Law School Widow

The end, part 2

2009-11-01T20:00:00.016-06:00

Three and a half years ago I began:

May 10, 2006. In two months and 21 days I will be moving across the country to start my life as the wife of a law student. I am leaving my friends and family, a great job, a house I love, and a comfortable life for the dream of a better future. And I'll be taking my three children along on the adventure with me. The logistics of the move are huge: selling our house, enrolling the kids in school, finding affordable day care for the baby, finding a new apartment, finding me a new job. The details are staggering. I'm told the first year of law school is brutal. I've been warned that I will only see glimpses of my husband as he rushes off to the library, or returns home for a quick shower. I've been alerted to the fact that law school is rough on marriages. But we're strong. We're tight. And if we can survive this move, we can survive anything.

I'm not really the blogging type, but I'm hoping this will be a good way to stay connected to my former life, and understand the new one I'm being thrust into. Blog as cheap therapy? Perhaps. Blog as form letter you plug into? Definitely! Stay tuned for the exciting adventures of the Law School Widow!

Looking back I can say we did, in fact survive. A little worse for the wear, but we made it through to the other side. I did make new friends, but never quite got over leaving my family. I found a new job, but it isn't nearly as great as the one I left behind. I still miss my house, my synagogue, my old life, but I'm okay with that. My hubby did spectacularly in law school, no surprise there. He started his new job a couple of weeks ago, and seems content. The kids, thank goodness, are thriving. They are in a wonderful school, have sweet friends, and are as at home here as anywhere.

It wasn't easy. I have yet to feel that Chicago is my home. I will never, ever, not ever, get used to the harsh and vicious winters. I am still struggling to find my place in a large and rather homogeneous Orthodox community. I've put on close to fifteen pounds (but have managed to lose seven). I'm grumpier, tenser, more prone to snap at the people I love. My parenting skills have taken a nosedive. And yet around me, life flourishes.

The post-Bar trip is a fine example. We couldn't afford our plan to take California by storm, hitting everything from the Napa Valley vineyards (the kosher ones, at least) south to the San Diego zoo. We had big dreams, but as of yet, no income. So we went for a two week trip to Minnesota instead to visit my mother-in-law.

There was no Disneyland, Monterrey Bay Aquarium, or Baron Herzog kosher fine dining, but we managed to have a genuinely wonderful, relaxing, and much needed break. I flew in from Ft. Lauderdale while my saintly hubby drove the kids the seven hour drive to St. Paul. The next day we packed up and drove up north to Lake Superior, hanging a right at Duluth to head back to a place we'd vacationed years ago: Bayfield, Wisconsin.

Bayfield is an adorable, picturesque seaside town on the shores of the lake they once called Gitche Gumee (h/t Gordon Lightfoot). On our first visit I had the distinct feeling of being in a Twilight Zone episode visiting the small town. Something was amiss. The town looked normal, the people seemed normal, but I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong. It finally occurred to me: it didn't smell right. No dead fish and salty sea air. Of course, now I'm used to living on a gigantic lake.

This time, we drove through Bayfield and straight onto the ferry to Madeline Island, the shining star of the Apostle Islands.

Granted, it was a little spit of an almost uninhabited island, but the kids couldn't have been happier, breathing clean air, clinging to their Granma like little monkeys.

Madeline Island has two grocery stores, a handful of taverns, three or more art galleries, and fourteen miles of paved road. It doesn't have the sophisticated marketing skills of your average Californian corporation, hence the name of the cabin we rented, "Better Than A Tent".

There is something to be said for truth in advertising.

It was much better than a tent. Our double double-wide with four bedrooms, two full baths, kitchen, dining area, living room and tiki bar was downright adorable. And stuck in the middle of nowhere in the deep, dark, bug-filled woods of the island.

We had no cell phone reception, no TV reception, and no wireless internet, but we found plenty to do in our little island paradise.

We played tennis.

We visited the local history museum where the kids learned to weave in the ancient way,

and enjoyed the soft, scent-free prized fur of the local skunks.

We built our own "dreamcatchers",

and braved a storm kayaking around the island.

We swam in the recreation center's "heated" pool overlooking the lake and the marina,

and thawed out in the hot tub.

Our most memorable event was sitting out on the dock as the sun disappeared over the horizon and the night bloomed in billions of stars, unobscured by city lights or clouds. We even saw the milky way and a couple of satellites.

Months later, it is what they remember most about the trip.

We spent four days cooking together, eating together, playing Mille Bournes, laughing and snuggling together.

And no one complained about missing the Disney princesses.

Back in St. Paul, the kids explored the Science Museum where their Daddy had once worked.

The spent hours in Granma's garden picking cherry tomatoes and green beans,

and we celebrated our first born's first decade of life with friends and family.

We spent a lovely Shabbat in the St. Louis Park community, and capped the trip off with a trip to the Apple Valley Zoo and the Como Land amusement park.

Back at home, life went back to it's normal, allegretto rhythms. The kids went back to school, my hubby finished of his last few weeks of pro bono work, and I returned to teach P.E. at the girl's school. But even our daily routines are broken up by special events, visits and moments. In the past couple of months we went apple picking,

celebrated Sukkot,

enjoyed visits from a long lost friend (thanks, facebook!),

and from Grandma and Papa. We dragged Grandma and Papa around Chicago from one end to the other.

My hubby, having some free time, took them to the Art Institute of Chicago, and the kids and I dragged them to the Museum of Science and Industry

and a Chamber music concert at the school.

But the moment I'll hold onto most dearly is the week my hubby and I spent together. He was finished with his pro bono work, and hadn't begun working at the firm yet. I was off for Sukkot break. The kids were still in school. We took our own little "Staycation" from the moment we dropped the kids off at school at 8:00 am, until we picked them up at 4. We went to the Art Institute, explored the Cultural Arts Center's Tiffany domes, and spent a day at the Merchandise Mart, dreaming of that bright future we've tried so hard to attain.

And what great gem of wisdom have I gained from these past three years? Nothing too stellar that hasn't been said better by countless others. All I can say is that it was nothing like I expected. It was neither as difficult nor as fulfilling. Law School wasn't the marriage-killing drudgery I was warned it would be, nor has it's completion been a great watershed moment. Life goes on. My husband works, either in a library or an office, my kids grow, learn, test me, thrill me. I struggle everyday to be the best person I can be, and often fail spectacularly. Daily struggles and tribulations are dotted throughout with sublime moments of joy and contentment. I am incredibly blessed to be alive at this time, in this place, with this family. All I can tell you is that I've learned to be grateful for it all.

And for all of you who shared it with me. I humbly express my gratitude.

The end, part 1

2009-08-06T13:51:00.013-05:00

The week of the Bar Exam was packed. I had a job interview the day before at De Paul University. It was an interview I was trying to nail down for months, and finally got. Before the interview I asked my husband for his advice. He told me: "answer their questions." Huh? What kind of advice is that? I sputtered. "Just answer their questions. Don't tell them more than they've asked you. Listen carefully and just answer what they've asked."

That made sense. I dropped off my budding actress at theater camp, and found my way to De Paul. I parked across the street and dropped my quarters into the meter. The head of the department greeted me at the entrance to the department offices, she guided me into an office where I met the second woman who would be interviewing me, and they asked me my first question. Within seconds, I had pulled out all of my class syllabi from semesters past, my course outlines, and copies of power point slides. I confessed to being stuck teaching courses I had never even taken, I gave detailed explanations of how I switched from studying Irish History to Sport Administration, why I was one course short of my M.Ed, how I started developing on-line courses when I was on maternity leave. I confided in the challenges of being the mother of three while my husband was in law school, and on and on.

So much for my husband's advice.

Despite being a complete blabbermouth, or perhaps, because of it, they liked me. The hiring processes at universities are fairly complex, so nothing is guaranteed, but I think (and hope and pray) I'll be teaching one class in the spring term. It's a start!

The excitement and giddiness of a successful job interview quickly dissolved into the stress and panic of the upcoming Bar Exam. My poor hubby was studying day and night, pouring over his massive exam guides and taking practice exam after practice exam. The Bar also coincided with the end of summer camp, so we were also dealing with a tan, skinny boy who hadn't brushed his teeth in a month, full of excitement and stories to share.

A week of sleepless nights preceded the Bar, and my hubby tried valiantly to sleep the night between the two days of exams. I stayed awake in some kind of sick solidarity. All day, the kids and I glanced at the clock anxiously imagining the torture our love was enduring.

Finally, it was over. Just like that. In a moment, three years of stress, anguish, hard work, fun, fear, pride, ambition, and accomplishment were over. My husband came home exhausted and drained. I asked him, How'd you do?

"I dunno." Came the tired response. "I'll find out in October." And that was that.

The next day was both my husband's 37th birthday (young pup!), and Tisha B'Av, a Jewish fast day. So much for celebrating.

The following day was the last day of drama camp.

We were treated to an adorable and amusing musical performance followed by Shabbat. The Bar Exam did not precede wild parties and celebrations. My husband's birthday was not a cause for joy and licentiousness. we didn't slide into home plate. Three years of Law School and three months of Bar preparation left us spent.

After another couple of weeks of my husband's PILI fellowship, I continued Camp Mommy with three kids. We hung out at the park, went to the museum,

went to the beach,

went to the zoo,

and the big kids and I spent a day at Six Flags.

They had earned their tickets through a reading program at their school.

It was nice getting to spend time with them.

We giggled, played, and chilled. And except for 60 degree weather and rain every day, it felt like summer.

My hubby and I had our own little vacation. We hired a baby sitter to stay with the kids for twenty four hours, while we booked a hotel fifteen minutes away. We dined on kosher sushi, worked out in the hotel fitness room, shopped for shoes (yay!!), and strolled the beautiful Chicago Botanic Gardens for hours. It was romantic, relaxing, and rejuvenating, and I highly recommend it to anyone married with kids.

Finally, the real family vacation came around. We had planned a dramatic, exciting, and outrageously expensive "Post-Bar trip" to California. The plan was to meet up with the family in Northern California to celebrate my parent's 50th wedding anniversary. Then we were going to drive down to Los Angeles with the kids hitting every tourist spot in the state like Disneyland, Hollywood, the studio tours, the Monterrey Aquarium, San Diego zoo, etc. You name it, it was on our agenda.

Unfortunately, the economic meltdown, the law firm cutting back on hours and delaying start dates were not.

In a matter of weeks our glorious vacation was dealt a reality blow and after some tweaking and revising, was downgraded to four days on Madeline Island off of the Wisconsin shores of Lake Superior and a week and a half in St. Paul, Minnesota with my mother-in-law. It may not have been as thrilling as we had originally planned, but it was wonderful nonetheless. The kids thoroughly enjoyed spending time with their granma and her geriatric dog, Amy. And the vacation, in a quiet and understated way, was as mind-blowing as anything the kids could have experienced in California.

Before we headed out to Minnesota, I had a slight detour on my map: the replanned fiftieth anniversary celebration for mom and dad in Ft. Lauderdale! I flew out on Thursday first class, thanks to frequent flyer miles. I got in at midnight, and on Friday morning, we hit the Florida beaches running. I spent the day basking in the sun with my sisters and their families.

It was wonderful seeing my niece whom I hadn't seen since she was a baby.

It was a treat discovering my niece was blessed with more personality in her pinkie than most people get in their whole lives.

It was also a treat hanging out with my family. Just about everyone was there: aunts, uncles, siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, and more.

But the stars of the weekend were my parents who made it to the big 5-0 and still looked as beautiful, happy and in love as ever.

Family came from far and wide to celebrate.

It was as much a family reunion as a celebration of 50 years of bliss. I got reacquainted with family I hadn't seen in years,

and got to meet a few new faces, too.

We laughed, we caught up, we reminisced. We remembered just how much we loved being together.

And all too fast, it was time to say goodbye and get back to my own kiddos.

Shakespeare had it right. Parting is such sweet sorrow, but a common Jewish sentiment gets it right, too: only in simchas. We should always meet under such joyous, wonderful circumstances. And as far as I'm concerned, the more the merrier. I don't know who said that one, but they're right, too.

Part 2: Post-Bar trip to nowhere!

Winding down

2009-07-19T22:57:00.018-05:00

I'm picking my son up from camp tomorrow.

For four weeks he's been away from home, living in a small, dreary, wooden cabin with a half dozen or so boys his age, and two counselors. He's managed to eat, dress himself, brush his teeth (I hope), and get along without me. I'm pretty sure he's been successful, because as far as I can tell, he's happy.

I have three ways of ascertaining his state. For one thing, I received two letters over the past month. The full text of the first letter read: "Mommy, I'm having a great time". The second went as follows: "Dear Mom, Please send me a package of candy. Everyone else has gotten one." I'm sure if he was having a miserable time, he wouldn't have hesitated to tell me.

My second piece of evidence is the nightly posting of photos over the internet. When he wasn't ducking out of view of the camera, he was smiling from ear-to-ear.

It was a tremendous source of comfort to me, but made me think back to my old camping days. My parents also sent me off to camp for close to a month, but without the internet to monitor my every activity and mood. In a way, it was probably more nerve-wracking for my parents.

Then again, maybe not.

Back at the home front, the girls have been having a very different camping experience altogether. My diva, appropriately, is attending a theatre day camp at a park in our neighborhood. They are putting on a complete production at the end of the month based on a 1980 musical flop that destroyed the careers of several previously successful and promising actors. I am, of course, talking about the supremely gawdawful roller disco fiasco known as Xanadu. Olivia Newton John and Gene Kelly were never heard from again, and Michael Beck...exactly. I never heard of him either. How they're going to pull off transforming this abomination of a screenplay into something entertaining and appropriate for 7 to 12 year old performers is only one more of this summer's mysteries I have to ponder.

And while the older siblings are hard at work in the business of fun, the youngest is trying to figure out how such a promising sounding summer at "camp mommy" turned out to be such a dreadful disappointment. That's not to say it has been a complete failure, at least, not on the level of say, Xanadu, but I'm sure it could have been better. For the first month of the summer, I dutifully drove my girls to swimming lessons each and every day. They did head bobs, flutter kicks, teddy bear floats, and streamlines. So far, so good.

After dropping big sister off at camp, things kind of got less exciting for little sister. I met up with my best friend/coffee date/walking partner, strapped the little one in her stroller, and hit the pavement. From the beginning, the summer plan was to have all three kids in camp so I could meet up with my friend for some brisk walking and sugar-free iced coffee to whip ourselves back into shape. Unfortunately, my baby's summer camp didn't end up fitting into our budget, so we fell back on plan B: camp mommy.

We quickly discovered that my little one had low tolerance for sitting in a stroller watching the world whiz by, and even less for not being the center of the conversation. Walks devolved into an exhausting attempt to get our exercise and keep her engaged.

After a while, I spent fewer days walking with my friend and more taking my daughter on "adventures." Many of these adventures took place downtown in Millennium Park where a) I have free law student parking until the end of summer, and b) Target sponsors a giant tent of free activities for children each day.

We have enjoyed concerts, circus activities,

arts and crafts,

and, of course, splashing around in the Crown Fountain.

We've also had the pleasure of spending time with friends and family from our old hometown.

Some just came for a short visit, some have moved here for a longer duration and we have enjoyed helping them settle in and see the sights.

The highlight of the summer for all of us so far, and my third bit of evidence that my son is having a good summer, was visitor's day at his camp. We drove the four hours to middle-of-nowhere, Wisconsin, east of the Christmas Tree Farms, west of nothing, to a tiny enclave of Jewish Mayhem. The moment we drove up to the camp we were greeted by a tall, skinny, tan-as-a-brown-berry boy with a giant grin. He hopped into the car with a warm greeting: "Did you bring me candy?"

Of course, I had.

We were treated to a performance of camp songs and cheers, a meaty barbecue picnic,

and hours and hours waiting in the queue for the zip line. My son was anxious to demonstrate his favorite activity in camp.

After waiting in line for an hour, he scrambled up the rope ladder strapped in his harness, and waited some more for the ten second joyride down a 400 ft. wire.

Once he came down, he ran off to the restroom, and disappeared. My husband and I were stuck waiting in line with the little sisters who also wanted to prove their mettle on the zipline.

Big sister had something to prove. Two days earlier she had chickened out of jumping off the 3 ft. diving board at her last day of swimming lessons, only to be showed up by her baby sister, who leaped off with glee. Big sister had something to prove and that something was the gumption to jump off the 40 ft. platform. She wasn't going to be outdone by anyone.

Well, she scaled all the way up the rope ladder, past the 20 ft. platform, all the way to the top, They strapped her in, and after several harrowing moments of waiting, she took the plunge!

We couldn't have been prouder,

until baby sister demanded her chance at the zip line.

Unfortunately, the zip line was run by several young Israelis who had just completed their army duty, and basically scoffed in the face of danger. "Mamaleh," they reassured me, "she'll be fine!"

"Don't worry" they said, "She'll never be afraid of heights after this!" Reluctantly, and some may say stupidly, I agreed to let my teeny tiny four year old ride the zip line. 20 ft. only I insisted, much to her disappointment. So we waited for another hour for her turn.

In the meantime, big sister had a fit. "I'm bored!" She wailed. "I've spent the whole day in this line!" She howled. Daddy had no choice but to find something more exciting to do at the camp. We hadn't seen big brother in over an hour, what else was there to do? So, he took her for a boat ride, and little-bit and I waited and waited and waited.

Finally, they got the only harness small enough for her teeny tiny frame, and the Israeli soldier who seemed to know what was going on carefully and meticulously tightened each strap, making sure she was snuggly secured.

As he adjusted the straps, my little chatter box interrogated him. "Where are you from?" She asked.

"I'm from Israel." He responded in his thick accent. "From a city called Jerusalem. You've heard of it?" she nodded, silently. "You've been there before?" He asked.

"No." She shook her head. ""How old are you?" Her interview continued. I eavesdropped, melting as my little one carried on such a sweet and mature conversation in her teensy, high-pitched little baby voice.

Finally, she was ready to go. She looked adorable in her harness. So much so, that all of the Israelis asked me permission to take her picture. By now, the zip line queue had grown to a couple dozen campers and their families. The kids asked, "Is she really going up?" My little one puffed up to her full three feet height and said, "Yes! To the high one!" Mommy shook her head. No. 20 ft. is enough this year. You can do the 40 foot one next year. She didn't argue.

Finally, they attached her to the line and pulled her up to the platform. She desperately wanted to climb the rope ladder, but the space between the rungs was bigger than she!

She got to the platform and we waited anxiously, the crowd below cheered her on, calling out her name, giving her encouragement. I could have sworn the parents were looking at me with shock and derision, letting such a small child take such an unnecessary risk. The Israelis kept reassuring me, "Mamaleh, she'll be fine!"

Then she plunged.

It lasted fewer than 10 seconds. She spun around waiving at the cheering crowd behind her. I finished filming, and ran to the end where they brought her down. She grinned from ear to ear. My heart pounded in my chest.

But I sure was proud of all three of my fearless daredevils. And those Israelis were right. Everything was fine, Mamaleh.

We finally found our son, playing tennis with a buddy from Denver.

I got a quick tour of the camp, we bought the kids some ice cream, and we said our goodbyes.

The best part of visitor's day was the final moment when we were getting ready to pull out of our parking spot. That same tall, skinny, tan-as-a-brown-berry boy ran up to the car again to say goodbye.

I've really missed that kid.

Tomorrow he's coming home, and if my old camp experiences are any indication, I expect him to get home, eat supper, and sleep for two days straight.

Then when he wakes up, he'll join baby sister and me for some more camp mommy adventures.

And where is law school hubby while all of this camping is going on? Studying, studying, and studying some more for the Bar exam, which is only a week away.

It's hard to believe three years has already come and gone. In another week, he will no longer be a student, and I no longer will be the Law School Widow. This is most likely one of the last posts of my blog. I'll be winding down the blog as the summer drifts into autumn.

I'd like to hear from those of you who have taken this crazy ride along with me. Please drop me a comment, especially if you've been quietly sharing the experience. I'd like a chance to say goodbye and thanks to each and every one of you.

Showing-off season

2009-06-22T14:07:00.022-05:00

I could never go to law school. Forget about the LSATs, which I would most likely bomb, or the classes, which would put me to sleep on a regular basis, or the constant studying and writing; the thing that would really kill me would be the Bar exam right after graduation. I mean, really, what good is graduating when you have to dive right back in to work the following day? What's the point? I would be so burnt out and drained that I'd just say forget the whole thing. Thanks for the nice diploma, but I'm studied-out right now. I'd just wave my white flag right then and there. Hmph, I would grumble to anyone who would listen. I didn't want be a stupid lawyer anyway.

Thankfully, my husband has far greater endurance than I do. I don't know how he manages it.

I guess it's kind of like motherhood. The responsibilities and worries never end. Just when we think we have it made - school is out, summer is here - we get slammed with the showing-off season. It's the Bar exam of parenthood.

First it was the end of soccer season.

My son had an all-day tournament, and my daughter had her final game on the same day on different fields, in different towns. My husband and I have one car. It was a logistical rompecabeza, but somehow, we managed.

While the big kids played their games, the baby kept herself busy teaching herself to climb a tree.

Part of me watched in horror as she scaled the low branch, inching slowly upward.

Part of me glowed with pride at her derring-do and determination. The wise mom in me kept her mouth shut, and watched from a safe distance, letting her experience the pride of her own success by herself.

The look on her face when she made it her way to the "top" was priceless.

I'm so glad the worry wart in me shut her mouth for once.

It's a lesson I'm learning the hard way. My kids are getting to the age where I need to start doling out independence and responsibility more freely.

My kids are pretty good about the responsibility thing already. The two big ones have been taking piano lessons for years already, and they're good about practicing without too much noodging. But I have to admit, I was getting a little worried this past month. They had a recital coming up, and it was getting harder and harder to get them to sit down and focus. Neither of them could get through their recital pieces without seriously messing up. I gulped and said, try again more times than any of us wanted to hear. It was starting to be like pulling teeth.

The day of the recital came, and in the morning we had a nice distraction: my daughter's seventh birthday party.

Speaking of doling out responsibilities, after my baby's birthday party, two houses full of guests, and the graduation party, I was partied-out. I turned to my husband and said, the next one's yours. He came through beautifully, sending out e-vites, and planning the scavenger hunt along with all of the clues and prizes.

He ran the whole thing, and even took the pictures.

I baked a cake that no one but the birthday girl liked, and I put together the goody bags. My daughter had a great time with her friends, but abdicating my own maternal responsibilities may have been an even bigger treat for me.

With that party in the hopper, we put the spring time birthday season to rest, and headed off to the piano recital. Truthfully, I knew my kids worked hard and knew their pieces, and if they messed up, so be it. This wasn't Carnegie Hall. It was the experience that counted. Still, I would have liked to see them see that their hard work was paying off. But I wasn't so sure. After sitting through one botched up practice after another, I didn't see how they were going to pull it off.

A little voice in my head (that sounded an awful lot like my husband) advised me to back off. It was hard, but I'm learning. Once again, I abdicated responsibility to the dad, let him supervise lesson-time, and made myself busy in the kitchen. The urge to noodge was too great.

After the birthday party, we dressed, gathered up the music, and headed to the recital hall. My kids seemed relaxed and happy, and fortunately, it was contagious. We got there early, the kids ran through their pieces on stage a couple of times, and we were ready to go. First up was my daughter playing a lovely, sad piece by Lyakhovitsky, loosely translated by the piano teacher as "Sad Dog". My daughter confidently ascended the stage, took her bow, and played her piece flawlessly (at least to her mother's ear), and then dashed off stage as fast as her little legs could take her.

Next up was my son. His piece, A Short Story, by Kabalevsky, was technically demanding, and required some pretty swift fingerwork. All month long he struggle with getting his hands up to speed. He practiced frequently with a metronome, but couldn't quite get through the whole piece with out tripping over his own fingertips. Once again, I tried not to worry too much. It was a piano recital, not the Van Cliburn competition. He looked so grown up mounting the stage, taking a deep bow, and sitting himself down to play. My son sat up, took a deep breath, and plowed through his piece better than he'd played all month. I marvelled at his maturity and professionalism. When did he get so big?

For the last piece, my son and his school friend played a sweet duet together called Copycat, by Matz. For kids three years apart they had amazing chemistry. Why not? I asked my husband mischievously, we're three years apart!

With that, we sighed deeply and scratched another thing off our list.

Only one more responsibility lay ahead of us before we could declare a start to summer. The following week was the dance recital. All three of my children were scheduled to perform, but not before I had to attend the parent helper meeting, and not before we had to endure the dress rehearsal. Each step was a time consuming and a mind-numbingly aggravating "hurry-up-and-wait" kind of experience.

The recital was scheduled for father's day. I woke up early, made my husband an omelet and a smoothie, while the kids made him homemade cards. Just as he was sitting up in bed to enjoy the morning meal, the phone rang.

"Where are we supposed to drop-off the luggage today?" a friend who was sending her daughter to the same camp we were sending our son asked in what sounded like near-panic.

I quickly understood what panic really was. Drop off?? Today?? I practically screamed into the phone. They're not leaving until Tuesday!

I had three hours to finish the laundry, label hundreds of clothing items, fold and pack them, and get them to the van, and make it to the theatre on time. We flew into action, barking at the kids all the while. Don't ask me any questions now! For that matter don't even talk to me! I screamed anytime a child approached. They backed away slowly with a look of curiosity and concern.

Miraculously, my husband got the suitcases to the drop-off point on time, and I got to the theatre with the girls a little early. No one had their head bitten off by a rabid mother.

If the end of dance classes was graduation, dress rehearsal was studying for the Bar exam, and the recital itself was the Big Test. For me, as the backstage mom, it was one test of patience after another. I was stuck with a half-dozen half-pint three and four year olds who didn't want to stay backstage, in their costumes, with stupid bows in their hair. They wanted to run around and play, or else they wanted mommy. The crusher was when I was getting ready to leave the girls with another mommy so that I could watch big sister's performance from the side of the stage. As I was leaving, a little polka-dotted princess asked me to take her to the potty.

I missed big sister's performance.

We managed to get the girls and boy on stage, fully dressed in time for their dance. My little one decided the choreography wasn't up to her level of expertise, so she embellished, until the brightly colored screen behind her distracted her. With a big smile, a wave to her daddy, and a couple of prat falls, she made it through her dance, and off the stage.

I may have missed their dance, but I did get to see my daughter and her hiphop friends goofing off backstage. They were adorable.

Especially my little hiphop girl.

My son's performance was during the second show. He did an awesome, acrobatic, hiphoppy, breakdancing thing with his Just For Boys group. My husband and I switched jobs. I sat in the audience while he stayed backstage with a pack of wild boys, thereby avoiding the decidedly immodest overweight belly dancers.

Dancing didn't come easy to my son. Several times over the year he was ready to quit. The teacher was sweet and patient, but had an artistic vision that was physically demanding and required tremendous focus. My son struggled with both. But like piano, when it came time to perform, he brought on his A-game. The boys brought the house down mid-routine with a tripod handstand that my son had been agonizing over. I felt him beaming from 30 rows back.

My hiphopper started theatre camp today, but by noon, I was on my way to pick her up. She has a delicate constitution that couldn't stomach peanut butter and chocolate chip challah sandwiches. The baby asked her if she had a "stummy egg".

My son is all packed up. Today I'm putting him on a bus for somewhere in Wisconsin. It will be his first overnight camping experience. I will have four weeks to miss him, worry about him, and fret. No one said this independence thing would be easy. What will my picky eater eat? Can he even make his own bed? I guess it's time to let go, step back, and tell that inner worry wart to stuff a sock in it.

Actually, my inner worry wart will be too busy dealing with the psychotoddler all day. Lucky me, I'll be running my own mommy camp for the two of us.

And you think the Bar exam is hard?

Big days, part 2

2009-06-10T22:05:00.011-05:00

Graduation already seems like a million years away. Three days later, my husband was already back at work juggling a Bar Preparation course with a Public Interest Law Internship. Life for us continued as normal, but not before we finished celebrating his major accomplishment.

Graduation was followed by a reception at the law school. The law school thoughtfully provided kosher food in a separate room for the handful of families requiring the accommodation. This was a relief in a couple of ways. We got to eat, after an exciting, but ultimately hectic morning, and it was away from the over-crowded chaos in the main atrium. We had room to relax and chat with the professors who strolled our way.

We dashed out of the reception after an hour of shmoozing, to prepare for Shabbat. We were spending Shabbat in my friend's empty house in Skokie so that the whole family could be together. I prepared the meals at my apartment, which we transferred over in a frenzy to have everything ready before sundown. Miraculously, we managed, only forgetting small things like matches and salt.

Once Shabbat was over, our attention went to the big graduation party. My parents took the kids to piano lessons, and then on a promised picnic to the beach, using my daughter's brand new birthday picnic basket. Meanwhile, my husband and I went into overdrive bringing over foods and beverages to the house, putting up streamers, and trying to get things "just so". It felt like a mammoth task, so much so, I had a hard time just relaxing and enjoying the party. Mostly, I made margaritas and took pictures.

What I did enjoy was seeing all the people who came out to celebrate with us. People from all walks of our Chicago life. Friends from synagogue,

friends from work,

family members,

and friends from law school,

all came to share our joy and eat my fudgy brownies. Towards the end, I finally collapsed on the borrowed futon and chatted with friends.

Somehow, we managed to make it through the weekend and get the kids off to school the next day. My husband, too, was back to school, preparing for his Bar exam. The only evidence that a party had occurred was the abundant leftovers and the exhaustion. It took me a week just to recover.

It's hard to believe a month has passed. While my husband's school year ended several weeks ago, he was right back at it days later, reading, underlining, outlining, sitting through, and occasionally sleeping through, one or two lectures. We also slipped right back into our routine, the kids and I just making it to the end of our school year.

Occasionally our daily doldrums were brightened by surprises. I was recently visited by an old fencing friend who was recently ordained a Catholic priest.

I don't know why, but that tickled me pink. I enjoyed chatting with him at length about his duties, the priesthood, and the state of the Catholic church. I fear I may have interrogated him a bit too much, but he was game. The kids enjoyed having a fresh face to regale with their silly stories and songs, now that all of the grandparents had returned home.

And once again we come to the end of another chapter. In a couple of days, the school year will end for us all. My son is going away to an overnight camp for the first time. Piles of his clothes cover the dining room table, waiting to be packed away. The girls have day camps of their own to enjoy, and I'm getting a real break from work. Only my husband is sweating out between the Bar exam and the PILI Fellowship.

Big days, part 1

2009-05-26T01:30:00.016-05:00

I should be sleeping. Instead I am making dinner for a friend who just had a baby. It's a joyful insomnia. It's easy to feel joyous. I have much to celebrate, and for now, I can choose not to dwell on the trials and tribulations around the bend. They'll intrude soon enough.

I am particularly proud of the fact that I made it through the challenges that piled up, one after another, in a week replete with celebrations. The first was my baby's birthday party. I suppose at four, it's inappropriate to call her a baby, but as my youngest, I'm afraid it's a moniker that will follow her into her adult life. After all, I'm still my mother's baby at 40.

This was my little one's first real birthday party.

We held it at the ballet school, yet again. For her, it was a dream-come-true. She dressed in the fairy costume Granma Thuthin made her, blew out the candles atop the homemade cake, and danced like lunatic for a full hour, while daddy ran out to put together goody bags.

Best of all, she was surrounded by her best friends.

The party was absolutely adorable.

The kids giggled and played, and lived up to their gender stereotype. While the dance teacher sang out the instructions, the girls listened patiently while the boys ran laps around the studio.

Days after we celebrated four years of my sweet abundance of life, it was time to turn our attention to the culmination of our Chicago experience, my husband's law school graduation.

Before we could get the partying started, we had to deal with some logistical issues, like preparing an empty home to be inhabited by my parents, my grandmother, and my family for a week. I am so blessed to have made an amazing friend who was generous enough to move to a new home the week of graduation, leaving her old house ready for a South Texas invasion. She lent it to us not only to sleep in, but to host a party in, as well.

My husband and I set out borrowing beds from another dear and generous friend, moving sheets, pillows, towels, blankets, sleeping bags, table and chairs into the house. I then began the extensive shopping and cooking for Shabbat and a party. I was barely human by the time everyone arrived. Yet, somehow, we pulled it off. In fact, it was a pleasure, a real labor of love.

The week leading up to graduation was filled with events and parties for the graduates and their families. My husband took his mom to the "Last Lecture". I would have loved to have been there to hear the uplifting words of opportunity and gratitude, but I had to work. Instead, I got to go to the "Law School Prom". My husband and I dressed up, left the kids with the babysitter, and headed to the zoo for an evening of drinking, dancing, and celebrating with his classmates.

I was amazed how many of my husband's classmates with whom I had developed a relationship.

It drove home how much of a shared experience this had been for the two of us.

Many of his classmates had joined us at our home for a meal at one time or another.

Many I had met at various law school events.

I just wish we had had more gatherings like this during law school. I'll miss my hubby's buds.

Finally, it was time for graduation.

The process of getting to graduation was a bit crazy. My mother-in-law got there ahead of everyone and tried to save nine seats in a row, enduring name-calling and abuse in the process. In the meantime, I had to run out and get stockings and sweaters for my girls since the weather turned rainy and cold. Already in a rush, we attempted to get my grandmother into our high-up minivan, but her knees protested. we took two cars instead, my parents following with my grandmother in and out of Chicago traffic. At the venue we discovered that a wheelchair would have been handy. The ushers were calling everyone in, "we're locking up in two more minutes!", while my grandmother and I hobbled down the long corridors as fast as we could, until a kindly usher came along with a wheelchair.

In the end, none of us ended up sitting together, and Granma Thuthin had to give up the nine seats.

Graduation itself was a beautiful and meaningful event for us, despite the chaos of trying to get the whole family there on time. The speakers captured the spirit of the occasion talking about the support and sacrifices of the graduates' families and of the hopes and opportunities of the future. In my deeply emotional and moved state, it all rang true.

Northwestern University Law School does something beautiful I don't recall seeing in any other commencement ceremony. They invite the children to walk across the stage with their graduating parent. I've always found graduation ceremonies to be a bit tedious and merely endured, but this one was different. We may have been sitting in three different sections, but all of us were there together, all of us having made different sacrifices to celebrate my husband's commencement.

Part 2: Time to get the party started!

Event horizon

2009-05-02T21:48:00.005-05:00

Shabbat is over. My husband sits at the dining room table typing away. Already he's hard at work editing a paper due next week. The kids are asleep, and I'm surfing the internet for lack of anything better to do. Well, that's not entirely true. I could be washing more dishes, or being otherwise practical and productive, but it is Saturday night. Although it feels like any other Saturday night, there's one major difference. That paper my husband is working on is his very last assignment for law school, ever. He took his last exam on Thursday. By next Saturday night, it will all be through.

Wow.

Plans for graduation are coming together nicely. My Skokie sister was kind enough to purchase a new home and renovate it over the past few months. She's especially sweet enough to be moving into it next week leaving her old home empty and available for me to borrow. My 90 years old grandmother (hamza, hamza, bli ayin hara'ah, ptui, ptui) doesn't do stairs, so our second story flat won't cut it. So, we'll be furnishing my friend's Skokie split level with borrowed beds, folding tables and chairs, and calling it home for graduation weekend. It will also be party central on Sunday afternoon. I'm planning on decorating the place with balloons and streamers, and preparing a wide array of hors d'oeuvres and my world famous margaritas, and inviting the world to celebrate the end of law school widowhood!!

Speaking of parties, I've planned a birthday party for my angelic terror at the ballet school for mother's day afternoon. My sweetie has turned four, and this is going to be her first real birthday party. She keeps asking me, "is my party tomorrow?" It's rough not having any real concept of time. Big sister's birthday party is going to have to wait for me to get through at least one of the many events on my horizon. She wants a sleepover party, but I think she's still a little young for that. My Cinco de Mayo girl is on the cusp of seven and ready for the Ivy Leagues.

My parents tell me I was an early reader. They love to recount the time I was three and reading the different flavors of Baskin Robbin's ice creams. The kid behind the counter was convinced I'd memorized them all. It didn't amount to much in the long run, so I don't normally get worked up when my kids are ahead of the learning curve, but this kid is the real deal. At the beginning of the year she was struggling with basic readers. By winter break, she was stammering through Ramona the Brave. A month later she devoured the first three books of the Harry Potter series.

This past month her school held a reading contest, challenging the 3rd through 8th graders to read 1600 pages in a month. 1st and 2nd graders could participate if they chose. My little Einstein chewed through Charlotte's Web, Because of Winn-Dixie, Bridge to Terabithia, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and a half dozen other books in a two week period, topping it off with Alice in Wonderland, to take home the top prize: dinner with a teacher. She's six.

Big brother got the top prize, too, but he managed it in three books. Two of them were book 6 and 7 of the Harry Potter series, which already got him three quarters of the way there. I'm surrounded by scholars!

I attribute my kids scholastic success to their father. Seeing him poring over his law books, cliticky-clacking away on his laptop night after night, has clearly made an impression. It's hard for them to moan and whine about having to do homework when they witness their father sweating it out every night. We're going to have to make the most of the week and a half he has before starting to study for the Bar exam. If all I've heard is true, this two day exam is going to make law school look like a picnic.

My dear friend used to say, "buses come in fives." My head is swimming with all of the events we have around the corner. In addition to all of the birthday and graduation celebrations, we've got piano and dance recitals coming up, and if that weren't enough, I'm starting a skating program at my school this week. I will be teaching 150 fourth to seventh graders in-line skating. I haven't been in a pair of skates in over four years, and I wouldn't have considered myself an expert then. It should be amusing. I'm also planning the big field day event at my school with an international theme this year. I've come up with seventeen games from around the globe, now I have to organize the kids and faculty to run it, get all of the necessary equipment together, and pull it all off with panache.

Somehow, it doesn't seem as staggering as it should. For the past three years it felt like life was a great big treadmill. My husband worked and worked and worked with no end in sight. All of a sudden, there are no more exams to outline, no more papers to edit. For once, we're checking items off the to-do list without replacing them with another three. The kids and I only have another six weeks before school is out for summer.

For the first time in three years, I can look down the road to the distance horizon, and see the end of the journey. Or to put it a way my six year old can understand, We're just a couple of paragraphs from the end of the chapter.

Wow.

Breathing time

2009-04-21T20:19:00.006-05:00

Law school hubby finished his last class ever on Monday. I asked my husband if they cheered, threw hats, or celebrated such a momentous occasion. Nah. He just went to class. Three brutal years are over just like that. No more briefs, cases, or getting called on in class. I would be jumping up and down hollering Hallelujah, but my husband just shrugged it off, and started studying for his last exam.

He doesn't have too much left to get through. On Sunday he completed his final trial for his litigation class. He argued a case with his partner in front of a real judge and a juror (they couldn't get more than one high school volunteer). With the help of two good friends serving as witnesses, he won his first case.

All he has left is one exam and a paper draft. Oh, and the bar exam, but that seems a million years away right now. In a little more than three weeks the whole family will be descending on West Roger's Park to celebrate my husband's graduation. He has his royal purple robe and tam - no mortarboard for the law school grads - and a big smile on his face.

I wish I could share his sense of relief, even if it is temporary. Less than a week after commencement, he'll start his public interest law internship and his bar preparation course. But my year is just ramping up, so it's hard for me to treasure the moment. We just got through Passover, which wasn't as awful as it has been in year's past. In fact, we actually got the house fully cleaned and turned over a few days early. It was the first time since having kids that we didn't have to wake them up at three in the morning to search for the chametz, the leavened crumbs my husband hides around the house each year.

The seders were lovely. On the first night we had another family over, three law students, and a law school widower. It was a very eclectic, smart and fun crowd. The food came out well, the kids performed their roles with panache, and we were done by one o'clock in the morning. The second night was just us, and we let the kids run the show. Predictably, it was a fun, goofy night. We beamed with pride as our Jewish Day School educated kids strutted their stuff. Tuition dollars well spent.

Somewhere in the middle of the holiday, minor mayhem ensued. My oven died of exhaustion. All my plans for matzah pizzas and matzah lasagnas went up in a puff of natural gas. For the so-called second days of the holiday, the last two full days of Passover, we also had guests coming, and no oven. I had to be creative in my kitchen. I cooked my first pot-roast, and quartered a whole chicken by hand. Not bad, for a squeamish vegetarian. Everything got cooked on the stove-top, including my Shmuely Fish, a delicious gefilte fish casserole. It got a little burnt on the bottom, but it was tasty, nonetheless.

The biggest challenge was desserts. I had bought boxes of cake mixes and brownie mixes, upon which I had planned to celebrate my baby's fourth birthday. With no oven, I had to think fast. Ah, the genius of pasteurized eggs! With the aid of a new hand-mixer (the third purchased for Passover in as many years), I whipped up a gallon of chocolate mousse and chemically created fake whipping cream. I dipped matzah sticks into melted chocolate, and voila: a masterful dessert was created.

Passover was exhausting, but fun. Between the first days and Shabbat which followed on it's heels, and the last days that creeped up on me a few days later, I scarcely had time to breathe. I did have a little time to take the kids and my son's best friend to the Field Museum for a visit to the Pirate exhibit.

This was no Disney fantasy, it was a dark, depressing, and realistic look at historical pirates. And it was surprisingly timely, as well, considering news headlines. After our visit with the pirates and a snack of Passover treats at the museum, we tried to walk around the museum campus and visit some of the interesting art, but who would have predicted forty degree weather in mid-April?

Argh, Matey. Me thinks Chicago is a mite too chilly for me scurvy-laden blood!

After we got through Passover - Passover never simply ends, it is something to accomplish - my mother-in-law came to town for a family wedding. My husband's little cousin got married on Saturday in high style. My husband and I made it for the tail-end of the reception, thanks to Shabbat ending so late, but it was wonderful to see the family.

On Sunday, after piano lessons and soccer games, my husband's aunt, her three children, and a boyfriend came over for a visit. We hadn't seen each other for eight years. They hadn't even met my girls, but the kids took no time warming up to their new family. My son was trash-talking his cousin's boyfriend in no time, challenging him to games of Risk, Blokus, and who knows what else. I took out the camera to take a photo of everyone, and promptly got distracted. Aaargh!

My mother-in-law went home last night, but not without giving the two of us a night off. It was our first date in who knows how long. My husband took me to the newest kosher sushi joint, and a movie. For a few hours, we could forget about the kids, the exams, and all of the stuff I have coming up soon, like the roller skating program I'm teaching in two weeks. Never mind that I haven't been on skates in years. Or the Chicago 2016 Olympics bid week my principal volunteered me to plan and run in a couple of week. Or field day, which is coming up sooner than I can bear.

I am so happy for my husband. He has earned this breather, without a doubt. I just wish I could breathe along with him.

Six weeks

2009-03-29T10:42:00.005-05:00

The agony, I've discovered, is the waiting. We have arrived in the spring of our last semester of law school; and while the light is most certainly at the end of the tunnel, the distances are deceptive. Graduation is a mere six weeks away. It's hard to believe we've come this far. Six weeks is a minuscule unit of time, yet life continues, unimpressed.

For my hubby, six weeks isn't nearly enough time to complete the work he has piled up ahead of him. A final in trial advocacy, which will be a mock trial in front of a real judge and a jury of high school students, is on his docket. A final exam looms ahead, as well. But the worst of it, the most tedious and time consuming of the lot, is a senior research project with his Supreme Court professor. For months now my husband has been pouring over case after case, brief after brief, compiling data, crunching numbers, and trying to limn a cohesive thesis from the data soup he's collected.

For the kids, six weeks is an eternity. Summer break is around the corner, and time has slowed to the pace of chilled molasses. My oldest will be going away to a sleepover camp for the first time. While intellectually I'm convinced it will be a fun growing experience, I'm not sure we've made the right decision for him. Options for orthodox sleepaway camps are slim, and this one seemed the best fit. I hope we're right.

My drama queen is hoping to go to an arts and drama camp this summer sponsored by the Chicago Parks District. I'm not concerned that it isn't the perfect fit for her. I know it is. My creative girl flits through the apartment singing, writing plays and short stories, acting out her 6 year old fantasies, which lately have been of the Harry Potter variety.

I take full responsibility for that. About a month ago, she was home sick with a virus. I gave her a copy of the first book of the series to read. She devoured it in less than two weeks.

As promised, I threw her a Harry Potter party where she got to see the movie for the very first time. She had over her closest friends from school, and they colored Harry Potter pictures, watched the movie, made "potions", and ate pizza puffs and pasta. We decorated the house with streamers and Harry Potter signs on the doors, and my avid reader donned her Hermione costume, and entertained her guests.

It was a rousing success, and a couple of weeks later, she had completed the second book, as well. She's zeroing in on the end of the third book right now. I'm afraid I'm going to have to impose a forced hiatus on the reading of Harry Potter. At six, she's far too young for the dark twists and turns the books take.

The baby will be staying at her day care for the summer, enjoying the summer program they offer. It's all the same to her. Six weeks shmix weeks, time marches inexorably on. To anyone who will listen, she informs them that she will be turning four in April. Aayyeeii, I think, I have a birthday party to plan!

Make that two birthday parties, one for the baby and one for the big sister. And a graduation party soon after. And field day for my school, which follows directly on the heels of the roller skating program I'm introducing there. And somewhere in the next couple of weeks I have to get ready for Passover. It's not a fifty page research project, but I'm feeling the stress. Six weeks is the gauntlet time throws down at my feet, daring me to succeed. I'm withering under the armor of supermomhood.

But we plug away in denial. My husband taps away at his laptop, and I have kids over for playdates and sleepovers, finishing up all of the chametz in the house, doing makeovers and playing gender and age appropriate video games. Pesach? what Pesach?

But the biggest shock time has sent me yet was our tenth wedding anniversary, hemmed in between Purim, writing assignments, and spring cleaning. We kept it low-key this year, bringing in our special babysitter, and going out for an elegant, over-priced kosher French dinner. We smiled at each other over our molten chocolate cakes, amazed that ten years had already passed. There's never been a dull moment, from a steady array of career changes, religious metamorphoses, and a periodic arrival of children. We've lived in three different cities and four different homes in that time. What a long strange trip it's been.

For my gift, my dear husband picked out the loveliest sparkly and dangly earrings to grace my newly pierced ears. Real Michal Negrin's! I got him a far less impressive gift, but I'll hopefully make up for that at his graduation. I've been saving up for something special to mark such an auspicious occasion.

But we still have a ways to go.

Ten years from now, as we're (G-d willing!) celebrating our twentieth anniversary, marvelling that we had come so far, yet again, we will look over this brief episode in our lives, shake our heads, and laugh. Six weeks, shmix weeks.

Creative juices

2009-03-10T12:30:00.007-05:00

There's nothing like the thawing feeling of Spring. I sense the budding of the trees before I actually see them. Even an impending cold snap or dreary rains don't dampen my mood once I recognize that, yes, I will be warm again.

Along with the warming Southern breezes come the cheering days of Purim, the Jewish holiday of costumes and food basket deliveries.

This year we took things a bit easier than usual. In the past I made close to a hundred mini banana breads, or jars of salsa. I just didn't have it in me this year to be creative and industrious. We opted out for the local Yeshiva's fundraiser. We checked off the names of our closest friends, sent in a check, and voila! Delivered Purim baskets, no fuss, no muss.

I have been feeling a bit guilty today as adorable kiddos in their costumes keep knocking softly at my door, presenting me their beautiful, tasty, and clever gift bags. It's not that I didn't try. I made a batch of homemade hamantaschen with real butter cookie dough and real fruit jelly inside. They came out horribly disfigured and ugly. If we had a dog, I would have fed them to him. Unfortunately, they're as delicious as they are hideous. I'm eating the diet-killers myself.

I managed to scrounge up enough decent ones to make some anemic baskets for the kids' teachers. A hamantachen, a clementine, and applesauce. How beneath my standards, I lamented this morning as I compiled them in Ziploc baggies and sent them with the kiddos to school.

I should have put the law school hubby up to the task. Several weeks ago we met with a social worker to discuss our baby's proclivity for creating chaos in her wake. The social worker suggested a behavioral approach, which is psycho-babble for "bribe her into behaving". We gave it a try. We offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of baking with Daddy (thank goodness she didn't want me!) in return for some minor lifestyle changes. You come to the table the first time you're asked and keep your effluvia in the commode, and you and daddy will make cookies!

After some serious negotiations - our three year old drives a hard bargain - we came to an agreement. She comes to the table on time, and dooties in the potty, and in return gets to make cupcakes with daddy. Not ordinary, plain boring cupcakes, but fancy ones. Monkey-faced ones. We have Tia Mirth to thank for that. Last time she visited, she brought us silicone cupcake baking cups with feet and a fancy book on decorating the delights. Nothing less would do for our little princess!

Spring has been ginning up the creative forces throughout the family. For Purim, our little cupcake chef wanted to be a fairy. Granma Thuthin gladly offered to help out, sewing a lovely costume with matching wings. Our pixie was enchanted by and enchanting in her attire. She informed everyone, whether they asked or not, that she was a fairy, NOT a butterfly!

The big kids couldn't make up their minds. My first grader wanted to be a bluebird at first, but a suitable pattern couldn't be found. My son mumbled something about Harry Potter, and stuck his nose back into a book.

But as the winter winds gave way to warming rays, something remarkable happened. My first grader went from See Jane Run to Ramona the Brave and Harry Potter: The Sorcerer's Stone. Seemingly overnight, our child turned into a voracious, capable reader. Her nose didn't come out of the first Harry Potter book for a two week period. When it finally emerged, her eyes had a glint to them, and she declared, "I want to be Hermione Granger for Purim!"

Unfortunately, it was a bit too late in the game. But motherhood is the necessity of invention, and with just two days to go, and no working internet, we hit the costume shops running. Thirty bucks! I hissed into my new Bluetooth at my husband. The costume shop was asking thirty dollars for a cheap, flimsy, nylon Harry Potter robe, and it didn't even include a wand. I reassured my children that we could do better. Truthfully, I wasn't so sure.

With hours left before the megilla reading, I found another costume store that had a lovely, velour-ish Harry Potter robe, for forty dollars. Inwardly, I gasped. Outwardly, I grumbled, and stomped out of the store, indignantly. Things were getting desperate. I ran off to Walmart to see if they had anything. The salesperson looked at me as if I were completely insane when I asked for costumes. "We haven't had those in a few months." She flatly informed me.

I went to the men's department and found the last black XL pocketless t-shirt there, and an adorable boy's shirt and tie in a lovely peach color. It worked for my son's birthday party, I thought. It'll have to do. I rushed to pick up the kids from school, ran home, and began compiling Harry Potter costumes from household supplies: old hat pins, binder clips, scissors, and tape. The results were surprising.

My son's costume was a little easier. My mother-in-law had sent an old graduation robe, hemmed for his height, last year, and she had given him a real tie in the family tartan for Chanukah (yes, that last phrase is a complete contradiction in terms). So, with the purchase of a pair of plastic glasses, the wands from his 8th birthday party, and a make-up scar, we were set!

The Purim services were a lot of fun. The big kids sat with Daddy, and the little fairy sat with me, asking me a million and one questions, and making noise to her heart's content.

And my kids looked great.

The beautiful baskets keep coming, and I feel so embarrassed that I have nothing to give in return. I learned an important lesson this Purim: plan ahead, put in real effort, and the results will be worth the trouble.

Oh, yeah. And get a better Hamantaschen recipe.

Akiva's wife

2009-02-23T15:46:00.008-06:00

There's nothing like a nasty little virus to slow the world down. We had a Shabbat lunch invitation at my son's classmate's house, but Saturday morning, my son woke up with a fever. For the next two days he coughed, sneezed, and was generally miserable. I loaded him up with nana tea and honey, children's Tylenol, and Motrin. This morning, I took him to the doctor. The fever was down and the strep test was negative. There was nothing left to do, but go home, make chicken soup, and force the kid to rest.

As for me, I spent the day cleaning my stovetop and sinks, cooking, and chatting with my sweet boy. The list of "I should haves" and "I could haves" is as long as ever, but the time went by too fast to be productive.

Time, in general, is zooming by. I'm a few months from law school graduation, and a child in the double digits. February is quickly coming to close, quick, even for the shortest month of the year. Spring fashions are hanging tantalizingly on the store racks, and I'm not getting any younger.

On Sunday, I drove to the Western Suburbs with the girls, to drop in on a friend who was there as a scholar-in-residence. I hadn't seen this friend in over twenty years, but I would have recognized him anywhere. He had hardly changed, except for having four children, and a distinguished smattering of gray hairs. Twenty years is just too long.

I have reacquainted myself with hundreds of old friends from twenty years ago and beyond on Facebook. It's a mindboggling and time-sucking invention that has allowed me to revisit the past, see where childhood friends have ended up, and compare our lives. I'm not comparing favorably to my many highly successful peers, but perhaps some wisdom has come with those many years, because I'm okay with it.

No, I'm not a lawyer, a world class musician, an artist, or high tech executive, but I am happy, and in this world, that's a lot. I'm not necessarily content with myself professionally, but that's a different matter entirely.

It's taken me three years of living in Chicago to get to this place of acceptance. I suspect part of it comes from the fact that my husband is in the home stretch, and I don't mind taking some of the credit getting him there. I didn't always make it easy, as in: of course, dear! Go spend the entire week in the library! I'll be fine with the kids, taking care of the apartment, and keeping things in order here! I'll admit I haven't been so malleable. And at times, I'm ashamed to say, I was downright demanding.

I have not been like Rabbi Akiva's wife over these past three years. Then again, I always hated this Jewish story of the great rabbi whose wife sent him away to learn for twelve years while she suffered in poverty raising their children and maintaining their home. Upon his return, he overheard her telling a neighbor that she would be proud if her husband, the great scholar, went away to learn Torah for another twelve years. And so he turned right around and left her on her own for another twelve years.

The story of the Law School Widow goes something like this: three years is enough, and only under the condition that you take out the trash and get the kids out of my hair from time-to-time. An LL.M? Are you nuts?

In three months, if the benevolent lord above be willing, my husband will walk across the stage and accept his diploma. He has worked himself ragged for that piece of parchment. He has put in late nights writing and studying, and researching. He will be at it until the bitter end, and then he will do it some more until he has completed the Bar Exam. Yet, he has juggled his school work with his family life with such caring, sympathy, and sensitivity, that I wonder, why am I so lucky?

Before we embarked on this adventure together, three long years ago, we were often warned that many marriages didn't make it through the grueling demands of law school. We've made it so far, and in some ways, I think this whole experience has made us stronger. It hasn't been easy, and it hasn't always been fun. There have been times when I've been ready to pack up the bags, load the kids in the van, and drive back down to Texas. There have been times when I'm sure my husband wished we would.

It's not over yet. The fat lady hasn't started singing, but we are starting to plan for life post-law school. It's an exhilarating, if not slightly terrifying feeling, especially considering the current economy. And I'm not naive enough to think that graduation is the end of our trials and tribulations. In many ways, the law firm life will be far worse.

But for now, I'm not complaining. After all, it could be a lot worse.

Just ask Rabbi Akiva's wife.

Managing expectations

2009-02-10T10:14:00.012-06:00

Two days ago, I stepped out my front door and, for the first time in three months, breathed warm air into my lungs. February has handed me a pleasant surprise: mild temperatures. Three people so far today have pointed out that it's not going to last very long, but I prefer to take it for what it is, a welcome respite from the misery, difficulty, and pain of a brutal Chicago winter.

This record-breaking warming spell also offers a lesson in managing expectations. For months I have been dreading February. It was awful our first two years here. Why would this particularly wicked and snowy winter be any different?

Good thing I'm not a meteorologist.

I'm discovering that life is all about managing expectations. I went into parenting without a clue, and come to think of it, I still don't seem to have one. The kid who spent all of last year wailing, howling and caterwauling, has become a dream: responsible, mature, helpful, and calm. But like the seasons, past performance is no guarantee of future behaviors. I just hold my breath and wait. My son, on the other hand, was once the sweetest, easiest child on the planet. Since he hit those pre-teen years, he's been a mystery: loving, thoughtful, and caring one moment, grumpy, moody, irrational the next.

He sounds just like me.

The baby is the greatest enigma of them all, but you don't have to take my word for it. Last week, we consulted a professional. "Tell me about your child." She began. What could we say? She's willful, defiant, stubborn, and happy. Yes, very happy, smiling all the time. "You don't usually get those traits together." The professional mused.

We, personally, wouldn't have sought professional help to address our child's behavioral quirks. After all, all three of our children fit that description. But the day care urged us to talk to someone, anyone, please. Apparently, our little angel is a bit more than they can handle. The professional recommended behavioral modification. Her suggestion was to pick out two of the most egregious behaviors to focus on, come up with a really special reward for changing those behaviors, and move on to the next behaviors from there.

That sounded reasonable to us. We decided on our two behaviors, and from there decided on a reward, in consultation with our toddler. "I want to bake cookies!" She proclaimed. And we knew that nothing would make her happier, except maybe eating them. I pulled out a Chanukah Baking Kit that we didn't get around to in December. My little chef mixed the ingredients, rolled out the dough, used the cookie cutters to make the shapes, made the icing, frosted the cookies, painted them, and dug right in.

It was hard to imagine this kid any happier than her normal state of being, but there she was, grinning from ear-to-ear, giddy with glee.

So far so good on the behavioral modification front!

How about behavioral modification for moms?

For years, I've felt like I'm expecting too much from my kids. Every day they come home to a laundry list of responsibilities. They have to practice piano, do homework, put away their toys, take a bath. Some days they have dance classes to boot. And there I am, hovering like a helicopter mom. Have you finished your math? Is your spelling packet done? Piano! Don't forget piano! I'd tune me out, too.

Yet, somehow, my son always seems to rise to the occasion. A few weeks ago he had his first science fair.

His project was "Static Electricity". It wasn't a big surprise to us when his teacher called reminding us of a deadline just days away. Hey, kid, have you started on your project? I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. After minutes of hemming and hawing and intense discomfort on his part, I realized, my son didn't have a clue. I called his partner's parents. They got the same response from their son. My husband emailed the teacher and got the complete low down on the project. Arrangements were made, and the children put together a last minute project.

It wasn't too bad, for a last minute-first try, but my son was quite disappointed with his third place ribbon. Especially since every child received a ribbon, and third was "the worst". He grumbled a bit, but was determined to do better the next year. I couldn't have been prouder. That night, in fact, he was already toying with a project idea for next year.

I'm just happy he has high expectation for himself. He should, he's got the whole world ahead of him, with nothing to stop him but himself. I just hope that if I tell him that often enough, he'll believe me.

Optimism comes hard these days. My husband watches the law blogs like a hawk, watching to see which firms have folded, which have laid off lawyers, and which have rescinded offers for the next year. It's a precarious moment for us all. I listen to the news daily, waiting to hear a good report. I'm not holding my breath. Today, for the first time, we began to consider plan B, just in case. In the meantime, we listen, wait, and pray hard.

Life turns on a dime. A brutal winter mellows into a beautiful spring, a buoyant job market sinks. Hopes and expectations for a bright future ebb and flow with the changing economic tides. Thankfully, we have each other.

We grasped that truth rather poignantly last weekend, when we paid a long overdue visit to my husband's cousins. His cousin is married to a sweet, soft spoken guy, and they have four adorable boys. We expected to walk into a house of chaos and noise. What else would four boys do, but run around, screaming, creating havoc, and making noise? We were pleasantly surprised to find a calm, quiet home filled with sweet, handsome young boys. They are such a blessing to their mother who has suffered with chronic back pain since her oldest was born. She has endured several surgeries already, and is preparing for another soon.

It's been rough on all of them, but you can see so much love in their family. As tough as things may get, they truly have each other for comfort and support.

I don't know what the future holds for us, either. I do know that spring will come, eventually. I know that my daughter will one day channel her stubborn, independent streak in creative, wonderful ways. I know that my son will continue to make things harder for himself, and maybe he'll be better off for it in the long run.

Best of all, I know that no matter what happens, we have each other.

Frozen assets

2009-01-25T20:57:00.008-06:00

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

2009-01-11T19:24:00.010-06:00

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.

Chanukah, Hanuka, Hannukah, Januca

2008-12-29T08:46:00.007-06:00

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

2008-12-11T21:38:00.012-06:00

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!

Elegy for a hamster

2008-11-23T19:46:00.004-06:00

I was just getting used to the little guy. He no longer tried to bite me when I picked him up, and would even come out of his little sleeping pod for a friendly visit. He seemed to enjoy being pet and having his little tummy rubbed.

My husband thought having a pet would be a great idea. It would be a good opportunity for our children to learn responsibility for another creature, and to learn the painful lessons of grieving before, G-d forbid, well, anyway...

We didn't expect it to happen so soon. Before bed, my son went to check on his hamster and spend some quality time with him. He came out, clearly distressed. My husband and I went in to inspect the little guy, and we knew his time had come. He lay in his pod, shivering and unresponsive.

I rushed my husband out the door and sent him to the emergency pet hospital. My son and I paced and worried, and snuggled on the couch together praying for the best. We got the call from the hospital, "Chomp didn't make it. They had to put him down."

My son and I held each other and sobbed. You know, I said, you did a great job taking care of him. You cleaned his cage each week, you made sure he was fed and his water bottle filled. He really loved you. There wasn't anything we could do. He just got sick.

My boy turned his red and puffy eyes up at me and whispered, "I know." We cried and I held him some more and then I sent him to bed.

What's the Shiva period for a hamster? I asked my husband. "Seven minutes." Came the terse reply.

It's been less than a week and we've moved on. The empty, cleaned out cage still serve as a reminder of the extra little presence in our lives. My son seems to be over his heartbreak, but I can't shake the feelings of loss and sadness. Every time it's too hot or too cold in the apartment, I think about our little rodent.

That's it for me: no more pets.

I can't wait for winter break. All of us are getting a bit antsy around here. It's getting harder and harder to get my kids to practice piano these days, and their recital is only three weeks away. It's also getting harder to get homework done. It's not just the kids. I'm also struggling to stay focused. Every time I start to think about my Thanksgiving menu, my brain wanders.

We're not planning a huge Thanksgiving dinner; a few close friends, a few stranded law school students. But, I can't get past turkey, stuffing, and sweet potato pie. When I start to think about soup and salads, my mind goes blank. At least I remembered to start defrosting the bird in the fridge. I'm thinking garlic roasted potatoes, blanched green beans or roasted brussel sprouts. Quinoa or wild rice? I'm imagining a cold cranberry relish or maybe a hot cranberry sauce served in a small baked pumpkin, or squash. I'm planning apple pie, maybe pecan? Pumpkin soup? Maybe that, too. Would a chocolate cake be overkill?

Either way, the cooking begins tomorrow!

Lost in the menu planning is the reminder to be thankful, so here goes: I'm thankful for my wonderful family who love me, support me, and at the worst of times, put up with me. I'm thankful for my friends who always make me feel like I'm not the only one who (fill in the blank), and that whatever it is, is perfectly normal. I'm thankful for the people in my life who make me laugh, and let me cry.

And I'm thankful for the furry rodent who shared his short life with us.

Rest in peace, little Chomp.

Family and fur

2008-11-16T20:21:00.005-06:00

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?

Getting out and getting on

2008-11-01T21:30:00.005-05:00

November snuck up on me like a toddler on the war path, grabbing me behind the knees and knocking me flat.

Where on Earth has the time gone?

Time has flown since we bid another Jewish holiday season a fond adieu. I slipped away one Sunday afternoon, leaving my husband with soccer chauffeur duty, and hopped on a bus downtown to attend my cousin's wedding. The bus ride was fascinating. We meandered through mostly unfamiliar territory, much of it charming and trendy. My heart skipped a beat as I passed a bar festooned with my beloved alma mater The University of Texas Longhorns banners, and a longhorn flag displayed proudly outside. A sign proclaimed this establishment as the official home of the "Texas Exes". I filed the information away in my mental database for future reference.

I passed a Trader Joe's, home of the best parve chocolate chips ever.

I passed many stores and pubs that sparked my imagination, and brought me in to a nostalgic reverie. Aaah, to be young, single, and carefree again! It was an odd thought to have on the way to a wedding.

This was the second wedding in several months connected to my dear Tio Julio, of blessed memory. The first was over the summer when I celebrated the wedding of my adorable little cousin to an even more adorable young woman who is crushing me in Facebook Scrabble at this very moment. It was a wedding that dispelled the pain of loss with it's beauty and joy. Julio passed away over ten years ago and didn't get to see his baby under the chuppah.

Nor did he get to see his second wife's son marry. The first wedding was fraught with emotional intricacies, a by-product of a bitter divorce. This one carried cultural complications. It was an interfaith affair, a blending of several families and cultures. The venue was industrial and chic, with exposed brick, steel, and cement. It was small and cozy and suited the mood. The wedding was lovely, but bittersweet. I was reunited with a family that had taken me in for holidays a decade ago when I was in Boston. It was hard to see the patriarch of the family, once a brilliant man, stricken down by Parkinson's disease, and the son, succumbing to an incurable cancer, surrounded and celebrating with his beautiful family. I left the wedding filled with joy and sadness. I drifted home on the bus gazing past bars and shops feeling the passage of time more acutely than ever.

I made a new friend over the past few weeks. We had met before and had a few tenuous connections through mutual friends, but we finally followed through on our promises to get together. My new friend is as right brained as it gets. She is a musician, a piano teacher, a writer and an artist. I marvel at her wealth of talent, in contrast to the dearth of my own. Our lives are so different. She is a divorcee with no children, living alone in a beautiful home, getting along in life despite a debilitating disease. She travels in the beautiful intersections of life where music, art and language meld together. I live in a small clutter of toys, books, and crayon drawings. My music is the sing-songy minuets of giggling children, the dramatic rhapsodies of full-on melt downs, and the fugues of bickering and arguments.

Yet, we have found much common ground, sharing an obsession with politics and a mutual therapeutic need to get out of the house. Last weekend she treated me to a Chicago Symphony Orchestra concert, the Inca Trail. I was mesmerized, not by the "multi-media" screen that hung over the stage flashing photographs, art, and colorful images (it looked like a fancy screensaver to me), but by the percussion section scurrying around, playing a wide array of instruments in the background. The hall was packed with very hip, young, Latin Americans, and my ears delighted as much to the diverse genres of music, as to the Spanish language all around.

Tomorrow I'm taking my mother-in-law and the big kids to a fundraising concert for their school. Members of the CSO will be performing, and they will have a musical instrument "petting zoo" for the kids during the intermission. I am pleased to be exposing my children to classical music. My husband is pleased to have us out of his hair.

My husband will spend the day working on yet another paper. It is said that the third year of law school is the easiest, but I haven't seen any evidence of this assertion yet. All I know is that November has sneaked up on us all. The temperatures keep lifting half-heartedly, and dropping with a thud, then rising a bit more before I dig out warmer coats again. Deadlines appear for my husband like a cop parked out over a hill, sending adrenalin and stress hormones coursing through his body. It's all a blur to me. Holidays blending into simchas blending into nights out with a friend, and a day out with the kids. Soccer season begins in the hot sun, and ends in a windy chill. And I just get older and fatter.

Time keeps marching on and gravity pulls me along with it.

Hard life

2008-10-16T21:53:00.003-05:00

This past month reminds me of an old joke:

An orthodox Jew trains to become an astronaut and after many years of waiting and praying, is finally selected for a mission to orbit the Earth. The mission is a success and the astronauts are welcomed as heroes. The rest of the crew comes off the shuttle beaming, but the Jew is the last to come off, and he looks like hell. He is dishevelled and gaunt, with bags under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"What happened to you?" His wife asks, "What was it like orbiting the Earth?"

He looks at her with weary eyes. "Shacharit, Mincha, Maariv! Shacharit, Mincha, Maariv!"*

These past few weeks have felt similar: Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Shabbat, Yom Kippur, Shabbat, Sukkot, Shabbat, Shmini Atzeret, Shabbat!

If you don't know what that means, try to imagine that each of those foreign words represents an average of cooking and eating three Thanksgiving meals. You'll get the idea.

The five pound weight gain between Thanksgiving and Christmas? I wouldn't be surprised if we put on fifteen.

There's a Yiddish saying: Shvertz azayan Yid, it's hard to be a Jew.

But it's great, too. We have been so fortunate to spend each meal with the wonderful friends we've made here. They have welcomed us into their homes and their huts with warmth, kindness, and enormous meals.

This year has been particularly interesting due to its proximity to the general elections. Tentatively, the subject is broached: "Do you follow politics?", "Did you watch the debate?", "Can I ask you? Who are you going to vote for?"

It's a charged topic. Emotions run high. I answer even more cautiously, hoping to avoid an awkward moment. Invariably, my liberal leaning friends are timid and shy about bringing up politics, while my conservative leaning friends tend to put it out there as a challenge. I enjoy it either way.

I'm a political junkie. I watch the debates, I listen to the news, I read the magazines, I troll the blogs, I've even read the policy papers. I've compared health care reform, contrasted tax policies, scrutinized foreign policy, judged character and temperament. And I have come to a conclusion: democracy is hard.

Picking a presidential candidate is a piece of cake. All the information you can ever hope to glean is out there for the picking with the entire spectrum of analysis to color your views. I don't understand people who say they haven't decided because they haven't heard enough about each candidate. Would their shoe size make it any clearer?

But how do you vote for Water Reclamation District Commissioner or Recorder of the Deeds when you don't even know what they are? The latter sounds like a jester in a Medieval lord's manor! For several hours this evening I poured over the internet researching the positions and the candidates. I even checked on the Chicago Bar Association website to find their recommendations for Circuit Court judge retentions. I have to admit, I am making one selection based on the candidate's goofy grin in his homemade website. He'll make a fine court jester.

Now I'm ready, my choices in hand, to perform my civic duty. Democracy, like Jewish holidays, takes a lot of work to get right, but it's so satisfying when you do get out there and vote.

But if you think being a Jew or a member of a democratic society is hard, try owning a hamster.

Day two of hamster stewardship, and I say to my hubby: We (I use the royal "we" loosely, to connote "you") need to pick up the little guy more, he needs some affection. My husband, whose idea it was to get the rodent in the first place, says. "Go ahead and take him out for a bit!"

So I do.

I hadn't cleared ten paces when the thing leaps from my arms, flings himself to the ground, and dashes under the oven. I panic and call to my husband to help me retrieve the overglorified rat. There we are, two grownups, sprawled on the kitchen floor; one with a flashlight, the other a broom, trying to draw a pea-brained hamster out from his hiding place. But in a moment, he completely disappears. My heart stops.

My husband coolly pulls the oven out from the wall, and unplugs it. We look around and notice a large gap between the kitchen cupboards and the wall. Using a mirror and the flashlight, we try to find a black-furred creature behind a long cupboard in a dark kitchen. At this moment I begin sobbing hysterically at the thought of telling my son I have lost his first pet on its second day here. For an hour we try to lure him out with treats, but to no avail. I go to bed, crying myself to sleep with guilt and self-recrimination.

The next morning I awoke with a heavy heart, dreading what I'd have to tell my dear son. As I passed through the kitchen to his room, I saw the oven still pulled out with the hamster's cage behind it, opened with a little treat in the middle. I saw a pile of books, like a ziggurat, leading to a bucket with a towel tucked in the bottom and peanut butter crackers on top. I saw flour sprinkled on the floor of every entrance to help detect little hamster prints, should he try to escape. My husband had been busy all night researching hamster rescue on the internet, and setting little traps to recover the rodent.

But there was still no sign of the missing pet. I solemnly went in to wake up my boy.

My son bolted upright when I told him his beloved Chompy had escaped. We cried together as he came out of his room to inspect the mess his father had made. He gingerly stepped behind the oven to see, and asked me, "Is that where he went?"

At that very moment, old Chomp poked his head out from behind the cupboards, and dashed out. I scooped him up, quick as lightening, and in no time we had him safely back in his cage. Crisis averted.

Hamsters may be hard, but one thing is really easy - spending time with my kiddos on a warm autumn day. On Sunday, after soccer games and piano practices, we headed out for an adventure to the sculpture gardens to explore the new sculptures and enjoy the fall foliage.

We weren't disappointed. The children marvelled at the glowing crimson

and saffron leaves.

It was the perfect day: warm, sunny, and vivid.

We strolled, imagined fairies and elves hiding behind the bushes, and saw real bunnies hopping along the path.

With kiddos as great as mine (ptui, ptui, ptui, hamza, hamza, bli ayin hara'ah, masha'allah!), making an ordinary day magic, is easy as pie.

*Shacharit: morning prayer services; Mincha: afternoon prayer services; Ma'ariv: evening prayer services.

Life's surprises

2008-10-05T21:17:00.008-05:00

It happened suddenly, without any warning. I stepped outside and shivered. Fall arrived with a dull thud, like a newspaper thrown to the stoop. No gradual cooling, gently turning leaves, or warm days followed by nippy nights. One day it was warm, the next day it wasn't.

Life seems to happen like that as well. Day after day, my husband and I are in a rut, working, cleaning, cooking, chasing kids into bed. Then without warning, the babysitter arrives, and I'm being swept out the door to pick up Chinese food to go, and to race downtown to catch the last architectural boat tour of the evening.

These are the surprises I don't mind. The city is so beautiful at dusk. The buildings majestically rise up from the banks for the river.

Some stand rigid and no-nonsense, some prance and flout their curlicues and embellishments. Others stand unpretentious, aware of their uncommon beauty, but not boastful.

My favorite are the unabashedly gaudy and fantastical.

Some buildings rise to dizzying heights,

others are dazzlingly down-to-Earth. Most plant themselves somewhere in between trying hard not to be too obtrusive, but clearly appreciating the admiring glances from passersby.

And even as bundled up as I am, I have to grudgingly admit, this is a beautiful city. Sometimes I surprise myself.

Many more wonderful surprises were in store for us this week. In one day we joyously welcomed two new cousins into our family. My big cousin and his wife in New York announced the birth of their second little girl, and my little cousin and his wife welcomed their first son in Florida. Our hearts are full to bursting with the happy news of eagerly awaited, and enthusiastically loved and adored new babies. We can't wait to meet them in person.

Almost nothing tops the pleasant surprises of a friend visiting from far away. Months ago, I got a call from a neighbor from Kibbutz Shalom letting me know she'd be in town with her son for a weekend. Could she stay with us for Shabbat, she wondered. Aaaah, I thought, San Antonio sunshine in October. What could be better?

Smack-dab between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur falls Shabbat Tshuvah, the sabbath of repentance. It's the cornerstone of the ten days of repentance before the day of atonement. On this weekend my friend came to help me shed the spiritual trials of my past year, and usher in a clean slate of forgiveness and piety. I cleaned and cooked, and invited along a new friend replete with musical, literary, and artistic talents. It was a symbolic meeting of past and future.

In an all too symbolic moment, nothing was ready. I was still mopping the kitchen floor and dicing up veggies for salads when my guests arrived. I finished up as quickly as I could, refusing as many kind offers of help as I was able, and rushed into my room to change into something a bit less hausfrau-ish.

Dinner was a colloquial affair. The kids bubbled over with curiosity and personality, and friends, new and old chatted about music, art, and politics with fiery passion and warm respect. It was a lovely evening. And as I walked my friend home, I smiled knowing the year was off to a good start.

Or, so I thought.

Life is full of surprises. Some are wonderful, like a magical boat ride on the Chicago river, or a new friend. Some are not so welcome, like the sudden arrival of cold weather. Or the kind of surprises only a child can pounce on you.

I went to sleep Friday night, tired from staying up late catching up with my San Antonio Sistah, but happy. At 6:30 am I was awoken from my deep sleep by shrieking girls. It was impossible to tell if they were happy or agonized shrieks. But they were certainly loud enough to wake up the sleeping guest in the living room, not to mention the landlord downstairs. I hauled my exhausted body out of bed and confronted the inappropriately gleeful children. It's too early to make so much noise. I informed them sternly. This worked to settle them down for all of half an hour. For the next two hours, my husband and I took turns shushing the alternately silly and sobbing sisters who were exhaustingly giddy and out of control when the rest of the world was trying to sleep in.

I finally dragged myself out of bed once-and-for-all, and got the girls ready for synagogue. I sent my husband off to shul and proceeded to get myself dressed. My guest had somehow managed to fall back asleep. Moments later, a small knock at the door caught my attention. "Mommy, the baby got to the scissors. She's cutting her hair." Ayyyiieee! The adrenaline that had finally subsided, rushed back into my brain. My temples throbbed as I threw on a robe and set foot out the door.

My baby looked back at me innocently. I could see some hair missing, but it didn't look too terrible. I didn't see any hair lying around her. "She threw it away." Informed the older sister, with no small satisfaction. The blood drained from my face as I retrieved a large bundle of golden brown curls from the garbage can. My sleeping friend heard the panic in my voice and got up to see me clutching the curls in my hands. The horrified look on my face said it all.

"At least she didn't cut herself." My friend offered weakly. Hmmm. Was all I could muster. The rest of the morning was spent reading the bewildered child the riot act, and dragging her to synagogue with steam pouring out of my ears.

Hours later, I could almost laugh about it. Barely.

That evening I wished my friend and her adorable son goodbye. We laughed about the unpredictable nature of children, and the timing of my daughter's Vidal Sassoon moment during the ten days of repentance (back to square one for me!). And then she left me to my Chicago life.

The next morning was a whirlwind of activity. After piano lessons I dragged the baby to the hair salon. The hairdresser chuckled as she snipped away at the bewildered toddlers curls. "Next time, "she told her in a thick accent, "Tell your Mama when you want your haircut. Don't do it yourself, sweetheart. Nancy will cut it for you!" My baby nodded solemnly, and smiled at her new style.

It wasn't perfect, but the jagged lines were pretty well camouflaged. And I had to admit it. She looked really cute with her short 'do.

The baby and I rushed home from the salon to pick up the rest of the family for the rainy Sunday afternoon soccer games that naturally overlapped. We got home that afternoon cold, wet, and tired. I was ready to draw the kids their baths, and prepare their supper, but my husband had one more surprise in store for me.

"We promised our son a pet for his birthday. I'm going to run him over to the pet store to look at some animals and get an idea of what he likes."

Hours later we welcomed a small, black furry hamster into our home. My son called him "Chomp" since he nibbled his way through the box he came in.

My husband spent the waning days of the afternoon putting together Chomp's cage while the girls giggled gleefully at their new playmate.

One part of me is ready to get back to my rut. It was safe, quiet and predictable there. But John Lennon put it best: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

I wish you all a happy, healthy, sweet new year. May you be inscribed in the book of life, and may all of life's surprises be the kind that make you smile.

Even if it takes a while.

Home again, part 2

2008-09-14T15:47:00.017-05:00

I know, I know, I know. I have gone MIA. Three weeks without a peep. Every minute at the computer, drifting around on Facebook or indulging my election obsession on the New Republic online, I have felt a tinge of guilt. I should be catching up on my blog. But in a matter of weeks my life has changed. I'm not missing in action, I'm drowning in it.

Not long ago, you could find me, eyes glazed over in front of my computer in the wee hours of the night, my fingers struggling to keep up with my creative bursts. These days you will find me snoozing away by 9:30 pm. The kids are at a new school an hour bus ride away. Bedtimes are earlier to accommodate our earlier commute times. At 7:10 am we are out the door, at 8:00 am I have discharged all of my charges and I'm off running errands or preparing for my newly expanded work hours. After teaching it's running kids to soccer practice, dance classes, piano lessons, or homework. Since we got back from San Antonio, we have been a chaotic flurry of activity.

I'm beat.

It feels like our trip to San Antonio was a million years ago. And a glorious trip it was, too. We left Monday night and drove as far as we could to a humorously named town in Southern Illinois: Effingham. We awoke early the next morning and pushed ourselves through Missouri, Arkansas, and into Texas. We stopped late that night about 40 miles out of Dallas to rest at another motel. The next day we took it slowly, stopping in Austin for some kosher Indian food. The irony is that in Chicago we live a mere two or three blocks from the largest Indian neighborhood in North America, yet, there's not a single kosher Indian restaurant there. We have to travel to Texas to get our aloo paratha fixes. We stopped in San Marcos to hit the outlet stores and get our kids shod for the new school year.

The kids were amazing on the trip. We didn't have a DVD player, just some art boxes my Skokie Sistah lent me. They stared out the window, chatted, sang, and played. I never heard a single, "I'm bored." Ptui, ptui, ptui, hamza, hamza.

We made it into San Antonio in the late afternoon, and stopped first at our old neighborhood, lovingly referred to as Kibbutz Shalom, to drop off kosher candies to friends and people kind enough to host us for a meal or two. Our quick stop quickly evolved into a block party, as neighbors streamed out of their homes to greet us. It was so good to be home.

Soon after, we made it to my parents house where the warm greetings and hugs and kisses continued.

It was a magical visit. We spent a lot of time at my parent's house just hanging out and eating, but we got out one day to take the kids to the zoo.

Rain prevented us from paying the animals a visit, but we did get to ride on the train.

I also paid a visit to my old workplace, UTSA (I developed that website), and my dear friends and colleagues. We took the kids to the JCC pool, and to Malibu Grand Prix. Both were completely empty, since school had already begun. Speaking of school, the principal of our kids old school in San Antonio, and a dear friend of ours, kindly offered to let the kids spend a day at the school with their old friends. I don't think any kid looked forward to going to school quite as much as mine did that day.

There aren't enough superlatives in the world to capture the beauty and warmth of our first Shabbat back home. We stayed with a young couple who were originally from San Antonio, but were living in New York before we moved to Chicago. They were now living in the house next door to our old home. They were gracious hosts, especially considering how little time we spent with them.

We ate dinner that night with our very best friends, and just like the old times, played our favorite card game until it was time to stagger home, way past midnight. Normally I wouldn't have dreamt of keeping our kids up that late, but this wasn't a normal evening. My son and his best buddy played all night, as if they hadn't been apart for a day.

My daughters followed the older daughter, the Bat Mitzvah, around all night, clinging to her like little starstruck groupies, and she, in turn, was so sweet and patient with them. Meanwhile, the old fogies played cards, chatted, and caught up on the past few months.

We missed them so much it ached.

The next day we went to shul, or at least tried to. I dropped the kids off at their old classrooms, and then proceeded to inch towards the sanctuary. Every two steps I was stopped by an old friend for a hug, a greeting, and a chat. It took me forty-five minutes to get to my seat. And as I moved down the aisles of the women's section, I stopped to hug, and whisper hellos. Towards the end of services, the children were brought in to the sanctuary, as is the custom at our old home. The boys clambered up to the pulpit to sing the closing prayers, the girls filed into their seats. My baby made a bee-line up to the pulpit to be with her big brother who was singing the concluding prayers loud and clear, surrounded by his old friends. I fought back tears. The services concluded with the rabbi blessing all of the children, and the tears flowed.

That afternoon we enjoyed a delicious lunch with our hosts, and were lucky to celebrate their mother's birthday with their whole family. That evening we had seudat shlishit, the third meal, with our old neighbors, and caught up on their past year.

In between, we shamelessly managed to sneak in another game of cards.

By the time Shabbat was over, we were stuffed, happy, and tired. No trip to Hawaii or the Caribbean could be more relaxing or fulfilling. No haute cuisine could be prepared with more love. We were back in our little Gan Eden, Garden of Eden.

On Sunday, my son was invited to a school friend's birthday party, and for the first time on our trip, I missed being in Chicago. At the end of the birthday party, hot dogs and cake were served. The birthday boy's mom served kosher hot dogs, but prepared in a non-kosher kitchen, with most likely non-kosher buns. It was heartbreaking telling my son not to eat them when he was clearly so hungry, not to mention how uncomfortable it felt, but at least he got to eat cake. I had forgotten about those awkward moments.

A day or two later, the real vacation began for my husband and me. We left the kids with my parents, my abuela, and Tia Mirth and headed to the San Antonio riverwalk for a romantic getaway. We booked a room at a fancy hotel, the Emily Morgan,

across the street from the Alamo.

We could see its rooftops from the gargoyle-protected windows.

In the seven or so years we lived in San Antonio, I had never taken my husband to the Alamo - or any other touristy site in the city. That was all about to change.

Neither of us could remember the last time we had been away from the children for more than an overnight escape. This was a treat we were going to make the most of. We visited the Alamo,

rode a downtown horse-drawn carriage where we learned our hotel was haunted (and I was born in the same hospital as Carol Burnett and Oliver North),
and then we went to the famous Landing to hear the Jim Cullum band play live. We walked the river from one end to the other.

And the next day, we did it all over again, visiting El Mercado, the Mexican market place where we admired Mexican dresses, art, and colorful tchotchkes.

We walked around the historic King William District,

gazing longingly at elegant old mansions.

We tried to visit the Blue Star Art Space, but the artists were sleeping in that day. We walked around La Villita, the old artist colony, and ended up back at our starting spot: the riverwalk.

Each day we enjoyed breakfast, lunch, and dinner at San Antonio's newest kosher restaurant, a long walking distance from our hotel.

We tried everything on the menu, and I loaded up on a real Texas ice tea. Fortunately, I grew up in this area. I knew where to find the restrooms.

That evening we visited my husband's favorite part of the trip:

The Buckhorn Hall of Horns, or as my husband put it, the most un-PC museum in America

with its walls and walls of animal carcasses, including many endangered species, and horns, antlers, and tusks galore.

My husband's favorite part was the historical dioramas, especially the Indian scalping the cowboy. We took a short break from the Texas heat (not that I would ever complain) to see a movie, and then I took my husband to San Antonio's raunchiest tourist attraction: Durty Nelly's. How on Earth had we missed that?!

We crammed as much as we could in a few days, but left enough to give us something to look forward to next time, like the Tower of the Americas and Hemisphere Plaza.

The next morning we enjoyed our last breakfast at Greens, and wished the waitstaff a fond farewell till next year, and then we went to the MacNay Art Museum.

The museum, housed in a stunning Spanish Hacienda had recently had a new wing added on. I hadn't been there since my wedding portraits were taken. It was as beautiful as I had remembered, if not more so.

Finally back at my parent's house, we gave our girls their matching Mexican dresses,

and our son his Mexican soccer jersey (Viva Morelia?), and celebrated my parent's 49th wedding anniversary, and my son's 9th birthday

with a kosher artisanal bread tasting,

and cake.

Finally, it was time for the Bat Mitzvah. When we first met our friends, the Bat Mitzvah was only two and a half years old. We had been invited to spend Shabbat with them, and when we arrived at the house, we found her naked as a jaybird, at the top of the stairs. Her first words to us were: "I just made peepee in the potty!" And today she is a beautiful, poised, talented and smart young woman. And she rocked her Bat Mitzvah, from the intelligent and funny mini-sermons during the torah reading, to the touching and loving thank you speech, to the exquisitely chanted haftarah at the end.

The weekend was filled with great meals and a dramatic entrance to the synagogue's brand new social hall. The party was a nostalgic throwback to the good old fashioned Bat Mitzvah parties with fun music, dancing, and a warm, relaxed atmosphere that even the old fogies could enjoy. But no one anywhere in the vicinity enjoyed it quite as much as my two daughters who could not be pried off either the dance floor or the Bat Mitzvah herself. My daughters macarena'd and hokey pokeyed the night away. They shook, rattled, and rolled, and if my middle daughter had her way, her Bat Mitzvah would be exactly the same. Exactly.

The next day we stopped by at the brunch, intending to stay a short while and leave, but parting was such sweet sorrow, and the blintzes were just sweet. We fortified ourselves with fruit, omelets, bagels, cream cheese and lox, pastries and blintzes, and our friends packed us up some more for the road. We rolled out of their house an hour or so later, sustained until at least Texarkana, and headed back to Chicago.

I wish I could say the journey back was as easy as the journey there. It wasn't. I cried all the way to San Marcos, and by Missouri, we were ready to find a motel and get some sleep, but the evacuees fleeing hurricane Gustav had already booked every roadside motel up and down interstate 55. We drove on bleary-eyed to Illinois, and once again found a place in the Southern part of Illinois, not far from effing Effingham, to stop for the night.

And the next morning we were all moving at full speed. School had begun for us all, as did soccer practices, piano lessons, and dance classes. And it's a good thing, too, because if I hadn't had to hit the road running, if I had had a moment to think about it at all, I would never have been able to leave San Antonio in the first place.

You see? You can always go home again. It's the leaving that's hard.

Home again, part 1

2008-08-22T09:42:00.011-05:00

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

2008-08-10T23:12:00.007-05:00

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

2008-08-03T22:08:00.005-05:00

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.

Lazy days

2008-07-20T22:05:00.006-05:00

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

2008-07-08T14:30:00.005-05:00

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

2008-07-06T19:13:00.013-05:00

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.

Almost perfect

2008-06-26T22:35:00.010-05:00

Summer has finally arrived, and I mean really arrived. We're not talking "technically, but we still have stuff to finish up". We're in full-blown summer mode. The kids are in camp, I'm done with my job until September, life is almost perfect.

The school year ended with a series of bangs - like Fourth of July with the noise and the oohs and aahs, but smaller crowds.

My husband breezed through final exams with confidence, and I cruised through Shavuot and Field Day with grace and ease (cough, cough, sputter).

Our children, however, made us look like a couple of amateurs. They lit up their respective stages in their end-of-year programs like a pair of seasoned pros. My eldest nailed his piano recital. He tickled those ivories like a proverbial Prokofiev, a regular Rachmaninoff, a charming Chopin. He looked good and sounded phenomenal. He played two challenging solos and a beautiful, romantic duet with his school friend and carpool buddy.

His piano teacher was grinning proudly when all was said and done. And the oreos on our young friend's teeth couldn't dim her smile.

After the concert, we took a leisurely stroll through the Lincoln Park Zoo looking for Polar Bears. We never found them, but we did find three adorable cuddle-bears instead.

My big girl also finished the year with a show stopping performance at her ballet recital. Once again, I volunteered to be the backstage mom, and enjoyed unparalleled access to the stars of the stage:

my daughter and her adorable classmates who mugged,

smiled,
vogued, and hammed it up for the camera.

You should have seen what they did on stage.

Four cuter, sweeter, brighter, and more vivacious little dancers couldn't be found.

But here's the kicker: my diva wants to quit. For most of the year she's been telling me she's had enough and hates dancing, and wants to put it all behind her.

She can't possibly mean it, can she?

After the performance, we decided to go on a mini-adventure walking to a playground by the lake, a good two or three miles a way. The kids were up for some excitement, so we pulled out the stroller, smeared on the sunscreen, and donned the hats for sun protection.

We needn't have bothered.

About a mile into our walk it began to drizzle, but we were buoyed by the excitement of the dance behind us and the journey ahead. We ducked into a doorway, and waited for the rain to pass.

Five or six blocks from the lake we were caught in something more menacing: a nasty hail storm. We pressed ourselves into another doorway, but it provided little protection from the ice pellets pelting us. I sheltered my children the best I could and we waited for an eternity for the storm to pass.

A kind stranger saw us huddled in the doorway of the church across the street and came to our rescue with an umbrella. We took a potty break in her home, and headed home tired, battered and disappointed.

I felt horrible exposing my children to such frightening elements, but I'll be darned; for all of the complaining I heard on our walk home, they lit up with excitement describing the frightening scene in vivid detail to their daddy. To hear them tell it, it was the coolest thing they had ever experienced. They had survived a veritable monsoon-blizzard-hurricane rolled into one, on wits and bravery alone.

We survived it, all right. We survived a tough school year, a couple of rigorous performances, and much more. And finally, summer has arrived.

Sunshine, warmth, low expectations, and fun are the only things on our minds these days. We're squeezing every bit of enjoyment out of each day, going for walks, going to the mall, visiting playgrounds.

And me? Well, I'm on summer break, too. Everyday I drop the kiddos off at camp and then I grab my Skokie Sistah to walk off the winter insulation and the spring stress. We embrace the freedom that only happens on those warm, sunny days when the kids are in camp, school's out, and life is almost perfect.

Picture perfect

2008-06-18T22:17:00.003-05:00

I am through with overambitious projects.

I made it through cooking a Shavuot dinner for fifty that was okay, but not great. The Tex-Mex theme was wonderful in theory, but not spectacular in practice. Nobody said anything negative to me, but neither would they. I just had the feeling that it was too different, exotic, or even weird for this particular crowd. I walked home that night in the pouring rain, exhausted, disappointed, and relieved it was over. The best thing, however, was that I got the itch to cook for dozens out of my system. It will be a long, long time before I take on that kind of challenge again.

But don't hold me to it.

On the other hand, my other overambitious endeavor was a spectacular success. Yesterday was field day at my elementary school. I planned a three-hour extravaganza of activities for my 400 girls, and most everyone went home happy. For once I could go home, not with a tepid sense of relief, but with a smile of satisfaction.

Field day is an American elementary school tradition. A few hours, half a day, or a full day are dedicated to fun and games. Field day is almost always planned by the physical education teacher, and is indubitably the bane of all teachers who are forced to trudge around in the hot sun keeping their kids from going completely bonkers. That's half the fun for us P.E. teachers.

My field day was a half-day affair consisting of 17 different events ranging from the traditional tug-of-war, sack races, three-legged races, egg and spoon relays, and bean tosses to some more unusual events like a chopstick and bean race, a relay race in matronly outfits, and a race to remove marbles with one's toes from a baby pool full of water. There were some cooperative games like a race to build a tower of painted cardboard boxes and a relay race where girls paired up to hold a tennis ball between two racquets while running around a cone.

We had scooter board races, hula hoops contests, jumping rope contests, beach ball volleyball, and a race to pop balloons by sitting on them. In addition, my principal brought a couple of moon bounces to give the girls an opportunity to literally bounce off the walls.

We finished off with frozen treats and a good old-fashioned water balloon toss for the seventh grade girls who set up and ran the event. Everyone went home wet, exhausted, and smiling. I couldn't ask for more. Even the weather was cooperative with a perfect, sunny 75 degrees smiling down on us all.

Yay me!

It helped, immeasurably, that expectations were really low. My girls had never had a field day, and had no idea what to expect. My principal was nervous enough to request I not ask parents to help, lest they witness pure chaos.

It felt so good to finish my first year on a high note. The girls cheered for me and sang my praises, and little third graders timidly asked, "are you coming back next year?" and smiled broadly when I said yes.

Now all that's left is to wrap up the semester. I get to clean up my equipment, order my new supplies for next year, and maybe sit through a meeting or two.

But then it's summer! I haven't looked so forward to summer break since I was a college kid anticipating a wild road trip. My kids will all be in camp, my husband will be working, and I will be relaxing, exercising, writing, sleeping, shopping, dreaming, swimming, reading, sunbathing, and absolutely, completely, and utterly refusing to stress out about ANYTHING.

My son enjoyed a tremendous taste of his own success this past week when he performed in his second piano recital. He looked so handsome in his blue button down shirt and khaki pants, and he played beautifully. We were all beaming at the end of the day, but none greater than my son.

I took the day off today to spend a little time with my kids before they start camp. We picked up a dear young friend from San Antonio who is one of our beloved babysitters and not-frequent-enough guests at our Shabbat table and dragged her along on what we billed as a "family adventure". We started off at the kid's favorite restaurant, and then headed straight downtown to the law school parking lot. We walked the Michigan Mile to Millennium Park, stopping to touch a stone from the Alamo cemented into the Tribune Tower as an homage to our home. Our adventure continued at the Target Family Pavilion at Millennium Park where my daughters made art projects, including works inspired by Alexander Calder. We then went to the play area where I was challenged to a hula hoop contest by a seven year old boy. I won.

Meanwhile, my son skulked in the corner, not wanting to waste his time at this "baby place". He didn't lose the frown when we took our friend to see the bean for her first time. The girls, however, where thrilled to give her the tour.

My son finally pulled out of his blue funk at the Crown Fountain. It's hard to stay miserable when you have the perfect troika of sun, water, and art. My children were soaked from splashing around the water, but we didn't care. The sun would dry out their attire in no time. Our friend got a kick out of the spitting faces of the fountains and the smiling faces of my kids who kept running back to her to show her how wet they were, before dashing back into the fray.

From there we debated whether to walk or take a trolley to Navy Pier. We ended up walking past Buckingham Fountain, along a couple of yacht clubs, over the Wacker bridge, to the river walk by Navy Pier. I tried desperately not to be a nervous wreck watching my toddler running on her chubby little legs precariously close to the waterfront. I occasionally called out, I don't want to jump in after you! But I needn't have been such a worry wart. She was surrounded by loved ones watching her like a hawk, including her big brother. We arrived at Navy Pier safely, and I treated the kids to some ice cream and myself to a coffee before heading off to our next adventure.

At this point we split up. The girls and I went up on the giant ferris wheel, while my son and our friend played miniature golf down below. The girls enjoyed the gentle, slow ride up into the cloudless blue sky to see the city spread out below us. My son loved playing putt-putt with his babysitter. Everyone had a huge smile on his or her face.

We topped off the adventure with a water taxi ride back to Michigan Avenue and our car. We dropped off our young friend, headed home, ate a quick and easy supper, and the kids went to bed without too much of a fight.

Our friend seemed to marvel at our scoffing at plans, schedules, or maps. We winged it from the moment we picked her up. It was a bit more spontaneity than she was used to, but for us it was a typical family adventure. How adventurous is a mapped out, minute-by-minute schedule? It was exhilarating and draining, but we survived it. More than that, we thoroughly, completely, and entirely enjoyed a wonderful day together.

If only I had remembered the camera...

Veggie wars

2008-06-07T23:19:00.008-05:00

The temperatures finally climbed into the 80s and 90s. As I breathed a sigh of relief, the Chicago natives around me, and my husband along with them, began to whine about the heat and mugginess. We completely skipped spring, and went directly from the most miserable, bitter winter on record to Houston-like humidity.

But I'm not complaining.

If I were to complain, it would be about not having enough time to enjoy actual sunlight and balminess. The end of the school year isn't winding down to a gentle finish but careening out of control at breakneck speed. It's unbelievably stressful, and the thirty-year nail biting habit I broke almost a decade ago has returned as I try to juggle social obligations, work obligations, and self-imposed obligations in a short span of time.

But I'm not complaining.

I'm actually enjoying the insanity for once. Part of it is the nature of the commitments. Twice this week I was wined and dined at my husband's law firm's expense. First came the Adviser's Dinner for all of the summer associates and their advisers. Neither of my husband's advisers could make it but we went anyway. The event was a catered affair at the River East Art Center in downtown Chicago. The venue was a long, industrial low rise a few blocks from the lake filled with many art galleries and a large space for social gatherings.

In order to make it to this event, I had to carefully orchestrate a complex dance that day. As soon as I finished teaching, I had to pick up my children and my babysitter. En route, I phoned in a dinner order for all four, which I picked up on the way home. I left the babysitter to feed my kids while I quickly dressed myself and drove to meet my husband downtown. I parked by the law school and waited for my husband to arrive by taxi. We walked together to the event a few blocks away, arriving just on time.

The event was a meet and greet affair for the summer associates and their advisers, with an open bar and dinner. The dinner featured non-kosher cuisine high on presentation, and as one colleague of my husband put it, "low on volume". A salad consisting of stacked slices of cucumber, watermelon and feta cheese preceded the candelabras of gazpacho, summer carrot soup, and squash soups served in votive candle holders. The main course was a beautiful presentation of sea bass wrapped in banana leaves, a terrine of lamb and portobello mushrooms, and a vegetable pave of some sort. I say "of some sort" because I have no clue what a pave is.

My husband and I got a dish of roast, potatoes, and, much to my surprise as will become abundantly clear later, rapini wrapped in plastic wrap. Along side our hearty, but simple fare was a stack of silverware wrapped so enthusiastically in plastic, we were forced to wrestle with it for five minutes before we could eat. Due to my status as a nutritionally challenged individual, I ate my and my husband's rapini and potatoes, my husband ate our roast. We both more or less enjoyed the anemic strawberry shortcake that hardly rivaled the trays of fancy, whimsical desserts that delighted our non-kosher counterparts.

The following day I went through a similar routine, leaving work, picking up kids, the babysitter, and a phoned-in pizza, and dashing off to meet my husband, but not before overwhelming the poor 13 year-old with instructions to bathe the kids, supervise their clean-up, and do my neglected laundry (for additional payment, of course). This time we went to the JUF lawyer's division dinner. My husband's firm sponsored a table to hear the annual fundraising appeal, and a humorous, anecdotal speech by Bob Costas. This time, the dinner was kosher. A non-Jewish summer associate tagged along for some reason, and as dinner was being served he asked, "Am I going to get a plate of bacon sealed in plastic wrap?"

Fancy dinners aren't the only thing that's kept us running around like lunatics.

But I'm not complaining.

The events that have us going insane have been wonderful, meaningful, and even fun. Sunday was one such day. My daughter graduated from kindergarten with much fanfare and music. She had been treating us to previews of her performance all week at full volume.

I was surprised to see her singing so shyly, but she knew every word of every song.

We were beaming with pride. Her little sister enjoyed the music, but enjoyed the desserts more.

The graduation was followed by my son's piano lesson, and the final soccer games of the season.

My children played their hearts out, and my daughter even scored the last two goals of the game! She has come along tremendously, and was rightfully proud of herself that day.

Big brother also played his last game of the season.

And finished off the day with a barbecue at his coach's house. Both kids came home with small trophies and big smiles.

Normally, I derive my greatest pride from my children's accomplishments, but I must admit to one of own this week.

Every week, my Skokie Sistah and I take a class on keeping kosher with the Sephardic rabbi. We nod our heads, and jot our notes, and ask our questions, but rarely have we ever challenged the esteemed rabbi on Jewish law.

That changed a few weeks ago when the rabbi addressed the question of bugs in vegetables. According to the rabbis, eating a bug is a far greater sin than eating a piece of non-kosher meat; therefore, rabbis require strict cleaning and checking of vegetables, especially those that are highly likely to have a lot of bugs, or those where bugs can easily hide.

The Chicago Rabbinical Council has taken a more stringent view of the bug issue. To sum up their rulings, certain vegetables, like broccoli, cauliflower, brussel sprouts, and artichokes, are too buggy and too difficult to clean thoroughly. Therefore, in their eagerness to guard our souls, they have placed them on the "Not Recommended" list of foods, "Not Recommended" being their subtle way of saying forbidden.

As the rabbi read off the list, our jaws dropped lower and lower, and our blood boiled hotter and hotter. I looked in utter disbelief as this esteemed and seemingly rational man told me, a vegetarian and physical education instructor, that I could no longer eat fresh cruciferous vegetables (like the rapini I had just enjoyed the previous night). I was livid.

One look at my friend and the steam coming out of her ears, and I could tell she felt the same way. We both loudly protested at once. Obesity rates! Cancer! I sputtered. "It doesn't make any sense! Where in the Torah does it say I can't eat broccoli?!" Demanded my feisty friend. The rabbi had a mutiny on his hands.

I'm not sure how it got to this point, but my friend finally threw down the gauntlet, and offered a challenge to the rabbi, whose eyes had gone from confident and kindly, to slightly worried, if not fearing for his life. "I will bring you my cauliflower and broccoli!" She declared, jabbing her finger in the air to punctuate her point. "I will clean and check them like I always do, and I dare you," she demanded, "I dare you to find a single bug!"

And with that, the great veggie duel was proposed. I offered myself and my cauliflower as her second, and the rabbi called in for his own support. He immediately picked up his cell phone and called the CRC, and asked to speak to their "bug specialist", a rabbi well known for his in depth scholarship and knowledge of produce, and his keen eye for bugs.

The challenge was accepted, the time and date set for a rabbinical smack down. The housewives armed with their asparagus versus the rabbis with their Torah and light boxes.

The night before the event, I slept restlessly, dreaming of buggy broccoli.

But I'm not complaining.

This was a challenge greater than myself. The morning came, and I set to soaking, scrubbing, and searching my head of cauliflower like my life, and the lives of my obesity- and cancer-prone people depended on it. After 45 minutes I was satisfied, and I bagged the blemish-free produce and headed for my class. My friend arrived five minutes later with her broccoli. A crowd of almost a dozen men and women came, circling the table like a boxing ring, ready for a good fight, and they got it.

The great rabbi of the esteemed CRC began with his introductory statements, reminding us that eating one bug, just one bug, was committing five separate transgressions! He reiterated what our Sephardic rabbi had told us: some vegetables were just too hard to clean, therefore should only be purchased frozen from a reputable brand that has thoroughly washed, checked, and been granted kosher certification, for only $7 a bag.

I thrust my bag of florets into his hands, and dared him to find a bug. With all due respect, Rabbi, I've thoroughly cleaned and checked this cauliflower. You won't find bugs here. I said through the clenched teeth of a warrior.

He searched and searched for ten minutes while we argued back and forth.

"Frozen is almost as healthy as fresh." He peered in a bowl of cauliflower and soapy water.

It loses 50% of its nutritional value!

"Checking it like this takes too long!" He stared intently at my florets.

It's worth it to feed my family healthy foods.

"People are too busy, if we don't forbid them from eating fresh broccoli they'll just rinse it off and not check it thoroughly. They can't be trusted!" He checked the water at the bottom of the bowl.

I check it like this each and every time! I don't want people to not trust my kashrut because I eat fresh cauliflower!

He raised his eyebrow, and declared the cauliflower to be clean. A cheer rose from the small crowd.

In the end, not a single bug was found in my cauliflower or my friend's broccoli. The rabbi gave our vegetables his seal of approval. But, rabbi, we pressed, you have to change the website and explain to people that these vegetables are okay to eat if they're checked properly.

We pleaded our case, and provided our best arguments and our cleanest produce, and in the end, the rabbi agreed. "You're right." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'll speak to the committee and we'll see if we can change that policy."

With our veggies held high, we cheered our victory and celebrated over a Dunkin' Donuts iced latte, before rushing off to teach.

Shavuot is right around the corner. I spent five hours on Friday in the synagogue kitchen making salsa, enchiladas, and marinating chicken in cumin, chili powder and beer. I'll be there all day tomorrow baking and chopping some more as I prepare a meal for the congregation.

But I can't complain.

I volunteered to make this meal, and truthfully, it's a lot of fun. The rabbi may actually enjoy the fresh cauliflower salad for once.

En garde!

Fiesta season

2008-05-28T21:52:00.014-05:00

Cinco de Mayo has passed, but I'm revving up my Tex-Mex culinary chops. Once again I volunteered to make a festive meal for the Sephardic synagogue for the holiday of Shavuot. My theme "without tacos there is no Torah; without Torah there are no tacos" was a big hit. Let's hope the enchiladas are, too.

For the past week I've been making salsas, enchiladas, guacamole, and refried beans at home to warm up for the big event. Over the past week I've gained three pounds, but my sinuses are clear.

Work is ramping up, too. The school year ends in three weeks. My physical education program will culminate in a field day, which means loads of preparation and planning. It's a daunting task, but I'm really excited to make it work. Field day is a physical education tradition. It's a day of relay races, picnicking, games, and silly activities like water balloon tosses and tug-of-war to end the year on a high note. My students have never experienced the unrivalled joys of a field day before. This knowledge has motivated me to make it the best ever.

My husband has already begun his summer associate position at the law firm, and so far seems to be enjoying the firm life. The firm hosted a welcome event at the Spertus Jewish Museum in Chicago. We arranged for a babysitter so that I could accompany my husband to this hoity-toity affair. I squeezed into my black suit and quickly teetered over to the train station in my heels to meet my hubby downtown. We boarded the trolley, rented by the law firm for the occasion, to the museum, and were greeted at the venue with a flute of champagne with a piece of fresh fruit covered in bubbles, floating in the glass.

I wasn't shy. I took my glass and drained it. I practically mauled the passing waitstaff for their hors d'oeuvres. Everything was kosher, and pardon the expression, but I was in hog heaven. After literally rubbing elbows with hundreds of lawyers in the jam-packed ante room, we moved up to the ninth floor for the real food. Buffet tables laden with edible delights interested me far more than the spouses I was meeting. I smiled, nodded, nibbled on pastas, Asian salmon, and potato salad, and at one point squirted a spouse on the forehead with green bean fluid. Embarrassed, I skulked over to the chocolate mousse buffet.

After draining the girlie, fruity vodka drink the bartender surprised me with, I thought to myself, I can get used to this. Then I remembered I could barely fit into my little black suit as it was. On that depressing note, we headed back to the trolley, up to my husband's 41st floor office to catch an expansive view of the city, and back home to relieve the babysitter. My husband was grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Nice, huh?" was all he needed to say.

The nicest thing for me, however, is the weekends. For once, I have my husband by my side as I shlep my kids around from practices to games and back. Sunday was the usual piano-soccer hustle. After the soccer game we joined one of my Skokie Sistahs and her kids for a picnic. It was her husband's birthday, and to celebrate, she planned a day of learning for him. From morning services to evening services he stayed in the synagogue, while a stream of friends appeared hourly to learn from Jewish texts with him. My husband was scheduled for the 4 o'clock slot, so after the picnic we raced home so he could collect his stack of seven books. He had a gleeful glimmer in his eye when I asked him what he had planned. "Something lawyerly" was the obvious response.

But Monday, Memorial day, topped them all. We planned a full day of adventure for the little ones. I packed a picnic basket full of sandwiches, fruits, drinks and cookies. We drove to the train station and boarded the Metra train into town.

For my eldest and my youngest, it was the first time they had been on a real train. We could have ended the adventure right there, and they would have been satisfied, but we were just getting started.

From the train station, we walked a few blocks into downtown.

The sky was slightly cloudy, but deliciously warm.

We got onto a bus for Millennium Park, where we spread out the picnic blanket and had our lunch.

The girls were far too excited to eat. They nibbled on a bite or two and then ran circles around us; literally, tight circles around the picnic blanket.

Lunch finally finished, we packed up our basket, and found the next train terminal.

We had some time before boarding the next train, so I treated my family to Starbucks while we waited.

The time came to board the train for Hyde Park and the Museum of Science and Industry.

I'd been there several times before with my children, but this time around it was for the big kid, my husband. My kids can never tire of the many delightful and deceptively educational activities and exhibits there.

Water,

lights,

color,

and cows

are all my children need to be fascinated and mesmerized for hours on end.

But really, this was for my husband. He was more excited than anyone to see the old fashioned firetrucks, the giant model train tracks around a miniature Chicago,

and the Swiss Rube Goldberg contraption he had heard so much about.

We were there for a few solid hours, but it flew by so fast. Before we knew it, we had to rush out to catch another train back, followed by another bus, and another train soon after. Before we made it home, the baby was out for the night.

We fed the big kids a quick dinner and sent them off to bed. I sent myself to bed soon after.

In all of the action and excitement from this past month I have learned something about myself. I don't do things small. I don't do small birthday parties, I don't do small feasts, I don't celebrate small or plan small field days, and I don't do small family adventures either.

For the past year I was seeing a therapist, actually a social worker who was supposed to help me manage the difficult move and the affects of our big transition on the kids. She was remarkably sweet and smart, but I don't know that the whole experience was particularly useful for me. How could it be?

Today was our last appointment. My social working therapist is a graduate student who has completed her degree and is now moving on to bigger and better things than the angst of a harried, tired, overwhelmed law school widow who does it all to herself.

Brain strain

2008-05-20T21:23:00.003-05:00

I found myself thinking about another old friend recently. We had fenced together at Boston College, and she had helped me drive back to Texas at some point. When, I can't say. The memories are too fuddled. For the longest time I couldn't even remember her last name, but that thankfully bubbled up from the deep recesses of my under performing brain days after she floated up to my conscious mind. I think she married an old teammate, but some things Google and Facebook can't conjure up.

My brain is also having a difficult time processing other, more immediate information, as well. An enormous decision is tangling up my neural pathways, blocking less urgent transmissions. In other words, I'm stumped.

On Friday morning my husband and I packed all of the kids into the minivan, and drove a few blocks north to the JCC parking lot to await the school bus that would take my two older children to visit the Jewish Day School we had checked out a week prior. All day I was on pins and needles waiting to hear about their experience. It made concentrating on the rapidly approaching Shabbat rather difficult, especially with the dozen or so guests that would be arriving at my house expecting proper meals both Friday night and Saturday for lunch.

Despite my preoccupation, I managed to whip together most of the menu items. As usual, much was left until last minute. But I was pretty pleased with my progress. Two kugels, four challahs, a roast, chicken breasts, Israeli couscous, blanched green beans, two fish dishes and a cholent were filling my home with highly caloric aromas. I threw together a matzah ball soup, and a chocolate oatmeal cake, as well, but the frosting would have to wait.

The pick up time rapidly approached. I left my repast and went to greet my adventurers at the bus stop. Their reactions couldn't have been more predictable. My son bounced off the bus grinning from ear to ear, talking in rapid fire sentences about all of his new friends, how much he loved the school, and how he didn't ever want to go anywhere else. And could he start now? My daughter, on the other hand, had a melancholy look on her face as she shoved large art projects into my hand. "It was OK. I like the other school better." I thanked the principal and smiled. We'll discuss it later. I can't wait to hear all about it!"

But really, I dreaded it. How could I make this Solomonic decision? My son will clearly be happier and better off at the new school. It suits him well. My daughter is just starting to make friends and feel like she fits in. How can I pull her away to yet another new place, and yet another difficult transition? And there were only three girls in her kindergarten and eleven boys. It's a great ratio for a shidduch, but this is first grade! That could be brutal. And could I force my son to stay in classful of children who have yet to make him feel welcome? It would be cruel.

The other option would be to send my son to one school and my daughter to another. And my baby...well, that's a whole other puzzle to ponder. I could do that, but three kids in three different schools in three different parts of town; my hold on sanity is tenuous enough to begin with.

With these thoughts all buzzing around in my head, I picked up the baby and rushed home to finish cooking and cleaning. I barked orders at my children in an effort to get them to clean their rooms, put away their stuff, and eat and get to bed before the guests arrived. I had just enough time to frost my cake, make my matzah balls and my salads.

I set the kitchen table for the kids, put the soup out, and called them to the table. In the time it took my to get the soup nuts out of the pantry, my baby got to the table and spilled the hot soup all over herself. My blood chilled at the sound of her agonized shrieks. I dropped everything, whipped off her pajama top, grabbed a thin blanket and an ice pack, and whisked her off into her bed to take a closer look. For an hour my husband and I tended to our scalded toddler. My husband consulted the contradictory medical guides while I gingerly applied neosporin and administered acetaminophen and gentle consolations to my sobbing child. My husband delicately wrapped her in gauze. In time, she felt well enough to return to the dinner table. "I don't want soup." she informed me. Who could blame her?

I got back to my preparations, but moments later the guests arrived. As my husband got the children to bed, I put the finishing touches on a not-so-elegant meal. At least it was mostly tasty, and the company gracious and patient. I was never quite able to shake the trauma of seeing my baby in such pain.

Luckily, I had a do-over the next day. We had a large crowd over for lunch - fifteen of us in all. Thankfully, the anxiety of the previous night had passed. My baby was proud to show off her boo boos and her bandages. My husband took the children to synagogue while I set the tables and put the finishing touches on my salads (after checking my cauliflower for bugs for over an hour). A dear family friend from San Antonio came early and helped me with the final preparations.

The guests arrived as I was making my last dressing. A young lawyer and his very pregnant wife introduced themselves. They had brought along a friend for good measure, and a series of lovely coincidences ensued. You're from Texas? I asked, thrilled to find fellow travellers. "Houston." The men responded. We're from San Antonio, I explained. "Do you know the B- family?" The young lawyer asked. Our family friend sputtered a surprised, "That's me! That's my family!" The young lawyer and his friend were her big brother's Yeshiva buddies.

"I thought you looked familiar!" said the friend. "I was at your brother's wedding!"

There's a name for these lovely invisible ties between our dispersed people: Jewish Geography.

The meal went off without a hitch, the kids had an additional four playmates to entertain, and I finally relaxed. My baby ran around and played with her new friends without one indication of the pain she had been in the previous night.

The dishes piled up, but I didn't let them damper my mood.

But then Shabbat ended. Sunday was another whirlwind of piano lessons, swimming lessons, and soccer. My husband went out to purchase a belated birthday gift for our girls. "A doll house!" They shrieked in joy as my husband assembled the three story wooden confection. My husband also decided to be thoughtful and buy our toddler a Polly Pocket set. She was finally old enough to be trusted with the tiny dolls and their microscopic accessories. She was also getting into the habit of absconding with her sister's Pollies which often set off a cascade of sobs, tears, and caterwauling.

I was ready to praise my husband for his ingenuity and thoughtfulness, until I took a close look at the doll set. You got our baby the S&M Polly? I asked eyeing the five inch doll in faux black leather miniskirt with a chain hanging off the pocket, and the knee high plastic boots. "You should have seen the others!" He answered defiantly. "They were worse!"

Oh. I snipped back sarcastically. You mean the crack-whore Polly and the teen pregnancy Polly?

As expected, the girls were oblivious. Big sister even came around and finally offered to share with her baby sister, if she could play with the menacing doll, too.

And play they have. For the past three days all three of my children have spent every spare moment in front of the new dollhouse dressing up Barbies and Pollies, and undressing them again. I wish I could report that they're playing beautifully together, sharing like a dream, but that would be a dream, and we don't live in that make-believe world.

We live in the real one where the decision of where to send my children to school next year is crushing down on a brain that can barely remember taking a cross-country road trip with a friend.

The good life

2008-05-11T21:02:00.020-05:00

Life is so good.

My husband finished off his semester on Thursday in a flurry of exams and papers. I don't know how he managed it. He took 6 courses, presided over the Jewish Law Students Association, researched for professors, got a paper accepted for publication, and still remained a significant presence in our home. And he did it without taking out his stress on any of us.

He's clearly not human.

I, on the other hand, am all too human.

In the midst of exams, I pulled off yet another over ambitious, over-the-top birthday party. My diva turned 6 on Cinco de Mayo, but we had less of a fiesta than a "Fancy Fair". The party theme was "Fancy Nancy", and the party guests did not disappoint.

Little girls arrived dressed to the nines.

They trickled in attired in tutus, princess dresses, tiaras, feather boas, bangles, sparkles, and jewels. Of course, not one of them was fully dressed without her smile.

My daughter decked herself out in her Alice in Wonderland costume accessorized to perfection.

As little princesses flitted in, I handed out coloring pages and crayons to keep them busy waiting for everyone to arrive.

While they created their masterpieces, I read the story Fancy Nancy.

Fancy Nancy came to us a year ago by way of Tia Mirth. It was the perfect party theme for my own fancy shmancy dreamer.

Once all of the other dreamers had flounced their ways in, the magical ballet teacher, Miss Katie, led them into the studio where they all learned the subtle art of being little ladies.

They learned to keep their pinkies up,

their chins up, their shoulders back,

and their dreams soaring.

Little sister was in heaven, getting to be "one of the girls" for once. Big brother, on the other hand, tried to act cool, aloof, disinterested.

But we saw right through the deception. He stood on the edges of the party snickering, but he didn't miss a thing.

The girls danced, and played, and indulged their frilly, sparkly fantasies. For my little girl, it was a much needed and rare chance to be the center of her world. We couldn't have given her a better gift.

We finished off with tea cakes, fruit skewers (with thanks to my Skokie Sistah), and a beautiful birthday cake.

And if that wasn't enough, the next day, we got to celebrate all over again at her school.

Another successful, exhausting party was relegated to a happy memory, and with the semester also tucked away, my husband and I could finally address some issues that had been set aside for greater introspection.

The biggest issue we had to deal with was our children's education. On the night of my daughter's birthday I had to attend a meeting for all of the third grade parents to discuss the "bullying problem" in my son's grade. It was a heated, emotionally charged meeting. And, not surprisingly, the parents complaining most bitterly about the administration and teachers were the parents of the alleged bullies. It made me so sad to hear how acrimonious parents were getting. It was enlightening to discover that this has been an issue since these kids were in first grade, yet here we were, at the end of their third grade year meeting about it for the first time.

My son hasn't been happy in school, and I could understand why. He had walked into an already unhealthy dynamic as a new kid with a quirky personality.

My daughter wasn't doing much better. She was also struggling to make her way into the social structures of her kindergarten year. Her birthday party was huge for her. For the first time she felt important and accepted.

Unlike San Antonio, a "one shul-one school" kind of town, Chicago has a large number of schools to choose from. My husband and I decided to explore some options. On Friday afternoon we headed way south to the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago where a small, but remarkable Jewish Day School resides. I had been hearing about the school ever since we moved here, usually in reverential terms. I heard it described as amazing and unique. It's reputed to have child-centered, individualized classes in a warm and diverse community. We had to check it out.

We arrived on Friday afternoon and took a tour with the principal. We pelted her with loads of questions and examined the students and surroundings to see if it might just be a better match for our kids.

I worry that I put too many hopes into the school, that I have prejudged it out of desperation for my kids to be happy and to fit in. But I liked what I saw and heard. No doubt, it's not perfect. The Hebrew and Judaics probably aren't as strong as what my kids are getting at their current school. The commute is dreadfully long, and the atmosphere is far less formal than I'm comfortable with. But I could see my son really thriving here.

As to my diva, I'm not so sure.

Our next step is to send them there for a day, and see what they think. My children, thank G-d, will thrive anywhere academically. They're bright, curious, and avid learners. But school is more than a place to fill one's head with facts, ideas, and book-learnin'. I hope it can be a place to develop friendships, confidence, and a strong sense of self. I want my kids to feel good about themselves, happy, connected. Moving here was hard enough without feeling like the new kid two years later.

My husband completed his second year of law school on Thursday. That night we went to a bar to celebrate with his classmates. Over the obnoxiously loud din of bad dance music, his classmates gushed about what a great guy he is. A great big smile spread across his face as they told me how impressed they were with him and his tremendous accomplishments. My husband didn't just fit in at law school, he has established himself in the heart of his program.

We want our kids to be able to learn to do the same.

The weather here has been awful. It's been cold and rainy all spring. We've had hints of good weather, but just as our hopes have risen with the mercury, they've been left chilled and soggy by the side of the road time and time again.

Nonetheless, life is good.

We have so much to celebrate and enjoy here. Birthdays, successful school life, and burgeoning friendships. We have so much hope for our future. My son is excited to see the new school, my husband is anxious to start his summer internship at the law firm. My daughter is still carrying the joyful memory of her birthday with her everywhere she goes.

We're all learning to hold our chins up, and our shoulders back.

We're trying to keep our pinkies up, too.

Making do

2008-04-28T15:04:00.004-05:00

Where has the time gone?

It seems like just a week ago we celebrated my baby's third birthday. Of course, she doesn't like to be called "baby" anymore. She's my big girl. She wears big girl panties. She eats big girl foods, and insists on doing everything, and I mean everything, by herself. To be three and on top of the world. It's exhilarating, freeing, and slightly maddening.

Of course, a three year old can't do everything by herself. And that dependence breeds frustration, and occasionally anger. I took my son to soccer practice last week and brought along the ballerina to get her out of the house. When my "big girl" realized she'd been left behind with her daddy she threw a fit of glorious magnitude. She jumped up and down with her little fists clenched in helpless rage for the full two hours we were gone, sobbing angry, hot tears of betrayal. How could we leave her behind?

When we got back, I got an earful of hurt and fury. "I (sob) wanted (sob) to go (sob) to shoka pactish (bitter sob)!" My poor husband looked worn and stressed. "I didn't get any work done." He lamented.

Since her birthday, Passover has come, and come, and come, and reluctantly gone. I planned, I shopped, I forgot things and shopped again. I cleaned, and I cleaned, and I cleaned. Slowly it all came together. Why am I stressing out like this? I demanded of my husband. I'm cooking one meal. And it was true. I had no cause to kvetch. I hosted the first Seder at my house and it was a small one, too: my husband and kids and two law school students.

It was a huge disappointment and a small relief. The Passover Seders are a chance for my kids to really shine. They show off their singing voices, their charm, and their amazing knowledge of all things pascal. And what fun is that without an audience? Our guests were smart, interesting, gracious, patient, and suitably impressed. And who wouldn't be? My darlings performed formidably up until the last gasp of the Hallel services. They did the four questions, sang "Dayenu", delighted and informed us from the beginning strains of "Kadesh U'rhatz" sung to "Stairway to heaven" to the closing battle cry, "L'shana haba'ah b'Yerushalayim," Next year in Jerusalem!

At the same time, it felt lonely.

I have fond memories of Passover Seders in my mother's house with the whole family and various friends around the table. To me Passover is rented tables and folding chairs, thirty people including half a dozen misbehaving cousins, and platters piled high with sumptuous steaming delights. At least we had the last part. I even made my Turkish/Cuban Sephardi grandmother's gefilte fish recipe from scratch.

For the next three festive meals, we were invited out to friends' houses. Each meal was more delicious than the next, and the company warmer and more delightful. Who needs Passover cruises? There's nothing like surrounding yourself with family and friends on the holidays. It more than made up for our anemic Seder turnout.

During the next several days, I made a concerted effort to get my kids out and about. We were blessed with warm, and mostly sunny weather. I took them to an indoor amusement place, aptly called "Go Bananas". Since it was during a public school day, the establishment was loaded with observant Jews on their Spring break. I hooked up with a friend and her kids and we let our kids run loose while we kept a wary eye on the youngest ones.

For the twentieth time, my three year old slipped my watchful gaze. I searched for her all over the place, only to discover that she had convinced my son's classmate to take her on the indoor rollercoaster. It wasn't a giant 60 mile-an-hour double loop monstrosity, or anything. It was a kiddie-ride that climbed a small hill, sped down and took a sharp turn. It was more jarring than speedy. I ran to the ride's exit anticipating howls of terror, but was greeted with a stunned look of disbelief as if to say, "you didn't warn me!" I didn't know!

I expected tears but got, "I wan' go again!" instead. What could I do? I shrugged and sent her with her big sister, proud of my fearless wonder.

The next day we went to the zoo, and the following day to the Kohl's children's museum, loaded with fruit, Passover snacks, and Passover chocolate chip cookies. Passover isn't the easiest holiday to eat healthily. Matzah is known as the "bread of our affliction", and is also known to cause great digestive afflictions.

For eight days we "make do" without our usual fallbacks: bread, pasta, tortillas. We eat matzah-related foods instead. But we don't "make do" in the scatological sense. In recent years I have discovered a healthy (and high fiber!) alternative to the rice and grains we are denied: quinoa. Unfortunately, I have been less successful convincing my children that it isn't yucky. So for a week I feed them meat, chicken, cold cuts, and more meat, and I cram as much fruit in them as I can.

And by the third day we are all declaring, "LET MY PEOPLE GO!"

Passover ended last night. I was up until after midnight putting my kitchen back to normal. Today I went grocery shopping and was shocked to find that prices had doubled in the past week. A small jar of yeast was ratcheted up to $7.99. I nearly passed out from shock.

My husband is back to work, preparing for his exams, the kids are enjoying their last lazy days of computer games and videos before returning to school, and I am facing my next challenge: my diva's 6th birthday. It's going to be a "Fancy Nancy" party. The birthday girl is ready to go.

If only I could...

Fishing for fun

2008-04-13T21:13:00.011-05:00

It is said that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. We're here in mid-April, and winter is still rearing it's ugly head. Fortunately, we've had so much going on, we haven't had a chance to be bogged down by the cold and wet weather.

Soon after my mother left, we were graced by several visitors. My mother-in-law came for a long weekend, which happened to coincide with a brief visit from my brother-in-law who was in town to take his medical boards, and my father who was in town for a business meeting. They converged, like a harmonic alignment of the planets, on Friday night for our Shabbat dinner. It was the happiest I can remember us being on a Friday night. Normally, we are so beaten down by the long week, compounded by the frenzied cooking and cleaning for the ritual meal, that we don't have the energy to enjoy.

This evening we laughed, talked, caught up on family and friends, and relaxed. The kids were over the moon with all of the love and attention they were receiving. My husband got to spend some time with his brother and mom, and I got to breathe.

For the next few days, the kids got to spend lots of time with their Granma Thuthin, playing games, reading books, trying on dresses, and hugging a lot.

I even got to steal a few hours with her alone, too. On Sunday, my husband took the kids and his mom to visit his aunt and cousins up north while I stayed home to clean. It was a strange sensation. I opened cabinets, pulled out pots and pans, sprayed the cleaner, wiped the shelf, covered it in foil, and...

Nothing happened.

Nobody came running into the kitchen crying or screaming. No one sneaked up behind me with a powerdrive hug. No one demanded a snack, or for me to read a book. In fact, I didn't hear anything but the music I was playing and the "tsh tsh" of the spray bottle.

It was the first Sunday in ages I was away from my kids. It was weird, wonderful, and cleansing. Not the soul-type, but the Passover kitchen type. Who are we kidding? Four hours away from the kids is nice, but it isn't a trip to a Mendocino spa. I'm not exactly sure there are spas in Mendocino, but if there are, I'm eyeing a spot at a mud bath in a few years when getting away from the kids involves airfare.

Mom-in-law left us on a chaotic Tuesday afternoon when I was running a limousine service from one school to another to the train station to pick up my dad from his business trip.

Once again, the kids had a beloved grandparent at their beck and call to read books, tell stories of the Old Country (Brooklyn), and give them more smiles and attention than mom could muster at any given time.

As soon as my dad left, Passover cleaning went into high gear. My husband tackled the desk, the toys, closets and pockets. I got the kitchen. He vacuumed, did laundry, scrubbed toilets and showers, while I tackled the kitchen. He may have gotten the better end of the bargain. Although, I can't complain. He worked nonstop without cracking a book.

This Sunday, we went back to the old arrangement: I keep the kids out of the house while my husband works. Normally, this is a tough challenge. It requires a lot of driving, a lot of money, and more patience than I possess. My hubby definitely got the fuzzy end of the lollipop this time. While he cleaned, folded, dusted, attacked the junk closet with vigor, and even polished windows, I got to play with the girls on the playground, albeit in 40 degree weather, hang out at the swimming pool, and celebrate my baby's third birthday in style.

First, I dressed her up for the occasion.

I packed all three kids into the minibus and picked up the girls from the carpool and took them all to the Old Town School of Folk Music to see the best children's band in the world: Trout Fishing in America.

We had been listening to their CD in the carpool for months, so the kids had their music almost completely memorized. They sang, danced, and laughed for an hour and a half straight. And I, who used to go and see them as a college student three and a half lifetimes ago sang, danced, and laughed along, until I blurted out the punchline to one of their well-weathered jokes in the middle of the set. At which point, I slinked back to my seat and left the performance for the children to enjoy.

When it was all done, after an encore of "When I was a dinosaur I thought I was so cool...future fossil fuel" we got to go out and meet the band.

After the concert, I took the party out for pizza and ice cream. I sat back and watched the hilarity ensue. The dozens of straw wrappers blown across the table, the nasty experiments with water and soft serve ice cream, and the goofy conversations that only eight and nine year olds can have with three and five year olds. Nonsensical, silly, and sweet.

It wasn't the most creative birthday party I've ever put together, but for the older kids, it will be a cherished memory - their first concert experience. For my baby, it will be a happy blur that we will remind her of, from time to time.

The memory for me was solidified two hours later when I heard the unpleasant sound of retching from my son's room. You okay? I was ready to ask before I caught the sight of my son hanging over the railings of his 6 foot loft bed, puking a nasty combination of pizza, ice cream, grapefruit and milk. The splatter radius was impressive.

The inevitable ending to a perfect day.

Recovery discovery

2008-04-02T21:46:00.009-05:00

I finally reached my threshold of clutter. My feng shui was way off, and I needed to get my apartment into a manageable order of some sort. Toys, living room furniture, and a giant messy desk competed for space in the area designated as the dining room. Meanwhile, a large majestic dining room table sat lonely in the cavernous space of the living room.

On Saturday night, I entered the rare but familiar Cleaning Frenzy Zone. Once Shabbat ended, I was busy rearranging furniture, flipping the living room and dining room, creating more space for kids' toys, dusting inches of accumulation off of tables and shelves, and finally arranging everything in a way that just made more sense. By the time I got to bed, it was one in the morning.

The baby woke up the next morning saying, "Dat doesn't go theya!"

I consider myself to be a recovering organizational basket case. As the resource lady at my kids' school would describe it, I have some serious executive function issues. In other words, ideas have a tough time translating to coherent action. Information processing gets bottlenecked somewhere before "output". But occasionally, the blockage is cleared, and I have a lucid moment of actually getting something done. Awareness is the first step in my recovery.

But the road to recovery is pocked with potholes.

It took my son more than a week to get over his nasty virus; and after two fever-free days, it seemed to return. He couldn't even look at a chewable tablet without retching, and I couldn't bear to jab a thermometer under his tongue one more time. Enough was enough. Even our improved feng shui couldn't cheer him up.

By Sunday morning, my son seemed to be improving. He finally had a couple of fever-free days. And we were anxiously anticipating a welcome visit from a dear cousin.

Sadly, we rarely get to see her. She's in the middle of planning a wedding, training for a fundraising climb of Mt. Kilimanjaro, preparing a trip to Israel with her father, and juggling a high pressure job. I have no real excuse, but I have three kids. Needless to say, our paths rarely cross, but we managed to nab her for several blissful hours of arts and crafts and much needed conversation on Sunday afternoon. My daughter had a friend over when our cousin showed up with a bag full of scrapbooking paper, ribbons, and stickers she no longer needed.

My daughters were in girly-girl heaven. They drew lovely pictures of princesses and their cousin,

They created collages of paper, ribbon, stickers, and shiny things,

Even the baby lost herself in cutting and pasting

The girls couldn't have dreamed up a better afternoon. My cousin and I couldn't have dreamed up a more frightening one. "No, baby! Let go of the enormous sharp scissors!" My cousin called out on more than one occasion as I tried to gently pry the weapon from my baby's fierce grip.

No, Sweetheart! I gasped. Get off of my couch with that glue! While the girls lost themselves in artistic reverie, my cousin and I tried to catch up with each other's hectic lives. The baby, hell bent on destruction, made this a greater challenge than we had anticipated. Descriptions of wedding dresses were frequently interrupted by one of us lunging at the baby armed with writing utensils.

The end product made it all worthwhile: irrepressible glee.

Unfortunately, my son's fever came back that afternoon, and the artsy thing didn't do it for him. He curled up on the couch, watching the proceedings with mournful eyes. My heart sunk, mistakenly thinking the virus a thing of the past.

On Monday morning, my son's fever was gone again so I sent him to school. By the time he got home, the hot forehead was back like a bad dream. I took him back to the doctor on Tuesday. The doctor examined him yet again, and concluded that it was the virus' last dying gasp. We sent him to school once more.

A couple of days later, he had his first soccer practice of the season. My son practically skipped to the soccer fields. I recognized that tall, skinny beanpole chasing after a shiny ball. It was my son again - no raging fevers, pale skin, or mournful eyes. Just a regular goofy kid chasing down a soccer ball. Life as it should be.

Some recoveries occur as a matter of course. My feverish son needed little more than love, attention, and time, to be himself again. Other kinds of recovery require a great deal more intention, preparation, and execution. My recovery from disorganization and discombobulation will take more effort, and may never come to fruition. Somehow, in fits and bursts, I manage to get things done, and just in time!

Granma Shushin and my dad are coming to visit us this week, and the timing couldn't be better. The apartment is clean, their grandson is healthy (hamza, hamza), and I am, as always, trying to recover my long lost sanity. At least, for now.

Purim fever

2008-03-25T22:35:00.016-05:00

Mom's visits are always a precarious balancing act. On one hand, I want mom to have great time. On the other, I selfishly want a little break for myself.

I know she just wants to spend time with her grandkids, to get her "fix". I know she also wants to help me out as much as she can. In that regard, her visits are always a blur; not because they go by so fast, but because she never sits still for a moment. She's is a whirl of activity, cooking, cleaning, bathing and dressing kids, breaking up fights, kissing boo-boos, often all at the same time. Sit down! I urge her. I'm getting tired just watching you!

"I can't!" she tells me. ""I can't just sit around. I want to help!" And it's true. I'm not sure I've ever seen her sit still.

And, honestly, I enjoy the help. When mom is here, my husband and I can go out on dates. I can nap. The dishes magically get cleaned. My children are happy, clean, well-fed, and attended to without any fuss on my part. Who wouldn't love it?

But the guilt. Mom works hard enough at home taking care of dad and Abuela. I feel terrible watching her working so hard here, when I'm perfectly capable. Fortunately, I have found a perfect solution: I go into my room, close the door, and sleep. I don't have to watch a thing! I wake up refreshed, relaxed, and open the door to a clean home and the smells of home-cooking. What guilt?

If only.

Mom's visit coincided with Purim this year. Purim is a holiday for children. They dress up, make lots of noise, and eat lots of treats. It's a lot like Halloween, only they're required to sit still for a lot of the time. And instead of going door-to-door to ask for treats, they go door-to-door delivering them.

This year Granma Shushin made an Alice-in-Wonderland costume for the Diva, per request. She couldn't have been happier. My son requested a Voldemort costume, because he thought it would have been cool to have "red eyes" when his picture was taken. "I'll really look like Voldemort then!" he predicted. Granma Shushin scrambled last minute to shorten a graduation robe, find a bald cap, white gloves, which she then stuffed with cotton, and and other accessories to complete the costume.

Before it was time to go, we got my son all decked out in his scary costume, but he emerged from his room minutes later with a sad face. "What's the matter?" his dad asked.

"I don't want to wear it. I look too scary and weird, but I don't want Granma to feel bad." My husband told him she'd understand, and minutes later he bounded back out of his room with his old Kenseido Gi on, three sizes too small, but he was happy.

The baby was a "princhesh", but her outfit was not complete without a "tiyaaaara". I sped around the house looking for something shiny to put on her head, but I had no luck, so I whipped out a sheet of paper, folded it into a tiara-esque shape, and glued some sparkly things to it. I stapled some ribbon to the sides and stuck it on her head, where it lasted for less than a minute. It was enough to get the mob out the door.

The Purim services went on a bit too long. The kids got restless waiting to hear the name of Haman, the villain from the Scroll of Esther, to be read. At this point, they would be welcome to make as much noise as their heart's desire, for a minute or two. The older kids were ready with their school-project noise makers and ears pricked up to hear the name "Haman" in the midst of the Hebrew text. The baby sort of understood, but had to be shushed between the appropriate times. This proved to be a more challenging task than I had imagined. I grumbled as I strained to hear the recitation of the ancient text over her chatting and noisemaker-shaking. SuperMom once again came to the rescue, and swept up my little noisemaker, and whisked her off. I was relieved, but there was that guilt again.

The next day was pure mayhem. We had to prepare the Shabbat meals, as we were expecting guests for lunch, and we had to prepare our Mishloach Manot baskets. I had planned for weeks to jar my homemade salsa, purchase individual servings of tortilla chips, if I could find such a creature, and to bake hamentashen, the traditional Purim cookies. But this was no ordinary year. I managed to buy the ingredients for the salsa, and the Mason jars well in advance, but the chance to buy the tortilla chips, make the salsa, dip the glass jars in the ritual bath (you don't want to know), and bake the hamentashen eluded me. I was overwhelmed with school projects over the past month, so the best laid plans were laid to waste by styrofoam sculptures.

My time had completely run out, so Mom and I were left to run around like idiots on Friday looking for individually packaged tortilla chips and cooking. We ended up buying a crate of individually packaged Pringles at Costco, and a crate of bottled water to replace the hamentashen that never got baked. My husband and I then had to rush off to toivel (dip in the ritual bath) the jars in the mikvah (the ritual bath) after the morning megilla (scroll of Esther) reading. It was insanity, lunacy, and sheer madness, but miraculously, it all got done.

We stuffed a jar of salsa, two boxes of pringles, and a bottle of water in gallon storage bags with a silly poem I composed: "Have a happy Purim/San Antonio style/Our homemade spicy salsa/Is sure to make you smile/The salsa is fresh and pareve/The flavors are from the South/But don't expect the water/To put out the fire/In your mouth". I then dressed the kids in their costumes and sent them out with their father to deliver them to friends, in the snow.

Yes, it snowed on Purim, which fell on the first official day of Spring this year. Clearly, someones idea of a joke.

We received many cute and tasty packages ourselves this year, including my Skokie Girl's "Mother Survival Kit" that included a bottle of Starbuck's Frapaccino, cookies, snacks, and earplugs! Genius!

Shabbat lunch was tasty and the company a delight. We were graced with a visit from a young woman from San Antonio who is in Chicago for school, and her younger brother who was in town visiting. We complained about the weather, caught up on the latest news from home, and watched my children completely melt down in a most cringe-inducing manner.

I used to love Purim as a kid. I've grown to detest it. As an adult, it's a lot of work to prepare for, I end up with bags and bags of pastries and candies, which I feel obliged to eat quickly because three weeks later I'm slammed with Passover. If I were five years old, I'd completely melt down, too.

My son was acting funny all day Saturday, but I assumed it was PPSS: post-Purim shock syndrome. His 102.5 degree fever quickly disabused me of that notion. We loaded him up with acetaminophen and sent him to bed. In the morning he was burning hot. We gave him ibuprofen and water, and tried to figure out what to do next.

My husband had a ton of work to do at home, so I decided to get the girls out of the virus vector, and take them on an adventure with Grandma. We packed up the diaper bag with snacks and went to the Field Museum to see an exhibit on mythical creatures.

We walked around the special exhibit for close to an hour. The girls "oohed" and "aahed" over monsters, unicorns, fairies, and dragons. And when that was done, we had our little picnic in the cafeteria and let the girls run loose. Big sister literally ran around in circles like a puppy chasing her tail. "Shtop wunning awound like a looonatic, Tita!" called out the baby, to the delight and amusement of her beaming grandma.

We found a children's play area in the basement of the museum, and mom and I sat back watching the girls explore,

play,

and play,

and play,

and explore,

and examine,

and play some more.

And when they were done with exploring and playing, they sat down to some serious entertaining.

And for the first time in days, we just let them run wild. My girls were truly happy.

And mom actually sat still...

...for a moment.

We got back that afternoon and my son was burning up with a 105.9 degree fever. Once again we were back in our usual frenzy getting the girls ready for bed, and administering medicine and love and comfort to my feverish son. We called the doctor who advised us to give him more Tylenol and Motrin, push fluids, and come in to the office in the morning.

He ended up tossing and turning all night in the sofa bed with his grandma.

In the morning we took him to the doctor who examined his ears and throat and lungs, and finally shrugged. "It's just a virus." Those four dreaded words make mothers everywhere groan with disappointment. "Just a virus" means no antibiotics that will decisively wipe out the illness. "Just a virus" means keep a miserable kid as comfortable as possible and wait and wait and wait.
My son's fever spiked at 1o5.9 degrees. We called again and were told to keep giving him the Tylenol and Motrin, keep him cool, and push lots of fluids.

Mom was back at work taking care of us all, but only for a few more hours. She had a plane to catch that evening.

Before whisking her off to the airport, I left my sleeping boy with his daddy, and took my mom to the Indian neighborhood down the street where she found beautiful fabrics and clothes to take home. And of course, no trip would be complete without a visit to the kosher butcher shop, where she loaded up on meats to take back to San Antonio.

I took mom to the airport, and returned to a sweltering child. He threw up the ibuprofen, so I dragged him into a bathtub to cool off. My husband called the doctor again. This time, we were completely on our own. My mini-vacation was over.

As guilty as I felt letting my mom do so much for me over the past week, I had to admit it was a G-dsend. Nothing has gotten easier. I spent the day washing and folding mounds and mounds of laundry, scrubbing dishes, and caring for a febrile boy.

Thanks to mom, I was able to do it all with grace and a smile.

Gaining perspective

2008-03-19T22:39:00.013-05:00

Earlier this week I was ready to throttle a couple of teachers.

Normally, I'm a very supportive mom. As a teacher, the wife of a former teacher, and a person with a generally high level of respect and awe for educators in general, I tend to give these harrowed, overworked and underpaid professionals the benefit of the doubt. I strive to make their lives easier by staying on top of my kid's work and by not complaining too frequently. In this, I'm usually pretty good.

But this week I had enough!

Two weeks ago it was the Israel fair. We never received an assignment sheet with clear instructions. We had to rely on our eight year old children to communicate the parameters of a project with both a written component and a model. Needless to say, I never got the memo. Fortunately, it was a group project, and even more fortunately, one of the group members had a clue.

The Chicago fair followed soon after. This came with extensive written guidelines. We were to visit our assigned site (Museum of Science and Industry - $14 parking, $11 entry with reciprocal museum membership), our child was to write a report detailing the location, date of completion, architect, and interesting features of our building, and then the child was required to build a model ($40 in Styrofoam, glue, and small dowels).

Sometime that week I was also informed that the children would be putting on a Purim carnival for special needs children. This was yet another group project (thank goodness!). "Oh, and by the way," my son interjected the day before the carnival, "I need to bring a mishloach manot basket," a gift basket of different kinds of foods traditionally given on Purim, "for my Keshet kid."

The museum project was due Monday, the carnival was Tuesday. My mom was set to arrive Monday night.

That week I accosted friends, administrators, and even my sister - anyone who would listen to me vent about expenses and time and stress. I was saving up my sharpest remarks for the teachers who dumped it on us all at once. Teacher conferences were Wednesday. I licked my chops in wicked anticipation.

"Don't stress about the carnival." my wise Skokie Sistah advised me, after I let loose my rant. "We don't have to meet. We'll just divide up the tasks. I'll pick up the prizes and you can make the game. It'll be easy!" That calmed me down, slightly. It was still a lot to do in a short amount of time.

After piano lessons and swimming on Sunday morning, I dropped off the diva and took my son to grab some pizza. A fifteen minute break turned into a nice, long leisurely lunch hour, but the museum, 45 minutes away, closed in three hours! Panic was bubbling directly below the surface.

We finished up our lunch and zoomed across town. I shelled out the big bucks and we flew through as many exhibits as we could in the limited amount of time we had. My son was wide-eyed and enraptured by everything he saw. Frankly, I was, too. The giant model trains, the energy exhibit, the model toy factory, and his favorite from our first visit last year, the Swiss kinetic sculpture, had my boy mesmerized.

We reluctantly left and headed for the crafts store where we loaded up on our supplies, then headed home to whip together an adequate facsimile of the beautiful, but complicated structure.

We did okay!

On Monday, I threw together a bright and tasty mishloach manot basket for one of the Keshet kids, and cleaned my house for mom's visit, between carpools and ballet classes. That evening we had the school's Chicago Fair, a third grade tradition, where we were treated to a tour of Chicago architecture as envisioned by a bunch of bright eight and nine year olds. It was beyond adorable, but I was still miffed at the amount of labor-intensive work the school had piled on my son, and by extension, me.

"So, you know the kids switched around their assignments, right?" My friend asked me, referring to the carnival game the kids were supposed to bring. What?! I snarled, thinking about the little red tin heart boxes and tie-dye pattered foam board I had purchased for the game the day before. "Oh, our boys decided yesterday that we would make the game and you would get the prizes, but don't worry!" She interjected quickly, seeing the steam coming out of my ears, "I'll go ahead and get the prizes. It's not a big deal."

The Chicago fair was amazing, and reluctantly, I admitted to being impressed with the children's ingenuity. Still, it was a lot of things thrown at us at one time. My time would come to voice my displeasure.

That night, my mom arrived, the kids were ecstatic, my doll got a new baby, and immediately, stress lifted.

The next morning, my mom and I drove the carpool, dropped off the baby, and rushed back to the school to help the kindergartners make hamantashen, the traditional Purim jelly cookies. Admittedly, much of the stress in my life comes from my inability to say no. But it was a great opportunity to spend time with my daughter, and let my mom see her in action.

Needless to say, we had a great time mixing the ingredients, flattening out the cookies, folding them into jelly-filled triangles, and interacting with adorable little kiddos. My mom was positively glowing.

But that was nothing compared to the wonderful surprise that followed. I hadn't realized the carnival would be happening right after we made hamantashen with the kindergartners. My son was in costume, grinning from ear-to-ear, posted by his carnival game.

He was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the children with various types and levels of disabilities to come and partake in the festivities he and his classmates had prepared. My sweet, sensitive son had planned a shell game with blocks in each of the tins, so that each child would earn a prize, no matter which tin he picked! I marvelled at his goodness and ingenuity.

My mom and I watched as my son and his friends greeted the Keshet kids with big smiles and excitement.

They played games, did projects together,

sang and danced, and ate lunch together. My son had a great time. While the teachers marvelled about how it was a growing experience that would touch our children and give them a greater sense of maturity and sensitivity, to my son, it was just a chance to make a new friend.

The next evening, my husband and I went to teachers conferences. I was grudgingly willing to admit that the projects were amazing, the learning opportunities tremendous, and the challenges manageable, but I never got to express my consternation and joy.

Each conference began the same way: "Is your child happy?"

Time after time, my children's teachers told me how bright, and sweet, and smart, and sensitive my children were. "Your son was so sad after the carnival," one teacher explained. "He was worried that he'd never see his new friend again."

"He's so creative!" they gushed. "He always has a unique perspective!" they admired. "But is he happy?" they wondered. "Does he have friends?"

"Your daughter gets concepts immediately" her teacher noted, "but she often plays alone."

"Is she happy?"

I don't know. I think so. My kids come home happy. I ask them, How was your day? "Great!" they tell me, "Best ever!"

But when they're tired, frustrated, feeling vulnerable, the sadness and loneliness pour out. "Nobody likes me." They say. I know it's not entirely true. They've made wonderful friends, but it hasn't been easy fitting in. It's a different world with different rules, and they haven't figured it all out yet.

I have spent an inordinate amount of time sweating the homework not turned in, the projects piled on, the lack of communication with the teachers. In doing so, I have almost missed the important thing: my children's happiness.

I have a hard time finding fault with teachers. My children have been especially fortunate in that they have been blessed with sensitive, smart teachers who really seem to get it. The homework not turned in, the haphazard projects; what's that next to an unhappy child? The friends, the learning challenges that fire up the imagination, the opportunities to help another child celebrate with joy, these are the priceless lessons only a harrowed, overworked, and underpaid professional can truly bring to life.

End of waiting

2008-03-10T20:53:00.004-05:00

This morning it snowed again. It was just some sparse flurries, but two weeks into March, a blizzard wouldn't have made me feel any worse. This winter has dragged on far too long. Even native Chicagoans are complaining of this endless cold spell. My baby pranced into school one morning this week announcing, "Shping is coming!" The day care teacher next to me muttered bitterly, "Yeah, in July."

Beside my usual irrational fear that I will never be warm again, I have a new panic: that summer will come and go as quickly and toothlessly as a San Antonio winter. Two weeks of tepid warmth will be all we're entitled to. I can't fathom the consequences of such a catastrophe. I would lose my already tenuous hold on sanity.

Just when I thought my mood couldn't plummet any lower, when the winter blues had me in a funk so deep I couldn't even speak to my husband who dragged me to such a God-forsaken place, a miracle occurred. In order to tell my story adequately, I have to go back over twenty years.

After high school, I spent a year in Israel, studying, exploring, testing limits, and being a teenager. I went by a silly nickname at the time whose origin I can hardly recall. On this international program, I met a young woman from England who rapidly became my best friend. She was a beautiful girl with long blond hair, a quick mind, and a slightly wicked sense of humor. My fondest memories of that year were wandering around lost in the Old City of Jerusalem with her on Shabbat. We would always set out with the same goal: to find the Russian church with the gold domes. Invariably, we ended up lost in the same Arab neighborhood, she, warily eyeing the inhabitants, me, blithely skipping along, stupidly fearless.

My friend was the one person I kept in touch with after that year. We wrote to each other for ten years. She moved to Israel soon after the year ended, studied at Hebrew University, and worked at the Biblical Museum. I visited her there five years after our program together, and we still managed to stay in touch. But time marched on. Her mom passed away around the time I married, and we lost track of each other. I tried writing a few times later, but I suspect she moved to a new apartment, and the letters never arrived.

Years passed and every so often I would think of her. At times, I would Google her. She shared a name with a human rights activist and an illustrator of children's book about the disabled. Not a chance, I would think.

About a year and a half ago, I received an email from some gentlemen putting together an alumni organization for my Israel program. I took it upon myself to try to track down the alumni from my year. I even set up a website. Amateurish, to be sure, but it was a labor of love. I had such fond memories of that year, and such a desperate curiosity to see where people ended up. Mostly, I hoped to reconnect with my dear friend. It took me a few months to set up the web site, and I began to search for friends in earnest. I was marginally successful, but I was still unable to find the one friend I couldn't bear to lose.

Last week, I found myself depressed and despairing. The endless winter encased me in gloom, and my busy, overwhelmed law school husband was consumed in exams and papers. Once again, I Googled my old friend. I scanned pages and pages of search results, when finally, on page seven or eight, I found her name on a list of Israeli tour guides. I emailed the company and asked them to have her contact me.

A few days later, I opened my email to find a message from my friend that began, "Yes, it's me!!!" My heart leapt. Spring had finally arrived, at least, metaphorically.

It's been a crazy few weeks that way; full of surprises. My kids -all of them, my biological children and my students alike - are going absolutely, in the words of a fellow Texan teacher at my school, "Bazooie!" I guess it's cabin fever. They're all fighting like cats and dogs. My baby is just going plain bonkers. She's been climbing on my desk, grabbing scissors or "sharpie" permanent markers, and doing as much damage as she can before I can wrestle the weapons of mess destruction from her chubby little hands.

I had a parent-teacher conference at her daycare this morning. The final report: my sweet, angel pushes, hits, grabs toys out of classmates hands, climbs the bookshelves, and eats the sequins off her class projects, but she does it all with a big, sweet smile on her face. She's two, I lamely explained. Her teachers nodded. "Yeah, she'll be fine. We just have to be consistent and firm with her." Good luck, I muttered under my breath.

I still don't get the point of these day care conferences. So my kid eats glue? What two year old doesn't?

She's not going to be two much longer. In fact, she's growing so fast it often takes my breath away. I was driving her to school this morning when she asked me to play the "Me-a-name-I-call-myse'f" song. "I like dat moowie" she told me. I nearly spit out my latte laughing.

This weekend we hit a big milestone. My baby was finally big enough to sit still for long enough to get a "haycut". After a crazy day comprised of an hour and twenty minute long piano lesson (the next student didn't show and the teacher lost track of time), the final swim lesson of the session (the kids got certificates!), and mass chaos at my children's school's Israel Fair, I decided, insanely, to take my kids for a haircut. We were exhausted, frazzled, frayed, and hungry. What better time to ask my children to sit still in front of people with sharp scissors?

As always, the big kids did great. My son patiently explained to the hairdresser that he wanted a "two on the sides and back, and a two-and-a-half on top". Then he proceeded to chat her ear off. My diva sat still as a statue, staring forlornly into the mirror. The baby fidgeted and watched. I asked her again, are you sure you don't want to try? You're such a big girl! It won't hurt!

This time, she solemnly conceded. I placed her on the booster, and the hairdresser placed a smock covered in colorful animals over her. She looked frightened, but at peace. And every time the hairdresser asked her to look up at her, my baby smiled a squinchy-nosed grin.

But she did it! She sat for her very first haircut ever. My Princess Crazy Hair is gone. Like my big swimmers, she also came home with a certificate. It read: "My Baby's First Haircut", and it included a snip of her babysoft brown curls taped on it. We celebrated by giving our big girl her first lollipop ever. She only had to wait two and a half years, which in the life of a toddler, is literally forever.

Waiting to find a long-lost friend only felt that way.

Waiting for Spring is another story altogether.

The rut

2008-03-02T21:58:00.003-06:00

I think I'm depressed.

There is a big, wide world out there. Politics is happening. Art is happening. Music is happening. But in my world, only winter and children are happening. Children who color permanent marker on my coffee table, children who harass their younger siblings, children who whine and grouse incessantly, children who make messes are happening.

I'm in a rut.

My husband plugs away at law school, studying, writing, researching ad infinitum. He's engaged, driven, stressed out, and dare I say it, happy. I look around at the endless dirty snowbanks, the messy apartment, the uprooted children and wonder why I'm here.

Forecasts of "wintry mix" have a way of making me feel so homesick. I want to be back in my old house, walking with my friends in the hot evenings, leaving my kids with my parents for a few hours of sanity. But it's not an option. I have to look at the big picture, look to the not-so-distant future when our hard work and sacrifices will pay off.

But the snow and ice are blinding. I can't see into that future right now.

I have found myself taking more and more frequent mental vacations to Hawaii. I've never been there, but in my mind I'm in a small bungalow on the beach with a lush forest behind me, and brilliant blue waves crashing on the shores before me. I am drenched in warm sun, and of course, I'm twenty pounds lighter.

A girl can dream.

And right now, dreams are all I've got to take me away from the harshness of winter and the endless challenges of motherhood. There is a light at the end of this malaise-ridden tunnel. Spring is supposedly weeks away. At least, my mind tells me it is; although my heart is doubtful. And my mother is coming soon, followed closely by my mother-in-law. Their visits always bring much needed warmth, camaraderie, and reprieve.

My husband has been a tremendous source of strength, taking care of the kids on Saturday, while I burrow under my blankets hiding from responsibility for a short while. He's there to "talk me away from the edge", when the screeching and whining have hit a crescendo. But he's only human, and a very busy human at that. He can't make the sun shine brighter or hotter, and he can't make the kids stop being kids.

I haven't fenced in six weeks. I haven't jogged or walked briskly in months. I bake and eat and groan each time I step on the scale. I spend way too much time plugged into the internet. I spend way too much time drifting off to my imaginary Hawaiian island bungalow.

I'm in a rut.

Perhaps I could use a full-blown Hollywood mid-life crisis: the impractical sports car, the impossible cross-country journey with fellow middle-aged companion in tow, the trip to Jamaica, the younger man - wait, I already married him.

That's the problem with life - it doesn't follow the script. I wasn't supposed to be facing down forty, working part-time as a P.E. teacher, living in an apartment in Chicago, raising three children, married to a student, wearing long skirts and baking my own challah. None of that was in the plans.

Thank God I'm horrible at planning things.

I'd rather be in this rut, surrounded by a wonderful, sweet, hard-working husband, and three brilliant, funny, affectionate, and precocious children. Thank God I have two parents I adore and a mother-in-law I'm crazy about. I have a wonderful family I love, and they love me back. I couldn't have planned it better myself.

I don't need a Hollywood script for my life, just some patience. Spring is right around the corner: long walks outdoors with friends, adventures to great museums and gardens with my children, fresh air and no snow. Visits from family, dates with my husband - I just have to hold on a little longer.

In due time, even this wintry mix will pass.

In due time, I may make it to the real Hawaii.

Justice on ice

2008-02-24T21:43:00.010-06:00

About a month ago I was summoned for jury duty. My gut reaction to these things is rarely negative. In fact, I'm quite eager to fulfill my civic responsibilities. I've always voted, and almost always make the effort to research the candidates and ballot initiatives. I actually look forward to serving on a jury, and serving as impartially, dispassionately, and judiciously as I can, considering my Latina passions that never lie too far beneath the surface. However, until now, my number was called only once, while I was a college student living in another state. Since then, the summons never came, until a month ago.

As much as I yearn to serve the cause of justice, for as it is written, "Justice, justice shall you pursue" (Parshat Shoftim, my son's Bar Mitzvah Parshah, B"H), the timing bites. Who's going to take the baby to day care while I begin my multiple modalities of transportation to arrive at the downtown courthouse in a timely manner? Who's going to pick up my kids from school, take my diva to ballet, and pick up the big kids from homework club while I weigh the scales justice? Certainly not the law school hubby who is in the midst of his own judicial pursuits.

I managed to get out of it, but only after taking a train (a cool double decker Metra) and a taxi to get to the court house 30 minutes late, waiting in a really long line, and explaining to the clerk with the French accent that I did send in a request for a hardship deferment, but, apparently, in the wrong format. I was required to write a note explaining my predicament (motherhood), and a date when I could serve (when my youngest turns twelve?).

In the end, I was able to defer jury duty until, theoretically, this summer, and I made it to work with plenty of time to spare. The best thing to come out of this superfluous errand was the discovery that those super-cool Metra trains allow parents to take up to three kids under the age of twelve free! I see a fabulous Spring-time adventure in the making...

Speaking of adventures, this week has been replete with them. On Wednesday I had to drag my mildly feverish baby to work with me, since she was not well enough for daycare. On Thursday I stayed home with her. On Friday morning at 4:00 am, she crawled into bed with me burning hot, pointing to her ear and complaining of a boo boo. Several hours later I whisked her off to the pediatrician who confirmed the suspected ear infection. Amoxycillin was dispensed, and I'm happy to report she is on the road to recovery (hamza, hamza).

She was well enough this afternoon for a different kind of family adventure altogether. After the usual Sunday morning shuffle of piano lessons, which I'm happy to announce are going really well, and swim lessons, which aren't going badly, we drove downtown to take in an outdoor winter art exhibit known as The Museum of Modern Ice. It was really cool, no pun intended.

The paintings were painted onto sheets of ice. It was as beautiful as it was fascinating. The artist developed his own technique for keeping the ice sheets below freezing, not that it was necessary this month, but we were more fascinated by how he got the paint to stick.

For the duration of our short walk to the exhibit, my little Texan Diva kvetched about the cold. She was miserable. Interestingly, she stopped complaining once we reached the exhibit. Unfortunately, she didn't stop frowning. I could hardly blame her.

After an obligatory stop at the "Bean",

we found our way to an even stranger sight. A "heating tent" with free tango lessons where my kids warmed up and drank free samples of pomegranate flavored Kefir, while puzzling at the hypnotic strains of Argentinian accordions.

Were we in Chicago or Tierra del Fuego? Who cares? We were warm, if only briefly. We made it another few blocks before we had to stop for another blast of warmth, this time, courtesy Starbucks, and some warm drinks.

We finished off the adventure at the Ghirardelli chocolate shop and ice cream parlor. Where else does one go to warm up on a blustery day in Chicago? I passed up on ice cream and chocolates, figuring the kids would never finish theirs. How wrong I was. Not a bite remained.

We got home right around bedtime. I bathed the kids, fed them some cereal (after all, they had sandwiches for breakfast), and sent them off to bed. I uploaded my photos onto the computer and gasped. I had gained ten pounds in my cheeks alone over the winter!

Thank goodness I passed up on the ice cream. Justice has been served.

The project

2008-02-17T21:24:00.004-06:00

A couple of weeks ago my son came home and informed me that, "I have to go to my friend's house to work on a school project."

School project? What school project?

"I dunno."

I called up his friend's mom and she filled me in on the few details she knew. "Israel fair, Caesarea, my house on Sunday with one other girl". Hmmm. Okay, I grunted. I dropped him off on Sunday, and picked him up a few hours later. I asked him several pointed questions and felt no better informed, but I assumed it was all under control.

On Thursday I got an email from the same mom updating me on the school project situation. "They need to build a model, but I don't want to be supervising this alone."

Model? Of what, exactly? When I interrogated my eight year old again, I got a scramble of: "homemade clay! We're going to paint it! It's going to be an aqueduct!" Aha! I responded knowingly, but really, I didn't know a thing.

This afternoon after piano lessons and swimming lessons, with nothing more substantial than an apple, granola bar, and small bag of pretzels in my kids, we met up with the other girl and her mom to sort out the project.

Our first stop was the Frankel Teacher Resource Center, a little known gem in the community. Unfortunately, they were on a tighter deadline than we were, and we had arrived a mere hour before closing. "You're going to have to come back another day." The woman informed as calmly as she could, so not to cause me to break down into tears.

So we resorted to plan two: Michael's. We went in armed with a couple of internet print-outs and a handwritten sketch from the teacher with a picture of a Roman aqueduct and a column. I grabbed the first Michael's employee I could find and assaulted her with questions. What's going to be the easiest way to build a model of a Roman aqueduct? The least messy? How do we paint it? How do we glue it? What aisle is all this stuff on? Once again I found myself being spoken to slowly and calmly by a woman trying desperately to keep yet another panicked school-project-mom sane.

For the next half an hour, two harried and confused moms dragged four children around Michael's trying to disabuse them of the notion that we were going to be making homemade clay. In the end, we followed the Michael-lady's advice and settled on a styrofoam model. We left the store with a bizarre assortment of posterboard, sheets of styrofoam, glue, cellophane paper and sand, and headed back to my place to combine it all into a masterful work of third grade art.

Back at home I laid out a sheet of plastic table covering, and we set the kids to work gluing sand on a posterboard while I cut the styrofoam with a serrated-edge knife. What did you know about this project? I asked my friend. "Nothing. I couldn't get anything sensible out of my daughter. You?" She asked, not really expecting a different answer.

You kidding? I've got a boy!

"I tried emailing her teacher, but she never got back to me."

Are we doing this right? I asked, looking nervously at the glue, sand and paint my frenetic toddler was whirling frighteningly near. My friend motioned at the third girl and reassured me, "She sort of knows what the assignment is." Aaaah, I said, feeling slightly more ill at ease.

"How much of this project should we be doing?" My friend asked me as I was putting the finishing touches on the styrofoam sculpture, while she cut and glued pieces of cellophane to the posterboard.

Aaaiiieee! I thought. I'm turning into one of those mothers who do her children's projects! You couldn't miss them. Some school projects look like the kid has taken a lump of clay, mashed it into a potato shape, stuck some toothpicks in it, and has declared the masterpiece to be Abraham Lincoln; while the "good" mom stands back a healthy distance, showering the child with praise.

Then there are the "bad" moms who hover over their children, pushing them out of the way to put the finishing touches on the authentic wall paper and working lights of the model oval office. "No!" they screech at their child, "the vase goes on the other coffee table!"

Was I that mom? I immediately set the kids to work gluing the styrofoam bits together. My friend wisely suggested sticking in toothpicks to hold it while the glue dried. Then we put the kids to work painting the structure. This turned out to be far easier in theory than in practice.

Hey, kids! We hollered. This is your project, not ours! Get over here! I ordered, as I put the finishing touches on a styrofoam arch. "Yeah! Quit playing around!" called out my friend, as she glued more cellophane to the board.

Interestingly enough, the one kid who had half a clue what the assignment was about, came immediately and set to work. My friend and I fumed at our two spacey slackers. I'm glad it was a group project. I said. Otherwise, I wouldn't have heard a word about it until the morning it was due.

My friend concurred. "My daughter mentioned something about some project, but I couldn't get anything more out of her." We smiled approvingly at the little girl sitting at the table, carefully gluing down cellophane.

After a couple of grueling hours - more from keeping our two little twittering birds-of-a-feather on task than from the actual craft labor - we finished it up. I expressed a deep sigh of relief to have survived my son's first major school project. Thank goodness that's over!

"What's he got for the Chicago fair project?"

I shot my son a vicious glare. The WHAT?!

"I have to build a model of the Museum of Science and Industry!" He smiled sheepishly, speaking calmly to keep me from having a complete breakdown.