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 Most Useful Baby Thing of All

A lot of my friends are having babies. Often, they ask, "what's the one baby thing you couldn't live without?" I have a million answers: a bouncy seat, swaddle blankets, flannel burp cloths, feety 'jamas, Aquaphor, Balmex, and Mylicon.

But really, the most useful gadget? A Shop Vac. I'm serious. It cleans dry spills wonderfully. But, the real magic? It cleans up wet spills too.

You know, wet spills. Like when your four-year old vomits refried beans and popcorn all over your Natuzzi leather couch and shag carpet. Those kinds of spills.

You can disinfect the Shop Vac when you're done. Magic.

It has been a long afternoon, and I promise this is the last vacuum cleaner post for a while. But, moms need to know this: the 2.5 gallon Craftsman Shop Vac. Hurry. Sears is going out of business.

(It beats the Bissell Little Green hands down. No question.).

P.S. I almost cried about the Natuzzi. But, we got the couch second hand. Someday, I'll extol the virtues of second hand shopping for children. I spend a lot of Saturdays at garage sales-totally worth it.

A Little Machine, A Little Accomplishment

Things got bigger when I became a mom. Bigger dreams. Bigger jeans. Bigger chores. Bigger car. So, sometimes I have to remind myself that it's not always about the big things. Sometimes, it's the little things that matter. The little things that make me feel accomplished.

I fixed a vacuum cleaner. Really. I did. And just in time. I have bulimic cats. They eat and barf. And then they barf some more. In the middle of the night, when you think there's nothing they could possibly find to barf about.  They barf some more.  So, I needed a vacuum cleaner--a fancy one. A cleaning machine. I had a Little Green Machine, but it broke. I ordered the parts online (the modern, slightly more efficient parts store than sitting on ripped stools at Auto Electric every Saturday while dad ordered parts--thanks for teaching me about parts stores, Dad.).

Tonight, I had an hour. I took the Little Green Machine apart. All the way apart. I could see wires and hoses and switches. And I took a deep breath, analyzed the wires and switches, and I fixed a vacuum cleaner. It works now! I can clean the cat barf!

A little machine. A little accomplishment. But, I sure feel pretty big about it right now.

(Note to self: Make sure to teach GiGi about tools, parts stores, and patience. Someday, she'll need little things too.).

I am Woman, Hear Me Shriek

We've been in our new house for a couple of months now, and I'm almost used to the stairs and the idea that I can send RJ out in the backyard to play and search for squirrels. The "wildlife" has been a bit of a surprise. We're not exactly in the country. But, the neighbors tell us that a peacock had set up residence on our roof for a few nights before we moved in. And, one particularly chubby squirrel has appeared enough times that RJ named him Perkins.

Two nights ago, while RJ and GiGi played bumper babies on the front sidewalk (she's parked in a stroller, he rides his tractor into her. Bump!), I pulled weeds. Because I have a goal to try and keep the yard picked up, I actually walked the weeds to the trash cans rather than just tossed them behind the front porch pillar.

As I walked up, I notice that my hybiscus is a little broken. A lot broken. And, is that fur? What is that fur?

Shrieeeeeeeeeeeek! It's something dead! And it's furry!

I hustled the kids inside, and when hubbsie got home, I sent RJ upstairs to put away underwear while I frantically whispered, "There's something outside at the trash cans. It's furry. I think it's dead. I don't know what it is. You  have to handle it. Please handle it. I can't handle it."

I am woman. Hear me shriek.

He handled it. It was a possum. Poor possum. I'll have to make a donation to a wildlife fund to purge myself of this.

Because, while I am woman, and I am lawyer, and I am strong, powerful, and can handle just about everything, I can't handle furry and dead.

I am woman, hear me shriek.

Cooking Up Something

I cooked! This is cause for celebration. The Crockpot has been on hiatus since February, and my skillet has nearly lost its seasoning. I used to cook about once a month. Well, I cooked nearly every day; family dinner is important to us. RJ is the rare four year old who eats with his napkin in his lap and asks us, "So, how was your day been?" "How was work?" and "How was [your boss]? Did he change his attitude?" ( I may or may not make comments that my boss needs an attitude adjustment on occasion). RJ is perceptive.

Cooking up something for supper is no small feat, working mom or not, kids or not. It's hard to hit the door at 5 or 6 or 7 and manage to get something on the table in any reasonable time.  For the past few months, I have relied entirely too much on the Schwan man and his happy little yellow truck. We've eaten more than our fair share of overpriced (but entirely delicious) casseroles. I need to get back in my freezer routine.

So, Saturday morning, RJ, GiGi and I embarked on a grocery mission. We shopped. RJ drove a "truck truck" cart (he loves the carts with a car on the front--his mother might be immature enough to race them in the parking lot while laughing hysterically. maybe.). GiGi charmed the senior set who were also shopping at 8 a.m. And then I cooked! And because I know that I always appreciate hearing what other working mommies manage to throw together, here is what I cooked (all easy, nearly all freezer friendly):

--Lasagna RJB style, otherwise known as jumbo cheese stuffed pasta shells topped with sauce and mozzerella. It's easy to divide into individual servings and freeze and cooks up nearly as well as the real deal.

--Sloppy joe's.  Freezer friendly, super quick, can be served on bread, tortillas, or chips, and sometimes, I just cook up the meat and throw it in the Crockpot while we run errands or head to church.

--Lots o' grilled chicken.  Pre-grilled chicken breasts to be used in chicken chili this week. New recipe, so I'll let you know how it goes. It will surely go well, as the recipe was handed down from several legal secretaries at my firm, and those ladies know how to cook.

--Bisquick sausage balls, Paula Deen style. I love Paula Deen, diabetes scandal and all. She cooks like I wish I could (and still maintain my figure). RJ is not a breakfast person, but breakfast is a new favorite with these. Super fast, super easy, and I made them with turkey sausage, so they're healthy. er. Healthi-er.

Banana Pudding--I hate banana pudding. But Hubbsie loves it, and so does GiGi apparently. The instant kind, because who has time to cook it?

Also on the agenda this week, The Pioneer Woman's tortilla roll-ups. Homemade herbed cream cheese is the key. Even RJ will eat veggies rolled up in one of these.

And, of course, the staple of my household--the bean burrito. Seriously. One can of beans. Shredded cheese. Tortillas. Fill, wrap, and freeze. They take a minute to heat up and are kind of sort of healthy. Better than a bucket of cheese balls anyway. (Note to self: Never, ever buy the big bucket of cheese balls again. RJB loses interest way before I do, and I have zero willpower when it comes to powdered cheeses).

I'm trying out a new recipe a week for a while. New adventures in cooking. Someday I'll learn to make my mom's fried chicken. But first up, pickles! I think it will be interesting.

Rest Easy

I sleep on a 30 year old twin mattress with one, sometimes two, children. It's cozy. We put the function in dysfunctional. But, with the new house, we're trying a new bedtime routine. So, we found ourselves mattress shopping on this fine Memorial Day. Because we're from Oklahoma, our first stop was of course, Mathis Brothers Furniture (I challenge you to say it, not sing it.).

Bargain shopping is my game. I wait eagerly for garage sale season, and even RJ knows that garage sales are awesome. We scored the best Lego set ever for 7 dollars last summer. I'm not opposed to used furniture. I just bought what some may consider the world's ugliest sofa--until they sit on it. It's gold. It's leather (aged Italian leather they tell me). And it's awesome. It is the ugly girl with the terrific personality. It has a friend--the recliner. The recliner is awesome too. I'm working on it with saddle soap. I have faith that by the time RJ is driving, the recliner and sofa will be softer than soft and cleaner than clean. For now, they're the comfiest pieces of furniture we own, and I think I'm going to have to challenge the husband to a duel over the recliner (he has his own). That's saying something since his first comment about it was, "I'm pretty sure someone died in that chair." (No one died in that chair. It's just ugly. Or awesome.). 

I am not offended by used furniture. But, mattresses, it turns out, are a different story. 

Enter the sales pitch: 

Salesman: "We have an exchange program here. Keep it for up to a year. Exchange it two times. No questions asked." 

Me: "That sounds great!"

Salesman: "Now these mattresses are part of that program." 

Me: "That sounds great! These are great prices!"

Salesman: "You can see here on the label from the health department where they've been fumigated." 

Me: "That sounds great! No, wait. Fumigated? Oh my holy cow. You have got to be kidding me." 

And off we went to Bob Mills. He is, after all, the working man's friend. (Okay, so now he's your home's best friend, but I remember the days when he was the working man's friend. And anyone who can rock a purple tie like Bob is my friend.). 

(Disclaimer: Mathis Brothers does sell new mattresses--I was in the hurt furniture room--bargain hunting). 

Bob Mills has a sleep spa (ahh). I didn't know this meant that the husband and I would find ourselves behind a screen resting flat on our backs while a computer analyzed our spine compression ratios, and RJ peered over the end of the bed. "How do you sleep," asked the doctor (he's actually a chiropractor--so they tell us.). "Do you see the four year old peering over the end of the bed?" "That's pretty standard for us." 

The sleep spa is kind of awesome. And nothing had been fumigated. They even gave us our own traveling tissue for our heads in case we wanted to try out some more mattresses. GiGi got cranky. And RJ needed to potty. We severely underestimated the amount of time a sleep analysis would take. We are still without a mattress. 

Tonight, I will sleep in a twin bed with at least one child. Maybe two. But, I will rest easy knowing that my mattress has not been fumigated. (Though maybe the recliner should be). 

Jesus Jeans--A Short Funny

RJ entertains me and often comes up with some good lines:

On sorting his various soccer balls, footballs, wiffle balls, etc.: "These are some curious balls."

I credit his knack for making me smile to his father, who on occasion has some good lines too:

On fashion: "You know, he wears those designer jeans. You know the ones...the Jesus jeans...[pause]...True Religion! Those are the ones."

I hadn't ever given it much thought. But logically, it does make sense. It still made me giggle.

House, no, Home for Sale

Quick! Someone take a picture! (or two or three or four). For the first time in a month--or let's face it--a year, my house is clean. Not clean as in "the laundry is crammed in a basket under a cat's tail end," but clean as in "holy cow, we bought a house, sell, sell, sell!"

This house has a lot of memories.  We moved here right after we got married. We swore we'd live here for two years. We've been here nearly eight. We had some knock down fights. Thank God the walls can't talk. We welcomed two new kittens and said goodbye to our old Catty friend in this house.  We celebrated graduations and baptisms. I spent many a Saturday afternoon arranging and rearranging my shoe collection in the best walk-in closet I'll ever own.

I rocked my babies to sleep in the living room.

 and I sat delirious in the middle of the night on a laptop in the nursery praying that I could find a nanny to take care of them.

I learned to make a killer lasagna and a dozen cupcakes at the same time thanks to my double ovens, and RJ and I spent hours cooking together when we first brought GiGi home.

I cursed the weeds and the ants and learned how to find and hire every home improvement guy out there.

I taught RJ how to blow bubbles in the neighborhood pool and survived the hottest summer on record. Eight months pregnant.

But it's time to move. And so, the floors are shiny. The dust bunnies and cat furries are vacuumed. Thomas the Tank Engine is lonely because his friends are already packed, and Lightening McQueen needs a new highway because Radiator Springs is packed up too.


So, there's a home for sale. Ready for a new family and new memories.

Defining Words

There are words that define a moment: "I do." "It's a girl." "Welcome home."

There are words that tell us where we stand: "Motion granted." "Judgment denied." "The award goes to..."

And then, there are the words that defined my last week: "Where's the Febreeze?"

It started innocently enough with a little sore throat. Then there was the fever and chills. Then RJ woke up with bleeding fever blisters. And then I heard it. The defining moment: "Where's the Febreeze?" ("Don't go in there! Where's the Febreeze?")

Stomach flu.  In a matter of seven days our family had strep throat, stomach flu, reactions to immunizations, and a nasty head cold to round it out.

I lost about 8 pounds. RJ might blow away if we let him stand the wrong way in the wind, he's so tiny right now. GiGi--as proof of all things good about nursing a child (let's not talk about the bad)--has not had the flu. But she did react to her immunizations with a nasty fever and a night of screaming.

Someday I may look back on last week and laugh. Or maybe at least crack a smile. For now, I'm grateful for the Febreeze and looking forward to a better week.

The Game

I have been cleaning. And scrubbing. And dusting. And busting. Some call it nesting; I call it necessity. I hate cleaning out the kitchen. It's like confession: "Bless me father. I have sinned. It has been 3 years since I last saw the bottom shelf of the pantry. And I have wasted food.  There are stale Cheez-Its behind the instant 'taters, and I meant to cook the StoveTop last Thanksgiving. (or was it Thanksgiving 2009?)."

This time, our freezer hit rock bottom. Rock bottom being a gravely "ger-thunk! grrrriiiiind! ger-thunk!" All of which took place at 10:45 p.m.  We scrambled: "Open the door! Unplug it! Hit it with a hammer!" Anything to make it stop ger-thunking and risk waking up the sleeping toddler.

Turns out the ice maker had a leak that froze on some reactor-piece angering the freezer goblin to the point of slamming a fan blade repeatedly against an ice boulder stuck to the back of the freezer.

But, I'm a glass full kind of gal. So I took the opportunity to clean out the freezer. It's fun if you find the spoonful of sugar and make it a game. My game is this: what's the oldest thing in the kitchen (not counting the Polly Perk)? For years it was a jar of peanuts that I had moved from college to master's degree to job to law school to house. Dated 1998. Winner, winner peanut dinner.

Then my mom had a peanut craving and discovered the jar. Peanut dinner wasn't such a winner.

This time, I confess (Father, I have sinned), I found two perfectly wrapped, carefully preserved chicken breasts. Labeled. Ready to be cooked. "Chicken, November, 2007." 2007! Pre-R.J.

To the curb they go. And I mentally add another $10 to my food bank donation this year--restitution.

Sometimes I wonder just what magnificence will top the peanut dinner and the pre-child chicken. And then, just like magic...

R.J. had a tick. A tiny one. The scary kind. I read how to remove it. The article said to  "place the tick in a plastic bag in the freezer for future reference."  The article didn't say how far in the future.  Now I don't have to question what the next game winner will be: "Tick, September 5, 2011."

That little spoonful of sugar just waiting to make the game more interesting the next time we anger the freezer goblin. The glass is half full, and pending a rogue box of Aunt Jemima's pancake mix in the pantry, I think I'll have a winner.

I am not a hoarder.

My name is Regan, and I am not a hoarder. My counters reveal glimpses of polished tile, and if you give me ten minutes, I can clear the kitchen table off to feed four.  I come from a long line of non-hoarding Cartwrights. Sure, we save things, but they're important things. My grandma's house is a house of love and giving. It never stops giving. She died in 1998.  Last year, inexplicably, I discovered her 1986 fishing license in my kitchen drawer. I am not a hoarder.

Grandma's house tendered a box of colored knee high stockings (invaluable for making doll clothes. I think.); fifty years worth of newspaper clippings--everything from the grand opening of a drugstore to pictures of my now husband's soccer team (we didn't start dating until after Grandma died--she may have been psychic); doll parts; paints; thread; sewing notions; and canned goods (fish heads from 1989 and pickles from 1992). I am not a hoarder.

This weekend, I faced facts: I may  have hoarding tendencies. Everyone saves "stuff"--the things that don't go anywhere but that we don't want to see go. Old t-shirts from senior year; trophies; notes from best friends--important stuff.

But my stuff revealed tendencies and could be categorized. Hoarding tendencies. Those that lean heavily in the direction of paper goods. Boxes, to be exact. Under the bed, a lovely Laura Ashley box--just ripe for regifiting. The closet--every single wedding gift box we received. They're sturdy, and perfect for a move. (I kept those).

The ultimate--that little Tiffany blue box. And, of course, shoe boxes, shirt boxes, a round canister style box! I revisited the discard pile and rescued the canister box.  What was I thinking?!

I am not a hoarder. But I save boxes. And gift bags. At least 150 of them. And did you know that you can iron and reuse tissue paper? It's true. I've done it. And kept it.

I am not a techie. But I save technology. Tape decks. VCRs. Gaming systems. Cell phone chargers. At least 37 coaxial cables of varying lengths. Because I might need one someday.

I cleaned. I purged. We took three carloads--and I mean carloads--of "stuff" to the thrift store. I itemized. On six legal sheets. I also hoard office supplies apparently. I returned a bag of binder clips and pens to my office today.

I ripped of the bandaid that covered that little piece of my soul that required me to hang on to my bar exam study file and my law school outlines--some of which are a hazard given that the law has changed at least 3 times since I took Civil Procedure classes. I kept the letter telling me I had passed the bar exam. Just in case.

And with the purging came the inevitable--a feeling that I had spent three days on a celebrity style juice cleanse. Slightly empty. Exhausted. Needing a chocolate bar with ice cream, whipped cream, and nuts on top.

But this morning, I visited my closets. They shine. They are organized. They hold the things most dear to me: Christmas decorations for a magical season with my baby(ies); three sacred t-shirts (Disney World--age 13; Six Flags--age 6; and a t-shirt sent by my grandma in Missouri--with my name on it--age 4); and yes, a few boxes--Tiffany blue (a ring I bought in New York with my own money--historic), and a round box (perfect for making a toddler drum on a rainy day).

I am not a hoarder. When I heard the garbage truck this morning, I buried my head under my pillow--despite all urges to run to the curb in my nightgown shouting, "Wait! Don't take the Laura Ashley! It will be just perfect to wrap a tie at Christmas!" I may have hoarding tendencies. My name is Regan, and I am telling you, I am not a hoarder. (But, I am a Cartwright.)

The Final Countdown

When R.J. was very little, I started the countdown. When we are doing something fun (swimming, trains, cars, bath time), I tell him, "R.J., in five minutes, it's time to (go home, eat supper, insert non-fun activity here)." And so forth.

On Saturday, we welcomed a new addition to the appliance garage. It is red. It drives itself. It. Is. Amazing. It is a Dyson.

Saturday afternoon, R.J. wanted to take a bath--not a day too soon. So, as he played in the tub, I unpacked Dyson. Dyson and I are on a first name basis now.

And, I started to vacuum. I marveled at the ease with which Dyson skimmed my hallway and bathroom floors. I shuddered at what the return air vent returned to the dust bin. "Mom-MY!," R.J.'s call broke through Dyson's hum.

"Yes sir?" I called back to him.

"You have five minutes," he tells me, " 'til I needa get out."

The countdown. Amazing what passes for fun once you've become a mom.

Mommy Mobile

From time to time, I have posted about my car. That poor, long suffering toddler hauling, drink sopping, diaper carrying mommy mobile. But, I fear I simply haven't done it justice. I cleared it out tonight (no cleaning was done--just a simple clearing of the stuff):

The shoes are a size 6. R.J. wears an 8 and a half now. The full bottle of nail polish remover thankfully had not spilled. And, I'd like to say the Thunder ticket was from this season--but I don't want to fib.

The Tupperware gods have clearly smiled on my family. We have been blessed. (I wear my hair curlers to work some mornings--one got away).

And, the food groups: thin mints, McDonald's sauce, and Better Cheddars--inexplicably lodged under the driver's seat.

Our 6th anniversary was in August. I just really like the card. (and had it stashed in the seat side pocket apparently).

My car no longer resembles Sanford & Son's truck. It is blissfully silent going around corners, and I will not be forced to do the carpool crouch to keep the Tupperware from flying. It is my solemn vow that this will never happen again. Until next time.

The Household Tell

Everyone has a "tell," a physical tick that tips you off when they are lying, or telling the truth, or hungry, or annoyed. My house has a "tell" too. One look around will show exactly the kind of day I've had.

I am not a morning person--in the 10 minutes to pry my eyes open and another 5 just to convince myself to scrape my head off the pillow kind of way.  Yesterday, I left the house by 6 a.m. I had to drive 2 hours to Custer County to negotiate a 45 minute deal and drive 2 more hours back home. I filed a motion and submitted a mediation statement by 4 o'clock. By 4:30 I was in line at the Cracker Barrel waiting on chicken 'n' dumplins and cobbler. I don't cook these days.

R.J. greeted me with giggles and screams, "I went pee in the potty!" [Hooray!] I fed him macaroni and cheese, ate two bites of chicken and promptly collapsed in the recliner. [I love that thing--even though it disjoints itself and returns as though nothing has happened--motion furniture still freaks me out].

R.J. needed a bath. I needed a bath. The floor, vanities, countertops, and some rogue cushions needed a bath too. (Potty training has done a number on the upholstery.). Only mommy got a bath--the eucalyptus scented bath salts less the smell of Johnson's baby shampoo told the story.

R.J. needed stories read to him. I was too tired.  The DVD player tells the story of an exhausted mommy. We don't watch movies everyday.

When R.J.'s daddy got home from work, the house told the story: It's 7 p.m. The kitchen lights are off, and there's a pile of unfolded laundry on the chair. There is no welcoming aroma of dinner on the table, and the lemon scented candles aren't lit either. On the couch, there's a toddler bowl of sliced grapes and a toppled tippy cup.

Mommy and R.J. are snuggled deep into the corner of the sofa while Lightening McQueen tips tractors on the t.v.

No words need to be spoken. No one needs to tell me it's bedtime. Lights out.

[Note: I did manage to haul myself out of bed at a reasonable time today, folded laundry, untoppled the tippy cup and swiffer the floor--applause please.]

This One is Just Right

I am a mama bear. I know this for certain. I growl when anyone dares to hurt my cub (even though he's a biter himself).  I have the softest pillows and the snuggliest blankets, with the exception of perhaps, Blankie. But, Blankie is an entity unto itself (himself, herself?). 

I try to keep a nice house. Pretty things. Curtains that match the carpets that match the furniture that matches the towels, hand soaps, and dishrags. I have a rule: we do not have motion furniture in the house. It makes me nervous. It moves. Willingly. Furniture should not voluntarily disjoint itself only to recover hours later. It provides dangerous opportunities for smashed fingers and pinched kitty tails. And, most of the time, it's just ugly.

But.

We have a new addition. It's brown and cuddly. It's comforting. R.J. likes it, and I do too. A recliner in my living room?! How did this happen? (discount website, quality furniture, the rest is history--I can't resist a good bargain).  The recliner isn't ugly. It's leather with nail head trim. It matches the carpet that matches the drapes that match the dishrags.  It does make me nervous. It moves. And Boo and Ben are determined to  have pinched tails.

Mama Bear is, however, content. Because, the circle is complete. [Our living room is a testament to only children: three chairs, all in a row, not one touching the other.]. Mama Bear's chair is light green with graceful lines. It is the perfect size to rock a toddler to sleep. Baby Bear has a chair too. (note: when in doubt, always buy the dark colored toddler furniture. I didn't. It shows everything). And now, Papa Bear has a recliner. And, we have decided, that this is just right.

Boo Likes Fritos?

One of the great legal minds who offices up the hall from me preaches acceptance: acceptance that my billable hours will suffer if I choose to go home for supper; acceptance that I am no longer an "A student" and sometimes "B's" and "C's" are all that I can do. He preaches this because I tend to be hard on myself. I question and second guess. If I lose a motion, I take it to heart. If opposing counsel sends me a nastygram, I fret for days.

I reached my Zen moment at work about three months ago. I didn't quit my job (though I tried). I didn't have an epiphany. I simply accepted that I might reach partnership. I might not. And, if I don't, I'll cry and fret for days, but I'll still be a lawyer. My caseload will continue. My bar number won't expire.  In short, I will get over it.

Acceptance of my homemaking skills is equally as challenging. I am not gifted in the domestic arts. My sugar cookies taste like flour.  The seams on my machine-stitched curtains wander like a dirt road. This morning, there was a Frito in the cat's dish.  I found what I hope to be a clean Pull-Up on the window sill. R.J.'s toothbrush has a semi-permanent home in his bin of Hot Wheels. And sometimes, when the cat jumps from the table to the counter, he misses.

But, when I get home, it's home.  Some nights, we have to clear a place to eat at the table. But, we eat at the table--as a family. The pile of newspapers doesn't deter us (and neither does the napping Ben Kitty).  R.J.'s cars run just as fast on un-vaccumed carpet, and Boo Kitty will eat the Frito (she's a fatty).

Acceptance of who I am right now. I won't always be a baby lawyer or a mid-level lawyer (I'm somewhere in between). I won't always have a toddler. Someday, he'll know better than to feed Boo Fritos, and I'll be finding sweat socks and t-shirts in the window sills instead of Pull-Ups. And I'll look back fondly (and thank my lucky stars that the Crest Bakery still has my back on sugar cookies).

So, not a silent night

Tonight is not a silent night. It is 4:40 a.m., and here I sit. Waiting on the washing machine to do my dirty work.  R.J. is sick--not terribly sick, just a mild fever. I gave him Tylenol at 3:45, and thirty minutes later, "blurp." Tylenol upchucked, and blankie is dirty. After a year of trying to convince him that his favorite blankie was not the white satin and plush blanket that I had purchased for special occasions and perhaps a photo shoot, I gave up. The choice has been made:

A year later, blankie still resembles white. Red marker stains, as does chocolate milk. (Tide stain release works best for those who are interested.)  But, blankie is blankie. No substitute will do. So, tonight I sit.  And wait.

I requested his permission to move him to his crib from the twin bed while I changed the sheets. He granted my request but also demanded Cuddles. [he's a little dictator--even sick]  He immediately fell asleep. I do not have such resilient powers of sleep. At 4:40, my mind wanders. I have court tomorrow. And a sick baby.

I don't worry about leaving him with his nanny when he's a little sick. She's more than capable, and she loves him. But I'm his  mommy. I want to be there when he cries and when he blurps. I want to be the one smoothing his shaggy hair from his eyes and rocking him back to sleep. Instead, I'll sit in a drafty courtroom and listen to two lawyers snipe at each other about who did or didn't send a nasty e-mail last night.

Not to mention, I'm missing the morning nap that's sure to come tomorrow. I need that morning nap--more than he does, I suspect. Instead, I'll sit here until the washer "bings!" And, when blankie is clean, I'll carry to him--warm and fresh. When I was little, our washing machine broke, and I upchucked on my blankie. My mom took me to the laundromat, and we waited while blankie spun. I learned from the best.  I can't stay home tomorrow, but at least I can wait for blankie to spin and give him a softer morning wake up.

Escape is Futile

"Clean up, clean up, everybody clean up. Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share," the sing songy voice of a two-year old echos in my head as I survey the wreckage that has become my office. There are mortgages covering my desk and cases carpeting the floor.  Markers and highlighters add a splash of color here and there, and for extra sparkle, there are Werther's gold foil candy wrappers sprinkled about.

It's that time of year--the annual exodus of the paperwork. So, I sorted. And I piled. And I filed. And, two hours later, my desk shines. I have room for a legal pad and a coffee cup. Success.

Until I get home.

I fear that the laundry will smother me tonight. It clearly has taken on a mind of its own. Socks in floor. Underpants in the window sill. Visitors should be warned: "Come in, sit down. But only at your own risk. The dish towels have staged a coup, and they're sneaking up from behind the sofa cushions. If you smell Downy softness, run! They're coming for you too!"

I could (1) fold laundry every night until the second coming; (2) iron every shirt with precision tooling; and (3) pair each sock with its long lost brother. Instead, I (1) ignore clean laundry in favor of story time, cupcakes, and a glass of wine; (2) iron shirts, pants, scarves, and even hair ribbons on my smooth top range because the ironing board is too heavy; and (3) pray that the socks don't actually grow feet and run out the front door. I have evidence that the socks are in fact trying to escape. Sitting at my desk, I felt a lump near my shin. Curious, I reach inside my pant leg. A sock. Small, white, and clutching my pants. Escape was futile. The sock has returned to its brothers and is now collaborating with the dish towels.

Visitors beware; carry a stain stick (known to defend attacking laundry); and if you sit down, check your backside when you leave--socks are trying to escape, and static clings.

The Next Paula Deen?

My favorite t.v. chef is Paula Deen. Hands down. I love her southern accent. I love her homecooked meals. I even love her made-for-tv kitchen (cottage cupboards, butcher block island). She makes me want to make macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake--from scratch.  There is one uniform secret to Paula Deen's success: butter. And who doesn't love butter? Creamy, rich, spreadable, cookable, and generally a perfect food. When I was a little girl, my grandma fed me white bread with butter. I can still think of no better snack.

After this weekend, I am convinced that my child is well on his way to becoming the next Paula Deen--if Paula were a skinny blonde who preferred rice cakes to cupcakes. We arrived in Ponca City late Friday evening. R.J. chattered most of the way, falling asleep only after we exited onto Highway 60 for the final 15 miles into town. He woke up when we arrived at grandma and poppy's house and was ready to party.

Standing in the kitchen, he started to sing, "I like butter, I like butter!" (This from the child who eats nothing). He shook his hips, hands on his "belt buckle." From that point on, the song of the week is the butter song, which is, of course, accompanied by the butter dance.  For those who are interested, the butter song has two verses:

I like buuuuuttter! I like bisssscuits! Honey, jam and waffles too!

I like Zeus-y! I like Ben-y! Scutter, Ralph and my cat Boo!

I wonder if Paula needs an opening theme song?

The Joneses Can Kiss My....Foot

I am evaluated every six months (in fact in two weeks) on the following factors: 

My ability to get along with my secretary. 

My writing skills. 

My research skills. 

My ability to get along with shareholders 

My telephone skills. 

My desk space. 

My office space. 

My ability to get along with other secretaries. 

My computer skills. 

My billing skills. 

My ability to get along with my boss. 

My internet skills. 

My editing skills. 

My lunch.

My shoes. 

My suits (or lack thereof). (footnote: I don't go to work naked. I just wear a lot of leggings).

My ability to kiss butt (I'm sure it's obvious I excel). 

Every six months, I am told whether I am average, above average or superior (yes) or whether I am below average, needing improvement, or unsatisfactory. 

At home, I am evaluated every six minutes on the following factors: 

My waffles. 

My ability to correctly guess that RJ wants the blue sippy cup this morning and not the red one. 

My sloppy joes. 

My laundry (is it folded? do we all have socks and underwear?)

My refrigerator stash. 

My diaper stash. 

My juice stash. 

My story telling (did I pick the right story? is it a Thomas night? or Sam?). 

My lullabies (Jesus Loves Me or Twinkle?). 

My pajamas (Black sweat pants and a t-shirt or a cute albeit freezing cold nightie). 

So, I made a decision that I do not want to keep up with the Joneses.  I threw away my scorecard.  

The Joneses have a perfectly manicured lawn, complete with landscape stones and fancy flower-bed edging. I have a perfectly passable lawn (thanks to a hippy college kid with long hair and weak billing practices). My flower beds are edged with monkey grass--much easier to maintain while I chase my monkey.  

The Joneses have a twelve-foot blue spruce tree. I have killed (with some help) a blue spruce, a dwarf alberta spruce, a Japanese red maple, a peach tree, an Oklahoma redbud, and an oak tree. May they rest in peace. 

The Joneses have adorable shutters on their windows--perfectly painted each spring. I don’t have shutters. They require a masonry drill bit--something I don’t keep in my home improvement arsenal. 

The Joneses have a new shiny fence. So do I! 

The Joneses have a garage floor so clean they can eat off of it. I’m serious. I actually saw them out there with an air hose blowing the dust off the floor so they could have a picnic. My garage floor has oil on it. And spilled Coke and juice. And sometimes, there are goldfish crackers and fries. We eat at the table. 

I choose not to keep up with the Joneses. It is abundantly clear that they have nothing to do all day but clip the lawn, sweep the garage, and wonder why in the hell the people across the street think geraniums are an appropriate backdrop for Halloween pumpkins.