dirt from the playground

I’m not one to write about religion. For one, it’s not my style to push my beliefs on anyone with the exception of beauty products and fashion advice, and two, I’m pretty sure the Jewish religion (which is what I practice) doesn’t want me as its poster child. But today, I have to get Jew-y with it because I’m having a total Passover moment. No, not a moment. I think I’m having a Passover month. Let me explain.

When Jewish people observe the Passover holiday, we pray from a book called a haggadah. In one of the haggadah readings, we recite the hebrew word “dayenu” which means “it would have been enough for us”. So let me connect the dots for you between Passover and my current life with my own personal prayer:

*If my son only had to have his tonsils out and not had to miss 2 out of 3 weeks of summer camp, dayenu.

*If only one of my kids had brought home lice instead of the whole family getting it during my son’s recovery, dayenu.

*If I only had to wash everything in my house due to said lice and my washing machine hadn’t broken down on me, dayenu.

*If my washing machine had broken and my water heater had not exploded all over our utility room causing a flood, dayenu.

Now for those of you who have sat through decades and decades of Seder dinners, you’ll be able to point out that not only is my family in a state of “dayenu” but we’ve also had the pleasure of experiencing a real life Passover plague! How lucky are WE???

So there you have it. All of my complaints in one post!

And yes, I know, I know, if all of this is the worst that happens to my sweet family this summer, then, well, DAYENU! But sometimes, it’s hard to see the light through the lice*.

*BTW, if you do get lice, you might want to check out the Hair Fairies (http://www.hairfairies.com/). Hair Fairies is a salon that specializes in delousing hair for people of all ages. It’s a national company, so check out their site for locations near you. They were amazing, helpful and sympathetic during my 24-hour freak out which ended with a clean bill of hair for my family of 4.

If you live anywhere on this planet, you probably know that we’re having insanely hot, hot, hot weather throughout most of the US. If you live in Chicago, it’s the only thing you can talk about. So here we are, sweating our tushies off in not-so-Windy City and doing whatever we can to beat the heat. For some, that includes joining the masses on the shores of Lake Michigan. For others, that means staying inside and not moving for fear of generating body heat. My family has taken a different route, albeit, a much more fattening one…
We’re eating ice cream. Lots of it. And although there are some terrific summer dessert haunts around the city, we’re fortunate to live around some of our favorites.

At the top of our ice-anything list is black dog gelato in Ukranian Village at 859 N. Damen. This place is hot (literally, I don’t believe they have A/C) but the gelato is crazy-good. The lines can get Apple-store-long, and that’s not so much fun in the heat, but at this point, I’m so addicted to the stuff, that I’ve even made my husband leave parties and date night plans to make sure we get there before it closes. If you know my husband at all, then you know that he’s happy to oblige because #1-he loves gelato and #2-he hates going out and/or socializing.
Despite having 2 locations (the second is at 1955 W Belmont), they tend to sell out of my favorite flavors before I can get my fabulous, night-on-the-town-butt to the store. Regardless, let me just say, if you have 5 minutes left to live, spend it eating the goat cheese cashew caramel gelato. Once you’ve tried it, feel free to die and go to heaven.

And as of tonight, coming in at a close-ish second is The Purple Cow at 1740 W. Division in Wicker Park. This new neighborhood ice cream haunt, opened this week, kind of. After a few electrical issues before its grand opening earlier this week, the store finally opened its doors yesterday. We feel like we’ve been waiting and waiting for this place to open, and wondering if this perfect summer spot would even open during the 2012 season. You can imagine our delight to see signs of life and business on Thursday.

So since I promised the kids a special treat for not making me take them outside to play in the unbearable heat after camp, we made the couple of blocks walk over after dinner, and despite having to be outside to get there, and we loved the place! Good news…the ice cream is awesome.
The flavors seem to have been dreamt up by a 9-year-old, including birthday cake and Superman, which is a good thing. And to top that off, at 7:30 at night, in 100 degree weather with 1000000% humidity, we were greeted with a free sample of homemade caramel corn which kept my daughter from asking for her ice cream 2000 times before it was scooped and we were able to get a table for 4 in the tiny ‘scream shop. Small, friendly, and accommodating.

However, I wouldn’t be a future mother-in-law if I didn’t point out one tiny, little problem, and that is that I’m supposed to fit into a bathing suit in the morning and my scoop of chocolate peanut butter was probably the most offensive of all the high fat, high calorie flavors I could have picked. Alright, alright, that’s more my fault than the Cow’s. But don’t worry, I balanced out my guilt-inducing choice by stealing most of the frozen strawberries from my daughter’s cup. I figure the healthiness of her strawberry ice cream combined with the amount of sweat I produced walking 5 minutes home from dessert cancels out most of my caloric mistake, right?

Just hope no one moos at me tomorrow at the pool!

*I have not been compensated in any way to review black dog gelato or The Purple Cow. On the contrary, I have paid with both my wallet and my figure to dine at these establishments. With any luck, double chins will be all the rage come winter.

I think Tia and Tamera are adorable. I said it. I watched Sister, Sister from time to time and I actually like their reality show, Tia & Tamera, on the Style Network. They’re both cute, they’re honest but not in a mean Kardashian way, and they can make fun of themselves in a silly way. I like ‘em and I’m not apologizing for it.

So of course, when I was checking out People’s site and ran across this new mommy-to-be post, I clicked. After all, the headline was intriguing…

Tamera Mowry-Housley’s Blog: How I Found Out I Was Pregnant!

I was going to be really pissed (pun intended) if all she did was pee on a stick-it’s not exactly groundbreaking stuff. But that crafty headline made it sound like maybe she heard someone singing the catchy theme song from Sister, Sister (imagine me singing this) and realized that it was coming from her belly!

****SPOILER ALERT****

Apparently, even celebrities just pee on a stick to find out if they’re knocked up. That’s all Tamera did. The great mystery’s solved!

I remember being so excited to take those stick tests. I even took two home tests after the doctor called me to tell me I was preggers because I felt that my others that had come out negative (it was too early) had ripped me off from being able to see it for myself for the first time. My husband thought I was nuts because each time I’d show him the stick…he was like, “yeah, babe, I know”. But he’s a man, he doesn’t get that most surprises women get in the bathroom are bad ones (ie. stepping on a scale, getting a period, finding the first signs of aging in the mirror, etc.)

Anyway, getting back to T&T, since I can’t blame cutie-Tamera for smart, yet deceitful editing/marketing, a very hardy mazel on your budding baby and I look forward to reading all about the unique way you’re water breaks!

PS: While searching for some info on Tia and Tamera to add to this post, I came across this. It’s a little too much sisterly love for me…

Tia&Tamera: Tamera Drinks Tia’s Breast Milk

As my kids would say, eeeewwww! Gross!!!

Lest you think I believe myself to be Super Mom, I don’t. This particular post is about a new mommy friend of mine who has changed my life with a super parenting tip!

The story goes…My kids started camp last week, so to say that we’re in a state of change is an understatement. Although my 2-year-old daughter is participating in her current school’s summer camp program, instead of mommy-n-me, she’s being dropped off and doing it like a champ!

My son, on the other hand, has started camp at the new school he’ll attend come fall for the very first time. So that’s a whole new ball of wax. And that ball of wax includes a new parking lot, new classrooms, new teachers, new friends, new pick-up and drop-off rules, and new ID tags on my keychain.

And to top it all off, my son is also required to be 100% potty trained. Now, my little pisher is about 80% trained which means that 20% of me is totally nervous all of the time, that I will receive an angry call from disappointed administration. Yes, I know. Welcome to my completely insignificant, over-privileged nightmare.

But what’s worse is that all of these cha-cha-cha-changes are taking a toll on my baby’s behavior.

To say that my son is laid-back and happy-bordering-on-ecstatic most of the time is pretty accurate. The boy’s smile and laugh are constant and contagious, he makes friends as easily as Lindsay Lohan makes career mistakes, and while my daughter doesn’t always love following my rules (hold hands crossing the street-NO!; don’t take your shoes off in the middle of Target-NO!; stop rubbing chocolate pudding in your freshly washed hair-NO!), my son isn’t usually the argumentative type. Not that he doesn’t have his days, but normally, he’s a pretty easy kid to parent. Until this week.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like camp started and he turned into a teeny, tiny terror, however all of the sudden, the little dude who would jump when I said jump is being a little defiant.

For instance, our new school/camp dismisses the kids onto the playground where all the parents wait patiently, with baited breath, to find out who’s done what to whom from the teachers. As the kids are released out of the classroom onto the playground, they barely acknowledge the parents except to drop backpacks next to their feet for safe keeping, before climbing onto the nearest piece of equipment. And I’m not against fun. I’m not even against too much fun. After all, I’d like to think at the ripe old age of thirty blah, blah, I’m still more fun than you can handle! Oy, even I know that’s not true, but there’s nothing wrong with telling yourself a little white lie, is there?

Anyway, as I said, while I’m all for a little extra curricular activity following camp, at some point, it’s time to go home, eat lunch and take my a much needed nap. I appreciate that camp is sucking up all of my son’s daytime energy, but without a nap, he’s like a Gremlin after midnight, and I’m talking about Stripe, not Gizmo. So when a new mommy friend said, “You have your one bonus minute and then time’s up!” to her son and he actually complied, my head spun and I had to keep myself from shouting, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

What’s a bonus minute and what magical powers does it possess? I couldn’t believe how this Super Mom had gotten her kid to agree and, more importantly, STICK TO a one-more-minute-rule.

So with the pride of a mom who has discovered THE Holy Grail of parenting tricks, my new idol happily explained to a silent and eager group of parents, that she uses bonus minutes to get her kid to do what she wants him to do.

For instance, instead of trying the almost-always-ineffective 1 more minute rule, she now lets her child believe he actually holds the power by giving him 3 minutes to play on the playground PLUS one bonus minute. It’s genius!

I mean, who doesn’t like getting a little extra sumpthin’, sumpthin’? A work bonus, Weight Watcher bonus points, the bonus round on a game show…bonuses rule! I mean, can you imagine going to Neimans and having the salesperson wrap up 3 pairs of Louboutins and a BONUS pair of Fendi motorcycle boots just to get you to leave in time for lunch and a nap??? So why not use the idea of bonuses on my son?

I tried it. And it works! Both of my kids have taken to the bonus minutes for everything from bonus TV time to bonus before-bed-books to bonus Superman flights on mommy’s feet (which I use to replace kickboxing classes and pilates all forms of exercise).

So while my sweet husband is still trying to stomach the expense of private education, I’ve already gotten schooled on the playground. And that, my frustrated mommy friends, is a total bonus!

I always find myself telling me husband all of the life lessons I hope to pass along to my kids. I want to teach them to be independent. I want to share some of the stupid things I did in my 20’s so they can avoid making the same mistakes (he agrees 100% with that one). I want to tell them that it’s a good thing to get your heart broken because it makes you more human. And I truly hope to share the importance of friendship. I’m someone who believes that friends can turn into family. And although I’ve gone through my life with an unguarded heart, dishing out friendship to almost anyone with a smile, despite what some might say about giving it away to easily, when it comes to friends, I still believe the more the merrier. Case in point:

It’s Sunday afternoon. I’m sitting in the Miami airport, listening to a young couple fight (while I pretend to ignore them), and finishing off a sack of Wendy’s. I can’t totally tell you what was in it because I’m eating it so fast and furious, like a prisoner released from jail after years of white bread and spam sandwiches.

But I haven’t been in prison. I’ve actually been at one of the nicest spas in the country, where you can happily order a quesadilla or dessert without guilt, because they make everything spa-size (that’s the exact opposite of super-size) and every last carb and calorie is counted for you.

It’s great unless you like food. Or you’re hungry. Which after a weekend of 2-bite meals, I was. So, despite my WW diet, I indulge in food that promises to keep me from fitting into my favorite skinnies.

But all my not-so-skinny-bitching aside, I was in Florida for a girls’ weekend and not just any girls’ weekend. This was a celebration of friendships with girls (I guess we’re women, but that makes me feel too old) that I’ve known and adored since I was 18. And because we like to party with a purpose, we were vacationing in honor of a girlfriend who has just endured a year of crap…the crap being chemo. I don’t know about you, but after kicking the you-know-what out of something that has kicked the you-know-what out of her every other week for months on end, girlfriend deserves a luxurious Canyon Ranch Spa weekend girls’ trip and pretty much anything else she wants!

So we partied. And we laughed. And we remembered “the time that…”. And we toasted each other. And we relaxed. And we even motivated enough to dress up and go out on the town for dinner.

We enjoyed a terrific meal at a Miami hot spot, where our entire bill was covered, along with a bottle of champagne, by the man at the next table who set his sights on the one of us who had most recently given birth…3 weeks ago. To say she’s a knockout would be an understatement, even post-partum. To say it reminded us of our single ladies days would be completely accurate. Either way, my husband was thrilled to have saved the money!

On the second day of our trip, we sunned and spa’ed. It was heaven. But much of that heaven for me was the company. I was definitely the odd man out, not that my friends would ever let me feel that way, but I was the only one who didn’t grow up with these girls since grade school. I was a friend of friends who needled my way into this magnificent group of gals. If you knew them, you’d understand. Their love for one another is heartwarming. They’ve been there for each other through bat mitzvahs, break-ups, careers, fiancés, weddings, the birth of each other’s kids and the death of loved ones. And the minute our friend got her bad news, they jumped on airplanes to come hold her hand.

That kind of friendship is genuine. That kind of friendship is special. And that’s the kind of friendship I can only hope my kids receive in their lifetimes.

My grandma died on Thursday morning. She was 99.

She had all of her wits about her until her last few days. I was with her on Wednesday and held her hand for hours while she slept. She only opened one eye one time in three days. It was when I kissed her and announced to my parents that I was leaving. So I stayed.

To be honest, there wasn’t much wrong with her health-wise except that she was 99, weak from old age, and totally bored with her nursing home lifestyle. Who could blame her? This was a woman threw herself into everything she ever did. Sitting around and having lunch were not activities to her. Not for the grandma who taught me how to ice-skate when she was 68 or owned and ran her own business well into her seventies.

When she finally did retire from her business, she started volunteering for the Chicago Botanic Garden and, at 95, she was honored for having the most volunteer hours. Not a ton of 95-year-old philanthropists who get their hands dirty on the North Shore, or anywhere, for that matter, but it was her thing.

My grandma never missed an opportunity to be around nature, which was one of her true loves besides me (her only grandchild), my mom (her only child) and her own parents. She had a wonderful relationship with my dad, who took care of her as if she was his very own mom until her last day. They laughed together and loved each other tremendously, even when they teased each other unmercifully.

She loved the beach and swimming in Lake Michigan, which is something she did regularly, when the Chicago weather allowed, until sometime in her eighties. She loved birds and spent a lot of my life pointing them out to me despite the fact that I have a secret fear of our feathered friends (they ain’t no friend o’ mine).

She smoked tons of cigarettes (because apparently there was a time when people believed they weren’t bad for you), loved fashion and owned 2 women’s clothing stores, drank bourbon (I’m still not convinced I know exactly what that is), baked cookies for anyone who came through her door, and was fiercely independent. 

Her cars smelled like smoke, like almost everything else she owned did, but she always let me drive, from the minute my parents taught me how, even though I was too young to have a license. I’m guessing it was more about her not having to drive, than me being allowed to drive, but the 14-year-old me didn’t care about the reason.

She was Jewish but thought that the “other” holidays were much prettier than Chanukah or Rosh Hashanah, so every year, she lugged a Christmas tree up to her apartment for the two of us to decorate. We dyed Easter eggs, made Christmas cookies, and on top of getting all 8 nights of presents, I was also spoiled with an overflowing stocking and tons of ‘morning of’ presents. I was one lucky only grandchild. 

But the best part about my grandma, besides that fact that the woman was perfectly manicured with her standard dark red polish, beautifully coiffed, and elegantly eyebrow-waxed up until her very last day on earth, was her warmth.

Everyone liked my grandma. It was impossible not to.

She had plenty of friends her own age, but I’ve never met a woman who had so many young people that loved her too. She was easy to get along with, incredibly interesting AND interested, and fun-loving that she attracted the young and the old. It wasn’t uncommon for me to be at a restaurant and have a random 20-something ask how my grandma was doing.

My friends spent almost as much time with my grandma as I did, and based on what I’ve heard since she’s passed away, they loved her almost as much as I did too. She would take us ice-skating, drive carpool if my parents were working, or let us hang out at her house when we were done meeting the boys uptown in junior high. Whatever we wanted-within reason, of course-my grandma provided. 

She had cool stories about knowing Donna Karan when the young designer worked for Anne Klein, a funny one about a model who hit on her during a market runway showing, and little tidbits about famous fashion designers from her days in the industry.

When I was 5, she let me stumble down the catwalk in a fashion show for her store in front of dozens of customers, wearing my mom’s gold wedding shoes and a designer-maxi-skirt-(it was just called “long” back then and I think it was YSL?)-turned-strapless-dress by little old me.

She came to every play, every dance recital, every ice show, every meet, every basketball game that I cheered at, and even endured a long photo session at my bat mitzvah and wedding, despite HATING having her picture taken. 

She met and loved my husband, she met and loved my kids. 

She hated when my hair was in my face, but she loved me more than anything in the world. And I’ll never forget any of it.