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).