Lazy days

My list of things to accomplish before summer ends is growing. The time in which I have to accomplish these tasks is diminishing. I suppose this makes me a world class procrastinator. When I'm thinking more positively, I tell myself I am using my time to fulfill my top priority for the summer: getting exercise. I have done and seen many beautiful things this summer under the guise of "getting exercise". Uptown, downtown, nature, urban, I am logging hundreds of pedestrian miles exploring Chicago's beautiful terrain. In fact, I am hoping to visit historic Oak Park, famous for its numerous Frank Lloyd Wright homes and Ernest Hemingway's birthplace with my family at some point.

Who would rather go into work and organize athletic equipment, spend hours on the phone with useless customer service people, or, I shudder to think, research phone and internet service providers, than spend the day exploring the Field museum? Under the guise of working out, my friend (and awesome babysitter) and I went to the museum for our morning constitutional. We visited exhibits on native peoples, and wondered about the parallel development of the indigenous populations in the Americas, and the development of our own people in the Middle East at the same time.

Neither of us being historians of the periods or populations, all we could do was speculate. While our American antecedents were chasing buffalo, our Jewish ancestors were receiving the Torah, as best we could figure. It was an odd contrast to consider. The focus on daily survival versus an intense spiritual awakening. Not that the Native Americans lacked in a spiritual existence. On the contrary, they perceived the entire natural world as suffused in spirits and mystery. But meanwhile, Grandpa Moses was reading us the letter of The Law. No buffalo roaming, no communal hunts, our desert ancestors seemed to have skipped the whole cave painting business and went straight to a theological masterpiece.

We continue to leave the hunting and gathering to the professionals.

Three or four thousand years later, I'm neither hunting and gathering nor writing a masterpiece. I'm pounding the pavement in hopes of shedding a few pounds, and in an attempt to make peace with a city that can be both beautiful and belligerent. Chicago in the summer is a gem, an uncommon delight. I have to take it all in before I bunker down and hibernate amidst my own little cave painters in anticipation of a winter that is coming too fast.

After native lands, we visited the African exhibit and paid our respects to an Egyptian mummy. The Egyptian exhibit is extraordinary. But all of the walking around exhibits didn't exactly cause us to work up a sweat, so we went outside to tour the Museum campus, passing the Shedd aquarium, zipping around the Adler planetarium, and heading back for the parking garage under Soldier Field Stadium. It was a perfect day for an aerobic stroll.

While my daily walks have been enlightening and interesting, the highlight of the summer has been watching my children blossom and grow. My son astounded us all this week in the pool when he finally let go of the wall and swam.

For five years I had both patiently and impatiently waited for this moment. I didn't have to imagine how he felt. My son emerged from the pool with the biggest grin I had ever seen on his pixie face. He had overcome his greatest challenge in life. He faced down his greatest fear. My son swam the front crawl and the backstroke, too!

I had teased him that as a result of all of his practice with arm circles and bubbles and breaths, he would completely skip the awkward "doggie paddle" stage, and go straight to the Olympic caliber stage. I was half right. His backstroke is sublime.

It's one thing I can finally check off my parental list of things to do, but we'll keep plugging away at those swim lessons. I still have two little girls who need to find their inner fishies, and it's never too late to start my son training for the 2020 Olympic games. I bet Mark Spitz was a late bloomer, too.

My diva is also coming along in swimming. What she lacks in coordination, she makes up for in enthusiasm. I've enrolled them in another two week session with the hopes that that will do the trick for her. The baby will have to wait another year before I unleash her on the poor teenage swim teachers.

That little one is having a great summer. She's had pony rides, a visit from a firefighter, a police officer, and a librarian at her daycare. She plays outside for hours, splashing around in the "waterplay area", and at home terrorizes her siblings and mother with glee.

Yesterday I had to dislodge a large bead from her left nostril. My brother-in-law famously had to be taken to the emergency room to have a Lego head removed from his nose when he was a child. Far from being a traumatic experience, it seems to have led him to his current profession: Ear-Nose-Throat doctor. I had been spared the whole shove-small-foreign-objects-up-the-nose phenomenon with my older two. It didn't surprise me when big sister came screaming down the hall alerting me to her sibling's latest round of mischief. Fortunately I was able to extract the one inch long football shaped bead with the help of tweezers and big brother holding her down.

Apart from the bead incident, summer's going, er, swimmingly. The kids and I are enjoying the weather and the relaxed schedules to the fullest. Our only complaint is that it's going way too fast.

And my list of things to accomplish is not getting any shorter.

Swimming lessons

When I was a little girl, my parents made me believe I could accomplish anything with hard work and determination. That's the job of any decent parent, as far as I've been led to believe. I've also been led to believe that up until the age of ten, most kids buy it.

I've always tried to instill that same belief in self in my own kids. I tell them daily how smart, sweet, good looking, funny, and wonderful they are. And, (ptui, ptui, hamza hamza) they really are all of that and more. I just can't seem to convince them of it. Oh, they'll readily buy the I was never that smart when I was your age shtick. The genuine expressions of surprise when my kids accomplish something I could never have dreamt of doesn't even warrant a raised eyebrow. "Of course you couldn't play that on the piano when you were my age. You didn't take piano lessons, Mom," is the predictable response I get.

But I did for one year, and I never ever practiced. That is why you are so much smarter and more talented than I, my dear son. You have discipline and dedication. You do your homework every night, with a little arm twisting, granted. You practice your piano, you put in the time and effort to do things right.

My children are more motivated and self-aware than I was at their age. That is why I am so shocked at how difficult it has been for them to learn how to swim. Summer after summer I have signed my kids up for lessons, but their resistance is great. So is the pressure on me to succeed, after all, no greater authority than the Talmud (Kiddushin 29) obliges parents to teach children three things: Torah, a trade, and to swim.

I grew up swimming and sailing. My fondest memories of my childhood are cradled in a body of water, whether a pool, a lake, the beach, or a water park. Each summer I ran around, brown as a berry, splashing around, flipping like a dolphin, sleek and buoyant, weightless and wet. I remember each summer earning my Red Cross Swimmer cards at camp. I was always in the top level. I never raced or joined a swim team. My water time was more carefree and dreamy than disciplined and purposeful.

I tried to teach my son when he was two or three. He wouldn't let me even hold him in the pool. I hired a teenager from the synagogue to give it his best shot for a couple of weeks, but that didn't fly. Summer after summer I signed them up for swim lessons individually and in small groups. My kids preferred to play in the shallow areas, or cling to the walls of the pool.

By the time we moved to Chicago I was beginning to get quite desperate. At almost nine my son still couldn't let go of the wall. Starting this past January, I signed up the two older ones for swim lessons every Sunday. For close to five months I dragged them, after piano lessons, to a high school swimming pool for their weekly class. We endured a few meltdowns by the side of the pool, and one particularly painful day when my son refused to go in, choosing to sit at the side, sobbing instead.

For the past month we have been going daily. While my daughter is still not swimming independently, she has caught up to her big brother. In fact, this session, the two of them are paired up with the same teacher. Day after day my son has practiced his arm strokes, circling his arms expertly over his head, his fingers held together like a fin. He bravely dunks his head completely under the surface, blowing bubbles out his nose. He kicks his feet, knees straight, legs moving efficiently, and I shake my head. After five years of lessons, his skills are impeccable, his technique strong, and yet, and yet. He can't swim.

This past session was particularly painful. My son was paired up with a bubbly, sweet five year old girl who couldn't understand why the big boy was too scared to let go of the wall. My son's poor ego shrivelled. I gave him my best pep talks: You can do this! You are great at all of the skills, you just need to trust yourself! No one is going to let you sink. You have to have faith in yourself. The day you decide to swim is the day you will do it!

But my expressions of faith and my attempts to buoy his sinking spirit only seemed to make things worse. I tried incentives: When you can swim, your Papa will teach you how to sail! I tried threats: I'm not signing you up for anymore lessons if you don't let go of that wall. I can't keep paying for you to keep doing arm circles! I tried empathy and humor. And still, he wouldn't swim.

Last week we had a breakthrough. At the very end of the two week session, his young but patient instructor finally convinced him to let go of the wall, push off and glide to her standing three feet away. I had been watching each lesson as he stubbornly refused. He had cramps, his feet slipped, he wasn't ready, he goggles were leaky. Each time he had a list of lame excuses why he couldn't and wouldn't. I couldn't watch anymore, but this time I looked up in time to see him gliding towards his teacher, reaching out for her hands in a mix of desperation and pride.

He finally let go of the wall. And the pool erupted in cheers. Instructors and kids looking on sensed that a watershed moment had just passed.

For the rest of the day he floated along the ground, grinning from ear to ear, puffed up and proud. He had conquered his greatest fear. I was too emotionally drained to feel anything but relief.

He isn't swimming independently yet, but we've signed him and his sister up for another session, and I'm taking him for a couple of private lessons to get his confidence up. Little by little he is floating a little longer, gliding a little stronger, and even doing a stroke or two of the backward crawl on his own. It's still not easy, but we're finally past arm circles and bubbles.

Little sister is coming along, too. I'm not as wigged out by her. She's three years younger, and making steady progress. She'll get there sooner than later.

Plus, she's having more fun with it. And that's huge.

Luckily, summer hasn't been all stressful. We joined the entire neighborhood for an outdoor showing of the Bee Movie at our local park last night. My baby calls it the "Hey, hey little B Movie" after my childhood friend's original song. Come to think of it, that would have been a perfect theme song.

My kids waited in line for balloon animals (my son got a balloon laser blaster), free ice cream (they ran out, but luckily a vendor showed up), free popcorn (they ran out of bags), and face painting (line was too long), but none of that mattered. They saw friends from school, synagogue, and camp all set out on blankets, and folding chairs. We sat right behind their pediatrician and his new baby boy. And at dusk, the sun set and the giant screen inflated, and the movie began. It was a magical, if not a little itchy evening.

Summer has been blissful. We're playing, relaxing, enjoying life. My walking partner just left for a family vacation back home, but I've found a new victim to drag around town: my young friend/babysitter from San Antonio.

Before my Skokie Sistah left, she and her husband took my husband and I on a double date to Jazzin' at the Shedd, along with Chinese take-out. We missed out on the salsa rhythms because of the lightening storms, and I made a poor choice in shoes, but it was great to be out with our adult friends looking at beautiful fishies.

My husband took me out to a barbecue at the home of one of the law firm partners for another fun and relaxing adult event. It was catered by a guy who brought a portable wood-burning pizza oven to their backyard and proceeded to make really exotic and fancy pizzas, like grilled nectarine and mozzarella pizza. We looked on curiously but had to make do with our usual saran-wrapped kosher catered dishes. Luckily, I brought a homemade Chocolate and Chili Oil Tart, since we had to pass up on our hostess' homemade blueberry and lemon meringue pies.

Midway through the event I was beckoned by one of the partner's wives who seemed to have taken a shine to me. We pulled out our cell phones and compared pictures of our children. We giggled about how young the summer associates looked. She was surprised to hear I wasn't 30. It was a wonderful day.

Besides the agony of swimming lessons, my only complaint is that summer is going by too fast. My husband is beginning to wrap up his summer assignments, we're down to the last couple of weeks of camp, and I haven't even begun to work on my Great American Children's novel.

I'm going to be devastated when the summer is over. The perfect, sunny and hot days will start to shorten, the scramble for all of us to prepare for school will begin, and the real stress of life will return. Until then, we will continue to revel in the blissful moments we have left. The last few law firm events, a few more Sunday adventures with the kids, my cousin's wedding in New Jersey, and a road trip back home to San Antonio for our dearest friend's Bat Mitzvah.

Summer is the best time of the year for me and the family. Only one member of the family hasn't gotten the memo that this is the time to relax, have fun, and make life easy for Mama.

A few mornings ago I was in the shower when my baby came running into the bathroom crying, "my bwuda called me a bahd giwl!" I wiped the condensation off of the shower, peered out, and saw my baby with a scribbled ring of purple marker around her mouth.

Somethings not even sunshine and long, lazy days can change.

At least one person in our family has been hard at work this summer, accomplishing a tremendous feat: Congrats to mom-in-law on her new book, Northern Treasures! A more beautifully photographed and lyrically written book on gardening cannot be found.

Worry warts

Worry, that most useless of emotions, takes me from heights of great joy, and gently brings me back to Earth. I watch my children playing with abandon and enviously wonder how they can immerse themselves so deeply and entirely in their frolicking with nary a worry in the world. It's as it should be. It used to be that way for me not long ago, but something changed in the past ten years.

I turned into an old worry wart.

Even when I'm out and about with my friends walking, shopping, drinking my tall-non-fat-no-whip-iced peppermint mocha, I have nagging thoughts in the back of my head. I should be doing laundry, my kitchen is a mess, I shouldn't be spending money on iced lattes.

The previous week I tried to take the kids on a walk to the lake. Conditions were far more promising this time around, so we set out once again, scanning the horizons for potential storm clouds. The skies were blue as a robin's egg for miles in each direction.

At each point along the way we reminisced. This was where we got caught in the rain. This was where we got caught in the hail storm, I thought with a tinge of guilt. In no time, we arrived at the lake.

We found a lovely playground, and I watched with contentment as the kids explored together, played together, laughed together.

As a mom, it was the perfect moment. My kids were happy, playing so beautifully, getting fresh air, exercise, and sunshine.

But, did I remember their sunscreen?

There was that nagging, gnawing thought creeping in to blemish an otherwise beautiful moment.

From there we walked to the nearest beach where my kids had the time of their lives playing in the sand, splashing in the water, and running themselves ragged. They watched boats go by, found shells, and giggled gleefully.

I watched with a smile on my face as my mind pushed away useless I should haves and I could haves. They overwhelmed me on the walk back home when the rain clouds gathered again. I called my husband to come get us before we got drenched.

That week, my Skokie Sistah and I continued our daily walks, what we call our personal summer camp. Each day we explored a new part of the city. On Monday, she took me to the Chicago Botanic Gardens.

I am still amazed that after two years I had never visited this beautiful gem in the northern suburbs. The gardens stretched out for miles, meandering around sparkling ponds and fountains. We wandered through vegetable gardens, manicured flower gardens with topiaries, waterfalls, and Japanese gardens.

The weather was perfect, the vistas breathtaking, and even the wildlife seemed at peace. A giant koi swam to the surface of the pond to eat as we crossed the bridge, ignoring our gawking. Swans tended to their nests and rested in the shade, not feigning to take notice as we pointed and took pictures.

I can't remember being so at peace with the world.

That night was anything but peaceful. My husband had another law school event. This time it was Whirlyball. Perhaps it's a generational anomaly, but I had never heard of this recreational phenomenon. My husband jumped right in, but I preferred to watch him from a safe distance.

How times have changed. There was a time when I would have been playing every round, revelling in the barroom scene, playing pool, lining up for laser tag, having a drink or two. I was amazed at how far away that seemed. I felt old, awkward, and out-of-place. Where had the carefree me gone? I did play a couple of rounds, and I did have a little fun, but I was ready to get home after a short while.

On Tuesday, my Skokie Sistah and I took our personal summer camp downtown where we hit the Mag Mile, Chicago's Michigan Avenue. We walked up and down window shopping and more. At one store I looked for stylish and flattering blouses for myself, but ended up buying clothing for the kids instead.

We dined at the Metro Klub, a kosher business lunch restaurant. Even as we slowly savored each bite of adult-only food in an adult-only setting, even as we breathed deep sighs of relaxed breaths, we glanced nervously at our watches acutely aware that our "me-time" was limited.

Even when my dearest little cousin and his expecting wife (so maybe he's not that little anymore) came to visit, the worry gene kicked in.

My cousin came in Wednesday night from a business trip. I fed him some left over chicken pot pie and a slice of chocolate and chili oil tart, and sent him to bed. The next morning we woke the kids up early, got them dressed, piled them into the car, and went to pick up the mommy-to-be at the airport.

From there we dropped off all the kids at their respective camps and daycare, had breakfast, and went to spend a lovely morning at the Botanic Gardens, my new favorite spot. It was a sunny, but slightly chilly morning. We avoided shadows and clung to sunlight to stay warm, and I fretted like an old hen. Do you need to rest? Do you need some water? Can I carry your bag?

Like I'd never been pregnant before? Please! I was teaching wildly athletic fencing moves at eight months with my third kid (none too gracefully) without batting an eye; but eliciting many nervous giggles. And here I was all weekend, worrying needlessly about the preggers cousin who barely looked more pregnant than I. I'm not even expecting.

It was so wonderful being with my cousins. They looked so happy, so hopeful, so beautiful together. Even I remember that feeling, almost ten years ago, expecting my first child. I remember being stunningly beautiful then, too. My hair was thick, shiny, and wavy, my skin glowed, and my body rounded out like a Botero sculpture, but my legs remained muscular and shapely.

Ugh. What a difference a decade has made. Ten years ago I was the anxious pregnant lady hearing harrowing tales from veteran moms of colic and sleepless nights.

And now I had become that veteran mom telling the scary stories. Mea culp, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

And if that weren't enough, here I was unleashing three frightening children on the young, eager, expectant couple. And my kids didn't disappoint. The baby was boing-boing-boinging non-stop from the moment she laid eyes on her cousins, big brother asked a million questions in rapid-fire succession, and middle sister ran big cousin ragged.

I cringed, apologized, blushed, and tried to pull over-excited kids off their weary cousins. But I suspect if I had been less worried about how overwhelming the situation was for them and realized that the only overwhelmed person was me, the mom who lived with it day in and day out, I may have noticed their smiles.

My little cousin is a grown man. His wife is a successful, high-powered, high-falutin' lawyer. They're far more prepared and capable than I was with my first. Maybe even more than I am with my third.

My mom was carefree once, too. I love the story she tells when she was a young girl in Cuba. She was a daredevil who broke her arm trying to bike down a hill while wearing roller skates. Where's that devil-may-care spirit today? Mom's a big-time worry wart now.

I'm quite sure my aunt had the same free spirit when she was a young girl hanging out with the Santeria neighbors. No offense, Tia, but you're a worry wart, too.

Where did it come from?

I'm worried it's too late to make it go away.