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).