Calling Doctor Bombay

Anyone who has potty trained a toddler (or who has been around RJ for 45 minutes) knows the difference between a sense of urgency and a state of emergency. There's a sense of urgency when things need to get done; when we have somewhere to be; or when there's an impending deadline. There's a state of emergency when the thing that needed to be done unexpectedly wasn't; when we should have been somewhere yesterday, last week, or last year; and when the deadline is upon us.  The state of emergency arises from the unexpected and often from the unknown. A sense of urgency can become an emergency when it's not addressed; the mess is made; and the clean-up crew has been called in.

For years, I thrived in a general state of emergency. Cases didn't get to my floor unless there was a mess to clean-up, or an unexpected deadline of today. I typed fast; I read faster; I skimmed e-mails and deleted the ones related to office business, pro bono service, and fun. I put off going to the bathroom until there was a state of emergency on occasion.  (No really, a friend and I had a running joke about leaving the building for lunch needing a bathroom break and waiting until the last minute when we got back to work.) On more than one occasion, I twitched my nose and whispered, "Calling Doctor Bombay, emergency, emergency, come right away!" It didn't work out for me, but that didn't stop me from trying again at least one or ten more times.

It wasn't healthy. A state of emergency should be a temporary state--a crunch, a real pickle, a bind. Long-term states of emergency are hazardous to my health, or so I'm learning.

I'm about two months out of private practice and a million miles away from it. I sleep well now. Gone are the exam dreams and the night panics about fantasy documents.  I have energy to play Frisbee out back every night. My skin is clearer, and my eyes are brighter.

I miss some things about private practice. I miss my ladies. We had lunch this week, and it hit me how much I miss the camaraderie among young lady lawyers. We were our own support group.  I was used to soup, salad, gossip, and war stories at lunch.  Now? Lunch is more frequently soup and articles about pro bono bankruptcy clinics (which I'm secretly and not so secretly super excited about).  I miss the free pop and tea that went with private practice, and once the Thunder season hits, I bet I'll miss the occasional trip to the suite too. Private practice has its perks.

My days now have a sense of urgency. Urgency in that I'm beginning to understand exactly how many people float through the legal system every day with no assistance and no way to get any assistance. Urgency in that I can see first hand the concerns facing our students as they're sent into a tough job market. There is a sense of urgency that makes me want to read articles about pro bono bankruptcy clinics and watch TED talks on interview tactics while I put on my make-up in the morning.

I know I'll have my states of emergency. I'll lose sleep and energy. But the states of emergency will have an end. At that end? A sense of satisfaction that I haven't felt in a long time and the knowledge that I've helped a real live person, be it a client or a student.

I haven't twitched my nose yet, but I'm not afraid to try it again. Because, this job is a whole new world--and it seems as though all kinds of magical things may happen.

How to Say Goodbye to Private Practice-- Unabridged

A little more than a week ago, I said goodbye to my law firm and private practice. Tradition dictated that I send a final, firm-wide farewell. This is the unabridged version (some of which didn't make it into publication on that last day): 

Thank you," I told my not-quite-two year old this morning when she put her PJ's in the hamper. "Thanks so much," I told the cashier last night when she handed me change. "Thanks," I told the stranger holding the elevator doors.

 

I've said thank you thousands of times. Sometimes I think about it. Sometimes I don't, the meaning diluted by rules of society.  "Thank you" becomes rote--a subconscious reaction rather than a thoughtful expression of gratitude.

 

Today,  I say thank you, not as a diluted, rote reaction but as a concentrated, heartfelt expression of my gratitude.

 

To all of you who have helped me prepare for hearings, chased me down the halls with forgotten papers, stayed late to help with mass mailings, and made it your job to make my job a little easier, Thank You.

 

To all of you who trained me, who taught me the local rules--written and unwritten-- who counseled me on law and life, Thank You. From the outside, you appeared to be my supervising attorney, my boss, or (on really good days) my colleague. You have been so much more. You've been my mentors, my advisors, my trusted confidants.  You did more than teach me legal procedure and brief writing. You taught me professional courtesies. You introduced me to the judges, their clerks, and bailiffs; and you taught me that relationships in the practice of law are worth more than any letter, brief, or pleading could capture.  For all of those times your door remained open, Thank You. And, for all of those times that your door was closed, only to be opened, documents set aside, and phone calls left unanswered, Thank You.

 

To all of you who welcomed me to the lunch table, who shared stories, recipes, and the occasional slice of cake, Thank You.

 

To all of you that I've been fortunate enough to call friends, Thank You. You've welcomed my babies into your offices. You've written encouraging notes. You've listened, laughed, sympathized, and empathized. We've spent countless hours discussing the practice and practicalities of law, life, love, and everything in between. You are the reason I managed to hang onto private practice as long as I did.  Thank You.

To my mom, you made me practice the violin--every single day. I hated it until I loved it, and along the way I learned that it takes time--lots of time--to really know what you love and what you don't love. Thank you. You taught me that it doesn't cost a million dollars to look like a million bucks. Your chicken noodles were the key to my college success. And you always know exactly when to tell me that I'm smart, or pretty, a good lawyer, or a good mom. Thank you. 

To my dad, you drove 100 miles in a snowstorm to pick me up so that I could spend one night at home, keeping a homesick freshman from quitting a full ride scholarship in lieu of home cooking every night. Thank you. You taught me to be true to myself and to never compromise my own code of ethics--no matter how ridiculous it may seem sometimes. And, after 20 years of preaching, I think I finally understand how important it is to check the air in my tires, the oil in my engine, and the compass of my heart. Thank you. 

To my husband, you recognized what I couldn't see, and you encouraged me to make life work with me instead of against me. Thank you. You continue to keep your days in .1's so that I can pick up our babies from school, snuggle away tummy aches, and create childhood memories that won't belong to a nanny. Thank you. 

 

Nine years ago, I stood facing the reception desk. I was terrified of what private practice had in store for me and awed at the mighty "Crowe & Dunlevy." I resolved that I would never leave this Firm. But, times change; priorities change. And for now, there is only one thing left for me to say: Thank you.

The Happiest Statistic

According to the American Bar Association, 42% of women lawyers take the "off ramp," leaving their career for a time, for one reason or another. Generally speaking, those off-rampers cite raising children as the primary reason for leaving the practice of law. Others cite dissatisfaction with firm life, billing practices, or the practice of law in general. Some studies suggest that gender bias is, at least in part, responsible for women leaving law. In some cases, it's a matter of personalities, personal beliefs, and the day-to-day minutiae, including things as simple as computers that work (every time you turn them on), reliable assistants, and a feeling of belonging. And, of course, there are tee ball games, swim lessons, stories, supper times, and laundry. 

For me, as for anyone I suppose, there's combination of factors--some more weighted than others. But ultimately, those factors all work into the equation that equals my own happiness. After months of agonizing and self reflection (which some of you have tolerated, analyzed, and heard time and again whether over lunch or by virtue of this blog), I made the choice to leave my firm. I'm a quitter of sorts, I suppose, but I don't see it that way. I made it nine years, and in those nine years I learned a lot about the law and more about myself. I re-evaluated my priorities. And ultimately, I decided that leaving my firm is, for now, what will make me outrageously happy. (Someday soon, I'll tell you all the things I'm going to miss, but I've cried enough in the past week.)

This has been a long time in coming. I missed my partnership window. I had two babies. I went part time (and someday I'll add my final thoughts on working part time and why it does and doesn't work). And when I took a first tentative step onto my off-ramp, a very dear friend gave me a gift:

This used to sit on my desk, but for now, it holds a place of priority right inside the door where we come and go--so I can see it and remind myself that when I grow up, I want to be outrageously happy. I think I've taken a step in the right direction. 

Private practice used to make me outrageously happy. This was me then: 

I loved everything about private practice. The deadlines, the late nights, and the hours arguing about lien avoidance and mobile home security perfection issues. I loved the incessant phone calls and the nearly weekly trips to bankruptcy court, the 30 page briefs, and the nationwide research projects. I ate conflict and confrontation for dinner and spit out compromise after compromise. 

Things changed. My practice changed. I got older, and with that came more administrative tasks. I spent more time managing cases than writing about them. I discovered that I'd rather read Goodnight Goodnight Construction Site for the 115th time than work on one more litigation budget.  

I lost sleep. I became exhausted. This is me working part time: 

A little frazzled. A lot crazy--and most of the time not in the crazy fun good way. 

This was me finally making the decision to leave private practice: 

There were a lot of tears. I tried not to roll around in the floor and show my panties (even though I really wanted to roll around, kick, scream, and throw things). 

I sulked. I resisted. I crossed my arms and cut out a lot of people who might have been able to help. (But I doubt it, because really, for now, private practice isn't for me--at least until the mortgage crisis has passed). 

And so, today, I'm an outrageously happy statistic. I'm one of the 42% leaving a private practice law career. I don't know what the future has in store. I secretly hope it will be something legal. (I suppose I should rephrase this as "something in the legal field," but really, I hope it will be legal too.). 

This is me after having finally made a decision--be it the right one, the wrong one, or somewhere in between: 

I think she's excited. Or terrified. It's hard to tell. I understand where she's coming from with that. 

Pure joy. Relief. 

And that relief is why for now, I am the happiest statistic you'll find in the world of law. 

My Twilight Saga Continues: Day 2 of Pretending to be a SAHM

So, a week ago, I had a day as a SAHM, and I did awesome. The dishes were done. The children were happy. The house, ultimately, smelled like a pineapple resort.

Today, my twilight phase (not quite a SAHM, not quite a working mom) continued. And well, some days are like this I suppose:

Just a tangled up mess where I'm hoping for a quick rescue and perhaps a cleaning crew. (She did this herself; I'm just grateful for washable Crayons and Mr. Clean magic erasers). 

I have a friend who also works from home, and she and commensurate about the day-to-day challenges of balancing work with working with kids at home. I hesitate to call it a work life balance, because the real balance is work on one hand and working with kids at home on the other.  She and I have discovered that conference calls and tornadoes have something in common; both are best ridden out in a centrally located closet. That is, put as many walls between the conference call and the kids. 

Today was one of those closet conference call kinds of days.  I tried to listen to two voice mails and return one tiny little call. 

"Mom!" "Mom! Hey Mom!" 

"RJ, just hush it!" (I'm way too mean when I try to balance work with kids). 

I returned my call. Sent an email. I was out of the playroom for five minutes. 

"GiGi pooped on the carpet!" 

And she had. Actually, she had pooped her Huggie, taken it off, found the wipes, cleaned her bottom (as a 20-month old would), and tried to put on a new Huggie. 

If you're looking for a guilt trip, this is a pretty good one. My toddler daughter tried to change her own diaper because I was too busy trying to "balance." 

Here's the thing though, I spent 15 minutes scrubbing poop out of the rug this morning and another 20 minutes beating myself up about GiGi having to change her own pants, but this afternoon, I did this: 

RJ is a pretty darn good photographer. 

She's pretty proud of her "feet flops." (They're her brother's, of course. Woe to the woman who marries him, because his little sister has set the bar pretty high for RJ worship.). 

We swam. We ate hot dogs for lunch. We napped (last night was a late night after I remembered at 11:30 p.m. that I had a midnight filing deadline that I had yet to meet. Made it. 11:57 p.m. Score one for the twilight lawyer.).

We fixed the patio table that has wobbled for five years (major shout out to the good old fashioned ACE Hardware store with the killer gum ball machine that made a bolt-getting errand way more exciting for a five year old.). 

I returned my call and changed all of the other dirty diapers. And, while the guilt trip is sometimes longer than a drive to Canada, my twilight days are letting me enjoy the little things: 

It's summer, so they're getting to hang out together. There won't be many more summers that they'll want to cook together. 

There won't be many more summers that he'll want to wear his apron and chef's hat either. 

Someday they'll be working on computers and writing with ink pens. Well, GiGi has already discovered the finer qualities of the Uniball--it writes really well on weathered leather. Sigh. 

Okay, so this happened on Saturday, but donut ("dane-dane") day makes me almost as happy as it makes GiGi. 

In an effort to avoid the fourth episode of Curious George today, we painted our toe nails. RJ's nanny used to send me pictures of his crazy nap hair; I'm pretty grateful that I'm getting to witness it for myself for a couple of years. 

He wanted rainbow toes. She wanted red and blue. Who am I to judge? 

All in all, a pretty good day. Oh, except for the part where RJ pooped in the pool. 

Seriously.  The house did not smell like a pineapple resort. Where is my quick rescue and cleaning crew? 

My Twilight Hour or, My Day as a SAHM

There's this point in the day when the sun has nearly dropped out of sight, but its light lingers long enough to allow for preschool soccer games in the yard, a family walk, or just a glass of wine on the patio--the twilight hour--not quite day, but not quite night.

Right now, I'm in my twilight hour--not quite a working mom, but not quite a SAHM (stay at home mom) either.

Today, I pretended to be a SAHM. I think it went pretty well:

6:38 a.m.--Blink awake to take GiGi from her daddy, who thoughtfully has carried her downstairs. Realize that I have gotten 6.3 hours of sleep--all at once! I feel amazing. And GiGi wants to go back to sleep!

7:45 a.m.--GiGi is awake. So is her brother. There's no milk. No cereal. Throw some frozen Pillsbury mini-biscuits on a cookie sheet and turn on Curious George to distract the kids while the biscuits bake.

8:05 a.m.--Breakfast is served! Episode Two of Curious George. Block the kitchen door with a broken baby gate (it's the thought that counts) and take 20 minutes to make myself pretty for the day.

8:10 a.m.--Pinterest lies. My hair is not falling in gentle waterfall-like waves after having worn it in adorable triple braided buns. 1985 called. It wants its crimping iron back. Scrape hair into ponytail and focus on face.

8:15 a.m.--New Birchbox "CC" cream has reacted violently with new acne regime (yes, you can be 35 and still have pimples like an angst ridden 13-year old). Splash cooling water and start over. Locate cream for sensitive skin as face now looks like raw hamburger meat. Focus on wardrobe.

8:18 a.m.--Green neutralizes red, right? Put on neon green workout top as (1) 1980s shout out to my viciously crimped ponytail; and (2) commitment to work out tonight. It's not too early to commit.

8:25 a.m.--RJ has never done the hand jive?! Download Born to Hand Jive for afternoon spontaneous fun.

9:30 a.m.--Kids are dressed. Head to WalMart for cereal, milk, various flavors of Kool Aid (for super cool pasta dye that I found on Pinterest), and pasta.  RJ asks, "How many things do we have to buy?" Respond, "It doesn't matter. You're along for the ride." Whining ensues. Threaten to put RJ in timeout all day for back talk.

9:40 a.m.--Confirm safe room installation via cell phone.

10:00 a.m.--Leave WalMart with various flavors of Kool Aid and two kind of pasta.

10:15 a.m.--Petco has discontinued the cats' special, no-barf, sensitive system kibble. Find new special, no-barf, sensitive system kibble. RJ wants to look at rats. Good God. No. Just, No.

10:20 a.m.--Check email and voice mail from work. Return call to opposing counsel. GiGi sings the ABC's while I leave a voice mail. (She knows all the way to "G"!)

10:30 a.m.--Playdate at the park with our former nanny. An hour and a half of lovely adult conversation.

Noon--Lunch! Chicken nuggets for the kids and a Hot Pocket for mom. Re-commit to workout tonight.

12:30--Nap, glorious nap time. RJ goes down without a fight. So does GiGi. I have this SAHM thing so under control.

12:45 p.m.--Dishes, laundry, bathroom vanities, cat barf. These are the things I cleaned.

1:27 p.m.--Scoop cat litter. Take out trash. Refresh all the Scentsy in the house so that it will smell like a pineapple resort when Hubsie gets home.

1:30 p.m.--Return call to opposing counsel. Have rousing discussion as to why I'm not scared to fight this one.

1:42 p.m.-- (I billed a .2!) Call co-counsel in L.A. Confirm that I'm not scared to fight this one. Ask permission to practice law as a human (sometimes it takes effort to convince out-of-state folks that we recognize human-like characteristics of even our opposing counsel here in Oklahoma).

2:30 p.m.--RJ is awake. Episode three of Curious George.

3:00 p.m.--GiGi is awake.

3:10 p.m.--GiGi is coloring princesses. Situate RJ on his stool with alphabet pasta and tweezers. Instruct him to find the letters in his name. I read on Pinterest that he would think this was super fun, and it would develop his fine motor skills.

3:13 p.m.--RJ is off the stool trying to put his finger in GiGi's ear.

3:15 p.m.--Set the timer for 15 minutes. Make RJ pick up alphabet pasta with tweezers so that he'll have something to eat for dinner.

3:18 p.m.--Snack time. (These kids need to eat again?!)

3:20 p.m.--Take burning popcorn out to garage. Open windows.

3:30 p.m.--Curious George, episode 4. I'm not proud. But it was snuggle time.

3:32 p.m.--"RJ, stop licking me! It's just weird!"

4:00 p.m.--Head to Braum's for milk and cereal.

4:05 p.m.--Distracted by neighborhood park. Stop for playtime.

4:10 p.m.--Take cell phone pictures of children having delightful afternoon treasure hunting and playing at park. Proof! See, I can do this SAHM thing! The kids are smiling after 4 o'clock! We've almost survived the day!

5:00 p.m. Leave Braum's with milk and eggs. 

5:15 p.m.  Feed RJ and GiGi sorted alphabet pasta. Eat frozen burrito (it was homemade, in my defense). 

5:30 p.m.--Teach RJ and GiGi the hand jive! Isn't Mommy spontaneous fun?!

5:50 p.m.--Text from Hubsie. He won't be home until 7!

6:13 p.m.--Play the sippy lottery. Won. It wasn't milk! Cup without a safety valve--red Kool Aid on the rug (seriously, who builds a house with white carpet?!). 

6:30 p.m.-- Bath time. Let the kids paint with shaving cream. Dress RJ in adorable Batman PJ's. 

7:00 p.m.--Daddy's home!

7:10 p.m.--"Mom, I peed my pants." Dress RJ in girls red size 4 yoga pants. In my defense, they fit him perfectly. 

7:15 p.m.--Family walk. RJ looks like a show choir major. Crocs, Batman shirt, yoga pants, and a coffee (milk) tumbler in hand. 

8:31 p.m. --What just happened? Kids are asleep. 

8:34 p.m.--Shower. Finally. Soak the crimps out of my hair. 

9:00 p.m.--Hello Kitty fleece pants. I'll work out tomorrow. 

9:01 p.m.--We're out of cereal. 

To all you SAHM's out there--hat's off. I'm exhausted. But, I'd do it again--any time, any day. Except tomorrow. Because I have a hearing. 

It's my twilight hour. Not quite a working mom. Not quite a SAHM either. Somewhere in between. 

Mondays--The Real Reason Men Need Microwaves

You know those Mondays that come at you from nowhere? The ones that you could swear were really a Sunday? The calendar just got confused and now everything is cattywompus.

Today has been one of those Mondays. GiGi has been running a fever for two days, and it finally broke yesterday. Last night, she felt so good that she stayed up until 10 running from table to chair to appliance asking, "You see it?" This is my cue to identify the object so that she can repeat: "Chair." "Share!" "Table." "Able!"

It's a fun game, but not at 10 o'clock p.m. with a toddler whose bedtime is 7:30.

So, GiGi overslept. So did I.

I schlepped into the kitchen and tried to light the stove to put the tea kettle on. When, what to my wondering eyes appeared? Flames! Three inches high in the oven.

I stopped. Stared. Asked Hubsie, "What's on fire in the oven?"

"It's bacon!"

And this, this, is why men need microwaves. Ours is broken. Part is on order. Last week, I learned one of the best lifehacks ever. You can cook a whole package of bacon in the oven at 425 for 10 minutes.  I cooked a whole package just like this. It was life changing.

Cooking bacon  on "high" for an indiscriminate time also has the potential to be life changing. (I didn't even know an oven had a "high" setting. Learned something new today.).

While I ran to the garage to stare at the fire extinguisher, contemplating if the mess is really worth it, Hubsie took command over the bacon. Oven mitted, he took his flaming breakfast out the back door (while I stood guard over the cat--who smelled bacon obviously--and the four year old boy--who smelled adventure obviously).  The house smells a little worse for the wear.

But the smoke alarm didn't go off. Which would have been a tragedy, because GiGi was still asleep--in my bed. And, I think the oven is no worse for the wear (though somewhere the former immaculate owners of our house probably felt a little chill down their spines and couldn't figure out quite why).

I couldn't find RJ's insulated lunchbox, so he had to take peanut butter instead of pasta. Then, I knocked his decorator Lightening McQueen box off the counter and broke the handle. So, he marched to school like a man. A man with a Lightening McQueen lunchbox with a white satin ribbon handle.

I forgot my building card at school. And my building key for work.

And, of course, no Monday would be complete without my computer's daily greeting: "Outlook cannot find your local profile."

An hour later, I am at work. Nothing is on fire. Nothing is broken (so far). The week can only go up from here. (Right? Right??).

The Pantie Race: Time Management as a Part Time Mom

Of all of the challenges in working part time, time management is my biggest hurdle. I thought I was pretty good at managing my time. Sure, I've done the out-of-breath-heart-pounding panicked walk across campus to slide a term paper under the professor's door one minute before the final cutoff. But that wasn't a time management issue; it was a perfection issue. There just wasn't enough time to get it perfect.

So, I've been a bit bamboozled as to why time management is more difficult working part time than it was when I was constantly under the crushing press of work. I have more time now, so it should easier to manage, right?

Here's the thing: when I worked full time, I could cheat on time management. I could find an extra 15 minutes to online bill pay; I could sneak away once in a while to pick up dry cleaning and tag the cars. Now, I cram a day's worth of work into four hours, and after that, my time belongs to my kids, my laundry, my dirty dishes, and what's left of my career.

As a lawyer, I'm used to working quickly. I'm efficient (to my detriment and the detriment of my billable hour total). At work, I run on high octane and idle at about 2500 rpm. As soon as I scan my parking card out of the garage, I have to force a shift into low gear. It's to my benefit if it takes us 30 minutes to get home from school because what will we do when we get home? The longer I can take to change diapers, change shoes, and get coats on to go outside, the longer I get to stay in climate controlled comfort.  At work, I work for a finished product. It's not about the process. At home, it's all about the process.  My kids function better when I move slowly. I function better when I move slowly.  I remember the sippy cups, the snacks, the blankets, backpacks, lunch boxes, and nap mats. Everyone is happier when that happens.

The shift from high to low gear has been an adjustment. I often have to remind myself not to hurry. When RJ was about two, I taught him to sing, "Have patience, have patience, don't be in such a hurry, have patience, have patience, right now." He reminds me of this frequently. Most mornings, we're not running late, but most mornings, he asks me, "Mommy, are we late? Why are you mad?" I'm not mad. I just forget to shift to low gear sometimes.

Of course, in my particular situation, I'm not always clearly at work or at home. The two blend. Not seamlessly, but they blend. Like glitter in water. A whirling tornado of activity that can settle or spin up in an instant.

When I get home most afternoons, I can get RJ to nap. GiGi, on the other hand, has become my time manager. I put her in her crib and the race is on. The pantie race (or rather, the Huggie race, but we're potty training and thinking positively in terms of panties right now).

GiGi used to take off her shoes at every instance. She leaves those on now, but I wish she'd stayed focused on the tennies. Now, I keep one eye on the monitor every afternoon while I catch up on email and try to close out my day. I have exactly as long as her pants last. First, she empties the crib of all toys. Then the blankets. Then, after careful consideration, she tosses Bug Bug (her blankie).  After Bug Bug, there's only one way she's headed. Sometimes the race takes an hour, and I can get a lot of work done before I see a shiny bare bottom on the monitor. Some days, it takes 10 minutes. One thing is constant. The moment I see a bare booty, the pantie race is over.  Mommy's time has been managed. Because, we're potty training, not potty trained.

Time management has taken on a whole new meaning with this part time gig. Some days I win the race. Others, I'm the loser (with the laundry to prove it). But, win or lose, for now it works, and someday, I'll miss the days of the pantie race.

A Gentle Reminder on Valentine's Day

Today was a good day. RJ made it another five nights in his own bed and earned another trip to mommy's treasure chest. He picked Buzz Lightyear and is planning on reuniting Woody with his old pal just as soon as another five nights go by.  This whole bedtime routine is really working for me. RJ likes feeling big. "Mommy," he asked me one night, peering into his sissy's room, "Can you get me a drink of water?" I promptly reminded him that he has a cup and a sink at his disposal. "Oh, I didn't realize that was available for me," he told me. Sometimes he's more 40 than 4. I have to pass along my dad's wisdom, "Short time to be a kid, long time to be an adult. Enjoy being a kid."

I love Valentine's Day. I know it's a Hallmark holiday, and retailers use it to make us feel guilty so that we'll spend more on useless pink cuteness, but I still love it. It's the one time a year I can make heart shaped cakes, sprinkle glitter stickers liberally on all correspondence, and wear pink heart barrettes in my hair. I love the nostalgia of the class parties. Candy hearts, paper mail boxes, and mylar balloons. I love the chance to see inside RJ's world--the chart tracking how many stars he has earned; the dump trucks he and his friends fight over; and this gentle reminder:

When I graduated from law school, a judge asked me where I was headed to work. I told her, and I think of her response often: "Do good work." I knew she meant, "do your best work;" "be ethical;" "be courteous;" and "be an asset to the profession." In other words, do your best. Do the right thing. Treat everyone the way you want to be treated. I did my best to follow my dad's advice. I stretched my childhood as far as it would go (and I still find that there are few troubles so big that an hour with a coloring book and a new box of Crayons can't ease). But, I am undeniably a grown-up. So, it's easy to forget to do my best, to do the right thing, and to treat everyone the same way I want to be treated.  On this Valentine's Day, I appreciated the gentle nudge from RJ's teacher. But mostly, I just appreciated the day to spend with my babies. 

RJ appreciated the cupcakes, cookies, and candy followed by barbecue for lunch.  I had a very sleepy boy on the way home. He was spent. And happy. (And, yes, that's a Lightening McQueen tattoo on his arm. It comes off with baby oil and will continue to be the only kind of tattoo he'll ever be allowed.).

She thinks her hair clippies are hats, and she feels very Downton Abbey in them.  (Her grandma made her adorable tunic top; I think she feels quite pretty.). 

And best of all, they remembered to treat each other they way they want to be treated. They love each other, but it's easy for them to forget or take each other for granted (the same, I suppose, as it is for us grown-ups.).  Today was a good day. We did our best. We tried to do the right thing. We hugged each other a little more than usual because we knew that's what we wanted for ourselves too. Hugs, snuggles, and lollipop kisses--a very good day indeed. Happy Valentine's Day!

The Practicalities: Part One--Expectations

I don't purport to be an expert on mothering, wife-ing, or lawyer-ing. But I've learned a lot in the last year, and I find that what I appreciate most these days are honest assessments. I don't mince words, and I don't expect others to sugar coat reality for me. My honest assessment of going from a full-time, partnership track lady lawyer to a part-time mommy track lady lawyer can be reduced to five points (for now): Expectation, Appreciation, Compensation, Degradation, and Organization.

I talk a lot about expectations, and I believe that for a truly successful part time (or "balanced hours") arrangement to work, expectations have to be adjusted both from the lawyer side and the firm side. I can't adjust the firm's expectations. And so, I've adjusted mine.

When I started as a baby lawyer, I expected to make a few mistakes. I made more than a few. I expected to work from 9-6. I worked from 9-6, 7, 8, and weekends. I expected to bill all of my time. I bill about 80% of the time I'm in the office. The rest is reserved for bathroom breaks, sanity breaks, doctor's appointments, and life. I expected to become a director at my firm. I didn't.

When I started out as a mom, I expected to put my baby in daycare from 8-6 every day. I didn't. I expected to have his nanny take him to his doctor's appointments. I didn't. Because really, how could I send him for shots without his mommy? I expected that baby number 2 wouldn't change things much. She did.

And so, I went part time at my job. Part time for me means that I try to be in the office at least 4 days a week and most weeks 5. I work shorter days and pick up my kids from school. I expected that I would have time to do the dishes and vacuum the rugs. My pantry would be organized, and supper would magically appear on the table every night. I expected that I would stay at the top of my class and continue on an upward trajectory at the firm with just a few bumps along the way.

I expected I would work consistent hours. I failed my own expectations, and this has been the toughest aspect of part time work to address. Some weeks I work 1 day; some weeks I work 7. Some months I bill 80  hours, some months it's more like 150. Because, being part time doesn't change the fact that I'm a litigator. There is a natural ebb and flow to the work, which cannot be accounted for by virtue of going part time.  There are weeks when supper isn't on the table. I struggle to find childcare for odd hours. I work weekends and nights. Other weeks, I'm able to take advantage of my arrangement and put my kids down for naps. I find time to untangle the mass of dirty clothes in the closet. Some weeks, the stars collide, and I need to be at work while GiGi needs to be at the doctor or while RJ desperately needs me to hold his head while he throws up. Those are the hard weeks.

Most days, I do at least one call from my van or from the narthex at the church where my kids go to school. I forward my office phone to my cell phone so that I can't be accused of being "unavailable." (There is an inescapable expectation that I be at my desk 40 hours a week while permissibly working part time.). It will be years before I can save enough money to have a life-size replica made to hold down my chair at work and make people feel better about the time I'm "out." Until then, I make myself available all the time by cell phone and email.

I expected I would have time away from the office. I don't. I am always on email and answering my phone, because if I don't, I'm "unavailable." When I worked full time, it was okay for me to take a couple of hours off now and again. Now, it isn't.

There are those lawyers who will argue that they too make calls from their cars and never sign off email. That's probably true. But, for me, there was a certain expectation of relief when I agreed to give up other things that a fulltime position offered (like benefits, promotions, and expectations that I would still have a career rather than just a job.). I expected that I could be away from my desk without murmurings of "lazy." I expected that I would continue to do interesting important work. I expected that I would embrace part time work. I haven't.

Working part time is a daily scheduling struggle. It's a daily internal emotional struggle. Some days, I'd give it all up to be able to work from 8-5 with a few days vacation and a couple of holidays built in. Unfortunately, being a lawyer doesn't work that way. Some days, like today, when I've been home with my children for five days straight, I can't wait to get to my desk. And, when I get to my desk, I can't wait to be home again.

When I worked full time, I had time to myself. Now, I have none. My time belongs to the firm and to my children.

What going part time has taught me? Adjust my expectations. As my husband tells me often, "You have to make it work for you." And so, about 8 months into the part time gig, I adjusted my expectations. I gave myself a break. I don't have supper on the table every night, and I'm not a star litigator. If I'm giving myself an end-of-the-year grade, I probably come in around a B-. I used to be an "A" student (if we ignore Property I and Algebra III). I'm not entirely comfortable with being a "B" student, but adjusting my expectations has allowed me to enjoy what part time work has to offer. I still get to be a lawyer. I get to use my brain and continue to learn. I contribute to the family's bottom line (and earn a few extra dollars for Ruffle Butts and Hot Wheels). I've been to every school party. I've tended every fever and sniffle.

Is part time work perfect? Not even close. Is it worth it? Probably. Maybe. Perhaps. We shall see. I'm still adjusting my expectations.

My Daughter Calls Me NayNay, and Other Adjusted Expectations

I had certain expectations about being a mom. I expected my children to say please and thank you. I expected to lose some sleep and gain some weight. I expected milestones: first steps, preschool, driver's license, "the talk," college.  I've had to adjust my expectations. We tell RJ he has to learn to deal with change; to "roll with it." I'm learning to roll with it too.

I expected that GiGi would call me Mommy, or mama, or mom.  But, she calls me NayNay. I was the mom who swore I'd never nurse a baby.  Or that I'd only nurse my babies while we were in the hospital. Or while I was on maternity leave. Or until they turned a year old. RJ got a reprieve at a year--he chipped a tooth and cried. So, he had num-num (each of my babies has a special name for me; makes me feel special). And suddenly he was 22 months old, and I was "that" mom. GiGi is 14 months old. And while she calls me mama every once in a while, most days she grins that gap-toothed smile at me and says, "NayNay?" And, I'm reminded that it's time to adjust my expectations.

I expected that I (my husband) would have to have "the talk" with RJ someday, probably sooner than we'd (he'd) like to. You know, THE talk. The "don't put your peep in weird places" talk. I did not expect to have to tell my four year old, "RJ! Don't put your peep in weird places!" But I did. Because he tried to put it through the windows in a Hot Wheels car. I've adjusted my expectations. But I'm still making my husband have "the talk" with him when it doesn't involve Hot Wheels.

I expected that I would go to work every morning, leave my babies, and love every minute of being a powerful woman in an office with a view. Yesterday, I left my babies, was grateful for sweet caregivers at school, and loved every moment of being in my office with a view. Except I was the girl whose refrigerator had gone dreadfully, woefully, spectacularly wrong. My assistant greeted me with her southern, "I had to spray your office with Lysol. Something went wrong in there." Indeed. A salad. An old one. After the power had been out in the building. I tripled bagged and walked my trash all the way outside. I adjusted my expectations, shortened my day,  and sprayed a lot of Febreeze.

I didn't expect to like trimming fingernails and bangs. To actually enjoy taking care of little sticky babies. But, we have mani/pedi/haircut night. RJ and I bond.  He calls me Mommy (except when he's really mad, and then he calls me Pooty and gets to go to timeout). And someday, GiGi will call me Mommy again. But until then, she calls me NayNay, and I'll keep adjusting my expectations.

Quality v. Quantity: Perfect Part Time?

A lot of my mommy-lawyer friends ask me about working part time. I think that they, like me once, want to hear that it's perfect.  That I have time to make fancy cupcakes; that my laundry is washed, dried, folded and put away. That supper is on the table every night; that my children know and appreciate that I'm there to pick them up from school. That I still do important work that's thought provoking and interesting.

It's not perfect. I struggle. I agonize and antagonize. Every week is a roller coaster of debate: do I keep this up? do I quit and stay home? do I go back to full time? What to do? What to do?

A litigator's world is controlled by the courts. The court isn't interested in whether a summary judgment motion is due the day of your son's Halloween party. And, the other lawyers in the firm aren't particularly interested in whether you have five hours to spend researching before next Tuesday. Real work goes to "real" lawyers--the ones who are in the office 10 hours a day. Document review is just perfect for part time lawyers (and some days it is. it really is.).

When I worked full time, I was a lawyer about 10 hours a day, and I got to be a mom the other 14. Now, I'm a lawyer 14 hours a day, and I get to be "just a mom" very rarely. I'm home at 3 o'clock, but Lego time is interrupted by conference calls, and the email never stops. I forward my office phone to my cell phone. (This works well most of the time, but there's one lawyer who returns calls at 6 a.m.--so that he can always leave a message. That means my cell phone rings with work calls at 6 a.m. every once in a while. I am not a morning person.).

I get to go on play dates on Friday mornings, just like a full-time mom. But, I'm answering calls, negotiating settlements, and remembering filings in a panic while I try to tie on a paint smock and kiss boo-boos.

I yell a lot more at RJ.  It might be that he asks "why" a lot more now and his newly adopted habit of squawking like a pterodactyl makes me want to tear my ears off. Or it might be that I used to be pulled in two directions;  and now, I'm shattered into a thousand.

My cupcakes aren't fancy. The laundry chair is still full of folded and un-put-away clothes.  Some nights the best I can do are hot dogs and potato chips.  And honestly, RJ prefers it when his aunt picks him up from school. She doesn't yell like I do.

Part time isn't perfect. Right now, my first full-day in the office each week is Thursday, which means that I'm three days behind before my week even begins. My caseload didn't shrink when I cut back on hours. So, I do the same amount of work in about half the time (which somehow doesn't seem right on an hourly scale--a practicality).

But, somewhere, somehow, I remember that when I was little, there was a quantity versus quality character to the time with my mom.  We fought a lot (still do). She screamed and so did I. But, there was something infinitely comforting knowing that she was in the next room sewing or cooking.  I loved nothing more than sitting in her break room at work and sharing a Coke and candy bar on my afternoon breaks from the pool where I was a lifeguard. She did all the "quality" mom things, like bake perfect cakes, make me darling dresses (that I still wear), and make sure that my hair bows were pressed and tied just "so." But, there was a quantity of time factor too. I didn't appreciate her picking me up every day from school then. But I do now. I remember trips for nachos at the Taco Hut and ice cream at Braum's. She was always just "there." She was the Campfire mom and the party planner.  I sat in a chair at the church while she ironed the pastor's robe for Sunday.  We spent a lot of time together, and not all of it was real "quality" time. But there's just something about mom-love. The kind of love that means instant comfort when she walks in. Knowing that no matter what you do, you're loved. The kind of love I didn't appreciate until I was a mom.

This kind of love:

The kind of love that makes you carefully sort the whole beans out of the bowl of refried beans. Just because your baby girl really likes to feed herself beans.

The kind of love that makes you hold down a screaming baby while a nurse stabs her little leg. Because you know the shots will keep her healthy.

The kind of love that makes you say "okay" to a Batman costume when you really (really) wanted to dress your four year old son as Prince Charming so that his little sister could be Cinderella for Halloween.

The kind of love that makes you give up precious iPod storage for The Wiggles. Because your son just loves to "Rock-a-Bye his bear."

The kind of love that stifles your gag reflex when wiping bottoms. (I'm not sure how this works, but it does. Even when RJ's business is so nasty that he is gagging at it himself.).

The kind of love that makes you give up partnership track in your seventh year on an seven-year track. Because it means you have time to hear first hand how many stars your son earned on his school chart that day.

The kind of love that makes you want to give up a part-time track so that the time you do spend with your children is "quality," not just "quantity." Because really, there's no good reason to tell a four-year old that he has got to stop crapping his pants. (Because when you do, he will inevitably, parrot back to you, "I'm not crapping my pants!" Mommy fail.). Naughty language is not quality.

Someday (soon), I'll probably get around to addressing the practicalities of being a part time lawyer--because there are a lot of practical issues. What I have figured out is that no job is perfect.  But, (thankfully) no mom is perfect either.  The only thing I know that is perfect is mom love. And, of that, I am certain.

Not My Usual Multitask

I multitask a lot. I talk on the phone while sending a million emails. I make calls on the road (Hands free of course. As Sir Topham Hat says, "Safety is our first concern.").  I check email while I cook dinner.  It's how things get done.

Today, I entered a new world of multitasking. Mornings are a mess of cereal, diapers, backpacks, and sock hunting. This morning was no exception. It was 8:15. RJ screaming for help. Enter mommy. There is poop on the floor. On the toilet. On RJ. He is gagging (rightfully so). "It was an accident, Mommy, okay?"

Of course, of course. Get RJ on the potty. Because he's still going. The phone rings. My boss. Of course. He needs a document, right now. Of course. Phone cradled to my ear while  using one hand to Clorox wipe the floor and the other to balance RJ on the seat, I promise to get right on that. Document will be incoming asap.

This is not the kind of multitasking I had in mind for the day. My boss will probably never know (until he reads this post anyway). The document got sent. RJ's bottom got clean. I'll re-clean the potty when I get home from work. Probably while checking email and wiping bottoms.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Being a Grown-Up

I'm a lawyer. Not a soccer mom. But little boys do funny things to their mothers. My little boy does particularly funny things to his mother--like lick her arms during church and hang from her like a spider monkey (while she flaps her arms and shrieks "Spider Monkey! Get down!" She might encourage him to do funny things.).

Little girls do funny things to their mothers too. After GiGi, I don't look at my career as mine alone. It's an example for a little girl who will grow up in a world where telephone cords don't exist (RJ saw a picture of one in his Llama, Llama book and had to ask what it was), a world where college girls believe they can do anything a man can do (which I'm not sure I believe anymore), a world where moms carry the same handbags as movie stars--and we don't think that's unusual or extraordinary.  It's funny, in a way. 

I'm 35, but I'm not a grown up. I still want to sleep in my little girl room at home sometimes, and there's nothing quite so comforting as my mom puttering in her kitchen--or mine. I still call my dad "daddy," and I always will. It's funny.  I have a mortgage, a driver's license, a bar license, and life insurance. But, I still feel like the same 12 year old girl who got a giggly thrill from staying up past 10. I still feel naughty if I'm out past curfew, and every time I have to put RJ in timeout, I wonder how I became the enforcer. 

A funny thing happened on the way to becoming a grown up: I mommied up. Gave into practicality and functionality. Gave up the cool factor (if I ever had one).

I got 

a 

Minivan:

It's true. It finally happened:

And I love it. The automatic doors flip my switches. 

So does this guy. A minivan man, so to speak. Or rather, the guy who gave up his turn for a new car so that we could get a family truckster. With automatic doors.  'Cause he's awesome like that. 

We're turning into grown-ups together. And sometimes, he puts RJ in timeout too. But on the best days, he turns into Coach Daddy: 

They lost the first game. Big time. But if you asked RJ if he had fun, "Yes!" And that's what matters. That, and his "Thank you for coaching my team, Dad," even after a rough start to the season.

He didn't kick the ball. Not once. But he had a ball. 

GiGi cheered from the sidelines, in the rain. Her Auntie Amy cheered too. 

And I'm growing up. I'm learning that being a soccer mom isn't such a bad thing. 

Our soccer player is also a photographer.  I think he did a pretty good job. 

And....Just completely gratuitous--because I haven't had time to keep up with my family memory keeper duties:

She's walking. And thinning out. But she's still got some junk in her trunk.  

These two are helping me be a grown up. Most of the time. But they also remind me to have fun, to take time to play super hero--not to try to be a super hero. 

And one more shout out to one of the world's best daddies. (I've got a world's best daddy too. I may be a soccer mom, but I'm not a grown-up yet.). 

Thanks for the van. And thanks for turning me from a lawyer into a soccer mom. 

Even if we do lose a few. 

Ham on the Hood

When I became I mom, I gave up my honor roll status. I'm no longer an "A" student. Sometimes I get an "A+:" I win a motion, I settle a case, I make a fancy little bento box lunch for RJ, I remember to put extra rice puffies in the diaper bag for GiGi.

Sometimes, I get a "C:" I forget to bring GiGi's extra outfit. And she poops. Big time. And I've promised RJ we'll go to Target for a Hot Wheels. GiGi rolls in a Huggy and mommy's jacket. It's how we do things. (Rarely do I ever fail, because failure is most often just an interpretation of the situation, and I choose not to be a failure.).

Sometimes, it's just a ham on the hood kind of week.

I've been busy at work. Really busy. The kind of busy that has me in the office until 4 a.m. while my babies are home sleeping. On Wednesday, I spent two hours in my car, and sixteen hours in my office. That kind of busy. 

Tuesday morning, while I wrestled the small ones into their car seats, I set lunches on the hood of the car. RJ's was in his Darth Vader lunch box (Mommy gets an A+ for that one). GiGi's lunch wasn't in her Care Bears box yet, because I had left it in the backseat to ferment (C+). I got the kids buckled, grabbed the lunches, crammed GiGi's ham and cheese box in her bag, and away we went. RJ loves school and marched right in (after our kissing hand, kissing cheek, kissing hand again routine--he's a lover, not a fighter).  GiGi walked into her classroom too!

I mosied back to my car to find, bit o' ham. That is, little toddler bits of ham stuck all over the hood of the car. They stuck through rain. Through school zones. Through 45 mph. Stubborn.

Work was a thousand things in a hundred minutes. I ran the car pool line at 2. Drove back across town to the house. Dropped the kids with their sitter. Drove back downtown. Worked 'til 4. In the morning.

I forgot to read the notes in RJ's backpack. (D-). I forgot Thursday was show 'n tell. (C).  Show 'n tell was a special show 'n tell. (D).  It was "bring your teddy bear day." (D-). 

RJ didn't mind. (A+ for my little man). I napped with him for an hour on Thursday (A+ for Mommy). GiGi has a viral rash that's so ugly it warranted a call from the school (No grades assigned for sickness. Germs don't count.).  The doctor says she's fine (An "A" for mommy getting her to the doctor on a work day).  I cleaned the ham off the hood of the car. I remembered to get GiGi's blankie out of the car. And, I made it back to work another day.

Honor roll? Nope. Failing? Not even close. A ham on the hood kind of week? You bet.

Powerful Women Wearing Sunshine Rainbows

I guess I'm a powerful woman.  Most days I feel like a Care Bear with a business suit covering the sunshine rainbow across my tummy.  I try to exist in a "man's world"--whatever that is (I think it has something to do with leather recliners, flat screen t.v.'s, beer, and gray t-shirts).  I want to teach my daughter that there is no "man's world," just a world.  I want her to feel powerful when she lets her sunshine rainbow shine--figuratively, of course.  I want her to feel like she can wear ruffles and argue an appeal.  I want her to be able to take a morning off to drop off her babies and have her coworkers think, "She's such a good mom." Not, "This is the fourth time this year that she's been late."

Today, GiGi took her first step toward being a powerful woman:  Mother's Day Out.  The name suggests that mommy gets some time out and about.  Which, in my case is kind of sort of true.

RJ started school yesterday.  He loves school. He marched right in, shouted, "Good morning Ms. Ancick! I'm here!" And with that, RJ had arrived. There are ten boys and two girls in his class. Good morning indeed, Ms. Ancick. And my heartfelt prayers for patience, strength, and perhaps a classroom donation of Febreeze.

Today was my GiGi's first day of Mother's Day Out. In my perfect dream world, I snuggled GiGi on the couch, fed her breakfast, and dropped her off in the loving arms of her teachers.  In my real world, I woke up at 5, finished a brief, and then had to dye my hair (this isn't my natural color--shhhhh) because we had a "Power Woman" photo shoot for the firm at 9 a.m.

Daddy got GiGi out of bed and fed her Cheerios while I put on eyeliner for the first time in a month.  I barely had time to kiss her fuzzy little head before I left.  And I couldn't even shed a tear because I would ruin the eyeliner if I did.

I was powerful in the photo. I shifted poses when they said "shift." I smiled. I pouted. I gave 'em some attitude. And then they separated us into "senior" attorneys and "associate" attorneys. I'm somewhere in between. A misfit of sorts. A complication.  Fortunately for me, there are a lot of powerful women at my firm; and I get to count them as friends.  They don't care if I take off a morning, or an afternoon, or a whole day to take care of my babies.  They still ask for my advice, and they recognize that I'm in that "in between" phase. They tell me I look too young to be in a senior level photo.  They ask how GiGi is surviving her first day. They share stories about kids and cases.  I posed for the associate photo.  That's where I fit for now I suppose. And it nearly broke my heart. But we are powerful women still learning. I know the law.  But, I'm still learning how to juggle and balance. Still learning life.

Apparently, GiGi gave her teachers some attitude too.  When I arrived to pick her up, I heard a screaming baby up the hall from the classroom. My baby. She was displeased about the nap arrangements (they wanted her to take one).  So, she had been sent to the hall with the church secretary.  And, it nearly broke her heart (and mine too).  But she's a powerful little woman still learning.  Learning the rules. Learning to giggle. Learning life.

Someday, we'll both have it figured out. And when we do, we'll both wear our ruffles and let our sunshine rainbows shine. Figuratively of course. Until then, I'll do my best to offer kind words, hugs, and encouragement to my baby and my powerful women.

(A very heartfelt thank you to my powerful women friends. You know who you are. And you rock.)

A Sigh of Relief

Ever since I had my babies, I feel like I'm holding my breath 23 out of 24 hours a day. I hold my breath when RJ bounces too high on the trampoline. I hold my breath when he hip checks his sister and I want to hip check him. I hold my breach when I change GiGi's pants and when I wipe RJ's bottom. (No call sets off a sense of dread  more than, "Mom! I pooped! Can you clean me up?").

Because I work, I hold my breath over other things too. I hold my breath hoping that my babies won't call their nanny "mama" before they call me "mama." I turn blue hoping that they won't choke on grapes while I'm at work or skin their knees or cry because they missed their goodbye kisses at the door.

Lately, GiGi has been cruising, crawling, and bear crawling. It's a matter of days before she walks. And I've been holding my breath. I'm pretty sure I missed RJ's real first steps, though his nanny at the time would have never told me if I did. But GiGi just isn't quite "there" yet.

So I thought. This weekend, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as my little woman took one tiny step for baby, and one huge leap for mommy's heart. Tentative, barely, but it was a step. A real one. And my heart leapt. I can say I saw my baby's first step! (And she did it again last night!)

She could be running when I get home from the office today, and I'll breathe a sigh of relief because I saw where it all started.

It's Just Epic

I am in the middle of a chapter 11 filing. So, I've been working weekends, weeknights, and midnights. Thus, the limited mommy words lately.

But, one incident is worth a short break from the panicked frenzy:

We know RJ is a "highly verbal" child. And I know he's brilliant (because he's mine of course.). But sometimes I do doubt that he really understands some of what he tells us.

Two nights ago he threw a fit. A big one. Huge. Epic.

In the midst of the tears, the screams, and the biting (yes my child is a vampire--not the cool kind either), I told him, "RJ, if you don't cease with the fit throwing, I will take down  your train track."

"No!" he wailed, "Don't take down my epic train track!"

When later asked what "epic" means, he told us, "It means, like, really good. Incredible!"

Incredible indeed.

On Turning 35

RJ's aunt gave him five dollars to go garage sale-ing this weekend. He was pretty proud. Friday night, he sobbed at bedtime. "Cats?" I asked. "You want your cats?" "No!" he wailed, "I want my cash to sleep with it!" Important stuff when you're four. So, he slept with it under his pillow (and spent it on Hot Wheels the next day.). But, he didn't spend it before he asked about the man pictured on the front. I told him, "He was the president. He was a good man." RJ responded, "Mom, someday, I gonna be president." He paused. "But, I gonna live with you."

I always knew I'd make it to the White House.

I turned 35 last week. I guess that means I can be president. I know being 35 means I can stay up as late as I want, and I can go see rated R movies too.  I had an awesome birthday. There were donuts and cake and my favorite burger from Flat Tire. (Being 35 also means that suddenly the dryer has started shrinking my shorts, particularly after donuts, cake, and my favorite burger. Darn dryer.).

I used to believe I could be president. Now I'm not so sure. Because if I were president, who would fold the first man's shorts or feed the first babies their supper? And if I were president, who would tuck the blankets under RJ's feet every night? And how would I do all of those video conferences with GiGi still nursing?

I'm starting to believe that maybe being president isn't the job for me. I'm still not comfortable at my job, but it's fitting better these days. I'm juggling foreclosures and exhibit lists, and sometimes I even find time for lunch with my ladies. I know there has been a big online discussion about women wanting to "have it all." Some commentators want the professional world to adjust and make it easier for women to have it all. Others want women to choose: family or career. The most well reasoned discussions I've seen have focused on the idea that we can't have it all--at once.

RJ's gymnastics cheer last year ended, "It's our time to shine!"  This isn't my time to bill 2000 hours a year. It's not my time take a case to jury trial. It's very obviously not my time to become a law partner--though this particular truth has been hard to swallow this year.

It is my time to have donuts and cake and burgers. It's my time to celebrate my family. It's my time to shine!

And so, I celebrated. I celebrated little things that make me smile:

RJ wanted me to have this Barbie fishing stick. His words, not mine. 

And we celebrated my 35th by fishing in our backyard. There is no pond, but we have our imaginations. I imagined we caught 100 fish--and someone else took them off the hook every time.

Later, we celebrated my 35th with my folks. It was Poppy's birthday too, after all. RJ celebrated as a four year old boy should--by dancing in the Oklahoma summer version of rain, the sprinkler!

And, we fished. (No hook. No bait. Loads of fun.).

He's figuring it out.

And he's figuring out that fishing is kind of yucky. 

Actually, it's a lot of yucky. 

But he loved every minute. 

By the end of the day, he had casting down. 

And GiGi, well, GiGi is GiGi. She celebrates being her. 

And someday, she'll be 35 too. I hope she can be president. 

And that I can live with her and do her laundry while she tucks her babies in bed.