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.