Frozen assets

I hate winter. I simply detest it. My poor husband has been subjected to my kvetches, whines and moans for at least a month now. The horrifying thing is that February is a week away. For the past two winters, February has had the harshest temperatures. I can't imagine it getting any worse, and if it does, I'm not sure how I'll bear it. I just want to be warm again.

We did have a heart-warming visit from Granma Thuthin last week. It was a wonderful, relaxed, no-fuss visit. The most exciting part was when Granma Thuthin, the three kids and I went ice skating. Law school hubby couldn't make it. He was nursing a sore hip from broomball the night before. We were a sorry sight. The kids clung to the adults who clung to the wall.

I exaggerate. My son was actually pretty good out there. He didn't look too smooth or graceful, but he was quite the daredevil. It should come as no surprise that my baby took to skating like a bull to bullfighting. We went one time around the rink holding hands. The two of us were tentative and wobbly, but my toddler got the idea. The next time around she wanted nothing to do with me. I skated behind her ready to scoop her off the ice should she fall. But she wasn't content to merely stay upright and plow ahead. She watched girls around her twirling and spinning, and she wanted to, as well. She stuck her arms out for balance, took a step, tried to spin, and landed flat on her keister. I picked her back up, and she tried it again. And again. And again.

Before she could get the hang of spinning, she witnessed her big brother trying to skate backwards. She toddled her little body around and tried it, too! And she fell again. I scooped her up and she tried it again. And again. And again. She didn't get the hang of that one either, but she remained undeterred. Then she observed another skater lift her leg behind her and glide effortlessly over the ice. Up popped that little leg, and down she went again on her posterior. I spent so much time pulling that kid up by her armpits, my back throbbed.

I can't believe I forgot the @#!$&! camera again!

Meanwhile, big sister, the older and wiser, clung to the wall for as long as she could. I finally got her to try skating on her own, no walls, no mommies. She gave it a valiant try and then headed back to the safety of the bleachers to watch her sister plant her behind on the ice over and over again.

We were all surprised at how much fun skating was, all except for big sister who was far too wise and worldly to think frozen buns were any fun at all. Yet, she finally conceded, hours later from the comfort of solid land and stable shoes, that she would like to try it again.  She even thought it would be nice to take lessons.

Ah, more lessons.

I've become one of those moms. You know, the moms who run from activity to activity exhausting herself, her children, and her resources to keep the kids busy, active, and "enriched". We've got swimming lessons in the summer, soccer in spring and fall, dance classes and piano year round, minus summer, when we send the kids to camp. If we had the time and money, we'd probably have them all in martial arts, ice skating, and fencing, too. 

My son has been playing piano for several years now, and is getting quite good at it. He played a duet with an old school/carpool friend at the winter recital, and I thought they made quite the pair.

Little sister just started taking piano lessons this past September. She's also doing quite well. Her first recital was a wonderful experience for her, and since then she's jumped into the next series of musical challenges with real enthusiasm.

I doubt either of my children will become professional musicians, but I hope they gain much enjoyment from it as they get older and more proficient. It hasn't been easy, and getting them to practice is often like pulling teeth, but they do it, and they're reaping the rewards of their hard work already. I couldn't be prouder.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same for their dance classes, which are slightly less disciplined. They're more of a goofy free-for-all. My bigger kids have a new teacher, a young man with more energy and enthusiasm in his little finger than I've got in my entire body. The kids adore him, especially the girls, but that doesn't translate into following his every instruction to the letter. I feel for him.

My daughter is having fun in her hip-hop jazz dance class, which is not the same as learning a lot of dancing. I know her teacher has a method to his madness, but right now I'm just seeing the madness. My son is in the "Just for Boys" class which has been billed as a little hip-hop, a little jazz, some breakdancing, martial arts movements and tap conglomeration. I frankly don't know what to make of it. Either does my son: the jury is still out. He has given himself two weeks to determine whether or not he's going to stick it out to the recital. It's a mature decision, and I think in the end he will stay, if only to see where this craziness is going. I hope he does continue to dance. I want to see where the craziness is going, too.

My littlest one has also started dancing classes in the morning with a bunch of fellow three year olds. It's like herding butterflies. One veers off course (usually my child) and they all follow suit. Miss Katie has the patience of a saint. I'd have throttled them all by now. For their recital, Miss Katie has picked out a big, poofy white fluffy dress with big red polka dots and an enormous bow on top. My little ring-leader hates it. "I want that one." She insists, pointing to a more subdued costume in pink and purple, with lovely flowers across the neckline. Miss Katie just shrugs as I turn beet red in embarrassment. It will look so pretty! I lie.

My youngest has been causing me a great deal of consternation lately. I'm used to teachers pulling me aside to tell me how wonderful, smart and cute my children are. I'm not used to conferring weekly with red-faced teachers with steam coming out of their ears. I don't know what to tell you, I say meekly. She doesn't listen to me either.

All my kids are bright, independent, and strong-willed (poo, poo, poo, hamza hamza). This one is downright defiant and obstinate, but always with a sweet smile. If she doesn't want to she won't and no punishment, threats or enticements will make her budge, except for maybe sweets. A chocolaty piece of anything can almost be counted on to get her to pick up toys, go potty, or stop coloring on walls, but I'm stubborn, too. I won't give in to her blackmail. We're at loggerheads, me and my three year old, and she's winning.

I'm not helping matters here. Winter makes me grumpy. It turns me into an angry, resentful crab. Being the mom of a tough toddler also makes me intolerable to be around. What would any sane person do? I can tell you exactly what they wouldn't do: start a diet. Especially a diet that has never worked in the past. It's the prefect trifecta. I'm setting myself up for failure all around. My husband and I decided to put a stop to the winter insulation creep, so we pulled out the tried and true South Beach Diet. Tried and true for him. I've lost maybe one pound in the time it's taken him to lose eight. 

As bleak as it all may seem at this cold and dark moment, the future is bright, sunny, and warm (bli ayin hara'ah). Law school hubby has applied for graduation, had his graduate portrait taken, completed his bar exam application (a shockingly long and onerous task), and has been offered a public interest law internship grant for the summer. We're starting to plan our post-bar trip to the wild west, and are beginning to sign up the kids for summer camp. My young man has finally conceded to try an overnight camp. I'm so proud of him, and I'm excited for him. We know it will be a tremendous growing experience. On the other hand, I know I'll miss him terribly. 

Maybe that's the trick to surviving Chicago's winters: bundle up and look to the brighter, warmer future when I can step out into the sunny daylight unencumbered by layers upon layers of layers, walk around this fair city, and maybe shed a pound or two.

But for now I just want a chocolate rugelach.

West Zimbabwe, Chicago

The good Lord must have been in a crappy mood when he created Chicago.

I have endured days of snow, ice, single-digit temperatures, digging myself into parking spaces, and out again. I have slipped and I have slid on foot and in car. Another blizzard is blowing in tonight. I have had it with this miserable, horrible, plain old yucky weather.

To make matters worse, we pay outrageous sales taxes and the highest gas taxes (or at least prices) in the country, yet our corrupt and incompetent government doesn't see snow removal as a very high priority, unless it's an election year. I drove around my neighborhood for half an hour last night trying to find a parking space not being reserved by lawn furniture. And you thought Blagojevich was bad? You're doin' a heckuva job, Daley!

But our politicians aren't as bad as the anti-Semitic, neo-Nazi sleaze who went on a spree this past Shabbat, vandalizing the synagogues in our neighborhood with graffiti and throwing bricks through their windows. I had fantasies of returning the favor coupled with shudders of fear, thinking of my own children's safety.

How did my husband ever talk me into this? Chicago is what Africa would be if it were a thousand miles further North: a snowbound banana republic. G-d merely snickers at my prayers. "You think this is cold, bubbelah? I'll show you cold!"

I really lost my patience this morning when I drove into Skokie for a HipHop Aerobics class (don't ask). Every street in Skokie was plowed, including the sides of the street where people might park were all buildings and homes in Skokie not graced with actual off-street parking spots. The sidewalks were all plowed, too. I drove back to my side of town, returning to streets lined with mounds of black snow piles large enough to swallow the cars of anyone foolish enough to stay parked on a main street when the plows went by.

Main streets get plowed in Chicago, not the side streets where most people live without garages. Residents must shovel their cars out of their parking spaces, and shovel their way back in. Most Chicagoans shovel out their own parking spots and leave lawn furniture there to mark their hard-fought territory. We had the misfortune of parking in a spot that had a piece of lawn furniture removed by someone else. An angry man with a pregnant wife showed up at our door requesting we get out of "his" spot.

I suppose I should be thankful people here don't carry machetes or Kalashnikovs here. If they don't plow soon, it may come to that.

I was so mad about the whole situation I called my state representative, who was probably too busy trying to impeach the governor; and my alderman, who was probably in hiding, lest we come after him with pitchforks. If I had one, I would. I expressed my concern as a highly pissed-off constituent to the aide who answered the phone, and then really let him have it when he blamed the mayor.

What good are any of yous? I asked in my best Chicagoese.

I'm trying to embrace the winter, as my husband suggests. He thinks if I enjoy a few days on the slopes, parking in my neighborhood of West Zimbabwe won't be so unbearable. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around that logic.

I'll admit we did have a wonderful time on winter break in the glorious Wisconsin Dells. It was great just to get out of the crazy city. We made a point to get all major tasks out of the way beforehand, in order to truly enjoy a relaxed break together.

And it was relaxing. For four days and three nights I didn't set foot into a kitchen. I didn't cook, I didn't clean, and I didn't have to think of a million and one ingenious ways to keep my children entertained. I just went along for the ride, sometimes careening down the side of a snowy hill in an innertube.

The greatest challenge I faced on the inner tube was dragging the kids up the slope in boots that kept my feet warm, but had zero traction. We made it up thanks to the kindness of strangers, and my kids enjoyed a great science lesson about friction and gravity.

The best part of the trip for my son was learning how to ski. During grad school, I went with some friends up to New Hampshire and took skiing lessons for a day. Despite being a strong-limbed athlete, I never got the hang of it. But my husband and I thought it would be a grand opportunity for our nine year old boy. We signed him up for a private lesson, while my husband got in a few warm-up runs. He took to it like a real champ, and was swooshing down the medium level hills in no-time, red-faced and exhilarated.

We repeated the indoor water park one day, but mostly kicked back and relaxed with new friends.

The vacation culminated in a New Years Eve party for the kids, and a separate one for the adults.

My hubby and I dropped of our little party-animals,

and snuck out to catch a movie, making it back just in time for the last dance or two. I dragged my husband, kicking and screaming, onto the dance floor, and then we picked up the exhausted and elated kids and called it a night. My baby was so tired, she fell out of bed in the middle of the night with a big, loud THUD, and slept on.

And like all good times, it was over way too fast. We hung on to the last day or two of our winter break the best we could. I took my kids and a dear friend of ours to the Field museum on the last day before school started.

We made a beeline for the children's play lab and got there in the nick of time before they closed.

We explored parts of the museum I hadn't seen yet, like the underground tunnels,

the gem room and a South Pacific Island exhibit that looked at life on a small island, which apparently, is much harder to survive than you'd imagine.

That it, of course, unless you've tried to park on the snowy streets of Chicago.