Family and fur

There's a slight flurry of snow outside. It's not cold enough to stick, but it is cold enough to send me indoors with the heat cranked up. I worry that I'll bake the pet hamster.

I worry an inordinate amount about our pet rodent. He's cute enough, a black little puff of fur with white paws, like a tuxedo-clad tennis ball. But it's not a matter of adoration. I don't adore the thing. I barely spend time with him. But if anything were to happen to him, I'd be crushed for my boy. So I worry if he has been fed adequately. I worry that his litter box is clean enough. I worry that it's too cold, or too hot. I worry that he smells bad.

It's not quite like having another child. I don't have the emotional investment, but I have lost a few hours of sleep making sure the heat was on and the food bowl filled. Tonight I made sure my kids were fed, bathed, and sent to bed on time. I made sure my son cleaned out the cage, refilled the water bottle, and bathed old Chomp. I panicked when the baby picked up the hamster in his ball and dropped them, hamster and ball. Chomp was fine, just a bit woozy. I was vexed to find his bath water was too cold. I picked him out of that bath and gingerly dried him, from pink nose to stubby tail. And in the process discovered, he is, in fact, a he.

A few weeks ago we had a wonderful visit with my mother-in-law. We went out for dinner, had a wonderful shabbat dinner together, and took the kids to a fundraising concert for their school. Each year their school hosts a string quartet made up of members of the CSO. This year they also offered babysitting for the little ones, and a "musical petting zoo" where the children got a chance to examine real stringed instruments, and even play them.

It was a delight for them to lay their hands on cellos and violins. My musical children were drawn to the instruments. My son sat through the entire concert in rapt attention, noticing every little detail of the performance. The instruments pulled him in, as well.

My baby was disappointed to be put into babysitting. Memories of her birthday adventure were fresh enough that she cried and cried and cried, "I want to go to the concert!" I gently explained. It's not that kind of a concert. There's no singing or dancing. You have to sit very still and just listen. The message sunk in as she was lured to an arts and crafts project. But even she got a chance to explore the "petting zoo" and that sufficed. A lovely time was had by all in the end.

Granma Thuthin's visit was too short, as usual. She went home just in time for the elections. We were all abuzz with the impending changing of the guards. But even here, in deep blue Chicago, stomping grounds for the president elect, the discourse was heated. Despite the fact the junior senator from Illinois won an overwhelming majority of the Jewish vote, here in our little Orthodox enclave, a very different picture emerged.

My kids took it all in stride at school where they were clearly in the minority in support of the Democratic nominee. My son proudly stood up against kids who insisted Obama was an Arab terrorist. "No he's not!" My son countered. And in his election essay for school he reported that McCain was "too old" to run again. Hmmm... I pondered innocently as my husband glowered at me, I wonder where he got that idea?

With the elections over, everything seems to have gone back to normal, not excluding my children's scholastic experiences. A few days after the elections, we had parent teacher conferences. Immediately after I finished teaching, I picked up my baby, swung by the pizza parlor, picked up a pie, and sped downtown to the school. In order to save time, my husband decided to take the bus and meet me there. Unfortunately, he got on the wrong bus, and came much later, frazzled and tired.

I met with the first grade teachers first, and was pleased to hear all of the wonderful things they had to say about my creative, brilliant, sweet child (ptui, ptui, hamza, hamza, bli ayin hara'ah!). I smiled, nodded, and swelled with naches. We fed the kids their pizza, and dashed back and forth between conferences and checking on our tired, grumpy, and squirrely offsprings, and wondered, are these the same kids they're talking about upstairs?

Our son's conferences went as expected. He was described by all his teachers as brilliant, sweet, creative, disorganized. We nodded in understanding. Yes, we've heard all of this before. He forgets to bring home homework, or if he remembers to do it, forgets to turn it in. He sits staring at a blank sheet of paper for the entire period unable to start on a writing assignment. Please, tell us something we haven't heard countless times. And as with many times before, we came to the same conclusion: we'll keep working on it.

But this year, the teacher threw a curve ball at us. "You know," she said pointedly, "next year he'll be in middle school with seven classes. It will be a lot harder for him to get away with his spacing out." In that moment, the world around me began to spin furiously, and oxygen became scarce. My heart pounded, and my ears rang.

I'm going to be the mother of a middle schooler?

All my efforts at freezing time have failed. The "hip hop aerobics" classes I'm taking from a petite, taut, tattooed, college coed only serve to make me feel older and more out of it than ever. I don't recognize the music, and I can't even begin to perform the dance moves she so effortlessly demonstrates. She twists, I trip. She shimmies, I create a disturbance in the atmosphere. I try to incorporate these hip young moves into the step aerobics classes I'm teaching my seventh and eighth graders, but they just shake their heads and giggle. It's no use.

I try not to think about it and focus on my own children, how they're blossoming, growing, and thriving in the creative environments we've nurtured for them. My daughter is a budding fashionista, creating amazing garments from paper, markers and tape.

My two oldest are still taking piano lessons and preparing for their next recital. My baby is taking her "creative movements" class quite seriously, shuffling and plie-ing away once a week in her tutu and tights. Big sister is having a blast in her "hip hop and jazz" class. They're not doing too many dance moves, but the girls are so smitten with their adorable, young, teacher, Mr. Peter, that they stretch, work their abs, and jump around in glee.

This past week, my son has also begun a dance class taught by Mr. Peter, called "for boys only". It's an uproarious forty-five minutes of jumping, sliding, spinning, and cartwheeling. Very little of it resembles dance, but the boys are getting a chance to expel a tremendous amount of shpilkes. He's having a blast, and hopefully, developing some coordination and strength in the process. Somehow, this chaotic maelstrom of movement will be channeled into a performance by the summer. I take it as a matter of faith.

Thanksgiving is around the corner. Once again we are trying to cobble together a large enough crowd of law students and friends to make it feel like family time. And once again, I'm thinking pies. Winter break follows closely on its heels, and we'll be looking at one more semester of law school to go. I'm trying not to hold my breath. The graduation date has been published, and before long this whole adventure will come to an end.

I'm going to be the wife of a lawyer?