Baby Jesus is Where?

Christmas is over. RJ is sad. It makes me sad to find that the after Christmas let-down begins as early as age 3. He cried when we mentioned taking down the Christmas lights, and he is insistent that Hamilton Hank Holiday (our elf) should stay for a longer visit. But, as Dr. Seuss says, "Today was good, today was fun, tomorrow is another one."

And so today, I began the task of taking down our Christmas decorations. Collapsed are the honeycomb paper trees. Silenced is Snoopy playing "Oh Christmas Tree." The lights are dark, and the gingerbread house is stale.

Of course, with a toddler (or is he a preschooler now? Gasp!), there are always a few surprises. I started to put away the candy village, complete with the plastic candy house (not to be confused with the real gingerbread house, which would NOT survive an Oklahoma spring anyway--construction isn't my gig). In the chimney, I found a surprise. Baby Jesus. No, really. Baby Jesus. He's been missing from our little nativity set for a while. Apparently RJ thought he needed somewhere warmer than the manger. Fortunately, we didn't need our plastic Jesus to remember the "reason for the season." A rare opportunity to sit in church with my mom, dad, husband, and two children helped me to keep Jesus in my Christmas. I rescued Baby Jesus--he's now snug in his manger. Once again, Christmas has gone. But, the warm snuggly feeling I have after a Christmas with my boy and my new baby girl will be here all year. I'm glad. These Oklahoma winters are cold.

(More to follow on Christmas as soon as I find 20 minutes to upload photos. The weather here is beautiful, and I've made the right decision and spent every afternoon outside rather than trapped at a computer. As soon as a blizzard arrives, so will Christmas pictures and tales).

A Princess Problem

When I was in college, there was always a moment near the end of a party where I felt my heart race, and I thought, "Just give me 15 more minutes. I should have danced. I should have sang Karaoke with the girls. Just give me 15 more minutes." The finale at my senior concert: "I should have played louder, sat up straighter, really felt the music. Just give me one more try." The ten minutes before the bar exam: "Just give me another hour. I promise I'll learn commercial paper."

I have two weeks of maternity leave left. That makes my heart race, and I'm searching for my 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes to play cars, to make cookies, to snuggle RJ with both arms (per his request), to rock my baby girl before she decides I'm just not cool anymore.

If you Google work-life balance, you'll find hundreds of pages. Advice. Commiseration. Stories. There are books devoted to the idea of balanced hours and part time plans for lawyers. They describe the plight of working moms as being torn, fragmented,  and mommy-tracked. I am all of those things. But in reality, I have a princess problem. (Princess problem: a problem affecting princesses--those of us who have everything we could possibly want and yet still have problems).

My parents told me that I could be anything I wanted to be. I believed them. For years, I was on a one-track path to becoming a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader and a veterinarian. Then, I realized that I'm not much of a dancer or a crowd pleaser. And I hate football. I still thought I would be a veterinarian. Until I observed cat surgery and found myself in the parking lot of the clinic hoping I wouldn't pass out in the driver's seat and further humiliate myself. Surgery is so gross! I veered left, changed my major to English and tried to figure out exactly what to do with an English degree.

I edited textbooks about cementing oil wells. I climbed on water trucks looking at a new borehole so that I could write a technical bulletin about it. I wrote user manuals for telemarketing software. I took the LSAT and surprised myself.

It's almost January 2012. Eight years ago when I started my job, I thought 2012 would never get here. I kind of sort of assumed I would either (1) be fired; (2) hate the practice of law; or (3) find myself at another firm. I surprised myself again. I (1) haven't been fired; (2) love the practice of law; and (3) find myself happy at the same firm eight years later.

I'm not a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. I'm not a veterinarian. Things changed. I'm happy about that. Eight years ago, I billed 1907 hours in a year. I spent New Year's Eve in a hotel room billing a final 4 hours on a document review. Just because I could. Things have changed:

I have a princess problem. I don't have to search for evening childcare while I run the checkout stand at the grocery store. I don't have to worry that whether my car will start in the morning or whether I have enough Huggies to make it to the end of the month. I have good childcare, and I have family who wants to help me.

Princess problem. Torn. Fragmented. Mommy-tracked. I want my 15 minutes to pick up RJ after school and hear about his day. I want my 15 minutes to rock GiGi to sleep. I want to be a good lawyer. I want to be a good mother. I'm just not sure where the intersection is located. I need a map. I've tried to find one. There is no GPS, and so far, Magellen hasn't mapped this part of the world.

I've learned my lesson. The party hasn't ended, and we haven't sung the final song. I'm enjoying my last two weeks of leave. I'm taking my 15 minutes (thus the limited posts lately). And, in the meantime, I'm searching for the magic pixie dust to fix my princess problem.

P.S.

When I start to feel too sad, I remember that during this photo shoot, RJ repeatedly tried to smack GiGi over the head with a plastic bat. I was too sleep deprived to wipe the smile off my face and send him to timeout.

One Christmas Tradition

New advertising campaigns are dedicated to tradition. I try to follow some traditions. I try to make some new ones. But, for us, it's not a matter of creating or sticking to tradition.  Some things just haven't changed much.

I went to a little Lutheran school where we did little Christmas programs every year. In kindergarten, I was a little French girl in a little French girl dress--made by my mom, of course. I felt really special: 

But in hindsight, we each played a special part: 

Years of little Lutheran Christmas programs followed. Each with a special dress or costume. (Each made by mom, of course): 

There was the shepherd girl: 

(with a sheer scarf so my hair would show. It was freezing that night. I still remember the smell of ice in the air. )

There was the pretty princess ribbon dress--a compromise. I wanted gold lame'. Mom said no. She was right. In the '80s little girls didn't wear gold lame' (but Barbie did). I still felt really pretty:  

 (Santa came during the church service.)

And then, there was the angel: 

I had one line: "The King has arrived!" I sold it. Loud and clear. Brought down the house. (The hottie is my mom, of course--love her).

Eight years of little Lutheran Christmas programs. And then they ended. I graduated 6th grade. We still went to church on Christmas Eve. But Christmas wasn't quite the same without the hours of rehearsal, nerves, costumes, and of course, cookies and red Koolaid afterward. 

Until this year. 

R.J. goes to a little Lutheran school. And, we went to a little Lutheran Christmas program. He wore a special vest (made by my mom, of course): 

(Gigi dressed up too and added her own soundtrack.)

He felt pretty special. RJ's teacher tells me he's her most sensitive student, and she worried about him handling the crowd. RJ will tell you he's shy. Johnny Carson claimed he was shy too.  RJ walked in, saw me, and waved. He saw his daddy from the stage: "Hi Daddy!" He sang. He celebrated.

Afterward, we ate cookies and drank red Koolaid.  I hope that RJ's classmates felt special too, because each played a special part. 

This year, for the first time in a long time, my Christmas season is complete. The King Has Arrived! And, we intend to celebrate. 

I have a secret

My first car was awesome. V-8. Two seater. Muscle car. Vroom, vroom. I washed it until I was in danger of buffing off the paint (that I helped apply). I knew the compression ratio, the engine size, and the serial number engraved on the dash. It was awesome.

(a 1969 American Motors AMX, British racing green with white racing stripes).

And so, when I was 16, I took a vow: "I will never (ever) drive a four door."

Following the muscle car, I drove the wheels off a '95 Dodge Neon. Two doors. Sport model. Zippy. And cute.

I grew up and graduated college. Got a master's degree and a law degree. The Neon stuck with me. We battled tornadoes (really), ice storms, and blistering summers. We got along well until The Neon developed a wire shortage and made me late to work just one more time. "Get a new car," my boss told me.

I listened:

It was adorable. Most days it sported a giant daisy on the hood and pink daisies down the sides. Professional, it was not. But it made my heart smile.

This made my heart smile too:

(So does this):

(The Muscle Car still resides at my parents' house. RJ is smitten.)

I said goodbye to my Beetle Bug and hello to this: 

It has four doors. Four. It is sporty and zippy. But, the daisies didn't quite work. And the wind doesn't sing quite the same through the sunroof as it did in the drop top. But, it serves its purpose--and works much better for shuttling the occasional client. (One of my best lawyer tales is "How to Fit a Six Foot Client Plus Two Others into a VW Bug." It worked. Barely. They were surfers from California and thought the bug was cool. Thank goodness.). 

I've adapted to being a mom. Grown up. Moved on. I find myself wearing a teal velour sweatsuit in the carpool line. Pony tail. Walking shoes (not running, walking shoes). My Chanel heels are mourning in the darkness of my closet. 

And now, I find myself surfing the web late at night saying things like, "It has automatic doors!" And, "Ooooooh, look at the walk through seating!" "Captains chairs!" "And a rear view camera!"

I, the girl who swore to never drive a four door, confess. I have a secret. I am shopping for a minivan. It's a dark, dark day. The pigs' wings have blocked the sun as they fly in formation. I don't know if I'll make the change. Automatic doors are hot. Integrated window shades flip my switches. But it's a minivan. 

This makes my heart smile: 

Now, there are two. Four doors. Mom shoes. I've adapted. And it makes my heart smile. (So does a cool box console, optional trash can ring, and magic 40/60 flip fold seat). 

Thankful Bits and Pieces

1.   The pilgrims didn't have Chick Fil-A nuggets at the first Thanksgiving. Or construction paper. Or lemonade. In fact, I wonder if they had turkey. They celebrated gratitude. We try to teach RJ an attitude of gratitude. So far, so good. He thanks me for changing his stinky pants and for doing his laundry. Tonight, his giggles of glee for a clean blankie were a soothing balm for my soul. And today, we were in fact thankful for chicken nuggets, construction paper and lemonade. RJ's school celebrated Thanksgiving today with a school-wide feast. I am thankful for the little Lutheran school that taught me to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I am thankful that a little Lutheran school is right up the street for my little boy. The chicken nugget feast was precisely what my little man would have ordered if he had the choice.  He, by the way, is thankful for his big tractor, his mommy, and his daddy.

2.  I am thankful for Buzzy, the classroom bumblebee. RJ has been wondering when he would ever earn the chance to take Buzzy home. He earned Buzzy for the whole Thanksgiving weekend! Buzzy napped with us (in a pull-up, per RJ's special request). Note: a stuffed bumblebee pull-up can be easily fashioned from an antique handkerchief. The big girl panties (Buzzy is a girl apparently) took a little more skill--but a toddler sweat sock and a pair of scissors made Buzzy a happy bee in her panties.

(If you look very closely, you can see Buzzy's big-girl panties)

RJ is so proud of earning Buzzy that he is currently sleeping with Buzzy in his arms. I'm thankful he's sleeping. And I'm thankful that my little guy has something to feel proud of these days. Timeouts are far too frequent, and when you're three, everything is a no-no.

3.  I am thankful for my toddler Four Seasons in northern Oklahoma. RJ still calls his Ponca City backyard "his" backyard. The food is five stars. There is no supper better than one cooked by mom. And, the host and hostess are always available to race cars, fly helicopters or play "pitch" out back.

4.  I am thankful for Huggies. Big and small.

5.  I am thankful for our darling nanny. She visited this week, and I'm becoming more and more convinced that she is in fact Mary Poppins, complete with magical powers. After just a two hour visit, RJ was content. His attitude of gratitude had returned from a long vacation. (He tells me his sweet attitude was on the roof.)  And, we are all thankful that she and her baby boy will continue to be part of our lives.

6.  I am thankful for a husband who believes I can do it all: work, kids, cooking, house, and cats. I can't. But he never calls my bluff.

7.  I am thankful for my mentors. They have spent countless hours counseling me, consoling me, and convincing me. We've argued, and we've gone days without speaking. I've been right. And, I've been wrong. But they always take the time to let me voice my opinion. A lot of "big law" firms won't do that.

8.  I am thankful for microwave popcorn. Seriously. It's good. It's fast. And it makes my house smell like a movie theater.

9.  I am thankful for a friend who understands the pitfalls of motherhood and who shares the bittersweetness of moments we are glad we've had and we know we'll never have again. (I'll be happy to have GiGi sleep through the night, but then again, I'll miss those midnight snuffles, snorts, and smiles.).

10.  I am thankful for a happy baby:

11.  I am thankful for chocolate chip cookies, Chex mix, Rice Crispy treats, and cookbooks. RJ and I cook every afternoon. He learns to count. And I keep my sanity (I love my children, but by 4 o'clock every afternoon, my creative meter is sitting at zero. Cooking keeps my wee one entertained, and we get supper on the table too!). 

12.  I am thankful for treadmills, strollers, and tennies. Someone has to taste test the fruits of our cooking endeavors, after all. 

13.  I am thankful for naps. 

14.  I am thankful for the public library. Books, movies, music, and RJ gets to play Thomas games on the computer (and I get to avoid the video game discussion for at least a little while longer at home). 

My list could go on for miles and days. I am blessed. The End. 

Try, Try Again

Aim high. Do your best. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. I know them all, and I've tried to always aim high, do my best, and try, try again. Being a short term stay at home mom, I'm learning the most important thing is to try, try again.

We haven't succeeded at potty training. I've done my best. He has aimed high. And low.  But, we'll try, try again until we have success. I know without a doubt that RJ will not go to the first grade while still asking for a Huggie. "Mommy?" he asks every so politely every single day, "I needa Huggie to poop." I've tried rewards. He points out every toy he sees and says, "Oh! I gonna get that when I poop!" (My bank account isn't worried given his fondness of Huggies.). I've tried scientific reasoning, which, not surprisingly, doesn't work so well with a three year old. He doesn't really understand nutrition ("Candy gonna make me strong!"), so explaining why he doesn't need certain nutrients is probably futile. I've appealed to his moral conscience. I tell him to do what he believes is the right thing to do. Apparently, the right thing to do is to ask permission rather than beg forgiveness.

We have bad days. Really bad ones. I yell. He screams. We go to bed angry, and sometimes I think he hates me. He tells me I have bad breath. He tells me he doesn't like my pony tail. I, in turn, tell him I don't like his attitude, and away we go to timeout. (In his defense, I had eaten salsa that day for lunch).

But, there's nothing like a three year old to remind you how to really try, try again.  We went to the park last week. And, he saw an airplane. He has seen thousands of airplanes. He has flown on planes. He eats breakfast once a month at the fly-in breakfast. He is a valuable customer of Enrique's at the airport. Airplanes shouldn't be exciting anymore. But they are. "Look!" he screamed, "An airplane!" "It's soooo high!" "I gonna catch it!" And he began to jump. And jump and reach and stretch. And with each jump, he tried again to catch that airplane. By the time he was finished, I believed he could catch it too.

He tried, and he tried again. He didn't catch that airplane, but he did remind his mommy that little things can be exciting. Bad days can come (and they do), but if we try, try again, we can find that RJ/mommy magic. Little moments. Big ambitions. And we will try, try again.

It Takes a Village

It takes a village to raise a child, so they say. Maybe not a village, but an extra set of hands certainly helps. As does 15 minutes of toddler planning.  I try to plan for every day to have an adventure. If we don't, RJ and I are not speaking by the end of the day. Actually, he's still talking ("Moooommmmyyyyy, I waaannnaa [fill in the blank]").  My child has been vaccinated with the talking needle. So, we have a daily adventure. A couple of days ago, our adventure was Target. I don't claim that our adventures are all educational or even productive. The point is to get the three year old out of the house and talking about something other than wanting to play cars.

At Target, we looked at baby bottles and baby monitors. I'm toying with the idea of a video monitor for GiGi's room. She's a different kind of cat. She prefers her crib, and I'm certainly not one to argue with her. For now anyway. When she's 13 I'm sure I will be one to argue with her.

Given the recent seismic activity, however, I chickened out. I need to sleep in the room with my babies. Call me crazy, but I thought that putting up with tornadoes, blizzards, bone chilling winds, and floods entitled me to a floor that doesn't shimmy and shake like Dance Fever. I guess I was wrong.

I digress. On our adventure, we visited the linens and talked about table settings. My son may be a decorator someday. The point is, we went all over the store. Clear to the back and to the front again. While picking up bread on the first aisle, a lovely mommy with three children in her cart stopped me. (I wanted to take her out for coffee to ask the question, "How do you do it? I mean really, three! How do you do it and still have on makeup and matching clothes?!")

"Excuse me," she said, "You have a lollipop stuck on your pants." She was polite. There was a sucker stick on my boom-boom. And it had been there through the baby department, the linens, the shoes, and the groceries. It was red. Of course. And very sticky. Obviously. (The pound of lollipop bribes in the trunk of my car had finally come back to bite me.) Only another mommy had the kind heart to actually tell me rather than giggle.

And with that, I realized that while I may have joined the village of lawyers when I passed the bar, I am also part of another village: mommies. Mommies unite. We look out for each other. I pick up lost baby socks and pacifiers for strangers. I commiserate over potty training--which may be subject of an entire book someday if RJ ever learns to poop in the potty. As I embark on month two of maternity leave, I am realizing that it may take a village to raise a child, but the real truth is that it takes a village to raise a mommy.

And Now There Are Two

I have been the mother of two for five weeks now, and I feel like I’m getting the hang of it. Kind of like getting the hang of law school after the first semester. I know to make RJ’s lunch ahead of time (just like my outlines).  I know to take advantage of my extra unexpected 10 minutes rather than wasting it in front of the television (flash cards anyone?).  I’ve learned a few new things in the past few weeks:  

Offering to buy a newborn a red convertible when she turns 16 will not get you three hours of uninterrupted sleep. I’ve tried. But, offering to pay a three-year old in Oreos will get you 15 minutes to load the dishwasher. 

Cats and three-year olds have a lot in common when it comes to vacuum cleaners. They both go crazy when you turn the sweeper on. They both weave between your legs while you run it. And both will make you nuts. But you can teach a three-year old to suck up rouge Cheerios with the hose attachment. Cats won’t do that. 

A five-week old can sleep through 87 preschoolers jumping in a bouncy thingy. And she can sleep through Monday Night Football. And the vacuum cleaner. But if you drop a Hot Wheels on a tile floor three rooms away, her frazzled little nerves will come completely undone, and she will wake up. Screaming. 

If you show a three-year old a picture of a bulldozer, he’ll turn the book upside down and inside out trying to get a glimpse of the bulldozer’s mouth behind the box blade--just to see if he’s smiling when he (the bulldozer) has to go to bed. (“Goodnight, Goodnight Construction Site” is our new favorite book.). 

“La, la, la, not touching her!” is a new game. We have a new rule about personal space. And a chart to earn magnets for respecting it. If RJ was a cat, then GiGi would be tuna fish. She is irresistible to him. He touches her hair, her face, her hands, her carrier. I am not surprised to hear myself say things like, “Do NOT lick your sister on the mouth again!” 

A five week old is a magician. How else could she barf out her nose? (RJ is understandably repulsed: “Ewwww, she barf again!” “Then don’t lick her face!”). 

And, finally, I’m learning that taking advantage of the extra 10 minutes sometimes means an extra 10 minutes to rock my little boy instead of to load the dishwasher (He asked to be snuggled today. How could I turn that down?).

New Rules

I’m good at rules. It’s what I do. Answers are due in 20 days. Rule 9006 says a request for extension of time must be filed before the deadline runs. I’m good at rules. Or, I thought I was until I joined the ranks of school moms.  

Today was his Fall Party. We used to call this a Halloween party, but Halloween has been increasingly freaky, so now, it’s a Fall party. The rules for the party were as follows: 

Rule No. 1: No scary costumes. RJ went as a farmer. He wanted to be a harvester--the actual machine that harvests the wheat, but I’m a mom, not a miracle worker. Steel blades and tires were not in my costume arsenal.  Farmer made the grade as non-scary. So did Bible-Man (purple cape. gold mask.).   Batman made the grade for the school party, but RJ was scared of him. I know because he told me, “Batman worried me.” I assumed Batman was an adult in costume. Batman was in fact three-years old, three-feet tall, and apparently very, very scary at recess. As RJ’s teacher told me today, “He’s very sensitive.” (He’ll make a great husband someday. He’s learning to load the dishwasher, fold laundry, and set the table too. Little ladies, take note.). 

Rule No. 2:  RJ’s school is a Nut Free Zone: 

(I’m planning to have this sign commissioned and hang it in my office and on my front door--I need more nut free zones in my life). 

What I learned today: All M&M’s have peanuts.  In a parking lot panic after reading the ingredients on the bag, I dumped my secret lollipop stash into the candy bag for the Fall Party parade. (I keep a pound of suckers in the trunk of my car--makes rewards easy and bribes easier. I have no shame. I bribe my child with pure sugar--makes him sweeter). 

What else I learned today: Nut Free Zones do not count at the Fall party. Snickers galore. M&M’s, yes please. And, the crazy lady with 200 lollipops has some pure sugar for you too. There are exceptions to the rules--even at three year old pre-k. 

Rule No. 3:  Moms attending the party should bring treats. 

I did not bring treats. I was not on the sign-in sheet to bring cups, napkins, plates,  or treats. Neither were four of the other moms. But they knew the unwritten rule: bring treats. RJ had a marshmallow pumpkin, a bouncy ball, pumpkin s’mores, cheese lovingly crafted into a pumpkin shape, and various gummy body parts (apparently “no scary costumes” doesn’t translate into “no freaky food.”).  I am grateful for the moms who know the rules; fortunately, RJ is at a Christian school, and judgment is slow to come--particularly when the small ones have just sung their blessing song (to bless the gummy body parts, among other things). 

I’m good at rules; I was in the top of my class. I'm in a whole new classroom now. So, I’m learning the exceptions and the unwritten ones. I’ll be ready for the Thanksgiving feast next month. I’m downloading instructions for a marshmallow turkey, and I’ve already signed up for cheese sculpting classes. 

A Very Good Day

I believe in family. I believe in God. And, I believe that some events give us a rare opportunity to see how the two come together. Today was one of those days. We were blessed to celebrate GiGi's baptism today.

I tormented myself over what I would (could) wear (fit into).  I ironed RJ's trousers and tightened his suspenders. My mom made the most beautiful christening gown I've seen, and she faced her fears, driving 100 miles in blinding fog to deliver the dress.  My dad braved the same blinding fog and hoisted a heavy "wheelchair ramp" for his aging best friend (a boxer dog) into the truck so that he could come too. GiGi didn't barf on the dress (it's the little things).  And, RJ was  a perfect gentleman during the service.

My lifelong friend celebrated with us along with my mother-in-law, aunt, uncle, cousins, and dear friend.   We welcomed GiGi into the church family, and we welcomed our family into our home for a slightly homemade meal. (2 jars of Ragu with my friend's "secret seasoning" baked in a crockpot for 2 hours for those who are interested).

What I will remember about today is not my dress. Or the fact that the camera flashed right through the skirt leaving me with pictures not for public viewing. I won't remember RJ's creased trousers or the "lunch break" GiGi had to take mid-service requiring me to spend some quality time in the ladies room. (Dresses are not feeding friendly; you'd think I would know this as a second-time mom).

I will remember the christening gown with GiGi's name lovingly embroidered along the hem. I will remember GiGi's godparents promising to pray for her. I will remember RJ promising to teach his sister about Jesus.

I will remember my promise to pray for GiGi, just as I promised to the same for RJ three years ago. And I do. I pray that he will love his sister. (He does). I pray that he will understand that I have to take care of her sometimes during our snuggle time. (He's getting there). And, I pray that I will always have the memories of today with friends and family gathered around my table--standing room only.  Chocolate sheet cake and shared stories.  RJ promising to learn to speak Japanese. Conversations with my dad at standing at the kitchen counter. GiGi sound asleep on the shoulders of her grandmas, her poppy, and in her brother's lap.

I believe in the power of family.  And I believe in God. I believe in God because of days like today, where my family and friends, who are all very different, all gather around the family table and celebrate a new life.  We welcomed GiGi into the church family today, and today, we welcomed our family into our church.  A very good day.

Time to Tame Lions

I’m shopping for velvet pants and a topcoat with tails. I am a ringmaster, and a ringmaster of my caliber needs a uniform that commands respect.  For the first act of my personal three-ring circus, I successfully packed a three-year old and a three-week old for a three-day trip to my hometown. Deep sea fishing could not require more equipment. We took 57 cars, 2 balls, a case of Huggies, a fistful of Huggies overnights (sized to fit a large dog or small toddler), swim Huggies (in case we decided to visit my favorite family dressing room at the YMCA), 5 hair bows (because GiGi might change her mind and want to wear lavender instead of pink),  and of course, Fluffy--RJ’s blankie.  The magic of Act I is in the fact that I managed to forget the one bag containing (1) things I need as a nursing mom; and (2) GiGi’s anti-gas Mylicon--which stops crying like nothing else--and both I and GiGi survived.  I keep a case of Mylicon on hand in my hometown and at home. RJ is an addict. He asks for it by name. It's disturbing.

For Act II, I survived night number 20 (20!) with GiGi feeding every two hours. And I didn’t skip changing her pants once. Hence, magic again--her raging diaper rash has reached a pleasant pink rather than angry red. As RJ says, “She don’t cry no more!” She doesn’t. She stares at me wide-eyed and wavy armed when I change her pants. And sometimes she clearly thinks I get too personal. But she doesn’t cry. 

And so, for my final act, I plan to tame lions. I therefore must have the velvet pants and topcoat. I will be successful in my lion taming venture. I know this because I have already tamed a wolverine. My beautiful, sweet, precious little girl is a wolverine. Hungry, she bangs her head on my shoulder and attempts to chew my collar bone off my body.  She eats every two hours. At least. She is a wolverine in pink party pants. I have tamed her. She is sleeping (in pink party pants). So, tonight I will shop for my velvet pants, and tomorrow I will learn to tame lions. I am sure to be a success. 

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Retail stores are telling me it's the most wonderful time of the year. Christmas trees are lit, tinsel lines windows, and despite 80 degree temperatures, store windows promise colder days ahead with darling wool jackets that are speaking my language right now. Home life, on the other hand, is not speaking the most wonderful time of the year. In the past 48 hours, I have been reacquainted with three "P's" of parenting: Poop, Pee, and Puke. I'd like to say that my reacquaintance has been solely the result of bringing a newborn into the house, but it's not. My three-year old still has accidents, and the accidents seem to be more intentional than not these days. I've been peed on, pooped on, and puked on. Twenty-four hours between showers is far too long, but a shower a day is the best I can manage.

GiGi eats every two hours at night. And, her brother still sleeps with me (we're still putting the functional in dysfunctional--it's the only way we can get a reasonable night's sleep). In short, I am exhausted, smelly, and crossing my fingers that at some point in the next few weeks, I will lose the spare tire around my waist--currently I suffer from jiggle belly, but much to RJ's relief, my belly button has returned.*  I have been cross with my little boy and seen the way he deflates when I am.

A few days ago, we ventured through Sears. And the elves had visited. Trees sparkled. Fluffy "snow" covered the ground (with polyester puffiness seen only in Christmas claymation specials), and the animatronics were in full force. As usual, I was on the GiGi timer (every two hours--no more--perhaps less, but definitely no more). So, I tried to hustle RJ through. He's a sweet boy, and he asked, "But we can look on the way out?" "Yes, yes," I replied, in a hurry.

He doesn't forget. And, on the way out, we made a trip through the Sears Christmas department. It is, in fact, the most wonderful time of the year. There is magic in an animatronic Snoopy. RJ will tell you. His eyes sparkled, and he visited each and every pre-lit tree. "Oh!" he cried, "Look at that!" It was, for a few minutes, magic.

In those few minutes, I realized that it is the most wonderful time of the year. I have a healthy little girl and a sweet, sensitive little boy. I may smell like sour milk and the three "P's," but I have a hot shower to go to every morning. I have the ability to put aside my exhaustion and find the fourth "P" of parenting: Patience. I am reminded that this most wonderful time of the year will go too fast. RJ will be six, and GiGi will be three in the blink of an eye. I know this for a fact. I saw it happen with RJ. And so, I will slow down and focus on the fourth "P." I will slow down and appreciate that RJ wants to hold baby sister every morning and every evening. I will slow down and appreciate baby sighs and snuggles. I will slow down and remember the way GiGi drapes her tiny body over my shoulder, milk drunk and satisfied. I will slow down and remember the way RJ wakes me at night to ask for a snuggle.

It is, in fact, the most wonderful time of my year.



*Just days before GiGi was born, RJ saw me get out of the shower. His reaction? "Aw man, you no have no belly button. Bummer."

Chapter New: GiGi

A week has passed since my last post--a week measured in days, a lifetime measured in events. We welcomed our baby GiGi this week. And, there are things I had forgotten about being a mom. I should have some hugely philosophical thoughts on birth, life, and the journey called motherhood. But I have a three-year old, and I'm sleep deprived to the point of forgetting my new daughter's name from time to time. (in my defense, she's the new kid, and I'm terrible with names).

I had forgotten that baby smell: soured milk, fresh Huggies, and baby shampoo. The way a newborn's downy little head lolls from side to side, looking for the crook in my neck that's just right for a snuggle. They way her mitted hands reach like teddy bear paws to find a spot to rest on my shoulder. And, the little smiles and chirps in her sleep. (experts may say it's just gas, but I'm her mommy and I know the little smiles mean she loves me).

I had forgotten baby sighs and baby cries. Her first night, GiGi didn't so much cry as she wailed. Like a fire truck. With a calm voice and a panicked heart, I said, "She's a talker..." I sighed with relief as the second and third nights revealed a much calmer newborn.

I had forgotten those adoring baby eyes, staring deep into mine. Searching desperately for food. GiGi looks at me the way John Candy looked at the Old 96-er in "The Great Outdoors"--like she can't believe the goodness that has been put before her...and that she's expected to eat it all.

Some things, of course, are new to a second time mom. I have a three-year old who gleefully tells everyone, "My baby sister drinks num-num milk." (Note to other nursing moms: get a sense of humor. fast.).

And, I have a three-year old who desperately needs to know that his mommy still loves him. He's pushing every boundary, but so far, the lines are holding.

Nothing could have prepared me for the unmatched joy of seeing my little boy hold his little sister proudly and kiss her fuzzy head. "Awww, she so cute," he said upon meeting her. Seeing his expression, I finally understand the true awe and wonder of a child.  "Can we show her my Cars movie?" he asked, wanting to share the thing he loves almost most of all. He covered her with his blankie, and I knew, R.J. loves his baby sister. And then, he looked at me, my belly, and said, "Hey! Your belly isn't fat anymore!"

I  always knew I'd be a mom. I kind of always knew I'd have more than one. But, as the nurses tried to start the i.v. the sixth (sixth) time, I questioned the wisdom of this baby number two. What if something happened to me? I have a little boy who depends on me. What if he hates her? What if he hates me for bringing her home?

The operating room stereo played "Old Time Rock and Roll," as I panicked over needles and questioned the inevitable birth of my little girl. And then, then the doctor held up this chunky, screaming little being. And I knew, absolutely without a doubt, everything will be alright. And it is. More than alright. I remembered GiGi's name when the neighbor asked tonight. Modern painkillers are a wonder. And, as baby GiGi sleeps soundly in the floor beside me, her brother sleeps soundly beside his daddy. New bonds are forming in our family. R.J. snuggles GiGi every chance he gets (to the detriment of daddy's daughter time).  I'm finding that modesty is overrated as R.J. jumps in the chair beside me while GiGi has her num-num milk. And, without a doubt, I know that this Chapter New, will be the best so far.

At The Carwash

One of R.J.'s favorite songs is Rose Royce's "Car Wash." Obvious reasons. It's catchy. It involves cars. And it invites hip shaking, finger pointing, foot shuffling fun. And, at this particular car wash "the boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool."

We ask R.J. who's the boss frequently--an important reminder for a three-year old.

For months, every morning R.J. washes cars in the sink while the boss (me, of course) gets ready for work.  Trucks, sports cars, and even the occasional plane have been seen getting their bumpers and wheels scrubbed in my sink.

Lately, I've even allowed R.J. to play puddle duck with Cat Duck (a rubber duckie decked out for Halloween as a cat--in a bizarre twist on natural selection).  I should have known.  Last week, he played puddle duck for nearly 20 minutes while I enjoyed  20 minutes to drink a cup a tea at the kitchen table. It was quiet. Quiet is rarely good.

He decided Cat Duck needed a deeper pond. So, he blocked the drain with a hand towel. Then, the flood came, and the pond got too deep. So, he unblocked the drain. He was soaked. The floor was soaked--admittedly, a little warm water can't hurt my bathroom floors (I'm not a mopper, per se). But, they, "what goes around comes around." My time was getting close.

My grandma wasn't a particularly grandmotherly type. She smoked Kents and was an avid fisherwoman--including the cleaning, gutting and cooking part. But, she loved me. I know this because she let me and my cousin  play ooshie-gooshie in her old porcelain sink. "Let" being used in it's loosest sense. Given the opportunity, we would disappear into the bathroom with the sole purpose being to see if and whether we could use the entire bar of soap up before Grandma caught us. We could. And did.

When I was four, we moved into a new house in a new neighborhood.  I had a next door neighbor friend who was four too. One beautiful summer day, we decided to sunbathe--as four year olds would do. (It was 1981, and women were mixing baby oil with iodine to get that natural sunny glow). We took an entire bottle of baby oil and started to work. We coated our feet. And then we skated from one end of the porch to the other. Carefully, so as not to miss any spots, we worked the baby oil into the corners around the porch posts. I hope baby oil has a curative effect; I tell myself it is for this reason that my parents' house still looks so lovely.  It must be the protective coating of baby oil on the front porch.

What goes around comes around. At the car wash, apparently. This Saturday morning, I convinced R.J. to go play with Daddy.  Daddy was sleeping. R.J. wanted to play car wash. No harm. Yet. You'd think the overwhelming scent of "Country Apple" wafting through the house would have roused me. Or Daddy (who was sleeping 10 feet away from the sink). But, we work long hours; I am nine months pregnant. We relish sleeping past 8 on a Saturday.

And so, while the Boss (and Daddy) were happily dozing, R.J. was happily washing a sports car, a cement truck, and his "creepy van." (we should probably learn to be a little more politically correct, but it is a creepy van). He washed them with half a bottle of apple scented lotion. The bathroom smelled lovely, and as I slip-slided across the soaked floor, I had nothing to do but shake my head and smile. Ooshie-gooshie, baby oil-scented memories. I called my mom and laughed. And, I set about figuring how to clear a lotion haze from the windshield of a cement truck.  For one Saturday, the boss at this car wash didn't mind when R.J. acted a fool.

Kitten Posters and Newsprint

I was (am) a loved daughter. When I was in the first grade, I knew I was loved. I had a rainbow striped dress that made me feel especially pretty, and when I accidentally dumped an entire bottle of Elmer's glue in my lap during achievement tests, my dad came and picked me up. Without complaint. And he let me wear my rainbow striped dress back to class. Even though it was totally out of season.

I had new Crayons and an American flag pencil box. My mom read me stories every night (a habit we continued for years--a habit that, honestly, we still continue, reading bits and pieces of interesting articles back and forth across the kitchen table).

But there was nothing quite like book order day to make me feel truly special. Book orders! Those thin, flimsy little fliers filled with fun things: choose your adventure! Sweet Valley High! Kitten posters! Oh, how I loved book order day.

R.J. started school two weeks ago. And, to my childish delight, he brought home a book order! Flimsy. Smells like old newsprint. Order forms no longer required (we order online now). We're starting early--he's only three. But, when book order day comes, he too will know the insurmountable joy of a new story at bedtime. (no kitten posters this time).

And I hope that when the inevitable call comes telling me that the "Big Issue" has indeed occurred*, I will collect him from school, clean him up, and remember to let him wear his favorite Thunder t-shirt back to class. Even if it's snowing and totally out of season.

*the "Big Issue"--having been previously defined as "Mommy, I need to go poop! We gonna have a big issue!"

The Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few things about the first day of school

• My child is exuberant--to the point of absurdity--when he sees me at the end of a work day. I expected the same joyful shrieks and hugs when he saw me at the end of his school day. My expectations were modified when he saw me, marched in line with his class, and greeted me with, "Hi mom."

• But. When released by his teacher, he walked over, grabbed my hand, kissed it sweetly and said, "I just love you so much." I looked around quickly to see if his teacher had taught all of the little ones to do this. She had not. My sweet boy was the only one. I am proud that he listened to his teacher and sat with his class while he waited on further instruction, but I was relieved to get a more typical R.J. greeting later in the day.

• At lunch, he mimicked my every action...stopping only to rest his head in his hands and to tell me again, "I love you so much." (Secretly I'm just glad he's in my camp again. We've had a rough few weeks of timeouts, backtalk, and general discontent. Apparently school has taught him that his mommy really isn't mean, and he shouldn't try to cancel me or send me to my hotel. I park at a hotel; he believes I work there.)

• R.J. does not like his hair to be styled: "I like it when it looks like a pumpkin. Psssshhhhh!" he tells me, showing me a rounded, puffy bedhead. I like it when it looks like a pumpkin too. I guess we'll keep the toddler shag for a while longer.

• They must have learned about numbers in class, because in the middle of the night, R.J. sat up and shouted, "It's a number!" He then promptly went back to sleep. I did not.

• School, in R.J.'s world, means "circle time, playdough time, color time, and park time."

• After worrying about school, "canceling" school on his calendar (wonder where he gets that?), and planning for school for weeks, school turned out to be okay. R.J. said he'd go back again. But, he did want to read his Llama, Llama school book. Twice. Just to make sure he's not the only one who missed his mama.

First Day Jitters

My stomach is queasy. I don't want to eat my waffles, and I wish we had just 10 more minutes to watch Curious George. But, it's the first day of school. We've prepared. We talked about it. We visited the teacher. We read Llama Llama Misses Mama and learned that little llama can love his mama and school too!

But, I confess, the three-year old is better prepared for this first day than his mommy.  He was ready to learn. He was ready to play. He was not, however, quite ready for the goodbying this morning. R.J. has a particular affection for ladies wearing dresses. So, at open house a few nights ago, he was tickled to see his teacher in a long white skirt: "That my teacher? In the pretty skirt?" He grinned.

Today she was wearing leggings and a zebra print top. A darling outfit. My son may never recover from the shock.

I took the teacher's advice. A quick goodbye: "R.J., you have a good day. Mommy and 'Sisa will be back in just a little while to pick you up." Startled eyes. Tears. "Mommy, don't go! I tired!"

He's not tired. He's worried. I know this because I watched him flick his wrists in the hallway before he bravely marched toward the classroom. I worry too. How can this baby be in school? (In quiet confession I admit--he still poops his pants, proven this morning--but we pretend he's potty trained so that he can go learn some A,B,C's. His teacher may hate me someday. Not today. The  Big Issue has been resolved for today. But someday.).

R.J. is in good hands. He will have a good day. But until 11:30 when he tells me so, I will worry. Because I'm his mommy. And today, mommy can't fix it all for him. Updates to follow, but until then...First Day of School!

How Many Licks to Get to the Center?

There's a little sandwich shop in the basement of my building downtown. It's not fancy, and the food isn't great. But, when I have a craving for PBJ, it works. The lines are long, and the wait gives me way too much time to explore the candy rack conveniently situated smack in the middle of the shop.

About three weeks ago, a Tootsie Pop called my name. Without much thought, I plunked down an extra 25 cents and tossed it in the bottom of my purse (along with 45 binder clips--I have a binder clip problem. I'm working on it.).

This morning, R.J. had a doctor's appointment. I sprung the news on him around 8, giving him only 30 minutes to ponder and obsess, as much as a toddler obsesses--and he obsesses a lot. "The doctor will check your tummy and listen to your heart. She'll weigh you and see how tall you are," I tell him.

He promptly steps on the bathroom scale, "It say 80-11 pounds. There. I weighed. I'm sorry. I cancel the doctor." He's crafty. (I have the same problem with that scale--it currently says I have gained 35 pounds, but I know that can't be right.)

He chatted up the nurse: "This is my blanket. It's a nice blanket. It's soft. It smell good. I sleep with it." He chatted with the doctor: "I don't poop in the potty, but I toot on it." He speaks the truth.

And then. Trauma. Tragedy. Terror. The dreaded immunization. (I always want to call it a vaccination, but that brings memories of my cats having panic attacks in their plastic kennels. I actually don't kennel R.J. Most days.)

Desperately searching for a distraction, I found...a Tootsie Pop! Perfectly red. Perfectly tasty. R.J. wasn't even suspicious, until the nurse came in with a tray holding a "dandaid."

He was brave. He refused the dandaid and only cried for a minute. Rubbing his leg and looking at me with those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying, hurt eyes, he said, "Mommy, it itches. Fix it." So, I did. He'll never know that mommy's magic itch cream is really cuticle gel designed to give mommy beautiful nails. It works better as toddler itch cream anyway.

I shut his hand in the car door in the parking lot. It hurt. Both of us. He told me, "I was just trying to get in the car. That hurt my feelings." At least he's accurate. It hurt his feelings more than it hurt his hand. Mine too. He dropped his Tootsie Pop in the floorboard. I found it. "What you doing?" he asked me. Sigh. "Mommy's licking the lint off your lollipop for you." (because she'd rather do that than see those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying hurt eyes again).

We ate donuts. We discovered that it really is impossible to find the  number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. We survived. And today, I think I'll visit my sandwich shop in the basement and mindlessly plunk down another quarter for another Tootsie Pop.

The Important Question

Before R.J. was born, I was a born career woman. I fully intended to drop a perfectly organized diaper bag off with my perfectly clean child every morning and a perfectly structured daycare.  I wait-listed daycares. I visited with R.J. I put his name on his binkies and his blankies. In ink. We were ready. I was ready. Or, so I thought. He lasted one afternoon at daycare. He melted down. I melted down. I extended my leave. I cried for weeks.

I agonized over hiring a nanny. A stranger taking care of my Baby? Alone in my house? What if she was mean to my Baby? What if she slept all day? Or parked him front of the TV?

And the important question: What if he loved her more than he loved me?

I actually advertised for Mary Poppins (must love children, etc. so forth and so on).

We hired a nanny (actually two). Our first nanny was a delight--young, musically gifted, and full of life. She taught R.J. to love PBS news and how to play a drum. When she moved on to law school to start her own career I cried.

We hired a new nanny. R.J. loves her fiercely.  She is uncommonly sweet in her manner of speech. She is easily the most non-judgmental person I have ever met. She understands the laundry chair. And sticky tile floors. And the mornings when R.J. has wet the bed, the cat has barfed on the rug, and I've overslept. I don't have a sister, but if I did, she is what I would hope for.

She dries R.J.'s tears when he falls down.  He prays before meals, and he's learning his ABC's.  He is a delightful little boy, and I can't take all the credit. I'm happy to share it.

This afternoon I analyzed shareholder agreements and pondered the other important question in my life: where in the world is the signed promissory note?  I heard the ping of my cellphone and found a picture of my Baby cooking in his chef's hat.

So, when my Baby calls me 'Sisa Mama, I smile. I know the answer to the important question: What if he loves his nanny as much as he loves me?

He is loved. And I love that.

(We love you 'Sisa!)

Family: It's All In How You Define It

This past weekend, we made our monthly (or more frequent) pilgrimage to Ponca City--where the grass is greener (because it's fescue); the yard is shadier; and it only takes 10 minutes to get to WalMart, the YMCA, and the gas station--in one trip. Ponca City, and more specifically my parents' house, is our resort vacation, complete with trusted, skilled baby sitting services and a late check out on Sundays.

Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, we enjoyed our weekend. R.J. golfed, and so did his daddy, albeit at entirely different courses (the backyard versus Wentz).  We had a fantastic dinner at the Rusty Barrel (and yes, the chairs in the bar are actually made out of barrels).  And, we took R.J. to the new YMCA. 

The new Y is a toddler's dream. It has a toddler pool that is no deeper than 3 feet deep, fountains, and as R.J. says, "It's in, not out, so we don't need sunblock." In these respects, this pool is a mommy's dream too. We love our neighborhood pool, but it's out, not in, so this summer our swims have been mostly late evening, pre-bedtime swims designed to wear out a toddler for stories and bathtime as we enjoy the cooler evening temperatures. And by cooler I mean a hundred and two, not a hundred and six.

Despite the sweaty walk to and from, the neighborhood pool far exceeds the Y in one (very important to a pregnant mommy) aspect: the bathroom(s).  The neighborhood pool has two. Girls and boys. Marginally clean and open to the outdoors, a generally non offensive proposition. And we can walk home to change into dry clothes (or to remedy the "major issues" that R.J. identifies: "Mommy, we gonna have a major issue," is code for "Mommy, I'm going to poop in the pool if you don't get me out of here NOW.").

The Y, on the other hand, has ventured into what I hope will be a short-lived trend in facilities: the family locker room. Family, in my world, is comprised of those people I've seen in pajamas. The people who have witnessed the laundry chair as it attempts to gobble up 14 pairs of underwear and 3 socks (none matching). The people who understand that sometimes a really good meal consists of turkey sandwiches, chips, and ice cream, so long as we all get to sit down together.

Family, in my world, is not comprised of 14 pre-teen boys, 8 toddlers, and 6 grown men with hairy bellies lurking outside my dressing room door. "Family" should not require me to pack hand sanitizer for a purportedly chlorinated and sanitized experience.  The powers who determine "family" for locker room purposes are clearly confused. My family does not include the 8-year old who was spending way too much time in the one (coed) potty for it to be anything other than a Major Issue.  My family does not include the three children spinning every piece of clothing they own in the suit dryer. By my definition, a family locker room would not require me to post the three year old by the locked door with instructions such as "Do NOT open that door until Mommy has her pants on," and "Get out of the floor and stop touching the drain!" I do not find the family locker room comforting or a safe haven. It is bizarre for strange men to be standing on the other side of the door while I waddle into dry clothes. It is borderline dangerous for a 7-year old girl to be waiting outside with them.

I understand the need for clean locker rooms for grown-ups. I understand the desire to keep the little poopers separate and apart from the big poopers. I do not understand defining "family" to include everyone under the age of 18 or who is with someone under the age of 18. The family locker room is new to me, and I don't like it. I don't like the "girls" locker room at my home YMCA--it stinks, it's wet, and little girls do some nasty little things. But at least we're all working with the same set of equipment in there. There are no hairy-backed strangers lurking outside my door. And, the only conversation I hear is about how to get chlorine out of our hair or where we bought our pretty pink beach towels.  

I will continue to applaud my resort on the prairie. So long as R.J. wants to swim in instead of out, I will hold my breath, lock the door, and dress under a pretty pink beach towel. But, in time, I hope to see a return to the archaic model of segregated dressing rooms--for my own sanity (and hand sanitation issues).

You can't just slap a bandaid on it

R.J. loves his gymnastics class. He's a cheerleader, applauding for each of his classmates. He gets his weekly affirmations in: "I did it!"  He loves his Coach Becky: "I gonna see my friend Coach Becky."

Last night was no exception.  He danced (we never miss the opening dance--being late is not an option with a little one who loves to shake his boom boom).  He tumbled and balance beam-ed. He ziplined. In fact, he's kind of famous for his ziplining.  Parents go to window to watch. Other kids stop tumbling to stare. R.J.'s classmates zipline like ballerinas: toes pointed to the floor, perfectly poised for a perfectly graceful landing. R.J., well, he turns the world upside down:

When he laughs, the gym laughs with him. It's refreshing to see someone enjoy himself so very much. And so, when R.J.'s grins turn to tears during his 'nastics class, the gym sympathizes. Parents watch with worried eyes, and little ones ask why R.J. is sad.

Last night on the trampoline, R.J. re-scraped a boo-boo. And the tears flowed. Not so much because of the boo-boo but because of the bandaid prospect. The child is terrified of bandaids ("dandaids"). Dandaids are not something to show off. They are not fun--even when stamped with Chick Hicks and Lightening McQueen.  R.J. wanted his blankie. He wanted his own house. He wanted sympathy. So, mommy carried him to the car, and we made the short trip home.  Mommy bribed (a Hot Wheels--of course).  Mommy cajoled and pleaded: "Please don't cry baby. Mommy has to clean your boo-boo." Mommy sympathized.

Because today, Mommy had to face her own dandaid demons: the dreaded glucose screening--ie, another blood test. Two failed attempts in the bag, and Mommy returned one more time. Mommy's hands shook--just like R.J.'s did last night when she fixed his boo-boo. Mommy wanted sympathy. And her blankie. 

We survived. Mommy with a blue armband that says "I did it!" R.J. with a Lightening McQueen dandaid. This morning, he noticed his dandaid: "Hey MomMY," he whispered, "Look at my dandaid. I a big boy!" 

Mommy is a big girl. It's hard to see my baby tremble over a skinned knee and the prospect of a bandaid. It's harder to watch when I see so much of myself in him.  As a mom (and a lawyer), I strive to make it all better for my baby (and my clients). Sometimes I wish I could just slap a bandaid on the problems. But, as R.J. will tell you, a bandaid isn't always the answer.  I see so much of myself in my little one, and I wonder exactly how to set the example that so very clearly should be set. This is one problem I can't make all better. I can't just slap a bandaid on it, but I'm at a loss to solve it.  All I can do is my best to sympathize and empathize. I continue to stock Hot Wheels surprises in the cupboard and keep blankie clean and within reach. And I hope that in time, my R.J. will overcome his fear of dandaids and continue to turn the world upside down with unmitigated toddler joy.

Some things about being a lawyer

1. I like being a lawyer. I like puzzling over complicated legal questions. I like to wear suits and heels (on occasion), and I like being an "expert" in a field. I like the view from my office and the heavy tables in the firm's library.
2. We talk about work life balance a lot, but it's not really about balance so much as it is about choices.  This morning, I chose to put together a train track for R.J. The "counter balance?"  I will need to find a .5 somewhere in my day to make up that time. My choices may not necessarily be career friendly, but sometimes inner peace is the real key to success. I know a lot of unhappy lawyers. I choose to be happy and to make the choices that keep me that way.
3. My day is tracked in six-minute increments. I hate that. I hate the billable hour. But, after countless hours lamenting the billable hour, cursing the billable hour, and looking for alternatives, I've come to realize that the billable hour, in some form, will be part of my life.
4. Being a lawyer is hard.  The bar exam was hard, but if I failed, I failed myself. As a lawyer, I am the person that is trusted with other people's problems...and they expect me to come up with the solution. I am a maid that cleans up others' messes; a counselor expected to sooth tattered nerves; and a sounding board for everything that has gone wrong. I take the blame for messes I didn't make, and I smile when judges tell me I'm wrong (even when I so very clearly am right).
5. There are very few mistakes that can't be fixed if you 'fess up right away. We miss deadlines. We make typos. We forget. We are human.
6. I like talking to other lawyer moms. We talk about whether a breast pump can be heard through the walls of our offices and how to handle a hearing date, a play date, and a gymnastics recital all in one day.
7. Most days are gauged in accomplishments: a brief finished, discovery responses out the door, dreaded phone calls returned. Some days my accomplishments are simpler: grocery shopping finished early in the week (so I don't have to go on Saturday morning); picked up hubbsie's shirts from the cleaners on the way in to work; the laundry chair emptied.
8. Being a lawyer isn't for wimps. Or weak stomachs. I don't get sick before entering an appearance in court anymore.  Particularly nasty discovery disputes can still make me queasy. But, with every fight I get stronger, and lately I've started to look forward to the next one.
9. Feedback is awesome. I'm a senior associate. Not a baby lawyer but not experienced either.  I know just enough to keep myself out of trouble. Or how to get into it. So, I appreciate feedback from the great legal minds up the hall.
10. Sometimes I tell other moms that I "work at a law firm" because I'm afraid they'll judge me for being a lawyer.  I fight the stereotype. I don't wear suits every day. I'm not a frigid witch.  I take a morning off every once in a while to build a train track or rock my baby. And I cook in a crockpot.  Most of the lawyer moms I know do these things too. And sometimes we're more interested in cookie recipes and potty training than a motion to dismiss a lawsuit. 

Some things about being a mom

1. I like being a mom. I like the smell of sweaty toddler after a day of play, and I like toddler bathtime even more. My baby gets "aroma therapy" every night (I let him pick the conditioner for his hair--Pantene or Coconut--he's kind of girly like that).  I like playing cars, and I like it more when I realize that playing cars has become an excuse to sit in mommy's lap and lean back for snuggles.
2. Being a mom is hard. Imagine the one person in your life you love more than anything else. The one you would die for. The one you will subject yourself to a flu shot for (maybe that's just me...needle phobia and all).  Imagine his world has come to an end. Tears. Stomps. Collapsing on the bathroom floor naked in a heap of blankets. Because you took Big Thomas away for bedtime. And more than anything, you want to give Big Thomas back. But you can't. Because it's bedtime. 
3. There are very few things in this world that a popsicle can't fix. Even losing Big Thomas.
4.  Llama, Llama Red Pajama has a certain lyrical quality that can immediately lull an exhausted little boy into a cozy drooling state (not necessarily sleeping--my boy is just a drooler).
5. I like talking to other moms. Not necessarily other lawyer moms (I enjoy those conversations too). But I really like the conversations that lean toward discussions of just exactly how many dinners can you cook in a crockpot? And, what do you do when your child refuses (and I mean refuses) to poop in the potty? I learned two nights ago that moms of little girls have bow parties! I get to go to a bow party! Pink! Ribbons! Daisies! I'm like a 6-year old with a bigger allowance! 
6. Potty training isn't for wimps. Or weak stomachs.
7. Nothing reminds you of the importance of the family dinner table than hearing a toddler say the blessing: "T'ank you for mama...and daddy....and 'Sisa...and David...and Grandma...and Grandma Cathy...and Poppy....and Grandpa...and pasta food...and bread food...and cheese....and that (pointing to garlic salt)....and that (pointing to place mats)....and...AMEN!" And why shouldn't we be thankful for garlic salt and place mats and pasta food? 
8. Teaching a boy that toots aren't funny isn't easy. Toots are funny.
9. Stickers are awesome. Stickers from the WalMart greeter make grocery shopping go much smoother. And so do the special car carts at Crest. 
10. I actually like the John Tesh radio show. It plays at our neighborhood pool every evening. I think I'm getting old. Or mature. Or nerdier.

Friendship, Love, and Grace

Weddings are for princesses. Marriages, on the other hand, are not. There's nothing princess-y about marriage. Long after the unity candle has fizzled and the frozen top layer of cake have been eaten (or tossed), marriage lingers. There are bills to pay and lawns to mow. The dishes just keep stacking in the sink;  washing hubbsie's socks soon loses its mysterious allure (the mystery is precisely defined as "what on earth is that smell?"); and any pretty satin robes give way to terry cloth and sweat pants.

The tarnish of marriage is the very reason to celebrate the milestones and recreate the sparkle--complete with tiaras.  I attended a 50th anniversary party this weekend.  Or rather, a prom. It was outside, and as any Oklahoma can tell you, it's hot. Not a little warm. Hot. As in melt Crayons on the sidewalk hot.

We didn't melt from the heat. But every heart melted just a little bit when dear friends stood in front of us all and professed their love for each other after 50 years of bills, dirty dishes and socks.  Four children. Countless grand-children. Dozens and dozens of friends who call them family. Their door is always open (I should know--my mom and I have stopped by their house many afternoons just for a potty break).

Without them, my wedding wouldn't have happened. In all seriousness, he conducted the ceremony, and she played the organ. And, it wouldn't have been right without them.  I rode in their daughter's Trans Am to get happy meals when I stayed at their house the summer I was six. I'm Lutheran, but some of my best church memories come from a well-loved church house in Ponca City, Oklahoma. I've marveled at the amount of food that she can cook in just one day.  My mom and I have spent Christmas Eve with their family.  When I was little, I got so excited at the prospect of an evening at their house that I jumped up and scraped nearly my entire chin off on the dishwasher handle.  I practiced piano at their house before school.

I've laughed at stories of the wig shop where she and my mom worked as young twenty-somethings. I watched my mom remake every bridesmaid dress for a polka dot princess wedding (I was a candle-lighter, and the bride's daughter was a candle-lighter in my wedding).  A true friendship is unusual. A friendship that survives children, parents, death of parents, loss of siblings, and hard times is precious.  I am grateful for the example that my mom and her best friend have set.

So, last night, when mom's best friend and her husband celebrated, I celebrated too.  I am grateful for the example set by this couple. I am grateful for the example set by my mom and her friend.

The prom was hot. Small children sweated along with the grown ups. The chocolate fountain overflowed, and the wind took some tablecloths. But what we will all remember from last night is the message shared by dear friends: By Grace...

It's not by our own works that we survive this thing called marriage. Tide and Dawn dishwashing soap help along the way.   But the true blessing of love, friendship, and marriage is delivered by grace alone.  And so, what we will all remember most of all is 100 voices lifted in the hot Oklahoma sky together singing Amazing Grace.