Party Like a Rockstar

We traveled to Ponca City for Christmas, and I am excited because my child is a rockstar.  Or, he should be. He has his backstage rider all lined out: goldfish (cheddar and saltine); apple juice (at least 2 jugs); fruit snacks; Beef-a-Roni; fresh Huggies; and of course, M &M potty rewards.  I know this because he packed his own bag for grandma’s house (which also included gloves, clean sweat pants, and a box of wipes).

The child pulls in some amazing swag.  He scores cars--preferably with dubs (special thanks to his daddy for educating him on rims, blades, spinners, and dubs).  He has a t-shirt wardrobe that warrants its own closet-- from Garanimals to Eskimo Joe's.  He keeps his ladies hopping--from unwrapping his gifts (“you do it”) to keeping his bottom clean (“I wanna take bath”--three times a day).  

His personal assistant, a/k/a Mommy, makes sure he’s on time and that his outfits are polished.  His car seat is freshly scrubbed as is his blankie. His drink is freshened each time we go out, and she keeps a spare just in case he gets trapped in the dessert. He prefers that she just dust the ends of his hair so that he can feel it swish when he whips his hair back and forth. And, once a week, he gets his nails done when mommy does his mani/pedi/haircut.

He travels with an entourage.  Cuddles sits shotgun beside the little celebrity while Elmo and baby bear round out the trio. Cuddles, Elmo, and Baby Bear do not ride in the trunk of the car. They do not ride in the front seat. They ride where he can keep his eye on them--and make sure they are listening. Because he has a lot to say.

His performances range from “Jesus Loves Me” sung in the cart at Hobby Lobby to “Happy Birthday” performed for his aunts and uncles on Christmas Eve. Each performance is completed with a bow to his faithful audience.

I am excited. It is obvious that my child is a rockstar--and if you ask him, he’ll be happy to to tell you too.

Candy Canes and Eggs

At 6:55 this morning, I found myself standing in line at the grocery store wearing rhinestones on shoes, sequins on my sweater, and my fur (faux of course) evening jacket. Why the festive attire so early? The traditional firm holiday breakfast--and of course, I needed just one more Christmas card.

Some firms have parties. Some even have Christmas parties--how politically incorrect! We, on the other hand, gather at 8 a.m. as the sun peeks over downtown, typically on Christmas Eve day.  We don our holiday finest, share hugs and hearty holiday greetings, all while surreptitiously looking for the coffee stand and hoping futilely that the omelet bar will make a reappearance this year.

We join in the Pledge of Allegiance and applaud those who have survived another five years.  We munch on biscuits and eggs and sneak quick peeks at our phone e-mail under the table. 

This year was no different. Santa visited. And some elves too. We hugged. We holiday-ed. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and thanked my legal assistant heartily for the hot tea she managed to find for me (she really is magical!).

And, when it was over, I, along with my fellow lawyers, traipsed back to the office in my evening finery at 10 a.m.

  I've been at this firm for a little over six years. This is my seventh holiday breakfast. I am not a morning person. I am a 9:05-er. And yet somehow, this tradition has become a part of my traditions. I look forward to the singing and the greetings (not necessarily the eggs).  I take R.J. to visit the office afterward, and he greets my friends and colleagues. This year, he gave out candy canes and smiles.

Tonight, my little one sleeps in bed at his grandma's house. And today, for a few hours anyway, I struck the perfect balance.

Mommy Better Recognize

R.J. is two and a half. And, as a two and a half year old, he has an opinion. Actually, he has a lot of opinions. And special requests:  "I wanna some pasta!" (instead of chicken).  "That too hot!" (when he doesn't want to take a bath). "I'm sick. I throw up." (when he doesn't want to sleep).  "I needa My-li-con." (again, when he doesn't want to sleep).  "You have fruit snacks for me?" (when he's testing my mothering skills). "You have crackers for me?" (when I've failed the fruit snack test).

Long before he could talk, or even sit up for that matter, I made a conscious recognition that he's a little person with real person needs. Crying? He must have something to cry about--cold, wet, hungry, irritated. His first nanny would tell me, "He's a little irritated today." Not, "He's cranky today." But, "he's irritated." As though he'd spent all day in an office with a constant ringing phone and hallway chatter chiseling at his patience. 

Now, I recognize that he's a two and a half year old little person. I tell him, "Patience is a virtue, particularly when you're two." When I get impatient, I hear that little voice singing "Patience, have patience, don't be in such a hurry, patience, have patience, right now. When you get impatient, you only start to worry, patience, have patience, right now." It's not a voice in my head. R.J. actually sings this to me in freezing parking lots as I wait in the cold for him to climb into his car seat. 

Last week, I had to make a choice: monkey 'jammies that made me smile at memories of my little guy in his newborn sleeper, or 'jammies with cars. and trucks. fire engines. Things that did not delight my heart and make me say "awwwww." 

But, I recognize that he is a person with real person opinions.  I picked out and wore the same pink polo shirt for school pictures three years in a row--to my mother's dismay. And so, I made the choice I felt my little boy would want. He falls asleep to his own voice, "Wheenew! Wheeenew!" Fire engines. Cars. Trucks. 

A delighted toddler who has his opinion recognized: 

But, I still remember that he is two. So, Mommy still gets her way sometimes too--because striped feetie 'jams make my heart smile (almost as much as a little boy racing fire trucks): 

But I Didn't

Tonight I was invited to a somewhat rare opportunity to eat dinner at a "fancy" restaurant--a steakhouse with fine ratings and spectacular macaroni and cheese.  We had worked a long day: a morning spent furiously typing outlines for witness examinations and an afternoon in a baking courtroom. It was a well deserved treat.

But I didn't go.

I worked a little more, tied up loose ends and polished an affidavit or two. I rang the Bell on the way home, picking up a few tacos to share with my little man.  Surprise! I arrived to an empty house. I ate my dinner at the table in my pink flannel 'jammies while I read my new Good Housekeeping magazine--fine dining indeed.

R.J. arrived home with his daddy moments later. "Hi mama!" he shouted, "I miss you!"  He clambered up on the chair: "I sit in your lap."

A package sat on the table--Christmas presents from the Florida grandma's. "Oh, I get present!"

Painstakingly, he stripped away the paper, postage stamp sized pieces falling to the floor.  "I get airplane!"  (a Fisher Price tree ornament). "I get book!" "That for you," he says, handing me chocolate reindeer.  Finer dining.

I could have eaten the best of OKC. But I didn't.  I settled for Taco Bell and chocolate reindeer sprinkled with toddler sugar kisses.  Priorities. Check.

And I could have missed these moments, where R.J. opened his first presents of the Christmas season;  where R.J. heard his Great Grandma read a story; and where R.J. delighted in the very giftiness of his gifts:

But I didn't.

I want my merit badge.

When I joined a sorority, we had initiation week. It wasn't hell week--if it had been, I wouldn't have joined. But, there was a fair share of humiliation: dancing, skits, "eat dirt! eat dirt!" (it was chocolate cake with gummi worms).
When I was in Campfire Girls, we had rituals. We sat at the Grand Council Fire--burning brightly out of fluttering tissue paper blown by a fan inside Hutchins Memorial Auditorium.  We earned patches for sewing and nature walks. We earned beads for swimming and track.  And we hung them proudly on our sashes, and later, on our vests. We all hoped to make to the ultimate camp fire reward: the Wo-He-Lo.

I quit Campfire Girls. I tolerated the Sorority. I can't quit being a mommy (nor would I want to). But, I want my mommy merit badges. 

We should get patches for each month we nurse a child. Beads for every diaper that runneth over. I want to sew my patches on my briefcase and wear my beads to work. I want everyone to know that this weekend, I earned my Whoa! He Blows! award.

R.J. had a touch of the stomach flu on Thursday, a bit of fever on Friday. By Saturday, he felt better. We went to JC Penney for a baby gift. "Mommy," he said standing in line, "my tummy hurt." I should  have known better. I've been at this for two and a half years.

But, I put him in the car, and we forged ahead. Twenty minutes later, I look in the rearview mirror to see that my precious boy has, in fact, blown a gasket. He barfed on his sweatsuit, my coat, his seat, the floor. And it just kept coming. I pulled into a newly constructed housing addition. Ignoring stares from the Saturday morning crew, I climbed in the backseat (it's on my pants!) and cuddled my stinky baby.

I took off his wet clothes. I wiped his face and dried his tears. I gave him juice. I found his Halloween Elmo jacket and put it on him with a diaper. I gave him a quilt. I cried when he asked for blankie, and I realized we'd left blankie at home.

Once home, I got my baby warm and clean and snuggled into bed. "I feel better," he said, reading Dr. Seuss.

I scrubbed. I freshened. I Febreezed. My car will never be the same again. It has been initiated. I have earned my patch...and I think a few beads. And I'm ever so close to the "Whoa! He blows!"

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.

There's a Pacifier in My Pocket

I am a professional. People ask me for my professional opinion and advice. And I go to court and talk to judges. I’m kind of a big deal. Or not. I’m humbled frequently, but it seems that since I had R.J., I’m humbled more frequently and in increasingly embarrassing ways.

For instance, I traveled to Dallas for a hearing that involved millions of dollars worth of oil and gas leases. My biggest worry, however, was how to fit the albatross of all nursing mothers into a suitcase that was reasonable enough in size that the four men I was traveling with wouldn’t have any idea that they were traveling with a petite, blond milk machine.

I have stood at the podium, poised, professional, and ready to make my case. I reached into my pocket for a pen, and tada! A pacifier!

I reported to a hospital board on the state of their case. And R.J. sat in the carseat behind me, a happy meal in his lap, mommy’s pleading fresh in his mind: “please, please, please, mommy needs you to be very quiet for 20 minutes so that she can do this meeting.” (He didn’t say a word--I wonder about his future as a lawyer)

I have prepared for out of town meetings. Car washed. Seats buffed with leather cleaner. The boss gets in, and a Huggie falls out. And not a dry, fresh Huggie. One that is rolled into a tight little wet ball (because I’d rather put the wet Huggie back in my car than be a mom who throws it out in the WalMart parking lot).  “Oh, let me just get that out of your way,” I play it off.

Firm recruiting lunch? No problem, I can drive. “Your car smells good,” says a recruit. “Um, thanks,” I reply. It’s melted fruit snacks in the car seat. Smells like Bath & Body Works (kids are full of nifty surprises).  

I carry Hot Wheels in my purse. A fact that has not gone unnoticed by the security guards screening at the federal courthouse. There are Hot Wheels on the bookcase in my office. And, I keep a juice box in my office fridge.  My suits smell like syrup because R.J. clings to my legs when I leave in the morning--he’s always sticky.

But, when I get home at night, he comes running, and I am reminded, I’m kind of a big deal--to one little guy at least.

A Christian Lawyer?

I am a lawyer and a mommy 24 hours/7 days a week.  I proclaim to be a Christian 24 hours/7 days a week. But, when clients call at 5 o’clock on Friday, and when the boss calls at 9 o’clock on a Tuesday night, I find it difficult to let my little light shine. The little light also flickers when R.J. is hurling his face at my shoulder, teeth bared and ready to sink in one more time.  

This weekend, I was invited by a family friend to sit at her table at an “Advent by Candlelight” function. Normally, I would have made excuses--it’s Saturday night, I’m tired, R.J. needs his mommy at bedtime--but, this once, I needed an infusion of the true Christmas spirit. So, I went.

My friend hosted a table, which means that she decorated the table, fed us, and served us.  Her table was set with her wedding china (ladies, what an awesome way to finally use that beautiful china that we agonized about for months before the big day!).  We had cake. We visited. We admired each other’s Christmas attire--sweaters, dresses, and hair bows in varying shades of sparkle and glitz. 

There was a guest speaker--a fact that typically strikes a chord of dread in my heart. For the most part, I find speakers to be an eyelid turner.*  Kristen Myers, however, was not an eyelid turner.  She was an eye opener.  While her speech on Christmas was inspiring, it was her daily mantra that really stuck with me: “Am I living to impress, or, am I living to bless?”

Our darling nanny lives to bless.  When she first started working for us, I thought it slightly strange that when she asked if she could help out, she would say, “I just want to be a blessing.” A year later, I know that she genuinely means it, and she is a blessing.  She takes care of my boy. She takes care of me. And I look forward to her smile, her gentle nature, and my morning tea at the kitchen table with her.  For over a year, I have been blessed to have her to teach me how to be a blessing. We teach R.J. to smile at the store clerks, to wave at parades, and to use his toddler charms to be a blessing to others.

But, I’m a lawyer. A debt collecting lawyer. At a big firm. How can I live to bless and not impress? How to merge those two ideals? I started making a point to say good morning to my secretary every day (a simple thing really, but how many of us forget to say good morning?). I try to refill the corporate candy dish every couple of months. I struggle with the billable hour--the shareholders are impressed by big numbers.  And so, for six years, I have struggled to impress, all eyes on the prize: did I bill over 7 hours today? (Yes! Score! or No. Boooo.) But, what if, instead of focusing on the hours on the spreadsheet, I strive to be a blessing to the shareholders I work for? To be a blessing means that some of their stress is alleviated--that they too have time for their families.  The numbers will follow.

And so, today, I am attempting to do the impossible: become a Christian lawyer.  Merge my faith (albeit faltering at times) with my profession. In the past year, I have tried to “fix” my broken attitude with a new calendar system, new schedules, a reorganized office, and multiple doctor’s visits to try and cure what ails me.  But, the real change must be the way I practice law--not the way I write or the way I organize. A complete change in attitude.  With each phone call, e-mail, and visit down the hall, I will ask myself: “Am I trying to impress? Or, am I trying to bless?”

*Years ago, my mom attended a never-ending awards banquet, at which the honoree’s daughters used the speaker’s time to see who could turn her eyelids inside out the longest--i.e., a real eyelid turner.

It's the Hap-Happiest Season of All

We took R.J. to the Edmond light parade last night.  A last minute decision that culminated with me wearing an electric blue turtleneck under an old pink t-shirt and hot pink Hello Kitty gloves.  Why is the Mommy's style the one the suffers most?

Other children at the parade wore darling Christmas sweaters with happy elves dancing across their chests, and they snuzzled deep into fleecy blankets. R.J. wore his pompom hat and one hot pink Hello Kitty glove with his letter jacket-- his shirt hanging out the bottom (against all teachings of his Grandma, who always kept Mommy's dress coats longer than her hem because that's what separates ladies from the gals in the goodbye-ing scene in "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.") But, we made it to the parade as a family, and that's what counts.

We saw the bands marching--the bells of the horns wrapped in Christmas cheer--otherwise known as multi-colored duct tape (you really can do everything with duct tape!).  And, we saw the fire trucks--lights flashing a jolly message of good tidings of comfort and joy.

An Edmond Electric glowstick in hand, R.J. was ready to celebrate the season. Until the parade started. The little fan of all things marching, pulling, pushing, and chugging was not a fan of things marching, pulling, pushing and chugging in the dark.  "Mommy, wanna hold you!" he cried.  Hands on his ears, he tolerated the caroling, and with some cajoling from Mommy, he tolerated the tinsel, trees, and horns:

And, as tradition has it, the jolliest old chap of them all, Santa Claus, arrived on his sleigh--er, his Edmond Electric ladder truck.  We waved. We told Santa that R.J. had been a very good boy. And, we celebrated the unofficial Christmas kickoff as a family.  Andy Williams knew, it's the most wonderful time of the year.  But, I bet Andy Williams didn't know that Mrs. Claus doesn't share a ride with Santa.  She travels by bomb squad:

Merry Christmas!!!

Perfectly Imperfect

Our Thanksgiving was perfect. Mr. Tom Turkey was a perfectly golden brown, finished right on time. The casserole and potatoes came out of the oven perfectly warmed and ready to eat. And, the table was a picture of perfection--fine china; fancy serving bowls; and cloth napkins folded "just so." Ryan was scrubbed clean; each hair falling perfectly in place; impeccable table manners.

NOT.

For those of you not in Oklahoma on Thanksgiving day, it was cold. Not a little nippy. Cold in the way only Oklahoma winds can create. So, Mr. Tom Turkey took about 14 hours to cook. The side dishes sat warming (and drying) in the oven. The rolls didn't rise. And, at the 11th hour, I realized that I do have lovely wedding china in shades of light turquoise and silver. My serving pieces, however, are yellow (a bright, happy, sunny yellow, but yellow nonetheless).

Ryan James missed his nap time and overslept. He missed the blessing and the dinner. He did, however, have his turkey (rolled in a tortilla because everything is better when rolled in a tortilla). Standing at the center island, he made his late evening feast:

The meal just can't top his wardrobe choice.  My child has sweaters and jackets. He has a plaid sport coat and dozens of collared shirts.  His choice was red, furry, and warm. He picked them out himself. They are his Elmo pants:

And so, he knelt at the kitchen alter, ate his Thanksgiving tortilla, and we all gave thanks for the smiles he brings.  We gave thanks for the food on our table in the sunny yellow bowls. We gave thanks for our family and our friends. And we gave thanks for a well-rested toddler:

...who looks quite splendid in his Thanksgiving best (on a Friday afternoon). And so, I am thankful for my perfectly imperfect day.

There's a Right to Privacy?

We are blessed to live a country founded on principles of freedom and protection.  We are guaranteed freedom of religion, freedom of speech, and we are promised protection from our enemies. We are also assured of certain rights to privacy. It has become abundantly clear to me that the founding fathers did not take part in potty training. While I can't confirm, I suspect that James Madison wasn't helping any little Madisons to the outhouse on a cold winter morning.

I, on the other hand, awoke this morning to a two-year old peering at me sweetly. "Mommy needs to go to the bathroom," I tell him. "Okay," he follows me, little feetie 'jamas padding on the floor behind me. I have not gone to the bathroom at home without an audience in 18 months.  (I'm actually thankful for the peace of the corporate potty).  I sit. He stands in front of me, puts his hands on my knees: "I got you. You no fall in." I'm grateful for the assurance. It's 7 a.m. I am not a morning person.

"Yay!" he applauds. "You get M.M!" He's catching on. Soon enough he'll be earning his own M & Ms. For now, I'm thankful for that little morning sugar rush.

Little Bits and Pieces

There are some moments I never want to forget:

The way R.J. wakes up in the morning, sleepy eyed in feetie 'jamas. He looks up, blinking, and says, surprised, "Light came on!" And at night, he lifts the shades in the living room, peers out, and says, "Light went out."

That he tried to blow out the Christmas lights like a birthday candle.

That big trucks say, "La, la, la, la, la, pssssshhhhh!"

The way he asks for more: "Mommy, wanna some more?"

The way he asks to be held: "Mommy, wanna hold you!"

The way he flicks at the skin on his wrists when he's nervous.

The way he buries his face in his blankie and chews when he's anxious, and the way he delicately traces blankie along his lips when he's tired.

That he knows all the words to My Favorite Things and sings along even though he has no ide what a brown paper package tied up with strings really is.

That he pretends to drink like Zeus, "slurp, slurp, smack."

Everytime he sees the golden arches, he lets out the battle cry, "Fries!"

When he hears me walk through the door, he runs, screaming and wanting to tell me about his day (and show me his potty chart).

And, even when he's fully engaged in play, he stops and gives me sugar--even when the older boys are watching.

Green Eyed Cat

A good friend is leaving the practice of law tomorrow. And, I'm jealous. I admit it. I'm jealous that she's going to take her little boy to school every day and get to pick him up. If the teacher needs a homeroom mom, she's your woman. Potty training her little girl? Yes, please, she can do that too.  Keep track of time in tenths of an hour? Nope. That burden is gone. Dinner on the table, laundry folded, grocery shopping midweek....I can practically see myself following her footsteps.

But.

I love my job. I do. Some days I feel like I'm convincing myself that I love it rather than really embracing what has been given to me.  I have a fantastic office with a 17-story view of downtown.  I can run up or down the hall and ask questions to some of the greatest legal minds in Oklahoma (or anywhere quite frankly). My firm lets me bring my boy to visit, and the great legal minds all ask how he's doing with his potty training.  I am challenged every day. Some days, a little too much, and some days not quite enough. I have friends here too, and I don't take that for granted. 

Days like today, I need little reminders that it's all worth it.  I am reminded that my little boy is home with a nanny who loves him as much as I do.  With some luck, a sprinkle of prayer, and a lot of hope, she'll work with our family for many years to come.  I am reminded that the laundry police will not be making an appearance at my house tonight, nor will the white glove cleaning committee.  I am reminded that dinner will get to the table by the grace of the crockpot, one bowl of chili at a time. And, I'm reminded that I do love my job.

I just need convincing. So, I remember a poem from a childhood novel long ago (to which I would give credit if I could remember who wrote it):

Jealous, nasty, green-eyed cat
We don't want you here
So Scat!

Snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails?

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star has three verses. Three! I didn’t know that until I had a child.  I also didn’t know that Gerber makes these divine little corn puffy things that look like miniature Cheetos but come in about five flavors.  I didn’t know that Thomas the Tank Engine has approximately 67 close friends.  They're all Thomas’s best-est friends, and no Island of Sodor is complete without them. (For the record, we have currently adopted Thomas, Percy, James, Fergus, Hank, Gordon, Molly and a smattering of freight cars, tenders, and of course, a caboose. Additional adoptions are pending, conditioned only upon a successful day of potty training or a brave visit to the doctor's office. )

I did have some inkling that I would love my child. But, I didn’t know that I would fall completely in love with him.   I have surprised myself, and I suspect I have surprised a number of others by my devotion to my little boy.

I never planned on having a boy. I mean really, what do you do with a boy?!  I wear pink sequins to work, and I'm not fully dressed until I have a little sparkle on my toes. When I was six, I carefully placed my order for a baby girl--sugar. spice. all that’s nice. pink hair bows. sparkles. And, some ruffled bottom tights, if you please.

And yet, I find myself happiest racing a Hot Wheels garbage truck through the living room, “Rumble, rumble!” My little boy is not snakes, and snails, and puppy dog tails.  He’s a little sugar and a lot of spice.  He tells me he wants to talk about his day: “Mommy, I wanna taaaalk!”  He snuggles with me at night: “Wanna hold you!” He has fabulous hair that he lets me cut and style.  He pushes his Cuddles bear through the house in my old wicker doll carriage. He plays hard and hugs harder. And so, when occasionally I take out the pink kitten sweatsuit I've saved, and the white ruffled sweater, and strawberry print 'jamas, I smile. I put them back in the drawer. And, I shop at four stores until I find training pants printed with cars--just perfectly what my little boy wants.

I need a break!

R.J. takes a break from potty training. He's exhausted. This potty training stuff isn't for the weak. 

Score!

If you have ever had a puppy or a kitten, then you understand my day yesterday: potty training. R.J. woke up and said, "I go potty." Score!  He wants to use a potty!  Visions of a sweetly scented nursery with a diaper pail gone missing flashed through my head.

As R.J. likes to point out ever so often, "Mommy's a girl." Because I am a girl, until yesterday, I did not fully appreciate the capabilities of the male anatomy. My child peed on the floor. He peed on the wall. He peed on the rug, the toilet seat, the side of the bathtub, and of course, on me. It is a true testament of a mother's love that I have physically taught him to "point it down! point it down!"

I'm a lawyer, not a cheerleader. Yet I spent a vast amount of time sitting in floor in front of the potty cheering, "C'mon tinkler, tinkle! C'mon tinkler, tinkle!"  I applauded. I gasped in admiration. I gave M & M's. He grinned, hopped off the potty and then squatted and tinkled in the floor.

At the end of the day, he reached across the change table, grabbed his overnight Huggie, looked at me with that crinkle-nosed grin and said, "A Huggie! Score!" 

(Editor's Note: A very special thank you to our darling nanny who cheered, applauded, and gasped in admiration along with me. After all, every man needs his own cheer leading squad.)

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?

Mighty Ma-CHINE

Ryan and A "Mighty MA-CHINE"

The promise of fall is finally in the air...but not so much that we can't enjoy some good times outside.  Ryan James is currently in his mighty machine phase. That is, every truck, car, airplane, boat, bicycle, and motorcycle garners a "Whoa! Look at that!" from our little man.  Earlier this month, he had the most fun watching Poppy's mighty machine--the old red dump truck. 

Growing up, I rode down seemingly endless roads and highways, bump, bump, bumping on the old truck's dusty seats. The seats were so dusty that clouds of dirt would actually puff out when I pounded my fists on them (a game I used to entertain myself while dad talked to guys on job sites).  I suspect the dirt situation has only gotten, well, dirtier to say the least. Despite being a prissy blond who preferred pink polo shirts, I have a lot of fond memories of the mighty machine. I learned a lot about how my dad worked--meticulous--measure three times, cut once. I also learned that will probably never be able to drive a stick shift. 

Ryan James got to watch Poppy dump a load of rock into a creek bed a few weeks ago. Not my cup of tea, but I have a little boy who loves mighty machines. So, we followed the mighty machine and watched as the old truck heaved and lurched (can it do it? yes it can!--we love Bob the Builder). Creaks, crashes, and a couple of splashes, and the job was done. And, Ryan James has another chapter in his book. 

*Special Note* Ryan James is currently obsessed with the Mighty Machines video series and sings along with passion that only a toddler can muster, "Mighty Ma-CHINES!' 

Reclaiming the Magic

I am a collections lawyer, or in more precise terms, a debt collector (at least according to the Supreme Court's ruling that law firms are debt collection agencies).  I know how to find real property, personal property, cash, coins, jewelry, televisions, trucks (running and not), and I am trained to reclaim that property.

So, why is it so hard to reclaim my baby magic? Not the pink lotion Baby Magic.  This magic: Magic is holding RJ when he was just weeks old, snuggled in my arms, snuffling sweet baby sounds. Magic is not holding RJ as he squirms, squeals, and attempts to bite my nose (really).  Magic is settling down for a Saturday nap with my boy. Magic is not listening to my boy scream through the bedroom door, "Mooooommmmyyyy! I wannnnaaaa mooooommmy!" Magic is hearing all about RJ's day ("I peed. I get M& M."). Magic is not working on case summaries in the bathroom floor while RJ takes his bath.

When I reclaim property, I am required to give notice. Ie, "You are hereby notified that a creditor is about to take your stuff." The debtor gets a chance to respond. Ie, "My stuff is exempt under Oklahoma law. I get to keep it."

I am hereby giving notice that I am reclaiming the magic. RJ still snuggles and snuffles sweetly--he just requires a different context. Last night, he fell asleep to the sweet sounds of an East Indian call representative trying to activate Hubbsie's iPhone. We all oddly enjoyed those moments of peace.  RJ still naps on Saturdays with me. He just requires some stories. I am reminded that the magic of story time won't last forever. And so, I am patient as I read "Thomas and the Big, Big, Bridge," again, and again. (It's windy up there. Very, very windy.). And, magic is still in hearing about RJ's day.  I just have to exercise the same advice I give him: "patience is a virtue, particularly when you're two (or 33)." After he plays with the neighborhood boys, he still tells me about his day. And, most days, "it was pretty good," he says, with a mouthful of pasta.

To those who may object to this reclamation: My magic is exempt. It is protected under the laws of the state of my sanity. Accordingly, I will continue to (1) work from home so that I can eat lunch with RJ; (2) give RJ his bath every night; and (3) rock RJ to sleep. (I've never known of a 12-year old boy who wanted his mommy to rock him to sleep, so I'm letting this phase play out on its own).

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. 

Keeping Time

I keep time in six minute increments. 7:30--I wake up. 7:36--I get out of the bed. 7:42--I take a shower. You get the idea. My entire day exists in six minute increments, a requirement of my job. When I get stuck in traffic, I immediately assess how many "point ones" I need to make up the time spent sitting in my car.

I have one and only one zone of peace. My chair. It is sage green houndstooth micro-fiber velour. It is indelibly stained with chocolate milk, despite near weekly efforts to scrub it clean. It smells like fabric softner, my perfume, and wet-puppy little boy. Every night, RJ asks me to rock him. Sometimes we rock for 10 minutes. Sometimes for two hours. And not once, not ever, do I look at the clock and think, "Just one more 'point one,' and I'll stop rocking."

My day at work is controlled by a clock--constantly ticking, scolding me when I scoot down the hall to the restroom or (gasp!) when I stop to chat with my friends. My evenings at home are wholly controlled by a toddler, from doorway to pillow.

I used to think that toddler time would be the time that I would monitor and that my workdays would flow like water. I would be a career woman. A "success." Now, the workdays flow like molasses that set in the refrigerator too long, and my evenings in my rocking chair slide by effortlessly.

Tonight, I kept time in my rocking chair. I counted the minutes until Ryan James drifted to sleep and counted the minutes until I felt his legs twitch the tell tale sign of dreams. I kept time and realized that my baby is getting longer. His legs drape over the arms of my chair, and his arms reach all the way around my neck.

My "point ones" with RJ will no doubt grow more and more precious, and despite my best efforts, my "point ones" at work will continue to be stolen, late at night, early in the morning, at the dinner table on my phone. And with luck, a little prayer, and a lot of hope, maybe those "point ones" will be enough.

Wasting Time?

I've been drafting an objection to a disclosure statement in a chapter 11 case for the past 4 hours--a technical objection that does little more than slow the path toward a debtor getting a reasonable plan of reorganization. While I've been bogged down in legal technicalities, pro formas, and budgets, a world away, mothers cheer, sons cry tears of joy, and 20 miners are seeing the sun for the first time in 69 days. Obviously, I don't know these men. They work in Chile. I will probably never see Chile. But I am fascinated? Intrigued? Sympathetic? Empathetic? Horrified? I don't know why I've spent over 7 hours of my time watching these rescues. Human nature dictates that I feel some kind of tie to these families simply by virtue of being human--but to the point of tears?

I am fascinated by the technical genius that created the drill that finally reached these men after 68 days. I am intrigued by the cinematography: I watch, spellbound, as the giant wheel spins, lowering the tiny "Phoenix" capsule that ultimately carries each man to his family. I am sympathetic to each mother who worries that her son hasn't eaten enough or doesn't have dry socks. I am empathetic toward those wives and girlfriends who fall asleep each night wondering if her beloved is really doing as well as he says. I am horrified that the road to joy is a dark, claustrophobic tunnel that could result in untold disasters.

I don't see my time spent watching these rescues as a waste of time. Each reunion reminds me of the day that Brian came home from Iraq, and I am reminded how much I love him. Each shot of the spinning wheel reminds me of how a seemingly simple solution can be life-changing. I am reminded that life goes on outside my climate-controlled office sitting high above Oklahoma City.

And so, my television remains turned on. I will continue to draft technical objections. And tonight, I will hug my little boy and my husband and hope that I never feel the exuberant joy that comes after an uncertain tragedy.

Morning Rush

Sometimes I wonder who the toddler-at-heart really is. I am: cranky, irritable, tired, itchy, scratchy, and whiny. My child is: happy, polite, toughing out a rash, and welcoming the day with gusto. I tried to get out of the house this morning with some resemblence of professionalism. I stripped the soaked bedding (overnight Huggies are not sufficient for my boy) and got it in the washer. I carefully placed my phone on the bed where I would find it when it was time to leave. I put on my makeup. I made waffles.

And then, someone in the cosmos hit the giant "flush" button, and my well-planned morning went straight down the toilet. I turned around for two seconds, and RJ had a quart sized cup of water poised and ready to pour over the rug. I lost my phone. (under RJ's bathrobe). I had to fight RJ for my briefcase. (I gave him a wheelie suitcase to calm his tears). My pants didn't fit (dry cleaners must have shrunk them again, right?).

I was, as usual, late for work. And I rode up the elevator with not one, not two, but three shareholders who will be voting on my admission in just a short year and a half.

But, as I've mentioned before, this firm is family friendly. The people are family friendlier. The shareholders have children. They've fought the briefcase battle. And the computer battle. And the phone battle. And more importantly, they remember fighting those battles.

As I sit in my office this morning, calm settles in. Perhaps, just perhaps, this day can be rescued yet. Updates to come....

Continuing Legal (Life) Ed

I just returned from two full days away from R.J. while Brian and I went to Las Vegas. I knocked out my continuing education requirements while Brian played poker with a colleague's husband. A good weekend with many lessons learned.

One: I worry about the kind of woman my son will find to marry. I'm serious about this. I saw way too many young girls, too drunk with not enough clothing. But then again, it was Vegas--not the school picnic. 

Two: margaritas can make the second night away from my baby far more tolerable. But, I still missed his chirpy "Yake UP mama!"  (and on that note, a light-up margarita glass can make a terrific toddler ice cream bowl).

Three: a two-year old can gain an entirely new vocabulary in just a few short days. R.J. has taken to telling us, "I slept well," when he wakes up. Last night, we saw another toddler pitching a fit in Target. R.J.'s first response: "She need blanket." (empathy). My question to him, "Do you really think she needs a blanket?"  His response, thoughtfully watching her, "No, she need timeout." (self righteous--he is my child, after all).

Four: judges do not like name calling among attorneys (I really did go to my classes).

Five: an iPhone isn't just for entertaining bored toddlers.

Six: there is no substitute for peace of mind when it comes to your child. A loving grandma who bakes cookies, plays cars, and generally keeps the peace at home can make for a restful vacation. I am very grateful for my mom. Always have been. Always will be. But now that I'm a mom, I'm grateful in a different way. Not only does she want the best for me, she wants the best for my baby. There's no substitute for that.

Seven: (lucky seven, how 'bout that?)  Poker tournaments are cheaper than blackjack, and you get hours of entertainment instead of minutes.

Priorities

1, 2, 3. A, B, C. Red, orange, yellow. Priorities. I have them. Most days, I try to keep them in order: family, work, everything else.  Last night, I mixed them up. I broke a new hard and fast rule: no e-mail after supper. It protects me from sleepless nights and distracted evenings with Ryan.

I checked my e-mail last night. I received one of “those” e-mails: that ominous “objection” to service. I was distracted during bath time. No cheerful conversations with Ryan’s seahorse or whale. No discussions of “bottom bubbles” (toots) in the tub. (He is a boy, after all).  Bed time came….and went. Ryan snuggled in my lap, comforting in his baby ways.  Eventually, exhausted, he fell asleep with no stories, and no songs. Priorities.

Hours later, I found myself awake. I wasn’t tossing and turning lest I wake the sleeping two-year old in bed beside me. Instead, I lay there, sweating, panic-stricken. Did we send the defendant notice? How had I let it go?

I wanted to quit my job. Really, I did. I was overwhelmed and exhausted. My immediate solution is always, I’ll quit my job and stay home. I love being a mom--more than anything in this world-- I love being a mom. I’ve surprised myself by enjoying diaper change chattering and wiping sticky fingers. I actually like that wet-puppy smell of a little boy who has played too hard outside. I’m unendingly patient: I realized this two nights ago when I helped Ryan James carefully tuck in his trains and kiss each of them good night. Nights like these, I find myself thinking that I really could do this mommy-thing full time.

This morning, I checked my endless e-mail files and discovered that yes, of course, we had served the defendant. Yes, of course, the defendant was lying (they all lie). I vented. I nearly cried. I cleaned my desk. And, with new vigor, I made a solemn vow: Priorities. Family. Work. Everything else.

An update to the balance beam...he does so love his 'nastics class. Here, he waits his turn for the zip line.

Always Be Prepared

I’m organized. A list maker. A note taker. A bag packer extraordinaire. But none of that matters when it’s supper time, and you’re at the mall with a two-year old.  Yesterday after working from home most of the day, I took RJ on an adventure to my office. He had been asking all week, and ever the doting mommy, I promised him we’d go.

As “biglaw” law offices go, ours is pretty relaxed and darn child-friendly. People smile when they see a toddler coming; they leave their doors open and candy dishes within reach. A politician-to-be, Ryan James loves to visit. “I’m Ryan,” he says to everyone. “I have juice.” A flawless opening line; I'm sure he'll be president. 

Loaded up on candy bars from my assistant’s candy dish and full of stories about the cranes he saw working on the new Devon tower, little man climbed into the backseat. We were off to Babies-R-Us--a store specially designed to make every mother feel just a little inferior. I mean, I never bought a pre-natal education system for RJ so that he could listen to classical music in-utero. But I bought him a heated wipe warmer, so it all evens out, right?

A collapsible potty seat later (yes, updates to come), and we were on our way to Quail Springs Mall. It was payday. And Friday. And date night for every awkward 15-year old in the greater Oklahoma City area.  Worlds were colliding, but we forged ahead.

As we waited in line for our seats at El Chico, I looked down at RJ. He braced his arms on the bench; his eyes rolled back in his head. “Oh No!” I thought. “He’s having a seizure!”

“Ry, baby, you okay?” I asked, with my hand reaching for my phone to call 911. “Oh,” he shouted, “I pooped! I feel better.” Sure enough, a quick sniff confirmed the dirty deed. Sheepishly, we sneaked past 10 pairs of eyes. Some sympathetic. Some disgusted. All hoping we'd be seated in another section.

A Huggie change in the backseat is always tricky--more so when you’re using the emergency Huggie and crossing fingers for a rogue Wal-Mart bag to turn up under a seat.  Thankfully, RJ can entertain himself. As soon as we reached the car, he found a book and relaxed in the backseat reading while mommy changed his pants. When he’s bringing a book to the change table, it’s time to start potty training.

Clean pants, a new found cowboy hat, and a Huggie tied up in a Wal-Mart bag (yes! score!), RJ was ready for supper. We stood outside the mall, and he told me, “Ry eat at home.” I should’ve listened. Service was slow. I still didn’t have a diaper bag, so there was no mommy-magic: no hot wheels pulled from no where; no books; no crayons. We made do. I’m not proud, but I can tell you that, properly mommy-marketed, a drink menu can be a fun-filled story about Margarita and her trusty sidekick Jose Cuervo.

I am prepared, most of the time. But last night served as a reminder that I may never be one of those Babies-R-Us moms with every cracker packaged, and every poop planned. But, I’m a pretty good improviser, and that makes all the difference.

Work Life Balance

Work life balance. As a lawyer, I hear that phrase all the time. More accurately, I’ve heard that there is no balance as a mommy lawyer--it’s an everyday juggling act. I think it’s somewhere in between.  There’s a prioritization that must be done, and at each step, something will be sacrificed.  

Before entering an appearance on the mommy docket, I did what some say are “outstanding” things in my life. I’ve been in an all-state orchestra; I’ve been number one in my law school class (temporarily at least); I graduated with honors with three college degrees. I learned last night, however, that there is no prouder moment in a mommy’s life than when her little boy wrestles the balance beam all by himself and wins!

Cheering alongside him, “You can do it, Boogie! Keep going!” I watched as RJ weebled and wobbled his way across the balance beam to the platform. “Ta-da!” he said, as he grinned his baby grin. “One, two three, look at me!”

I didn’t bill 8 hours at work yesterday, and I didn’t have any big wins. I did get home in time for dinner and gymnastics. So, yes, it was a good night. And, a good reminder of just how little the big things can become and how big the little things should be. I hope I remember to end my daily balancing act well too: “Ta-da!”

Tears, Traffic, and Toddler Time

A long, tedious day in the office spent analyzing literally hundreds of e-mails sent over five years ago. It was a relief to finally get on the road and make the drive home. Surprisingly, a forecast for severe weather during rush hour had cleared the roads, and the drive was quick.  I arrived home to find a toddler playing ball in the driveway with his daddy--a welcome sight.  Squealing hugs and slobbery kisses from a little boy who smells like a wet puppy are the perfect end to my workday and the perfect beginning to the family dinner hour.

Fortunately, I had cooked over the weekend: lasagna, always a hit with the family gallery. RJ ate like a man. I didn't know it was possible for this little boy, who can exist for days on two bites of waffle and a package of fruit snacks, to eat so much. Dinner ran late, and soon it was bath time.

While dinner was a roaring success, bath time involved roaring of another kind. RJ could be heard bellowing two doors down. On a normal night, a few minutes of collecting Hot Wheels to play car wash cures the travesty of a bath. Not tonight. Tears and wailing. Face screwed into a thousand grimaces, he screamed through hair washing, thrashed through bottom washing, and finally buried his tears in my shoulder as we made our way to pajama time.

Even his blanket couldn't cure this toddler's woes. So, at his sniffling request, we set off into the night time traffic of Edmond.  Cool air conditioning, chocolate milk, and blankie all tucked carefully into his car seat, we set out. We always head west, then north, as Jack Johnson plays on the stereo. Most nights, RJ doesn't learn anything about making banana pancakes (track 3 on the CD), but tonight, he made it through track 3. And 4. And 5. Defeated, I returned home with a very sad little boy.

We snuggled into the rocking chair where he finally admitted, "Ry scared." I can't imagine what could be so frightening to a two-year old, and I don't really want to know. Hearing whispered promises that mommy will be there when he awakens in the night,  an exhausted little boy snuggled into my shoulder and finally (finally) gave in to sleep.

And I eased my way back to the office for the final stop on the mommy docket: the e-mail traffic is slow tonight.