Home again, part 1

My old bedroom is now an office. The yellow and white bamboo trimmed furniture had been replaced by an enormous desk and a day bed over a decade ago. My girlie posters and pictures disappeared and an eclectic mix of nautical pictures, Japanese prints, and some abstract art filled their place. Still, it's home.

San Antonio feels like home here despite the many changes that have taken place since we left. The new houses that have gone up in my old neighborhood, the synagogue expansion, the transformation of a four lane road into a seven lane highway, the new, hip vegetarian kosher restaurant, unfamiliar, but not uncharacteristic. Change is the only constant here. Families come and go, buildings pop up like welcome weeds, the city stretches and expands, the growing pains barely noticeable anymore. I miss it all terribly.

The last couple of weeks have been a jolt of activity. After a fairly predictable summer getting the kids ready for camp, dropping them off at camp, going for a walk somewhere interesting, picking the kids up from camp, and on and on like a well-oiled, but slightly imbalanced machine, we're finally throwing schedules to the wind.

I got a head start on the adventures last weekend when I flew to New York for my little cousin's wedding. It was the first time in ages I had been away from my children, but Granma Thuthin, her boyfriend, and her doggy came to my husband's rescue. They drove in the day I left to help my husband manage. I left them membership cards to the zoo and a couple of museums, with the hopes of getting everybody out of the house.

Predictably, they didn't go anywhere. My husband took the opportunity to catch up on all of the manly fix-it-up projects that had been left by the wayside. He reassembled the girls' bunk bed, now that we deemed our toddler sufficiently grown up to not cause herself too much damage climbing up and down. He assembled a new set of drawers for my son's room, and a TV stand for the living room. He cleaned up, organized, and took our wild apartment by the horns, taming the stubborn beast. Granma Thuthin and her entourage had to be content with short walks and visits to the park. I felt a bit of consternation for them, but it was nice to come back to a less chaotic home.

In the meantime, I flew into LaGuardia, and was greeted at the airport by my mom. My sister's house looked like the set of a modeling TV reality show. My niece was in the process of picking out a gown for the wedding, and I got dragged into the action. "Here." My sister efficiently handed me a silvery-blue fishtail tiered gown that was too long and too plunging for my staid sensibilities. But she was not to be deterred. "You look fabulous in it!" I looked at the gown I had intended to wear, along with the newly made shrug and matching hat, and grumbled to myself, all that time and money for nothing. My sister set to work cutting off the bottom tier of the dress while I tried to figure out how to use it for a head scarf. I cut off a corner of the scarf to sew on the front to raise the decolletage to a reasonable level. I felt ridiculous.

Early the next morning I went with my mother to get my hair cut for the wedding. I came prepared with an envelope and plastic baggie to gather up my ponytail and mail it off to locks of love. My hair just barely reached the required ten inches, but I couldn't wait another minute to lop it off. I craved the freedom of a quick shower. Later that day I indulged myself with a pedicure. I was punch drunk on freedom from parenting life.

I wasn't entirely free from family life, but that was the idea. The wedding was a blast. My parents, my grandmother, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. cousins and sisters converged on Jersey City to see our little cousin married off in style. I missed out on the rehearsal dinner and the ceremony because of Shabbat, but I made it for the reception and the Sunday morning brunch. As disappointing as it was to miss seeing my little cousin beaming under the chuppah with his beautiful bride, I was relieved to have an excuse not to smudge my mascara. That wedding was destined to be a tear-jerker.

I watched my sisters and mom dress, fuss over hair and make-up, and trade ball gowns back and forth. I was stuck waiting for Shabbat to end before I could attend to my own dolling-up. Once they left, I headed back to my room and ruminated over the two gowns I brought; the one I originally intended to wear, and the one three generations of picky fashionistas deemed proper. The decision was made easy for me when I saw a middle aged woman saunter by in the same gown my sister insisted I wear. Grow a backbone. I admonished myself, and put on the gown I brought.

The reception was amazing. I walked into the reception hall long after the ceremony was over and my cousin was betrothed. Boxes of house slippers in all sizes for the ladies, stood invitingly by the entrance. All of us women removed our perilously high bone-crunching stilettos and slipped our tootsies into pure heaven. We found our family tables tucked in a romantic corner, and began to boogie the night away. It was one of the most warm, relaxed, and fun weddings I had been to in a while. Everyone smiled from ear-to-ear to be brought together by such a joyful occasion. Even my grandmother and her cousin busted a few moves - from their seats.

On Sunday morning we packed our bags and headed to the brunch. I was unanimously volunteered by my family to give a welcome spiel. My recently rediscovered backbone wilted as I grudgingly agreed, everyone else pleading stage fright. My words of welcome sprinkled with some words of Torah, delivered, we made it out of the restaurant, and to the airport. My raucous reprieve from parenting was officially over, and I couldn't wait to get back to my kids.

I got back Sunday night, and awoke the following morning to a bustling household. One husband, a mother-in-law, a boyfriend, three kids and a dog greeted me with big smiles. We hustled around packing, cleaning, feeding animals and children, and slowly the house cleared out. Granma Thuthin and her entourage left before noon, heading back to Minnesota. We continued to pack and clean for a Tuesday morning departure, when my husband got a look on his face I recognized. "Let's start the drive tonight!" He boldly suggested. What else were we going to do?

So that night, less than 24 hours after I returned from New Jersey, we began our drive home to an ever-changing, always home, Texas.

To be continued...

The contender

8/8/08 at 8:08 pm in Beijing brought on the dramatic beginning of the Olympic games. I missed the opening ceremony and everything else that followed over the weekend. It wasn't lack of interest; it was Shabbat and Tisha b'Av.

Nothing shakes my sense of time more than the Olympics. Every four years I mark the passing of my childhood dreams as they recede further and further from my grasp, until they're nothing but an ephemeral memory. Nothing marks the woman I've become as clearly, either. So, as I came out of the fast commemorating the destruction of the Holy Temples in Jerusalem, I switched gears to celebrate the medal sweep of the U.S. women sabre fencers. The Olympic games are always so bittersweet to me.

Every four years I'm plagued by the "could'ves" and "should'ves," and I reflect on my religious and family life. I can't help look at my life with a little regret at the success I might have continued to enjoy in my sport, if only...

If only what? I hadn't married the amazing man-of-my-dreams and had the most scrumptious kids in the world? The Olympics cause me to reevaluate my priorities every four years, and eventually I allow myself to take a little pride in the less quantifiable aspects of my life. Maybe I can't earn a gold medal in motherhood, but I can take pride in the sweet, smart, respectful, polite, and adorable little kids I've produced (Poo, poo, poo, hamza, hamza). But this year, I can also be filled with tremendous nachas for the gold medalist who was a rising star as my career was waning, and the silver and bronze medalists who arrived on the sabre scene soon after I retired.

After all, I helped pave their way.

A dear friend emailed me a link to his latest blog, which summed it up beautifully. I felt truly humbled:

Congratulations are in order for the US Women's Saber Team and their coaches and support staff. What a spectacular result. I once thought I would never see an Olympic Fencing medal for the US in my lifetime. Now, it's starting to become an expected result! Along with the current Olympians, I think another group of people are deserved some thanks: we need to acknowledge all those women who
first stepped up to the plate -- not that long ago -- and said: "Yes, we can fence saber, we want to fence saber, and you have to teach us."

At the start, these women put up with many disdainful coaches, drove or flew to many tiny tournaments, coped with bad referees, and -- at least at the beginning --struggled under not a small amount of institutional resistance from the USFA. But numerous women and their individual coaches kept training and fencing, raising the level of the weapon every year. In a short time, this small group of fencers and coaches have helped push the elite saber fencers in the US to a pinnacle of success: dominance of an Olympic event.

I don't think we can applaud the results of US Team without also acknowledging all those women (and their coaches) who fought to have woman's saber taken seriously in the US. Their individual hard work, and refusal to take "no" for an answer have been rewarded. AE

Thank you and amen.

Right around the start of the Olympics, another rising star in sabre came to visit us in Chicago: my niece.

My niece is one of the coolest, smartest, funniest, most beautiful young women I know. Nothing fills me with greater pride than the fact that she's followed my footsteps in fencing. She's far more athletic than I ever was at that age, so I'm sure she'll be awesome if she sticks with it. But I'll be happy if it brings her as much joy as it did me.

No one was more joyful about her visit than her little cousins. They smothered her with hugs and kisses, stories and silliness, the whole time she was here. We picked her up at the airport and immediately took her to...IKEA. So much for my promise to show her the sites.

We made up for it the next day after the kids' last swim lesson when we visited the Brookfield Zoo for the first time.

We caroused on the carousel, picnicked on the playground, and partied with the primates.

And as always occurs when my niece is around, a giddy good time ensued.

Before taking her leave of us, she insisted on taking the kids to the bookstore to buy them a gift. "Anything," she told them. Not anything too expensive." I whispered to my children. "Yes, ANYTHING." She insisted, overhearing my entreaties to my kids not to go overboard. My kids didn't go crazy, but were so appreciative of being given carte blanche in Borders.

"I can't thank you enough." Said my mannerful little man.

Soon after big cousin's parting, my son had to say a sad farewell to one of his best friends from school who was moving to Montreal.

My son and his friend spent the day together playing on the computer with the Webkinz we bought her. While they were engrossed in their game, we had yet another set of visitors: the inimitable Tia Mirth and my fit and trim brother-in-law. It was a short visit, but as always, wonderful and warm, despite the Tisha B'Av fast. And as always, Tia Mirth picked out the most perfect gifts ever. She came bearing cupcake silly feet and a beautiful cupcake cookbook. We're inspired!

With fanciful cupcakes on my mind, my wedding cake saga came to its denouement. Months ago I had offered my help to a friend who was throwing his son a wedding on a limited budget. He asked me to bake the wedding cake, and I reluctantly agreed, not having a clue what I was getting into. For weeks I researched the process, experimenting with recipes for cakes, frostings, and fondants, until I had a perfect combination. I found YouTube videos to fill me in on the important details, like how to stack the cake without it collapsing or leaning. I bought all of the ingredients and the pans, and even took them to the mikvah to be toiveled.

But as the day approached, I faced obstacle after obstacle. I needed to get into the synagogue kitchen days early to get the cake done before I left for my cousin's wedding in New Jersey on the same weekend. I needed basic equipment to prepare the cake. Much to my dismay, I could not get into the kitchen without the caterer's supervision and the mashgiach's watchful eye for several days. When I finally got into the kitchen, I discovered that it wasn't really a full-service kitchen; no mixers, no spatulas, no measuring cups or spoons. With one day left to bake and compile the creation, and no equipment to do so, I flew into a panic. The only day I was left to make the cake was the day I was planning on taking my kids to a play and to get myself ready for the trip.

I finally came to my senses, and took the advice of everyone to whom I had mentioned this crazy endeavor: I called a bakery and ordered a cake. I'll spend my time returning the groceries instead.

With that finally taken care of, I chose to spend my last full day in Chicago with my friend and her family. We went to Navy Pier together to the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre to see Willy Wonka. It was delightful and full of songs, and the kids were mesmerized with the fancy sets and clever lighting.

Afterwards, we had a little picnic, walked around Navy Pier ignoring pleas of "can we...", "I wanna...", and "why can't we...?" And when we'd endured enough, we went back to her house and let the kids play for hours. We cooked up a delicious Tex-Mex feast, and called it a day.

Tomorrow my mother-in-law arrives to help my husband with the kids, and I fly out to New Jersey to celebrate my little cousins nuptials. Meanwhile, another wedding will take place here without a homemade wedding cake. I'm as disappointed as I am relieved.

And tomorrow I'll be running too many last-minute errands and packing up.

But tonight I share the disappointment of the US Sabre team who got knocked out of gold medal contention by the Ukrainians.

You girls still do this old (I-coulda-been-a) contender so proud.

Third August

We are heading into our third August in Chicago. My husband is one year away from finishing law school. He has already had a small taste of life in a big firm, albeit a rosy taste. While being wined and dined by associates and partners, my husband has managed to dazzle everyone with the quality of his work, his work ethic, and his general charm. He's convinced one partner that he walks on water, and his advisor joked that he's on the one year partner track. My husband modestly shrugs off all the praise. Putting in long hours and getting the job done are nothing new to a man who has been in the workforce for twenty years. When I remark on his success, he looks puzzled. "I like to work."

I can see his point. All summer he's worked on discrete projects with clear objectives and a finished product that is either acceptable or edited. I wish parenting were like that. I can't just say to my kids, Okay, this week is potty training, next week swimming, and then we're going to perfect riding a two-wheeler.

Parenting is a process. After years of supposedly having "potty-trained" my kids, I still find myself reminding them to go, and to aim.

I am always surprised at how much they don't know, simply because I haven't gotten around to telling them. Who knew chewing was a silent pursuit? I'm more surprised at how long it takes for things to sink in, despite repeated reminders. Everyday I have to remind you that dirty socks don't go on the dining room floor?

Laundry, dishes, cleaning up toys and toilets, and other domestic duties are never completed, or at least, not for long. The satisfaction lasts only as long as it takes to toss a sock into the just emptied laundry basket, or put a dish in the sparkling sink.

I ruefully look back at three Augusts ago and the elation I experienced when my husband told me I didn't have to find a job just yet. How ridiculously luxurious that sounded, staying at home with the baby, keeping my house spotless, and having time to write, exercise, or play. It didn't turn out quite like I had planned. So I get it when my husband modestly brushes off compliments and tells me, "I like to work." There's work and there's work.

As much as I lack appreciation for my domestic duties, I am thankful that I am a teacher. More than ever in my life, I am appreciating a slow, mostly laid back summer. And I have embraced every drop of sunshine and warmth while I can. My own personal summer camp ended with a much anticipated visit to the Oak Park neighborhood in Chicago. My friend and I caught a delayed train to the downtown station, missed the connection to the Oak Park train, but took a crowded, noisy, slow "El" train there instead. We only had a short time to wander around view the remarkable Frank Lloyd Wright homes before we had to hustle off to get the train back.

I was in a particular rush because I had planned my son's birthday party for that afternoon. I picked up my kids from camp, muttering about the timing of "bike day" as I stuffed their bikes into the trunk, rushed off to pick up the birthday cake and the baby, and made it just in time to greet the first of five guests as they arrived at the miniature golf course. Unlike last year's Hogwarts Extravaganza, I decided to take it a bit easier this time. We drastically limited the invitation list. The kids played putt-putt, ate pizza and ice cream cake, and had a blast shooting foam darts at each other. I'm sure the golf course didn't appreciate the kids running around the course, in and out of the water hazards, or climbing over the obstacles, but I tried not to sweat it. They had fun.

A couple of days later, summer camp ended.

For the next couple of weeks the kids and I get to keep each other busy and entertained before summer's last hurrah, our family trip to San Antonio. I have given myself a series of discrete tasks to accomplish before it's time to go. I have my cousins wedding in New Jersey to prepare for, I have the next school year to organize, and most vexing, I have to figure out how to bake a wedding cake for a friend's nuptials.

In my defense, I was volunteered. But this has turned out to be far more challenging than I imagined when I reluctantly said yes. I have discovered that the cake can either be beautiful or delicious, but to make it both takes certain skills that I do not yet possess. I have made two prototypes, but haven't been entirely pleased with either. I'm going to take one more shot at it before the big day.

What can I say? I like a challenge. Like my husband, I like to work. I like those discrete, clear cut projects with a starting point and an end. Birthday party? Check! Wedding cake? Check! Dress for wedding? Check! Potty training? Mostly check! Swimming? Getting there! Riding a bicycle? See for yourself:

Like everything else, we'll get there, too. We've already made it to this third August.