I think it was an omen, and I don’t even believe in omens, because the party totally did my head in. I know how that sounds (i.e. bad and/or ungrateful), so let me explain. Every year, my mom works to arthritic exhaustion getting ready for the family party. Sandwich stuff is laid out, side dishes are prepared, presents are selected and wrapped, and mandel bread—the stiffest dough imaginable—is lovingly stirred, shaped, baked, cut, and toasted to make the day special.

The problem is that the Goldstein kids don’t see each other often enough these days. Therefore, when we do finally get together, the siblings dive into rushed conversations and jokes while the kids, many of whom are at or approaching teenagedom, run wild. In other words: I love my family, and I love holidays, but I do not always love family holiday parties.

This year, per the usual, I arrived early to help set the table and to peel, grate, and squeeze dry seven pounds of potatoes. About the time mom really needed help getting the food all set out, the siblings and cousins were arriving and diving into full mayhem mode. So Mom had to yell to be heard over the din. As did Matt whenever he needed to tell or ask me something about Simon. As did I when I attempted to tell people to grab something, set something somewhere, or even just grab a plate and start eating. Not that anyone was listening to me…

I was noise-stressed before we ever got to present opening, an activity that devolved from loosely organized and loud to full-blown chaos within ten minutes or so. By the time the party ended, I was completely shell-shocked. I don’t know who got what from whom. We never played dreidel. We lit only one menorah, and the teens were texting during that part. I only took about four pictures before giving up. There’s got to be a better way.

When I got home, I wanted nothing more than an hour or so of lovely, lovely quiet, and the highlight of my day was slipping into bed. So, yeah, that’s where Chanukah stood as of this morning. Then today I took Simon to his swim lesson, his last of the year, and Ms. Julie had a treat and card for him. These lines especially caught my attention:

“Thank you for coming each week with a smile and a willingness to learn. You are often the highlight of my day, and always my favorite lesson.”

What more could any parent want to hear from one of his or her child’s teachers? I can’t think of anything. It was the best present I could have asked for, until…

…Until we went to bed tonight. As I snuggled next to Simon on his new Spiderman sheets (a gift from my mom), Matt brought in the little LED menorah he made just yesterday and set it for the second night. Since I hadn’t lit our real menorah yet, I decided to sing the tunes right there. When I finished, Simon chimed in:

“No Mommy, that’s not the right tune. Here’s the way I like to sing it.”

And damn if he didn’t sing the entire first blessing, in Hebrew, complete with a few repetitions and embellishments I vaguely remember my friend Sharon (a cantor) using. He’s been hearing this tune at preschool Shabbat for years now—I think—but never once let on before tonight that he remembered or could repeat any of it.

A great swim lesson, a sweet note from Simon’s teacher, and being serenaded by Simon in Spiderman sheets by the glow of an LED Menorah. Yeah, my Chanukah is looking up.

By now, I’ve been out of the work force for a year and a half, a part of a preschool community for over three years, part of a second preschool community for over one year, and part of a volunteer organization for four years. The connections are starting to not just form, but also to cross and develop into a true Louisvillian web. What follows are two recent examples.

Tale #1: The Preschool Connection

Three weeks ago, Simon had a make-up swim lesson at the JCC on a Tuesday. Afterwards, we hit the playground, where Simon befriended a boy, Mikhael, who is about eight months older. The next day, I was sick with a fever, so Matt took a half day off from work. The weather was nice, so he decided to take Simon to a local park, Big Rock. Shortly after arrival, Simon saw Mikhael, cried out “Hey, I know you!” very happily, and ran off to play.

Fast Friends at Big Rock

That left Matt to chat with Mikhael’s mother, who was with a two-year-old girl. The conversation went something like this:

“So how old is your daughter? “

“Two.”

“Is she in preschool?

“Yes, she’s at AJ.

“That’s interesting. My wife drives a two-year-old girl to AJ a few times a week.

“Really? Who?

“Agotich Kwai.

“She’s in Avigail’s class. I know your wife!”

And she does. Avigail’s family moved here from Israel about a year ago, and Keren (the mother) and I have compared notes about how much the girls are speaking at all, and what percentage of their speech is in English as opposed to their native tongue. Come to find out, Mikhael was very close to going to KIP for kindergarten, so he and Simon just missed being classmates. We’re setting up a play-date for this week.

Tale #2: The Elementary School Connection

I’m getting ready to gear up for choosing a kindergarten for Simon. The process here in Jefferson County is so deeply divided, complicated, controversial, and—if I do say so myself, stupid—that I’m not going to get into the details. Suffice it to say, I have a few magnet schools I’d like to check out, and then I plan to tour neighborhood schools. Magnet schools are chosen by lottery, and Simon is not guaranteed his neighborhood school either, so I have to look at several schools and rank them. Further, at least half of the schools I choose must be in neighborhoods with low income levels, low rates of education, and high percentages of minorities.

Anyway, given all this drama I’ve been asking around about people’s experiences with schools. Where are their kids, are they happy, and the like. I’m especially interested in those who are happy with a B cluster school, i.e. one of the schools in the low-income, low-education areas. About a month ago, I talked to the assistant in the toddler room at AJ, Agotich’s class last year. Margaret has kids at Byck, a B-cluster school.

It wasn’t her first choice—or even her second. It might have been her last one. She was devastated and frankly worried, but headed off to open house with an open mind. What she found was a well maintained building, an energetic staff, and a Waldorf-inspired program that appealed to her. She enrolled her boys, gulped hard, and hoped for the best. Which is what she got; her kids are in their third year at Byck, and the entire family is very happy with the school.

This made me feel better. Byck came up again when the daughter of an extended family member (my sister-in-law’s sister) ended up there this year. She had been at a different school for kindergarten and first grade, but the family moved last year and had to choose all over again. They, too, got Byck, and the school was their last pick as well. They are also happy with it, something we discussed at my nephew Ben’s birthday party last month. Then Julie, my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law joined the conversation.

“Are you talking about Margaret’s kids? They’re our new next-door neighbors.”

Seriously, that’s how small Louisville is. But wait! Just three days ago Matt, Simon, and I stopped by Guitar Emporium to run an errand. Matt has been building effects pedals lately, and he and a guy who works there were going to exchange some components. The conversation turned to kids, then I directed it to schools, and soon after Greg was telling me a now very familiar story about Byck.

“You know, I heard a very similar story from a family member and from a teacher at AJ.”

“Are you talking about Margaret?”

“Yes!”

“That’s my wife.”

THAT’s how small this city is.

But wait, there’s a…

Bonus Round:

Two weeks ago we had an electrician out to the house. As we’re chatting while ensuring that I ordered the right switches (my house still has some early twentieth-century knob and tube wiring), he says to me,

“Now, did I get your name right? Jessica Goldstein?”

“That’s me.”

“Rita’s daughter?”

“Yup. She’s the one who gave me your name.”

“Does that make you related to Perry?”

“He’s my brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

They are friends, as it happens. Chris, the son of my mom’s electrician and the one who came to our house, is somehow related to old neighbors of my brother.

Can you believe how small this city is? I could go into how the home inspector I used to refinance two years ago screamed “Goldstein’s sister!” when he laid eyes on me, or how I see the woman who is a family friend and who inspired my name every Sunday at the JCC, or how I avoided a fellow KIP parent for several years because he was my worst baby-sitting job ever, but I think you get the idea.

The moral of this story:

1. I should really go check out Byck;
2. I should be nice to everyone, because you never, ever know when doing otherwise could come back to haunt you.

It all started the week before last, when I had a five-day fever that didn’t end until Yom Kippur was over. This was the same week I learned that my neck was a mess. (PT is helping, by the way, but I still have an appointment with a neurosurgeon in three weeks.) The timing was pretty bad, because I wanted to use that week to get my house in shape before birthday-palooza arrived.

Then, Sunday night, Gabriel called. Agotich had been sick with a fever since Friday night and was refusing to eat or drink. He was looking for parent-to-parent advice until he could get her to the pediatrician the next morning. I wasn’t too concerned about the food, but the lack of fluids made me nervous. I gave him the address of a pediatric immediate care center, he decided to go straight away, and the doctors there immediately referred Agotich to Kosair Children’s Hospital. Turns out, she had an uncommonly severe form of Hand Foot and Mouth Disease that had left her entire mouth and throat covered in ulcers. That’s why she refused to eat or drink, and the two-day fast had left her dehydrated. Poor baby.

So what’s a family with one car, one licensed driver, and a five-month-old baby to do when a second child ends up in the hospital? Anyieth couldn’t go to the hospital with her parents, Alek doesn’t drive yet, and Gabriel couldn’t leave Agotich alone in such strange and stressful surroundings. They needed someone who could pick up Alek and Anyieth, drop off Anyieth somewhere to be watched, take Alek to the hospital, and then reverse things several hours later.

Friends Alier and Yar helped out, Matt and I helped out, and staff at Agotich’s preschool helped out. I’m sure others did too: they had to. Agotich was in the hospital for six days, during which time this family needed the kind of support we lucky ones get from our extended families. How does anyone do this alone? I can’t imagine. My Sudanese friends have friends, siblings, and cousins, but none have parents to help.

I was happy to step in, and I tried not to think about what it boded in the days ahead that I spent several hours on two different days running carpool instead of getting ready to entertain twice. A sick child takes precedence over parties. Nor did I think too much about the time I was spending coordinating a preschool fundraiser that week. Nor did I think too much about the time I spent in physical therapy for my neck. Nor did I think too much about the fact that school was out Thursday and Friday for Sukkot. Nor did I think too much about the fact that last week was my most intense week of fall half-marathon training, with runs of 6, 7, and 13 miles. I even managed to put out my mind the fact that Simon’s swim lesson on Sunday was going to take away precious preparation time.

I can assure you, however, that when I awoke Saturday morning spectacularly unprepared for the days ahead, I thought about all of these things! We were having 12-14 kids at the Louisville Nature Center for Simon’s class party on Saturday and a total of 18 family members for dinner at our house on Sunday. And as of Saturday morning, I had not made party favors; picked up my junk, much less cleaned my house; or gone to the grocery. I was as or more behind preparing for Simon’s parties than I have ever been for anything in my life.

Evie kindly helped out at the kid’s party and brought a key part of Sunday night’s dinner. Matt and Simon ran errands Saturday and Sunday to get ready. And my mother, an army of one in her own right, helped me cook Sunday and even, I’m embarrassed to admit, helped clean my house. The very woman that Alek wants to cook for was, in fact, cleaning my downstairs bathroom hours before guests arrived.

Thankfully, it all worked out. Simon had a fantastic time at both events, and we were graced with perfect fall weather. But man oh man was I pooped Sunday night. More than that, I was grateful for the village that helped me make Simon’s birthday special and that helps me in so many ways all the time. I’m going to be especially mindful of this when I pick up Braylon Wednesday so he and Simon can have a play-date and celebrate each  other’s birthdays (they missed each other’s parties), when I watch Caroline Thursday when school is closed for Shemini Atzeret, and again when I watch Ruby on Friday when school is closed for Simchat Torah.

Call it paying my karmic debt. Call it paying forward. I’m calling it being a villager.

He is also the house director of operations. Specifically, he supervises goings on in the back yard, morning ablutions, fish-feeding, the refrigerator, and Simon’s bedtime. Our primary bedtime challenge these days is getting Cambria out of Simon’s room before we close the door behind us. Whereas he used to be timid around Simon, he’d now like to overnight on his rug and/or bed. Which is all fine and dandy until he gets frisky or hungry at midnight and wakes up Simon. Because he is also, unlike Tristan or Percival, a very nocturnal kitty, confused as to why we don’t to play when the party is clearly ready to get started.

He also, alas, remains a cat of size. One year of regulated meal times and portion size combined with greatly increased physical activity has built up his muscles but left his low swinging gut intact. More than once we’ve been asked if Cam is pregnant! His disproportionately short legs are doing nothing to make him appear more svelte. The vet tells me to cut back on his food by 25%, but I’m unwilling to have a cat that’s hungry all the time. I prefer to think of him as curvy…

Finally, I have to say that Cambria is a very easy cat, not that I’ve ever placed a premium on ease where pets are concerned. He doesn’t scratch furniture or cry for food for hours. He’s not always jumping on counters or tables (with his short legs and big belly, I wonder if he can jump up on counters and tables). He seems more than content with being an only cat and the amount of time and attention available to him. At the one year mark we’ve reached that delicious point in time when I can’t imagine his not being around. And for the next decade or so, I hope I won’t have to.

First, there’s Simon at the pool. He began Red Cross swim lessons at the JCC this June, then switched over to the new Lenny Krayzelburg Swim Academy classes in August. This is a new system that works in a very specific order: floating, then kicking, then arm movements, then full stroke. Simon can now float on his back unassisted, next up is to perfect an unsinkable back float and learn to get into back-float position on his own after jumping or falling into the pool. He loves it, and I got this shot just last Sunday.

I got great back-float shots, too, but he’s grimacing in those–plus you can see all his ribs through his shirt, which kind of freaks me out.

Next up is a shot Matt already shared on Facebook. My step-mom, Ruth, is a talented portraitist. When my oldest nephew Nathan was born 17 1/2 years ago, she began doing pastels and oils of the grand-kids. In that time, she’s gone from being my step-mom, who can really draw, to a talented artist who happens to be my step-mom. This didn’t happen easily or overnight; she took hundreds of classes, traveled the world, and has spent thousands of hours honing her passion. Last Wednesday I picked up and hung her most recent family-themed piece, a portrait of Matt holding Simon the first day he came home from the hospital.

How insanely lucky am I to have this? How odd will Matt feel staring at himself in oil every time he sits down to eat?

Finally, there’s a shot of me and Matt, both of us spectacularly unphotogenic, looking mostly OK at my nephew Ben’s ninth birthday two weeks ago. That will fill our bi-annual quota quite nicely.

With one giant exception: And her name is Rita. None of my friends understand why my mother does not live with me. Even as they know she still works and “looks very strong”, they still cannot comprehend how I have allowed her to live on her own. Or how she has allowed us to not move her in with us. I’m not exactly sure on that front, but I am 100% sure that they all consider it appalling that I have let the senior matriarch in my family fend for herself.

“She likes living alone” I’ll explain.

“She needs someone to help her,” comes the response.

“I don’t know if we could share a house,” I’ll persist.

“It is not good for mother to live alone,” comes the parry.

It took me a while to gather exactly how appalling my family set-up was. I was too busy trying to figure out their own sense of family to notice. When men a generation ago had multiple wives, when “brother” can mean brother, half-brother, step brother, or cousin and “cousin” can mean first cousin, second cousin, fourth cousin, or member of the same sub-clan, there’s a lot to sort out.

But figure it out I did. And just in case I missed the perceived gravity of the situation, it was sweetly and generously driven home yesterday. Alek was discussing how her life would change once she began driving, and after she chatted about driving Agotich to school and having more time to grocery or clothes shop came this:

“And then, after I have taken Agotich, some times a week, perhaps once or twice, I will be able to visit your mother. I can sit with her, bring Anyieth for a visit, talk to her, and cook for her. It will be very nice.”

I had absolutely no response to this, except to be gob-smacked and deeply touched. The Sudanese do not say thank you easily or often for the simple reason that helping each other is a deeply held cultural expectation. As I have moved into a familial role, I am not regularly thanked or offered food for watching Agotich and driving her to school and home three times a week. I’m her Auntie, I can drive, and that’s that.

But my actions on their behalf have not gone unnoticed, either. And so, just as soon as she has some independence, Alek plans to begin starting to take care of my mother. Which, when you think about it, goes a lot further than any verbal thank you ever could.

My Google-based hunch was that I was seeing a secondary swarm attracted by the pheromones of the previous Queen. My new exterminator/chemical engineer friend Shirish agreed.  I was told that these workers would investigate, pick up the scent of the pesticide I used the last time, and probably move on. Indeed, I saw a few on my rose bushes (good) but none in my house or going through my bricks (bad) today. Unfortunately, I did find one poisoned bee in a window-sill to remind me that toxins sprayed in ignorant haste can go on killing for weeks. I sure hope yesterday’s bees don’t move on to contaminate a nearby colony.

I also hope that this is the last of it! I’ve been green-lighted to patch cracks in my basement, but I can’t do any tuck-pointing until two more weeks without swarm behavior goes by.

Among the many reasons I hope the bees do not return is that they are contradicting my ethical lessons to Simon. Just last week, when he proudly announced that “Baron has killed an ant” and that both of them “stomped on ants”, I explained to him that while I was not angry with either boy, that I would rather he not do this. My reasoning to him was that ants live outside and that we should leave them alone to build their houses and search for food. They might be tiny, I suggested, but they have lives to live, too.

We only kill animals when they come inside, pose a threat, and cannot be safely removed. And even then we do so with regret. (Except–I’ll admit it–for the roach.) I didn’t violate those rules yesterday, but I still wasn’t thrilled to explain to Simon that I squished/killed the bees that interrupted his dinner and terrified him.  Especially when Simon stopped sobbing and shrieking long enough to ask:

“Did you take him outside?”

while I was holding a shoe against the glass.

“Uh, no honey. He’s dead.”

Good times! Oh precious honey bees, I have a lawn of clover for you, wildflowers and roses by the dozen, and lots of stumps and bushes that would provide great homes for your colonies. Please choose one them soon and stay out of my brick!

There were lots of funny moments, but one standout summarizes life with my little guy. At one point, the ladies were all outside on the (unswept–yikes!) deck while the guys were inside doing something. The detritus of our brunch was sitting on the kitchen island, including my Aunt Florence’s coffee cake (thanks Mom!) and the eight-inch utility knife we used to slice it. Simon wandered into the kitchen alone and helped himself to a piece. We only found out when he told us. Thinking of the knife, we gasped a bit at the potential danger we had exposed him to.

“Simon, did you use the knife?”

“No, I decided the big knife was dangerous. I just grabbed it with my hand.”

A rough edge and visible finger marks in the cake bore out his story. I’m sure this was a learning opportunity about asking for help (Simon) and not leaving knives accessible to small hands (me). And trust me, the lesson was discussed. But as much or more than that, it was a showcase for Simon’s healthy adversity to risk and budding problem solving and independence. For that, I had to smile and appreciate the moment this Mother’s Day.

It had been a long and stressful week for Connie as she settled her father into an assisted living facility, returned home, to New Hampshire, got news from my dad that things didn’t look good, and then traveled back for a funeral and shiva. As the administrator of her father’s trust, she also had to wedge in a fair bit of business among the grieving. Throw in some moving-related chaos as her brothers tried to figure out how to move large pieces of the estate back to their homes in Missouri and Florida, and you have one woman pulled in way too many directions.

By Sunday night, the house was nearly bare and she was a bit shell-shocked from the rapid series of events. Matt and I decided to bring over dinner and see if we could offer some laid-back socialization. And so the evening unfolded with stories of her dad, stories of her parents’ travels together (Sam was married to my Aunt Marcia), a tour through memory lane via family portraits stacked against walls and a few remaining trinkets, and a bit of comic relief compliments of Simon.

Towards the end of the night, Connie began telling me of her brother’s plans for this May, plans that were now up in the air. David was going to fly up with his youngest daughter (a girl Simon enjoys playing with), drive with his dad to Indianapolis to hit the children’s museum, and then drive again  to Cincinnati to visit the zoo. The conversation was emotional because Connie had been worried that her dad wasn’t up to that much driving and because now, of course, the whole question is moot. Simon, looking for  a way to enter this very adult conversation, heard the word “Indianapolis” and seized his chance.

“Indianapolis is on I-65 North!” he proclaimed loudly and with great enthusiasm.

He brought down the house. It was so funny that he knew this, and so funny that he wanted to join discussion so badly. Later on he found ways to explain that Cincinnati was on I-71 North and that Lexington was on I-64 East.

Having him there to laugh and make us all laugh was a balm. And he couldn’t have chosen a more apt way to go about it. My Aunt and Uncle traveled the entire US and to over 60 foreign nations. They of all people would have appreciated that their great-nephew is shaping up to be a little king of the road.

1. I got sick again. My sinus infection never really went away, so I saw my doctor on Wednesday and am now four days into a new round of stronger antibiotics. The day I decided I needed to take action was the day my throat hurt so badly I could not eat solid food and that even drinking water hurt.

2. My dad’s older brother, my Uncle Sam, died last Saturday. It all happened very fast, as he didn’t seem that ill until about five days before he died. Maybe even less. Which made it all very shocking at the time, but is a relief in hindsight. I figure we should all be so lucky as to  live a long, great life, travel to over 60 countries, live until 84, and spend all but the last four days in your own home before suddenly dying. The funeral was Tuesday, we made a shiva call on Wednesday, and I’m arranging to visit my cousin Connie again shortly.

3. I hosted a baby shower for my friend Alek yesterday. I’ll have to re-check my list, but I think we ended up with five American women, 10 Sudanese women, and 9 or 10 kids. The babies stayed on the main floor with their moms. the kids, ranging from 2 to 5, went downstairs to play with Matt and Simon. The party was called for 3:30, I arrived with the guest of honor and two of her friends (by way of a last-minute Target errand) at about 3:35, the phone rang constantly for directions until about 4:30, and we got fully started when the last guest arrived at 4:45. I left to drive Alek back home–now with tons of pink loot–at 7:15. And that, my friends, was quite an introduction to African-style entertaining. I’m pooped.

4. And finally, the running. Between all the shower-related cleaning and preparation, being sick, and being with my family, I had training runs to get in. They are getting longer now–we’re up to a full 3 miles and I’m slow–and involve a lot of stretching and a cool down and warm up period. Come to find out, I get comfortable after about 2.5 miles. Next week, when I’m supposed to go 3.5, I’m going to bump it up to 4 or so and see what happens.

More on most of this shortly. And Happy Passover everyone.