Chanukah, Hanuka, Hannukah, Januca

Chanukah, Hanuka, Hannukah, Januca. However you transliterate it, it's been a blast. This year, Chanukah has coincided with everyone's winter break. We have made the most of this happy confluence of holiday and break.

The weather hasn't been too cooperative. The first week of the break was snowy, icy, and bitterly cold. My husband, the rough and rugged Minnesotan, took the kids sledding with a friend. It wasn't hard to pick out the native Texans on the slopes.

The biggest part of winter break so far, has been the Chanukah celebrations. Our Chanukah was filled with latkes (fried potato pancakes), sufganiyot (fried jelly donuts), chiles rellenos (fried Poblano peppers with cheese filling), all the traditional and semi-traditional foods of the holiday.

It will be followed by weeks of dieting.

Of course, foods aren't the only Chanukah traditions in this country. We lit Chanukiyot,

and more Chanukiyot. We have amassed a collection of homemade Chanukiyot to rival the Smithsonian folk art collection in beauty and volume.

We sang lots of Chanukah songs, and opened presents,

more presents,

and even more presents.

If I may say so, my kids made out like bandits this year. Between my mother-in-law, my parents, Tia Mirth's family, and a highly indulgent daddy, we've spoiled them rotten. The biggest indulgence was a Nintendo DS for the big boy to ameliorate the two hour bus ride each day. For once, "all the other kids have one" worked on my hubby.

The baby got a "play station" of her own. Hopefully, with her own art desk, she won't be tempted to draw on the furniture anymore.

The best gifts were the homemade ones.

We celebrated each night with candlelighting and opening presents, but on the fifth night we had a Fiesta de Januca with our friends. I whipped up a feast of enchiladas, chiles rellenos, tortilla soup, guacamole, and salsas. I made flan and tres leches cake for dessert. One friend brought sangria. Clearly, the children weren't the only ones being indulged this holiday season.

Of all our indulgences, the best is yet to come. Today we set out for a family vacation in the Wisconsin Dells. It will only be a brief vacation, but I am looking forward to four days of not setting foot in a kitchen, daily activities for the children planned by someone else, and time to finally read the book (Satanic Verses) that has been collecting dust on my bedside table.

In another week, we'll be back to our normal routines, only more relaxed, and a few pounds heavier.

Midlife crisis

I turned forty this past week, and promptly broke out into a fit of adolescent acne. Will wonders never cease?

Forty has been rough for me. I expected to be a bit more accomplished professionally, athletically, and creatively at this age. Instead, I'm teaching elementary school physical education in a skirt, and taking care of my delicious brood. It's not a bad life, but I always thought I'd be doing more with my life than being a domestic diva.

I'm not sure what I should be doing. I loved my old job at the university in San Antonio. I felt valued and respected there. I had a good rapport with my colleagues and students. I was doing cool stuff with academic technology and pedagogy. Now I'm yelling at girls all day to be still and listen to instructions. I often think that teaching kids is a challenge far greater than I am capable of meeting. I secretly suspect my students think so, too.

I'm forty and don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

But the good news is that in six months my hubby will be finished with his degree and getting ready to become a real, bonafide law-man. Law School Hubby, esq. It's got a nice ring. It only took him 33 years to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up. At the time it seemed like he was getting such a late start at his profession. That was until I was staring the big 4-0 in the eye. 33 is mere post adolescence! Things have changed since Dante described 33 as "mid-life", as in, "Midway through our life's journey, I awoke in a dark forest to find that the right path had been lost." Smarrita, in the original Tuscan Italian.

That's me: smarrita. As lost as I am right now, worlds of opportunity are poised to open up for me as my husband steps into the vast universe of corporate law (please, G-d). My paltry financial contributions will no longer be required after some time, with luck. I'll be able to make my mid-life crisis worthwhile.

Hey, Dante, 40 is the new 33!

Will I descend into the cold hell of helicopter mothering, or strike out my own path in life, like my dear friend who dropped a successful marketing career to raise her kids, only to go back to school years later to pursue her first love of art? I can't draw stick figures worth a damn, but maybe the next great American novel is lurking deep within. So maybe it's just a cheap and tawdry romance novel, but I could surprise myself. If inspiration of any kind strikes, it will be a surprise. Is a mid-life crisis still a crisis if nothing happens? Does dithering and waffling count as a full-on crisis? Can my mid-life crisis come with a Volvo station wagon instead of a convertible red sports car? I got my ears pierced yesterday. That's as brazen and wild as this mid-life crisis has gotten.

While I thrash about rudderless, my family powers ahead. My husband is plowing through his penultimate set of final exams. We're already pondering the possibilities of a post-bar family adventure: Disneyworld or Hawaii? a romp through California or a hike through the Grand Canyon? He claims to be stressed out, but his idea of stress is about as exciting as my mid-life crisis. Does it count if he doesn't devour the entire tray of brownies, or yell at at least one kid? I don't think so. I think he tells me he's stressed out so that he doesn't sound cocky. Honey, I'll show you what stress looks like. You don't even have one zit!

The kids are also growing and moving forward. I went to my son's school today for a class presentation. The kids did posterboard presentations and reports on explorers. My son was Henry Hudson. He was so cute in the paper ruff I made him, and the eyeliner mustache and beard. He presented his material beautifully, and made it slightly different for each set of onlookers. I was impressed with his knowledge of the material, and his comfort and charm in delivering the spiel.

After the presentation I spoke with his teacher and apologized for missing out on the organization program she presented the week before. I know we could really use it! I added. "You think so?" She asked, genuinely surprised. "Your son is doing great. He hasn't missed any assignments. He seems really on top of things to me!"

I felt slightly embarrassed after the conversation. I was so busy chastising my kid for being forgetful or flakey, that I hadn' t realized how much he's pulled it all together. He's becoming a responsible, mature young man!

And he's not the only one. My first grader is a scholarly star! She's reading at a second grade level, doing great in math, getting herself ready for school, practicing her piano, and keeping her room tidy. I hardly recognize this grown up, responsible little lady. She beams at me when she emerges from her room in the morning fully dressed and ready to go. I beam back.

The two of them have a piano recital coming up. For big sister it will be her first. Big brother is a confident old hand at performing. Once again he will be playing a duet with his seventh grade friend. They are too adorable when they practice together. Maybe this older woman thing is hereditary?

And the baby? Well, she's still as destructive and demanding as ever, but it's tough being the youngest. I know. Before long, I won't recognize the young lady she'll become, either. She wants so much to be like her big brother and sister, reading, writing, going to school on a big yellow bus.

In the meantime, she's a shining star in her daycare where I got to be the Shabbat guest last week. I brought cookies, grapes, and pretzels, but the biggest treat for me was being there with my big girl all of her adorable friends. She's not content being the baby. She wants to be big already! Soon, soon. I tell her.

I tell myself that, too. Soon, Be'ezrat HaShem, with G-d's help, I'll find my own path. But for now, my big job is to make sure my family stays on theirs.

Forty isn't all bad. I'm enjoying the quotidienne pleasures of life. I got to host a fabulous and eclectic Thanksgiving dinner with law school students, girls from a very orthodox college, my artistic friend, and a family from our synagogue. We shared a very traditional feast with some unconventional conversation, and felt thankful for being with friends on a special day.

I enjoyed celebrating my birthday with my hubby and our best friends at a local kosher restaurant on sushi night. Like last year, the evening was icy, snowy, treacherous and miserable, But who doesn't love to be showered with cool gifts like a digital video cam, an MP3 player, and best of all, really awesome leg warmers?

We were treated to a visit from our dear, soon-to-be married cousin, weighed down with boxes of scrap-booking supplies for the girls.

We dragged her out for some delicious and authentic Israeli food, and caught up on wedding plans.

Soon I will begin to prepare for a lovely Mexican Chanukah fiesta for my dear amiga and her familia. Who needs deep fried latkes when you can have deep fried chiles rellenos? That's a miracle we can all enjoy!

I may not be where I want professionally or geographically, but I couldn't be surounded by a better bunch. If this family is my only accomplishment in life, I've done pretty darn well for myself (hamza, hamza, bli ayin hara'ah, mashallah).

I'll raise a frozen margarita to that, and to John Milton who commemorated his 400th birthday on my 40th.

May we all find our paradise!