomonic decision? My son will clearly be happier and better off at the new school. It suits him well. My daughter is just starting to make friends and feel like she fits in. How can I pull her away to yet another new place, and yet another difficult transition? And there were only three girls in her kindergarten and eleven boys. It's a great ratio for a shidduch, but this is first grade! That could be brutal. And could I force my son to stay in classful of children who have yet to make him feel welcome? It would be cruel.

The other option would be to send my son to one school and my daughter to another. And my baby...well, that's a whole other puzzle to ponder. I could do that, but three kids in three different schools in three different parts of town; my hold on sanity is tenuous enough to begin with.

With these thoughts all buzzing around in my head, I picked up the baby and rushed home to finish cooking and cleaning. I barked orders at my children in an effort to get them to clean their rooms, put away their stuff, and eat and get to bed before the guests arrived. I had just enough time to frost my cake, make my matzah balls and my salads.

I set the kitchen table for the kids, put the soup out, and called them to the table. In the time it took my to get the soup nuts out of the pantry, my baby got to the table and spilled the hot soup all over herself. My blood chilled at the sound of her agonized shrieks. I dropped everything, whipped off her pajama top, grabbed a thin blanket and an ice pack, and whisked her off into her bed to take a closer look. For an hour my husband and I tended to our scalded toddler. My husband consulted the contradictory medical guides while I gingerly applied neosporin and administered acetaminophen and gentle consolations to my sobbing child. My husband delicately wrapped her in gauze. In time, she felt well enough to return to the dinner table. "I don't want soup." she informed me. Who could blame her?

I got back to my preparations, but moments later the guests arrived. As my husband got the children to bed, I put the finishing touches on a not-so-elegant meal. At least it was mostly tasty, and the company gracious and patient. I was never quite able to shake the trauma of seeing my baby in such pain.

Luckily, I had a do-over the next day. We had a large crowd over for lunch - fifteen of us in all. Thankfully, the anxiety of the previous night had passed. My baby was proud to show off her boo boos and her bandages. My husband took the children to synagogue while I set the tables and put the finishing touches on my salads (after checking my cauliflower for bugs for over an hour). A dear family friend from San Antonio came early and helped me with the final preparations.

The guests arrived as I was making my last dressing. A young lawyer and his very pregnant wife introduced themselves. They had brought along a friend for good measure, and a series of lovely coincidences ensued. You're from Texas? I asked, thrilled to find fellow travellers. "Houston." The men responded. We're from San Antonio, I explained. "Do you know the B- family?" The young lawyer asked. Our family friend sputtered a surprised, "That's me! That's my family!" The young lawyer and his friend were her big brother's Yeshiva buddies.

"I thought you looked familiar!" said the friend. "I was at your brother's wedding!"

There's a name for these lovely invisible ties between our dispersed people: Jewish Geography.

The meal went off without a hitch, the kids had an additional four playmates to entertain, and I finally relaxed. My baby ran around and played with her new friends without one indication of the pain she had been in the previous night.

The dishes piled up, but I didn't let them damper my mood.

But then Shabbat ended. Sunday was another whirlwind of piano lessons, swimming lessons, and soccer. My husband went out to purchase a belated birthday gift for our girls. "A doll house!" They shrieked in joy as my husband assembled the three story wooden confection. My husband also decided to be thoughtful and buy our toddler a Polly Pocket set. She was finally old enough to be trusted with the tiny dolls and their microscopic accessories. She was also getting into the habit of absconding with her sister's Pollies which often set off a cascade of sobs, tears, and caterwauling.

I was ready to praise my husband for his ingenuity and thoughtfulness, until I took a close look at the doll set. You got our baby the S&M Polly? I asked eyeing the five inch doll in faux black leather miniskirt with a chain hanging off the pocket, and the knee high plastic boots. "You should have seen the others!" He answered defiantly. "They were worse!"

Oh. I snipped back sarcastically. You mean the crack-whore Polly and the teen pregnancy Polly?

As expected, the girls were oblivious. Big sister even came around and finally offered to share with her baby sister, if she could play with the menacing doll, too.

And play they have. For the past three days all three of my children have spent every spare moment in front of the new dollhouse dressing up Barbies and Pollies, and undressing them again. I wish I could report that they're playing beautifully together, sharing like a dream, but that would be a dream, and we don't live in that make-believe world.

We live in the real one where the decision of where to send my children to school next year is crushing down on a brain that can barely remember taking a cross-country road trip with a friend.

The good life

Life is so good.

My husband finished off his semester on Thursday in a flurry of exams and papers. I don't know how he managed it. He took 6 courses, presided over the Jewish Law Students Association, researched for professors, got a paper accepted for publication, and still remained a significant presence in our home. And he did it without taking out his stress on any of us.

He's clearly not human.

I, on the other hand, am all too human.

In the midst of exams, I pulled off yet another over ambitious, over-the-top birthday party. My diva turned 6 on Cinco de Mayo, but we had less of a fiesta than a "Fancy Fair". The party theme was "Fancy Nancy", and the party guests did not disappoint.

Little girls arrived dressed to the nines.

They trickled in attired in tutus, princess dresses, tiaras, feather boas, bangles, sparkles, and jewels. Of course, not one of them was fully dressed without her smile.

My daughter decked herself out in her Alice in Wonderland costume accessorized to perfection.

As little princesses flitted in, I handed out coloring pages and crayons to keep them busy waiting for everyone to arrive.

While they created their masterpieces, I read the story Fancy Nancy.

Fancy Nancy came to us a year ago by way of Tia Mirth. It was the perfect party theme for my own fancy shmancy dreamer.

Once all of the other dreamers had flounced their ways in, the magical ballet teacher, Miss Katie, led them into the studio where they all learned the subtle art of being little ladies.

They learned to keep their pinkies up,

their chins up, their shoulders back,

and their dreams soaring.

Little sister was in heaven, getting to be "one of the girls" for once. Big brother, on the other hand, tried to act cool, aloof, disinterested.

But we saw right through the deception. He stood on the edges of the party snickering, but he didn't miss a thing.

The girls danced, and played, and indulged their frilly, sparkly fantasies. For my little girl, it was a much needed and rare chance to be the center of her world. We couldn't have given her a better gift.

We finished off with tea cakes, fruit skewers (with thanks to my Skokie Sistah), and a beautiful birthday cake.

And if that wasn't enough, the next day, we got to celebrate all over again at her school.

Another successful, exhausting party was relegated to a happy memory, and with the semester also tucked away, my husband and I could finally address some issues that had been set aside for greater introspection.

The biggest issue we had to deal with was our children's education. On the night of my daughter's birthday I had to attend a meeting for all of the third grade parents to discuss the "bullying problem" in my son's grade. It was a heated, emotionally charged meeting. And, not surprisingly, the parents complaining most bitterly about the administration and teachers were the parents of the alleged bullies. It made me so sad to hear how acrimonious parents were getting. It was enlightening to discover that this has been an issue since these kids were in first grade, yet here we were, at the end of their third grade year meeting about it for the first time.

My son hasn't been happy in school, and I could understand why. He had walked into an already unhealthy dynamic as a new kid with a quirky personality.

My daughter wasn't doing much better. She was also struggling to make her way into the social structures of her kindergarten year. Her birthday party was huge for her. For the first time she felt important and accepted.

Unlike San Antonio, a "one shul-one school" kind of town, Chicago has a large number of schools to choose from. My husband and I decided to explore some options. On Friday afternoon we headed way south to the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago where a small, but remarkable Jewish Day School resides. I had been hearing about the school ever since we moved here, usually in reverential terms. I heard it described as amazing and unique. It's reputed to have child-centered, individualized classes in a warm and diverse community. We had to check it out.

We arrived on Friday afternoon and took a tour with the principal. We pelted her with loads of questions and examined the students and surroundings to see if it might just be a better match for our kids.

I worry that I put too many hopes into the school, that I have prejudged it out of desperation for my kids to be happy and to fit in. But I liked what I saw and heard. No doubt, it's not perfect. The Hebrew and Judaics probably aren't as strong as what my kids are getting at their current school. The commute is dreadfully long, and the atmosphere is far less formal than I'm comfortable with. But I could see my son really thriving here.

As to my diva, I'm not so sure.

Our next step is to send them there for a day, and see what they think. My children, thank G-d, will thrive anywhere academically. They're bright, curious, and avid learners. But school is more than a place to fill one's head with facts, ideas, and book-learnin'. I hope it can be a place to develop friendships, confidence, and a strong sense of self. I want my kids to feel good about themselves, happy, connected. Moving here was hard enough without feeling like the new kid two years later.

My husband completed his second year of law school on Thursday. That night we went to a bar to celebrate with his classmates. Over the obnoxiously loud din of bad dance music, his classmates gushed about what a great guy he is. A great big smile spread across his face as they told me how impressed they were with him and his tremendous accomplishments. My husband didn't just fit in at law school, he has established himself in the heart of his program.

We want our kids to be able to learn to do the same.

The weather here has been awful. It's been cold and rainy all spring. We've had hints of good weather, but just as our hopes have risen with the mercury, they've been left chilled and soggy by the side of the road time and time again.

Nonetheless, life is good.

We have so much to celebrate and enjoy here. Birthdays, successful school life, and burgeoning friendships. We have so much hope for our future. My son is excited to see the new school, my husband is anxious to start his summer internship at the law firm. My daughter is still carrying the joyful memory of her birthday with her everywhere she goes.

We're all learning to hold our chins up, and our shoulders back.

We're trying to keep our pinkies up, too.