Lesson Learned

I just returned from a complex multi-party mediation. I was struck by the similarities between a room full of lawyers and a room full of toddlers. We sat in a circle. We spoke in turn. We raised our hands to ask a question of the mediator (and if we didn't, he asked us to please wait). There was a bully who yelled, and a group of nicer kids we could play with.

We had snack breaks--popcorn and coffee, not cookies and milk.

When the mediator wasn't in our room, we assumed the role of teacher. When our clients were worried, we took on the lawyer's other role: counselor. We talked through their concerns; we understand their frustrations, but it's our job to emotionally separate from the issues and view them objectively. I find that a difficult task with these particular clients--genuinely nice people. For years, the owner of the company provided breakfast from Hardees for every employee--just because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. The youngest board member and only female takes on the role of caretaker for the older board members (80 plus years). "You sitting with my boyfriend?" she asks one of the lawyers. "Don't lose him." Her "boyfriend" is over 80 and still works everyday managing construction sites, but she worries. She holds an MBA and knows more about the business than anyone, but if asked, I believe every person at the company would tell you that her true calling is as a caretaker.

My role was limited, but I took advantage of the opportunity to learn. I listened. I monitored faces (my "lawyer face" still shows too much emotion). I watched one lawyer stonewall every person in the room. She refused to even say hello. At the end of the day, everyone concluded that she must not be too smart. She may be a genius, but her behavior made us believe otherwise. Lesson learned.

I missed R.J. while I was gone. He missed me too (I know because he told me). He greeted me by screaming and stomping his feet in glee. Then he asked, "How was your trip been?" "It was good," I told him. "What did you do?" he asked. I explained as best I could.  "We had a mediator who helped us get along," I told him. "Oh," he said, "Oh-KAY, that good."

And, it was good. At the end of the day, I thanked the lead attorneys for letting me attend. "I have a lot of faith in you. You're going to be a good lawyer someday," was the response of one. At nine o'clock on the second night being away from my baby, I need that encouragement. I need to know that "someday" exists for me. And, after a solid 9 hours of recovery sleep, my desk is welcoming. I am energized. And, I've learned negotiating skills that will take me from my office to the playground. I can handle bullies. I recognize when it's snack time, and I'm learning when to keep my mouth shut.

We Put the Function in Dysfunctional

Last night, I slept with a baby (well, toddler). And the night before. And, let's face it, the prior 981 nights too. I have kept R.J. in bed with me since the first day in the hospital--and the nurses didn't complain. When I first brought him home, I tried. I would swaddle him, place him carefully in his crib, and watch him drift to sleep.

For the next 3 hours, I would jump from bed every 15 minutes to place my hand on his chest, to watch him smile softly in his sleep, and to assure myself that all was right in the world. I ran out of gas in a week. When I sputtered to a stop, I took my baby, tucked him in my arms, and together we drifted into dreamland.

I went back to work with R.J. was 4 months old. Because he slept with me, we all got sleep. When we got ashamed and tried to be "normal," we were all exhausted, short with each other, and hostile toward the world. "Dysfunction:"  "abnormal or unhealthy interpersonal behavior or interaction within a group."

Dreamland is getting crowded. He kicks. And he carries on entire conversations in his sleep: "I don't wanna eat pasta!" "Brooom, broooom, he say he gotta nodder!" (He loves "Cars").   He periodically does a  mommy check--reaches out in the night to honk my nose ("hoooonk!") or squeeze my arm (just to make sure I'm there). He has an entourage.

But, we all rest. And, in the morning, he wanders out of bed--big haired and sleepy eyed--and says, "I sleep well. You sleep well?"

I go to work. I play legal logic games all day and so does my husband. We eat dinner together and play cars with R.J. at night. And, when bedtime rolls around, the inevitable question (or demand--he is two, after all): "Mommy?" "You gonna sleep here." 

"Functional:" "performing or able to perform a regular function."  And we do, every day. 

Today, We Celebrate

Two weeks ago, I attended a princess party for a toddler. This past weekend, I celebrated a very different kind of birthday. The birthday girl wore a tiara. We sang a song with her name in it. She turned 41.

She hugs me when I arrive--despite the fact that she's closer to my mom than to me.  Mom drives her dialysis once or twice a week, sometimes less, sometimes more. They've become friends, I think even more. Mom loves her dearly (and so do I).

"Come in," she says. "I'm a mess--putting on makeup."  I comment on a picture of her with her kids and grandbaby. "Thanks, we had four poses," she leads me into her bedroom to see all four. "Look at these boots my son got me," she shows me great stiletto boots with silver studs. "Today, I'm about comfort," she giggles.

She has this knack for making people feel welcome, from the toddler to the 80-year old man (at a 41 year old's pink princess party).  "Ellis!" "It's so good to see you!" "Here, take my chair."

A guest arrives and tells us, "The neighbor wanted to know if there's a funeral." "I told her 'no!' Today, we celebrate!" says the guest, hugging other guests.

She wears here hair piled in a loose topknot and says, "Lilly has the prettiest hair. I love it when she wears it down."   "What size do you wear now Regan?" "I'm a double zero," she sighs, "Can't buy clothes  in this town anymore."

When asked to describe her, guests write: stylish, loves babies, courageous, fighter.

"Thanks," she says in response to a compliment. "I bought it with the gift card you got me." "I love these floaty tops because they hide my tummy." (despite being a size double zero, she has the disconcerting look of being 6 months pregnant).  She's childlike in her acceptance of herself (and others--it's a gift).

We share glances. I hope she doesn't notice.

Noticing a guest's green "Ireland" jacket she tells us, "I tell my kids I want my ashes spread in Ireland." Matter of fact.

"This is my baby," she introduces her grandbaby. "Nan nan nan," he chortles as he crosses the floor to climb into her arms. She snuggles her cheek against his--bliss, love.

We sing a song with her name in it: "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you." Because we are Christian, we follow our former pre-k teacher's lead and sing, "God's blessings to you, God's blessings to you, God's blessings dear Veronica, God's blessings to you."

We mean this with all of our hearts.

Silencing My Potty Mouth

R.J. was an easy infant. Or, maybe I'm jaded. When he was seven hours old, the nurses brought him to me from the hospital nursery: "he has a rapid breathing rate," they told me. "We want to see how he does with you." An hour later they reported, "He's better when he's with you." And so, there was no night in the nursery; no gentle waking for a 2 a.m. feeding. R.J. slept in the hospital bed with me. I had an infant who panicked when he got too far from mommy. But, I'm a first time mommy, so I found that charming.

I didn't mind holding him 20 hours a day. He nursed every hour and a half. I proudly told my friends, "He's such a good baby--he never cries." Obviously. What's there to cry about? He gave up his pacifier without a fight. It's an easy fight to win when you nurse a child until he's almost two--who needs a pacifier?

He was an easy baby. Or, I'm jaded. Either way, I wholly enjoyed R.J.'s babyhood. And, I'm loving toddlerhood. But someone should have warned me that I would become a potty mouth.

"Do you need to go potty?" "Do you need to poop?" "Are you wet?"

With R.J. in the room, it is impossible for me to have a conversation that isn't interrupted by my potty mouth. And, R.J. is offended by it.

"No!" he shouts. "No, no, no, no, no!!!!" rapid-fire rejections fire back at me as only a toddler can do.

We've tried M & M's. And a potty chart with stickers. He knows to "point it down!" He can aim at Cheerios floating in the potty. We've taught Baby Bear, Elmo, blankie, and his motorcycle how to use the potty.

But he still won't go. We've tried Pull-Ups. And big boy pants. And, most recently, the plastic pant debacle: tears streaming down his face, "No Mommy! They too weird!" (they are weird. It's like wearing a shower cap on your boom-boom).

He stands in my master bathroom, eyes bulging, distressed--obviously pooping. "I pooping," he tells us. "You no wanna come in here." (we don't worry about his manhood--he is obviously a man).

I fear that my couch will soon crackle warmly when anyone sits down--we're going to have to cover it in vinyl. And the rugs and carpet too. He's like a puppy.

I thought this mommy thing was easy. I was wrong. R.J. and I are both exhausted. (and his nanny is too, I suspect). I know R.J. is exhausted because he told me when I asked one too many times about the potty: "I too tired. I need a break."

And so, we are on a potty break. We'll try again in a few weeks. Until then, the potty mouth has been silenced.

The Donkeys Have No Tails

I love birthdays. You get a cake. And presents. And, everyone sings a song with your name in it. There are games and choreographed routines. Wait? Choreographed routines? What?! My birthday parties were a covey of preteen girls, giggling well into the night about who was cuter, Kirk Cameron or Mark- Paul Gosselaar. We watched "Harry and the Henderson's," played in the sprinkler in the yard, and ate chocolate cake.  One year, I decorated the house myself--with aluminum foil bows and streamers (thanks to my mom for letting be creative).

When I was two, I had a Raggedy Ann cake, and lots of love from my grandparents:

I went cake diving in a flurry of ruffles. There were balloons. We played games like pin-the-tail on the donkey. And, I shared my cake blessings with friends (in particular my now hubby in a darling sailor suit):

My third birthday was much of the same: toddlers cake diving, some shaking of homemade pompoms, fruit punch, and everyone went home sugared and happy:

Yesterday, R.J. went to a nowadays toddler party. Two grown women catered to the toddling tiara- wearer. They sang songs (plural) with her name in them. We all (grown-ups too) participated in a parade in her honor--bells jingling and shakers shaking. At gift time, the "hostesses" kept a list of gifts and givers. The kids played for two hours on trampolines, slides, and bouncers. They choreographed a routine with ribbons:

No doubt, the toddlers had fun, and I suspect some of the parents did too. I enjoyed seeing R.J. boogie down, and I even enjoyed his opinion of the cake (not just this particular cake, but cake in general, but that's a story for another day): 

But, no one pinned the tail on a donkey.  So, my question is this--How can we turn back the clock and save the donkeys? If we do this much for a toddler party, what on earth do we do for weddings? Or graduations? Or confirmations? I love my little boy, but I question whether it's really necessary to spent $200 on a facility rental for a two-year old.  As much as I can remember, cake with frosting and homemade pompoms was more than enough--even in my teens, I remember my parties because of the time I spent with my friends. Giggling at my dad because he had to vacuum the confetti while I herded the gigglers outside. Cake, ice cream, and Dr. Pepper.

I want my wee one to feel like he's important and loved on his birthday. And, he will. Be it balloons with grandparents, slumber parties with movies and popcorn, or a day at the park.  A greater concern then, is while the bears are being built, the routines choreographed, and the parades parading, who will take care of those poor tail-less donkeys? I suspect I will take up their cause at R.J.'s third birthday party.

Boo Likes Fritos?

One of the great legal minds who offices up the hall from me preaches acceptance: acceptance that my billable hours will suffer if I choose to go home for supper; acceptance that I am no longer an "A student" and sometimes "B's" and "C's" are all that I can do. He preaches this because I tend to be hard on myself. I question and second guess. If I lose a motion, I take it to heart. If opposing counsel sends me a nastygram, I fret for days.

I reached my Zen moment at work about three months ago. I didn't quit my job (though I tried). I didn't have an epiphany. I simply accepted that I might reach partnership. I might not. And, if I don't, I'll cry and fret for days, but I'll still be a lawyer. My caseload will continue. My bar number won't expire.  In short, I will get over it.

Acceptance of my homemaking skills is equally as challenging. I am not gifted in the domestic arts. My sugar cookies taste like flour.  The seams on my machine-stitched curtains wander like a dirt road. This morning, there was a Frito in the cat's dish.  I found what I hope to be a clean Pull-Up on the window sill. R.J.'s toothbrush has a semi-permanent home in his bin of Hot Wheels. And sometimes, when the cat jumps from the table to the counter, he misses.

But, when I get home, it's home.  Some nights, we have to clear a place to eat at the table. But, we eat at the table--as a family. The pile of newspapers doesn't deter us (and neither does the napping Ben Kitty).  R.J.'s cars run just as fast on un-vaccumed carpet, and Boo Kitty will eat the Frito (she's a fatty).

Acceptance of who I am right now. I won't always be a baby lawyer or a mid-level lawyer (I'm somewhere in between). I won't always have a toddler. Someday, he'll know better than to feed Boo Fritos, and I'll be finding sweat socks and t-shirts in the window sills instead of Pull-Ups. And I'll look back fondly (and thank my lucky stars that the Crest Bakery still has my back on sugar cookies).

A Toddler's Evening

They told me time would move fast once my baby was born. They told me it would go in a flash, the blink of an eye. What they didn't tell me was that in one evening, I would see the entire spectrum of human emotion-in a bathtub:

We started out sad--the direct result of a devastating ruling of the high court of mommy: "You are taking a a bath. I will not have a stinky boy. This is not something we negotiate." Mommy's a tough judge when she needs to be.

We got over the devastation and explored.  And showed mommy what we thought about her ruling (contempt of court? perhaps, but the punishment is light). 

We relaxed. While listening to "The Car Wash," a current favorite for obvious reasons. 

We screamed. And cried. And generally threw a fit--when "The Car Wash" ended and mommy refused to play it again Sam. 

And generally, a good time was had by all. 

Emily Post I Am Not

It's a new year, and I feel that I should have some thoughtful, thought provoking post. I do not. I have spent the afternoon in the good company of a two and a half year old boy. Who, despite all efforts to the contrary, finds that his bodily functions provide the most entertainment of all.

We try to teach him manners. "Please," "thank you," and most important for a little man, "pardon me." This week, he had a playmate for a day-- a precious little girl. At the park, he told his 'Sisa, "I let lady go first," as he waited patiently for his friend to go down the slide.

And then, he spends the afternoon with his mommy. Emily Post, I am not. I tend to turn off my censor when I should leave it on. But, I'm prissy. I do not laugh at potty humor. Or, I didn't. Until I had a boy. I try not to laugh. I hide my smiles in my sleeve.  But, somehow, R.J. always knows.

"I tooted!" he trills triumphantly. And the giggles begin. And I smile. And then a giggle escapes. Before I know it, the two of us are snuggled in the rocking chair laughing hysterically. At potty humor. What has happened to me?

What is it about this little stinky man that can take me from uptight prissiness to an uninhibited pile of giggles? R.J. and I have a running dialog about toots, poots, and pees. The same dialog in a PG-13 movie would have me fast-forwarding or find me in another room with a book.

He's good for me, I suppose. A little potty humor never hurt anyone--least of all a mommy.  If I didn't have a sense of humor about it, I'd be in tears.  R.J.'s sweet: he thanks me for changing his dirty pants and gives me sugars in exchange for a fresh Huggie.

So, for tonight, I've given up enforcing the "pardon me's" and the "excuse me's." Tomorrow we'll start again, but tonight, I'm enjoying being ten again.