Trials of the Working Mum #1

This evening, at the GIPNA 4th Annual Fine Wine and Cheese party, I ran into my friend Meredith, who asked me about my new job, and whether I was still blogging, although not necessarily in that order. She told me that she used to read this blog and feel guilty because I was always taking my children on fabulous adventures, while she was working.

I now understand what she means, as I've neither written for pleasure in almost a month, nor done anything enriching with my children in twice as long. Where I used to have five solid days each week to take my children to museums, on playdates, and to IKEA, I now have but one (the other taken up with football with the cousins until early February). And that day is also the day that suburbanites trek into the city to see the fish, tourists on a mad-dash Windy City trip gawk at the Bean, and all of Lincoln Park/Lakeview goes shopping. Add in my regular chores of laundry, bill-paying, dry-cleaners, menu-planning, Target runs, and catching up on my sleep. Not to mention squeezing in quality one-on-one time with each child (one of whom insists that that time include a ride on the trip and a trip to Starbucks), and well, there's hardly time to breathe, let alone muster the energy to pack three children into a crowded museum for the day.

Yes, I know: this is a uniquely middle-class problem, and I'm fortunate to count myself within it. I've been spoiled by years of visiting the Field, the Shedd, MSI, the Notebaert, the zoos, the Arb, and the Garfield Park Conservatory (not to mention the big blue box) pretty much on my own terms. But: I now understand why people take vacations. I have not worked long enough to feel guilty, as Meredith did, about the adventures upon which I am not or no longer taking my children. Someone ask me in a year if this is still true.

Spring!

I love spring in Chicago. It's fickle -- 72 degrees and sunny can turn into 45 and rainy in less than 12 hours and back on its head again soon after -- but after a long winter of snow, ice, salt spray and brown-yellow grass stubble, I'll take whatever I can get!

Today, The Boy went on a field trip to the Art Institute of Chicago, arriving back to school just before 4 p.m. We missed gymnastics, but ran around with the rest of our crew on the Disney II playground until we were all too thirsty and too tired to continue. At which point, we walked the 1/2 block up to Smoque BBQ for some pulled pork (me), fries (The Boy), brisket (The Tot) and mac & cheese (The Girl). Yum! What's better than a spring afternoon? A spring afternoon capped off with super yummy barbeque from the celebrated (it was featured in Guy Fieri's Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives) local spot.

After dinner, we returned to the playground, where I ran into Beth T. and her young'uns, letting the kids run off whatever steam they'd just built up at dinner.

Cultural Check-Up

Today, I enjoyed a rare treat: going to the Hopper/Homer exhibit at the Art Institute, without the kids. And with an art historian (her specialty is the Italian Renaissance, but no matter), so it was like, nay better than, having my own docent. We spent quite a long time wandering around the exhibit, and we skipped the Homer rooms entirely. Like many Chicagoans, I have always loved Nighthawks; it's starkness and unfinished conversation are just so compelling. But until the show, I never really saw much of Hopper's other works. I found it interesting that he really manipulated the angle to make buildings look much more desolate than they (perhaps?) really were. I found myself drawn to many of the architectural paintings he did during his summers in Gloucester, Maine, and Cape Cod.

Afterwards, my friend and I walked up Michigan Avenue a bit to Starbuck's, where we each had a drink and chatted for a long time about work, school, pregnancy, her children, Chicago, and Texas. The Blue Line is finally running at regular speed, so I got home in about 1/2 an hour.

And where was everyone else while I enjoyed a cultural check-up at the 'Toot? In Uptown. With their uncle, who we call Uncle Bad. I've decided it's short for Uncle Bad Influence, as they all came home acting like it was funny to see how many times they could slip the word "butthole" into conversation. But anyway...they did have a good time. The Baby took a long nap in his stroller. The Boy and The Girl went to the park and ate ice cream with Uncle Bad and The Dad. Although The Boy reported that they did not have a "crazy dance party," a signature Uncle Bad activity during football game playdates.