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. 

Diamonds and Hot Wheels

I want my little boy to grow up. I want him to go to college, meet a nice girl, learn to buy a diamond, get married, buy a grill, and learn to change a tire. 

But. I don't want him to grow up so fast! Last night he decided he wanted to sleep in his big boy bed. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must say that he has slept in a crib approximately 15 hours in the past 3 years--he sleeps in a twin bed in his nursery. With me.).  He moved out of his nursery last night. 

He made the decision:  he wanted to sleep on his new car quilt with his new car nightlight.  We should move his clothes into his new dresser. He politely offered, "I gonna help you move my change table." We're still working on pooping in the potty, so the change table is a much debated topic these days. 

Convinced that he didn't need his change table (because Mommy can change him on the bed...duh), he helped me move his t-shirts, shorts, and little boy jockey shorts to his new room. Bedtime came, and I hoped he would change his mind. 

I had pictured the perfect goodbye to his baby room. We would read stories in his bed one more time. He would bid goodnight to all of the monkeys who are waving from baby paintings on his walls. He would wear pajamas with feet sewn in.

But, as any mother can tell you, a toddler's plans rarely align with his mommy's. Last night was moving night. He decided it. I respected his decision. He chose his own pajamas--dump truck bottoms and an OSU jersey (that happens to be a size 12 month, just short enough to show some belly button). Who could disagree with this?

He did ask me to rock him. For this, I am grateful. My heart couldn't have handled the shock of my little boy heading to bed on his own. He did ask to read "Llama Llama Red Pajama." He still needed his chocolate milk. And his blankie. And, he wanted me to sleep with him.

So, last night, I slept under a dump truck quilt by the comforting glow of  Lightening McQueen.  This morning, he woke up shaggy haired. He looked around his new room. He grinned, wrapped his arms around my neck, kissed me, told me he loved me, and bounced down the hallway. He's growing up. But, when he asks me if he can go to Wal-Mart and buy a car, I know we're not quite ready to shop for diamonds and a grill yet. And today, I think I'll shop for a Hot Wheels.

Hot Dogs, Parades, and Heartfelt Thanks

It's the Fourth of July! This means (1) hot dogs; (2) real Coke (no diet on holidays--it's a rule); (3) a three-day weekend; and (4) a parade.

For me, however, the Fourth has another meaning. Sure, we celebrate freedom. We celebrate a highway system that  lets us travel state to state without proof of identification or other hoops. We celebrate Target and Wal-Mart (even if we hate it, we celebrate the millions of other Sam Waltons hoping to make the American dream come true). We celebrate choice for dinner and for lunch. Having just finished reading Lisa See's Dreams of Joy, I am thankful for choices as simple as what to wear (even with a belly that over-reaches my toes); what to eat (particularly when a Cheetos craving calls at 4 a.m. as it did this morning); and where to shop for diapers.

But, the Fourth has more meaning than that. I, like many others, have celebrated the Fourth while thinking of a soldier far away. I didn't have babies. I wasn't worried about getting dinner on the table or  house payments or mowing the grass. I was young. A student with few outside worries other than whether I would actually get to marry hubbsie.

Hubbsie spent some time in Iraq many moons ago. And, he's home. With no chance of going again (though he would in a heartbeat--I have no doubt about his resolve).  But, even as he's home, and we had this moment,

This Fourth,  I remember the soldiers still waiting for this moment. For the first time, the second time, the third time...

And, on this Fourth of July, I will celebrate with parades and family:

 And I will take time to think about the soldiers who won't have this moment:

And I will remember that there's more than hot dogs, real Coke, and three-day weekend to be celebrated. 

A very happy Independence Day to everyone and a very heartfelt thanks to our military.