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!!!