Lovefest 2012

RJ is in the middle of Lovefest 2012. Periodically, he stops whatever he's doing and tells me, "Mom, I love you." And then he's off again. Sometimes he snuggles up to me just to tell me I'm pretty or that he likes my hair. He might be Eddie Haskell. Or he might be really digging mommy being around a lot these days. I used to be in the office at least 50 hours a week. In heels. And a power suit. 

I used to see women in restaurants with greasy pony tails, chipped nails, spotted t-shirts, and (gasp!) elastic waist pants, and I judged. I judged a lot.  How hard is it to take off the polish and put on a clean shirt?

Awfully  hard some days. 

Now, I find myself being a part time lady lawyer. I'm not comfortable with it. My job feels like an old coat that doesn't quite fit right anymore. Too tight in the sleeves and maybe if I just tug on the collar a little bit and adjust the hem "just so," I can make it fit again.   I thought I would have time organize my recipes and learn to sew. My recipes are still stuck together in a drawer (or on my iPhone because the iPad has a dead battery. Sigh.).  The sewing machine is in the garage. (Double sigh). 

I don't like the marathon that my days have become: change diapers, make cereal, chase crawler, snuggle non-crawler, find "Curious George," find clean underpants, find dirty peed on underpants, start laundry, comb hair, swim lessons, change into work clothes, wash parts to milking machine, pack lunch, drive downtown, and holy crap it's only 9:30. 

Notice something? There's no shower in that routine. Not most days. I used to be the girl with the pink patent leather shoes and the matching handbag. Yesterday, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hotel window downtown. Hair? Pony tail. Nails? Used to be pink. Shirt? The tiniest tiniest Koolaid stain on the sash. But it was still there.  Skirt? Zip closure thank you very much. 

Handbag? From Target. Not as in purchased from their super cute line of summer handbags. As in white plastic with adorable little red targets on it. Because my super cute little patent leather bags are packed, my super cute leather tote bag was holding my super dirty dry cleaning, and I was in a super hurry to get away from my super loud four year old. Functional? Of course. Worthy of judgment-y stares from cute young things in power suits? (summer associates of the world, I'm looking at you in your fabulous suits and heels). Absolutely. 

I started out my part time routine dedicated to parenting perfection. If I'm not billing time, then I'm building quality time with my kids. That's the way it's going to be. And that's the way it has been. Until now. 

Something's got to change. And perhaps it isn't only my job that doesn't quite fit. For the first few months of this new gig, I spent every non-working moment with my kids. I played trains with RJ and let GiGi nurse herself into blissful oblivion.  And every night, I go to bed angry, irritable, and exhausted wishing for just two more hours to write or play my violin or do something (anything) that used to be mine and mine alone.   

If this part time thing is going to work, I have to overcome the guilt of not spending every non-work moment with my children. Because, spending every single minute of the day with either (1) a law book and computer or (2) one child who has an inexplicable need to touch me all the time and one child who has an inexplicable need for num-num all the time will make me nuts. 

Nothing changes with inaction. So, I dove right in. Instead of figuring out a weekly menu plan or trying to read a deposition, I painted my nails while RJ had swim lessons. (Red. Sally Hanson Salon Manicure in a Bottle. I'll let you know it works out.). And then, then I took the real plunge. I packed a gym bag. With something other than GiGi's Huggies and extra jars of baby food. (Why is it that a pink Nike bag just begs to be put to work as a diaper bag?)

I used to swim miles a day. Really. MILES. Today, I swam 600 yards. And I am exhausted. And sore. And kind of proud. Because, for this part time mommy lawyer thing to work, I've got to make time for me. The coat fit a little better this evening. And I found a few minutes to write too. 

So today begins a new routine. Except for the laundry. And the snuggles. Because RJ is in the middle of Lovefest 2012, and who am I to refuse a handsome little man's overtures to snuggle and tell me I'm pretty? 

(And to my working mommy friends, find a way to be kind to yourself. It matters. It makes a difference.). 

An Unintentional Break

I apparently took a break from blogging. It was unintentional. I just found so many other things that needed to be done. So I did them.  I painted the inside of my china cabinet purple. I hung approximately 487 family photos. I made 24 burritos. (Super easy freezer food makes me do a little twirl at supper time.).

I billed some hours. I read a lot of stories. I grocery shopped. I watched some (a LOT) of Thunder basketball and washed RJ's Thunder shirt a hundred times.

I watched the end of "The Black Swan." I watched the beginning about two weeks ago. It took me that long to get up the nerve to watch the end. At 10 a.m. So the shadows couldn't find me. That is one freaky movie.

I did a conference call from the neighborhood pool.  (Ask me about going part time. The view changes day to day, but a call from the pool isn't exactly a bad day--though leaving RJ sitting on a lounge chair screaming so that I could wander outside the gate to find a signal wasn't exactly a good day either. Balance. Juggle. Something like that.).

I'm working on something really substantive and thought provoking. Or at least semi-interesting and entertaining. Until then...

Hats are kind of her thing. 

GiGi started trying to walk. Her proportions are proving to be a challenge. 

This is what sibling love looks like at my house. (Go Thunder!)

The Thunder lost. 

Her daddy is in trouble when she turns 16. Or 36. Because she's not dating until she's 36. 

She hearts her big brother. (He spends a lot of time wandering around in his underpants. Note to self: must fix this before GiGi turns 10 and has slumber parties.). 

We celebrated Father's Day. (Go Thunder!)

No really. We are in for a world of hurt when she turns 16. 

She canNOT believe the Thunder lost. 

Fluffy! He loves his blankie. And he's still my baby. 

Look out world. GiGi is on the move. And she's serious about it. 

Peek a boo!

I got my cape. And RJ stole it. But I'll get it back. And write about it. Be sure of that. 

(Yes, we are "those" neighbors. The ones with the toddler car that has been sitting on the front sidewalk for three days. There's a fire truck, a police car, and a wrecker too. We do it up right.)

GiGi loves ice cream. 

I mean, she LOVES ice cream. 

Someday she will not like me much. 

But this belly makes me smile. 

And seriously, who doesn't want something so very good that it makes you point your toes?

GiGi loves ice cream. So does her brother. But he loves her too. I don't understand sibling love. But I know this: sibling love is giving your sister licks of your ice cream when she drops hers. 

My babies love ice cream. And each other. (And oh yeah, Thanks Thunder! You've made the last two weeks most entertaining at my house--and picking out RJ's outfits have been pretty easy too.).

I know Superman and Wonder Woman

RJ is obsessed with super heroes, which is interesting since he's not allowed to watch "The Avengers" or any other super hero movie. He would flip if he knew my secret: I know Superman and Wonder Woman. I just can't figure out how they've always kept their capes hidden.

My parents crossed the state and back again for every hot, smelly, rainy, cold, and nasty swim meet I ever swam. My mom sorted hundreds of event cards into heats, herded water-slick 8-year olds to the starting blocks, and then made sure they all got the ribbons they were entitled to. Or weren't. Helicopter parents existed in the 80's too--one dad tried to steal ribbons for his kid. My dad hauled yards and yards of moldy shag carpet into the old wooden gym at the YMCA--we had to protect the floors from puddles while giving 100s of kids a place to snack, sleep, and play cards between events. After he did that, he stood for two days on wet concrete with a starting gun over his head. Or watched a million flip turns, disqualified 10 year olds, and bore the wrath of the angry mommies.

Mom wore t-shirts and shorts. Dad wore a white official's polo and shorts. I cannot for the life of me figure out where they hid their capes. Maybe they were at the concession stand under the chili crockpots.

Because a cape is the only way they did it. They have to be super heros.

My house is a wreck. I can't make it to one gymnastics class a week. And, this morning, RJ was late to the first day of summer camp.

Mom made the best birthday cakes; they looked like they came from a bakery. And if there was call for a punch bowl, she was there. And the punch was good. And on time. If I needed a costume, or a party dress, or just something pretty to wear to school the next day, the sewing machine hummed late into the night. And by the next morning, it would be hanging in my bedroom. Her cape must have been in the washing machine with the rest of the laundry. I never saw it those mornings.

My wedding was a feat of super hero proportions. 400 pink roses. Yards of satin and tulle. Twinkle lights.  She wore a beaded formal. No cape.

Every morning, Dad left the house before sunrise and didn't get home until dark. And somehow he found time to help a 15 year old girl restore and old car. Or rather, he restored an old car while a 15 year old girl sanded, scrubbed, and loved every minute they spent together at the barn working. Or whined that she was hot and greasy and tired. And loved every minute of it.

We spent a hundred hours on that car. I never saw the cape. He must have taken it off so it didn't get caught on the fan belt.

Hubbsie lost his ring in the yard at the old house. Two days before closing, Dad came down with a metal detector. And found the ring. He said it was a metal detector. I didn't see it. Super human powers.  No cape. I am convinced that he now keeps it in the trunk of his car.

This parenting thing isn't easy. There aren't enough hours in the day. There aren't enough minutes in the hours.

I never sleep. I never get all of the boxes checked on my to-do list. We've been in our house three weeks, and I can't get the boxes unpacked and the books on the shelves. Mom was here for two days, and the house looks like a home.  She still has her cape somewhere.

My son is obsessed with super heroes. Someday, I'll tell him I know Superman and Wonder Woman. Until then, I just wish they would they would tell me where to find the cape store--because life gets busier every day. And I hope that I can do as well for my babies as my mom and dad have done for me.

P.S. (I know they read this, so Thanks Mom and Dad!)

Nothing I expected, everything I could want

I often say, "GiGi is nothing like what I expected, but she's everything I could want." I expected a tiny, fragile little thing that I could dress in ruffles and bows. I bought clothes before she was born--sized seasonally for my tiny, fragile little thing. She is currently into her Fall 2012 wardrobe.  Fleece trousers are not flattering this time of year.

When she was born, she was all thighs. And cheeks. Now, when she crawls, she uses her booty to drive herself. Sway it to the right, and away she goes. Sway it to the left, and away she goes.

She's tough. She tolerates her brother's kisses and bites. His snuggles and more often, his wrestling.

I expected that my baby girl would be all sugar. Very little spice. Absolutely no burps, toots, or anything else yucky.

Until last night. See this?

She's smiling at you because she's pooping in the tub. At this very moment.

She's very sugary and sunshiny and anything else you can think of to describe a happy, laid back baby. She's a little spicy--fits over toys and the car seat make me laugh. 

She is also a whole lot of yucky.

(Oh, and she's still all thighs. Not as much cheeks. But very much more than I could ever want in a little girl.).