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....