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?