I have been blessed with healthy children. I can count the number of ear infections on one finger, and the stomach flu has only visited twice in nearly four years. But we do have our moments. Last Monday was one of them. RJ had a fever. He smelled pretty bad too. The smeller's the feller. He told me, "Mommy, something stinks. It smells like poop. Make it stop!" (After the Advil kicked in he told me he was the feller: "I stink. I have bad gas.").
So, off to the doctor we went. And, as it seems to be in a child's world, he was fine at the doctor's office. "I okay." "I don't needa shot." Once assured that there would be no shots, he opened up to the doctor: "I have snot. And gas."
He also discussed his blankie. " 'Dis is fuffy. It's a nice blanket." His doctor told him she as a blanket too. "You do? Where? Where's your house?" (I'd like to know too given that GiGi's two month immunizations were billed at nearly 700 dollars to insurance).
I imagine his pediatrician remembered his appointment that day. He has apparently read all of the articles about taking control of his own health and his appointment. Asked to hop up on the table, he told the doctor: "No, that's okay. You can doctor me in the chair." And she did.
He made sure he got his sticker too. Even though there was no shot.
The diagnosis? A cold.
We have been blessed with healthy children. So, every fever warrants a trip to the doctor--even a common cold apparently. Another day in the life. Another appointment in the book. Another RJ conversation I didn't want to forget. These are the days I want to remember.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
I kind of sort of hate basketball (but I love the Thunder)
I kind sort of really hate basketball. It's loud. The shoes are squeaky. The game moves too fast, and I always forget which color I'm supposed to be cheering for. And don't they switch ends of the court sometimes?
But, last night, I ate dinner with James Harden. If James Harden were three years old, three feet tall, and had no hope whatsoever of ever scoring a three pointer. (I do know there's some curvy line that, if you stand behind it and hit the basket, it's three points rather than two.).
You see, nearly every night, RJ becomes James Harden, and his playmate (be it mommy, daddy, grandma or Boo Kitty) becomes Kevin Durant: "I gonna be James Harden. You gonna be Kevin Durant. We gonna shoot hoops." And the game is on. The hoop isn't regulation--it hangs from the closet door. The ball isn't regulation either, but it is yellow and blue with a fancy Thunder logo.
Which brings me to my point. I kind of sort of really hate basketball. But, I love the Oklahoma City Thunder. For once, there is a team that we all like. There are no familial allegiances. There is no history. It's a new team, so there seems to be very little for us to dispute.
The players strike me as decent role models. I've watched a lot of games, and I've yet to see ugly sportsmanship, ugly attitudes or even ugly tattoos. I hear Kevin Durant drives a van (and I'm secretly jealous). I've seen players at the mall, and they actually talk to little kids. And take cell phone pictures. And sign autographs. In fact, they seem like big kids themselves--not quite believing their fame just yet.
My three year old James Harden wears his Thunder colors with pride. He watches games with his daddy, and they talk about rules of the game--an important concept when you're just learning that there are rules everywhere. He finds confidence in his own three pointers. He talks about Rumble like they're old friends: "You remember last week (everything is last week in his memory) when we saw Rumble? He's a really hairy guy." Somewhere in there, I found a team to cheer for--even though I kind of sort of really hate basketball.
But, last night, I ate dinner with James Harden. If James Harden were three years old, three feet tall, and had no hope whatsoever of ever scoring a three pointer. (I do know there's some curvy line that, if you stand behind it and hit the basket, it's three points rather than two.).
You see, nearly every night, RJ becomes James Harden, and his playmate (be it mommy, daddy, grandma or Boo Kitty) becomes Kevin Durant: "I gonna be James Harden. You gonna be Kevin Durant. We gonna shoot hoops." And the game is on. The hoop isn't regulation--it hangs from the closet door. The ball isn't regulation either, but it is yellow and blue with a fancy Thunder logo.
Which brings me to my point. I kind of sort of really hate basketball. But, I love the Oklahoma City Thunder. For once, there is a team that we all like. There are no familial allegiances. There is no history. It's a new team, so there seems to be very little for us to dispute.
The players strike me as decent role models. I've watched a lot of games, and I've yet to see ugly sportsmanship, ugly attitudes or even ugly tattoos. I hear Kevin Durant drives a van (and I'm secretly jealous). I've seen players at the mall, and they actually talk to little kids. And take cell phone pictures. And sign autographs. In fact, they seem like big kids themselves--not quite believing their fame just yet.
My three year old James Harden wears his Thunder colors with pride. He watches games with his daddy, and they talk about rules of the game--an important concept when you're just learning that there are rules everywhere. He finds confidence in his own three pointers. He talks about Rumble like they're old friends: "You remember last week (everything is last week in his memory) when we saw Rumble? He's a really hairy guy." Somewhere in there, I found a team to cheer for--even though I kind of sort of really hate basketball.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Siblings
Before GiGi was born, I worried that RJ would hate her. I'm an only child, so I'm not familiar with the sibling concept. I don't understand the boundaries of the sibling relationship--or the lack thereof.
Tonight, I watched RJ show GiGi see-food. (Chew food, open mouth, "see, food?!"). I was horrified. Grossed out. I mean, ick. GiGi, on the other hand, laughed. She sits in the middle of her table in her Bumbo seat during supper time--we felt too guilty when she was laying in her bouncy seat next to the table. She is a person after all. She likes to feel involved. Now she's involved with a purpose: center piece.
She's a communicator. I hadn't realized how much could be discussed through coos and goos. She tells me "I'm good" at least once a day. (It might actually be more like "ahgoooo," but I'm her mommy, and I know she's telling me she's good.). She talks a lot. So does her brother. They chat about their days, and sometimes I find out more about what's going on in RJ's world through his conversations with his baby sis than I do through my conversations with him.
Two nights ago, I bathed GiGi in the tub with RJ. He's observant, so I got the inevitable, "Hey, where her junk?!" But, I forged ahead, answered as best I can. And, sibling tub time was born. RJ blew bubbles while GiGi floated on her back. (Her thighs give her lots of floatation). Sibling tub time gave way to GiGi's first ever belly laugh. I've tried to get that belly laugh from her. I've danced. I've sang. I've shaken my boom boom. The best I can get is a coo, a goo, and a smile. Big brother, on the hand, gets belly laughs.
Every morning RJ waits impatiently for GiGi to wake up. Sometimes he helps her along. One morning I discovered him poking between the rails of her crib with his toddler broom. "What are you doing?" I hollered. "I want her to wake up," he responded, matter of fact. Of course mom. He just wants her to wake up. Once she's awake, they begin their morning routine. She lays in the floor, and he lays beside her. And on top of her. He "sniggles" her--his version of snuggling. An inch from her face, he asks her, "How your day been?" He pokes his fingers in her nose, and every now and then I catch him licking her cheeks. (They are pretty irresistible.).
I'm GiGi's mom, so it's my obligation to defend her from sticky fingers and brotherly licks. But, I'm learning that in their sibling world, I can't defend against brotherly love. RJ doesn't hate GiGi. He loves her, and I'm learning that in sibling world, the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior are blurred--or non-existent. And, for this only child, it's a joy to watch.
Tonight, I watched RJ show GiGi see-food. (Chew food, open mouth, "see, food?!"). I was horrified. Grossed out. I mean, ick. GiGi, on the other hand, laughed. She sits in the middle of her table in her Bumbo seat during supper time--we felt too guilty when she was laying in her bouncy seat next to the table. She is a person after all. She likes to feel involved. Now she's involved with a purpose: center piece.
She's a communicator. I hadn't realized how much could be discussed through coos and goos. She tells me "I'm good" at least once a day. (It might actually be more like "ahgoooo," but I'm her mommy, and I know she's telling me she's good.). She talks a lot. So does her brother. They chat about their days, and sometimes I find out more about what's going on in RJ's world through his conversations with his baby sis than I do through my conversations with him.
Two nights ago, I bathed GiGi in the tub with RJ. He's observant, so I got the inevitable, "Hey, where her junk?!" But, I forged ahead, answered as best I can. And, sibling tub time was born. RJ blew bubbles while GiGi floated on her back. (Her thighs give her lots of floatation). Sibling tub time gave way to GiGi's first ever belly laugh. I've tried to get that belly laugh from her. I've danced. I've sang. I've shaken my boom boom. The best I can get is a coo, a goo, and a smile. Big brother, on the hand, gets belly laughs.
Every morning RJ waits impatiently for GiGi to wake up. Sometimes he helps her along. One morning I discovered him poking between the rails of her crib with his toddler broom. "What are you doing?" I hollered. "I want her to wake up," he responded, matter of fact. Of course mom. He just wants her to wake up. Once she's awake, they begin their morning routine. She lays in the floor, and he lays beside her. And on top of her. He "sniggles" her--his version of snuggling. An inch from her face, he asks her, "How your day been?" He pokes his fingers in her nose, and every now and then I catch him licking her cheeks. (They are pretty irresistible.).
I'm GiGi's mom, so it's my obligation to defend her from sticky fingers and brotherly licks. But, I'm learning that in their sibling world, I can't defend against brotherly love. RJ doesn't hate GiGi. He loves her, and I'm learning that in sibling world, the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior are blurred--or non-existent. And, for this only child, it's a joy to watch.
Monday, January 2, 2012
The Equation
I'm not a math person (so you'll forgive any calculation errors please). I am an English major. A writer of sorts. A creative soul. But today, I'm working on an equation. There are 8,760 hours in a year. If you assume 8 hours a day for sleep (or computer time, or tv time, or reading)(2,920 hours), that leaves 5,840. Assuming a 50 hour work week (more on that later) and two weeks of vacation a year, that leaves 3,340 for everything else. Everything else = commutes, showers, family dinners, soccer games, gymnastics, doctors appointments, dentist visits, trips to the dry cleaners, post office, grocery store, and yes, even vacation.
In 1958, an American Bar Association publication suggested that a reasonable billable year for attorneys was 1300 hours. Nowadays, we have the Internet. We have online research. No longer do lawyers spend hours and days sifting through dusty bins of law review articles and micro-fiche. Instead, we log on, put in a search term, and Bing! 1000 results. We have email, fax machines, and conference calls. We are, in theory, far more efficient than we were in 1958.
A reasonable billable year in 2012 is 1800 hours (some would say a reasonable year is 2200 hours). Days haven't gotten longer. A "business day" is still Monday-Friday.
The billable hour requires that each day be tracked in 6 minute increments. A study by Yale University found that in order to bill 37.5 hours, a lawyer will spend about 50 hours a week in the office. I struggle with billable hours. I don't bill my clients for time I spend getting coffee in the kitchen. I don't bill potty time. And, I don't bill every 30 second email as a 6 minute time entry. I try to get home in time to see my children before bedtime, and I like my coworkers, so I spend some time visiting everyday. Like everything else, keeping time is a careful balance.
Today is my last day of maternity leave. And I struggle with a billable, workable balance. There are variables in every equation. My equation takes into account 7 years dedicated to a 7 year partnership track, stigma attached to "balanced hours" plans, childcare, and scheduling conflicts. I can assign values to each of those things. If X is childcare and Y is stigma, then X plus Y equals breaking even. The variables I struggle with are these:
There is no reasonable, feasible way to assign a value to time spent with my babies. The coos and goos I will miss with GiGi, and the fresh tales of RJ's day at school. There is a certain morbid reality to recognizing that it is very likely that I will never pick my children up from school on a regular basis. I won't make the after school snacks, and I won't be the first person to hear about playground fights and spelling test successes. I don't suggest that I am the first mom to deal with these issues. I certainly won't be the last. But, for today, the equation is mine alone, and no list, no formula, and no study or article can solve it. For once, an equation is solvable only by heart.
In 1958, an American Bar Association publication suggested that a reasonable billable year for attorneys was 1300 hours. Nowadays, we have the Internet. We have online research. No longer do lawyers spend hours and days sifting through dusty bins of law review articles and micro-fiche. Instead, we log on, put in a search term, and Bing! 1000 results. We have email, fax machines, and conference calls. We are, in theory, far more efficient than we were in 1958.
A reasonable billable year in 2012 is 1800 hours (some would say a reasonable year is 2200 hours). Days haven't gotten longer. A "business day" is still Monday-Friday.
The billable hour requires that each day be tracked in 6 minute increments. A study by Yale University found that in order to bill 37.5 hours, a lawyer will spend about 50 hours a week in the office. I struggle with billable hours. I don't bill my clients for time I spend getting coffee in the kitchen. I don't bill potty time. And, I don't bill every 30 second email as a 6 minute time entry. I try to get home in time to see my children before bedtime, and I like my coworkers, so I spend some time visiting everyday. Like everything else, keeping time is a careful balance.
Today is my last day of maternity leave. And I struggle with a billable, workable balance. There are variables in every equation. My equation takes into account 7 years dedicated to a 7 year partnership track, stigma attached to "balanced hours" plans, childcare, and scheduling conflicts. I can assign values to each of those things. If X is childcare and Y is stigma, then X plus Y equals breaking even. The variables I struggle with are these:
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