I had certain expectations about being a mom. I expected my children to say please and thank you. I expected to lose some sleep and gain some weight. I expected milestones: first steps, preschool, driver's license, "the talk," college. I've had to adjust my expectations. We tell RJ he has to learn to deal with change; to "roll with it." I'm learning to roll with it too.
I expected that GiGi would call me Mommy, or mama, or mom. But, she calls me NayNay. I was the mom who swore I'd never nurse a baby. Or that I'd only nurse my babies while we were in the hospital. Or while I was on maternity leave. Or until they turned a year old. RJ got a reprieve at a year--he chipped a tooth and cried. So, he had num-num (each of my babies has a special name for me; makes me feel special). And suddenly he was 22 months old, and I was "that" mom. GiGi is 14 months old. And while she calls me mama every once in a while, most days she grins that gap-toothed smile at me and says, "NayNay?" And, I'm reminded that it's time to adjust my expectations.
I expected that I (my husband) would have to have "the talk" with RJ someday, probably sooner than we'd (he'd) like to. You know, THE talk. The "don't put your peep in weird places" talk. I did not expect to have to tell my four year old, "RJ! Don't put your peep in weird places!" But I did. Because he tried to put it through the windows in a Hot Wheels car. I've adjusted my expectations. But I'm still making my husband have "the talk" with him when it doesn't involve Hot Wheels.
I expected that I would go to work every morning, leave my babies, and love every minute of being a powerful woman in an office with a view. Yesterday, I left my babies, was grateful for sweet caregivers at school, and loved every moment of being in my office with a view. Except I was the girl whose refrigerator had gone dreadfully, woefully, spectacularly wrong. My assistant greeted me with her southern, "I had to spray your office with Lysol. Something went wrong in there." Indeed. A salad. An old one. After the power had been out in the building. I tripled bagged and walked my trash all the way outside. I adjusted my expectations, shortened my day, and sprayed a lot of Febreeze.
I didn't expect to like trimming fingernails and bangs. To actually enjoy taking care of little sticky babies. But, we have mani/pedi/haircut night. RJ and I bond. He calls me Mommy (except when he's really mad, and then he calls me Pooty and gets to go to timeout). And someday, GiGi will call me Mommy again. But until then, she calls me NayNay, and I'll keep adjusting my expectations.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
For Many Things I am Thankful, or Ruffle Butts, Sticky Fingers, Donut Faces, and Friends
When I was little, Thanksgiving dinner was at my grandma's house. There was always too much food. We had a turkey, and dressing, and potatoes and gravy. We had pecan pie and chocolate pie. Grandma made sweet tea--real sweet tea--the kind that you stir sugar into while it's hot, so you can get more sugar in it. We had a token salad, served in yellow Tupperware. No one really wanted it, but it was there just in case. Salad dressing was served from the bottles on the table, and my grandma worked miracles in her tiny kitchen. The best part? Everyone was invited. Everyone. Old friends, family, people we saw once a year. Everyone knew that grandma's house was a place to gather and feast. It wasn't gourmet. Some years the turkey was too dry and the dressing too wet. But we gathered. We warmed our backs and bottoms against the gas stove in the living room. We played musical chairs at the table, and the grandkids fought at the red vinyl booth in the kitchen. We didn't gather 'round the table and give our personal thanks. We all just knew we were thankful for each other. And for chocolate pie.
Yesterday, I went to the Thanksgiving Feast at RJ's little Lutheran school. It was a feast only in the sense that there was some food (not enough--we supplemented with Wendy's afterward). And, like my grandma used to do on occasion, they broke out the good china (Styrofoam, for those who never had the joy of eating at grandma's house). We didn't go 'round the table and give our personal thanks. The potatoes were too dry, and the bread was too wet. But, we all just knew, we were thankful for this:
And, since the leaves are falling, in two days there will be a turkey on the smoker, and because all the cool kids are doing it, here is the list of everything else I'm thankful for right now:
Yesterday, I went to the Thanksgiving Feast at RJ's little Lutheran school. It was a feast only in the sense that there was some food (not enough--we supplemented with Wendy's afterward). And, like my grandma used to do on occasion, they broke out the good china (Styrofoam, for those who never had the joy of eating at grandma's house). We didn't go 'round the table and give our personal thanks. The potatoes were too dry, and the bread was too wet. But, we all just knew, we were thankful for this:
Happy babies. His place mat says he's thankful for his baby Gretchen and his mommy, his car, and his cat. Daddy didn't get a shout out, but he later announced, "I still love you daddy. I just didn't feel like putting you on here."
Friends. RJ and his friend had an altercation over who got to be the line leader. There were two people in the line: RJ and his friend. They hugged it out, and when his friend cried, they joined hands and left together. We all need those kinds of friends--someone to join hands and face the world outside the lunchroom.
And, since the leaves are falling, in two days there will be a turkey on the smoker, and because all the cool kids are doing it, here is the list of everything else I'm thankful for right now:
- The Muppets. Particularly "Mahna Mahna." It makes a Tuesday drive not so Tuesday-ish and makes my baby girl laugh.
- My job. I hate it. I love it. But it's a job. And, as RJ says, "You payin' bills today mommy?" Yes, yes I am. And I'm grateful I can.
- That we discovered the source of the smell in our downstairs hallway before my family arrives on Thursday. I'm no housekeeper, but seriously, this was rotten. And, it kept growing and growing. I had my nose to the carpet sniffing baseboards because I knew we had a dead mouse. Or, more likely, a hidden pair of preschooler panties with a present. It was a bad dish towel. In the laundry room sink. At least we found it. And washed it. And the house smells like coconut dreams now.
- Scentsy. See above.
- Ruffle butts. Sticky fingers. Donut faces.
- That we found the clicker. We watched Netflix for two days last week because we couldn't find the right clicker to turn on the cable. I'm not proud.
- Fried chicken. Warm towels. Hot water.
- My lady lawyer friends. They keep me sane. They're the kind of friends you hold hands with and face the world outside of the lunchroom. (Okay, we don't really hold hands. But we do cry in each other's offices, offer a consoling hug, laugh at our missteps and mistakes, and face the world outside the lunchroom together.).
- My not-lady-lawyer friends. They remind me that there is a real world outside of the billable hour.
- Hostess cupcakes (they might survive!). No-slip coat hangers. Command hooks.
- My family. All of them. Even the naughty ones. (As RJ asks every time he's in trouble, "Mommy, do you love me when I'm naughty?" Of course. Because that's when you need to be loved the most.).
- The little things. The big things. The in-between things. All the things that hold me together.
Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!
Friday, November 9, 2012
Quality v. Quantity: Perfect Part Time?
A lot of my mommy-lawyer friends ask me about working part time. I think that they, like me once, want to hear that it's perfect. That I have time to make fancy cupcakes; that my laundry is washed, dried, folded and put away. That supper is on the table every night; that my children know and appreciate that I'm there to pick them up from school. That I still do important work that's thought provoking and interesting.
It's not perfect. I struggle. I agonize and antagonize. Every week is a roller coaster of debate: do I keep this up? do I quit and stay home? do I go back to full time? What to do? What to do?
A litigator's world is controlled by the courts. The court isn't interested in whether a summary judgment motion is due the day of your son's Halloween party. And, the other lawyers in the firm aren't particularly interested in whether you have five hours to spend researching before next Tuesday. Real work goes to "real" lawyers--the ones who are in the office 10 hours a day. Document review is just perfect for part time lawyers (and some days it is. it really is.).
When I worked full time, I was a lawyer about 10 hours a day, and I got to be a mom the other 14. Now, I'm a lawyer 14 hours a day, and I get to be "just a mom" very rarely. I'm home at 3 o'clock, but Lego time is interrupted by conference calls, and the email never stops. I forward my office phone to my cell phone. (This works well most of the time, but there's one lawyer who returns calls at 6 a.m.--so that he can always leave a message. That means my cell phone rings with work calls at 6 a.m. every once in a while. I am not a morning person.).
I get to go on play dates on Friday mornings, just like a full-time mom. But, I'm answering calls, negotiating settlements, and remembering filings in a panic while I try to tie on a paint smock and kiss boo-boos.
I yell a lot more at RJ. It might be that he asks "why" a lot more now and his newly adopted habit of squawking like a pterodactyl makes me want to tear my ears off. Or it might be that I used to be pulled in two directions; and now, I'm shattered into a thousand.
My cupcakes aren't fancy. The laundry chair is still full of folded and un-put-away clothes. Some nights the best I can do are hot dogs and potato chips. And honestly, RJ prefers it when his aunt picks him up from school. She doesn't yell like I do.
Part time isn't perfect. Right now, my first full-day in the office each week is Thursday, which means that I'm three days behind before my week even begins. My caseload didn't shrink when I cut back on hours. So, I do the same amount of work in about half the time (which somehow doesn't seem right on an hourly scale--a practicality).
But, somewhere, somehow, I remember that when I was little, there was a quantity versus quality character to the time with my mom. We fought a lot (still do). She screamed and so did I. But, there was something infinitely comforting knowing that she was in the next room sewing or cooking. I loved nothing more than sitting in her break room at work and sharing a Coke and candy bar on my afternoon breaks from the pool where I was a lifeguard. She did all the "quality" mom things, like bake perfect cakes, make me darling dresses (that I still wear), and make sure that my hair bows were pressed and tied just "so." But, there was a quantity of time factor too. I didn't appreciate her picking me up every day from school then. But I do now. I remember trips for nachos at the Taco Hut and ice cream at Braum's. She was always just "there." She was the Campfire mom and the party planner. I sat in a chair at the church while she ironed the pastor's robe for Sunday. We spent a lot of time together, and not all of it was real "quality" time. But there's just something about mom-love. The kind of love that means instant comfort when she walks in. Knowing that no matter what you do, you're loved. The kind of love I didn't appreciate until I was a mom.
This kind of love:
The kind of love that makes you carefully sort the whole beans out of the bowl of refried beans. Just because your baby girl really likes to feed herself beans.
The kind of love that makes you hold down a screaming baby while a nurse stabs her little leg. Because you know the shots will keep her healthy.
The kind of love that makes you say "okay" to a Batman costume when you really (really) wanted to dress your four year old son as Prince Charming so that his little sister could be Cinderella for Halloween.
The kind of love that makes you give up precious iPod storage for The Wiggles. Because your son just loves to "Rock-a-Bye his bear."
The kind of love that stifles your gag reflex when wiping bottoms. (I'm not sure how this works, but it does. Even when RJ's business is so nasty that he is gagging at it himself.).
The kind of love that makes you give up partnership track in your seventh year on an seven-year track. Because it means you have time to hear first hand how many stars your son earned on his school chart that day.
The kind of love that makes you want to give up a part-time track so that the time you do spend with your children is "quality," not just "quantity." Because really, there's no good reason to tell a four-year old that he has got to stop crapping his pants. (Because when you do, he will inevitably, parrot back to you, "I'm not crapping my pants!" Mommy fail.). Naughty language is not quality.
Someday (soon), I'll probably get around to addressing the practicalities of being a part time lawyer--because there are a lot of practical issues. What I have figured out is that no job is perfect. But, (thankfully) no mom is perfect either. The only thing I know that is perfect is mom love. And, of that, I am certain.
It's not perfect. I struggle. I agonize and antagonize. Every week is a roller coaster of debate: do I keep this up? do I quit and stay home? do I go back to full time? What to do? What to do?
A litigator's world is controlled by the courts. The court isn't interested in whether a summary judgment motion is due the day of your son's Halloween party. And, the other lawyers in the firm aren't particularly interested in whether you have five hours to spend researching before next Tuesday. Real work goes to "real" lawyers--the ones who are in the office 10 hours a day. Document review is just perfect for part time lawyers (and some days it is. it really is.).
When I worked full time, I was a lawyer about 10 hours a day, and I got to be a mom the other 14. Now, I'm a lawyer 14 hours a day, and I get to be "just a mom" very rarely. I'm home at 3 o'clock, but Lego time is interrupted by conference calls, and the email never stops. I forward my office phone to my cell phone. (This works well most of the time, but there's one lawyer who returns calls at 6 a.m.--so that he can always leave a message. That means my cell phone rings with work calls at 6 a.m. every once in a while. I am not a morning person.).
I get to go on play dates on Friday mornings, just like a full-time mom. But, I'm answering calls, negotiating settlements, and remembering filings in a panic while I try to tie on a paint smock and kiss boo-boos.
I yell a lot more at RJ. It might be that he asks "why" a lot more now and his newly adopted habit of squawking like a pterodactyl makes me want to tear my ears off. Or it might be that I used to be pulled in two directions; and now, I'm shattered into a thousand.
My cupcakes aren't fancy. The laundry chair is still full of folded and un-put-away clothes. Some nights the best I can do are hot dogs and potato chips. And honestly, RJ prefers it when his aunt picks him up from school. She doesn't yell like I do.
Part time isn't perfect. Right now, my first full-day in the office each week is Thursday, which means that I'm three days behind before my week even begins. My caseload didn't shrink when I cut back on hours. So, I do the same amount of work in about half the time (which somehow doesn't seem right on an hourly scale--a practicality).
But, somewhere, somehow, I remember that when I was little, there was a quantity versus quality character to the time with my mom. We fought a lot (still do). She screamed and so did I. But, there was something infinitely comforting knowing that she was in the next room sewing or cooking. I loved nothing more than sitting in her break room at work and sharing a Coke and candy bar on my afternoon breaks from the pool where I was a lifeguard. She did all the "quality" mom things, like bake perfect cakes, make me darling dresses (that I still wear), and make sure that my hair bows were pressed and tied just "so." But, there was a quantity of time factor too. I didn't appreciate her picking me up every day from school then. But I do now. I remember trips for nachos at the Taco Hut and ice cream at Braum's. She was always just "there." She was the Campfire mom and the party planner. I sat in a chair at the church while she ironed the pastor's robe for Sunday. We spent a lot of time together, and not all of it was real "quality" time. But there's just something about mom-love. The kind of love that means instant comfort when she walks in. Knowing that no matter what you do, you're loved. The kind of love I didn't appreciate until I was a mom.
This kind of love:
The kind of love that makes you carefully sort the whole beans out of the bowl of refried beans. Just because your baby girl really likes to feed herself beans.
The kind of love that makes you hold down a screaming baby while a nurse stabs her little leg. Because you know the shots will keep her healthy.
The kind of love that makes you say "okay" to a Batman costume when you really (really) wanted to dress your four year old son as Prince Charming so that his little sister could be Cinderella for Halloween.
The kind of love that makes you give up precious iPod storage for The Wiggles. Because your son just loves to "Rock-a-Bye his bear."
The kind of love that stifles your gag reflex when wiping bottoms. (I'm not sure how this works, but it does. Even when RJ's business is so nasty that he is gagging at it himself.).
The kind of love that makes you give up partnership track in your seventh year on an seven-year track. Because it means you have time to hear first hand how many stars your son earned on his school chart that day.
The kind of love that makes you want to give up a part-time track so that the time you do spend with your children is "quality," not just "quantity." Because really, there's no good reason to tell a four-year old that he has got to stop crapping his pants. (Because when you do, he will inevitably, parrot back to you, "I'm not crapping my pants!" Mommy fail.). Naughty language is not quality.
Someday (soon), I'll probably get around to addressing the practicalities of being a part time lawyer--because there are a lot of practical issues. What I have figured out is that no job is perfect. But, (thankfully) no mom is perfect either. The only thing I know that is perfect is mom love. And, of that, I am certain.
Silly Mommy, Sickly Baby: Another Mommy Super Hero Moment
GiGi doesn't feel well. And when GiGi doesn't feel well, mommy doesn't feel so hot either. Even super heroes get worn down. Mainly due to the lack of sleep and bleeding scratches on my face (we're going through a slapping scratching phase), but of course also because my baby girl is sickly. She woke up looking like a the swamp thing--oozy, gooey--generally gross. Kids are gross. Like little carrier monkeys. But, she's my baby girl, and she's sick. So, mommy snuggled. And Advil-ed. And snot sucker-ed. And then we visited urgent care. By that time, GiGi was done with me. She was done with everyone. And everyone was pretty well done with her. Even at urgent care, screaming babies can grate on the nerves.
I'm a lawyer (on occasion). I wear fancy suits and carry fancy handbags (when I'm not carrying my wallet in a large Ziploc with a sippy cup and puffers). I'm serious. I don't do silly. Except when I've been in a doctor's exam room for 30 minutes with a slappy, scratchy, sickly, unhappy baby. That's when things get crazy:
I'm a lawyer (on occasion). I wear fancy suits and carry fancy handbags (when I'm not carrying my wallet in a large Ziploc with a sippy cup and puffers). I'm serious. I don't do silly. Except when I've been in a doctor's exam room for 30 minutes with a slappy, scratchy, sickly, unhappy baby. That's when things get crazy:
Not so crazy.
Not even close to crazy.
Getting crazier...
Here we go....
Super silly mommy!
Learned this face from my dad ;)
And once again, mommy snuggles save the day.
I forgot my cape, but I still think I pulled off some serious mommy super hero stuff that day.
(I had to think long and hard before posting these. Mommy does not look like Wonder Woman after a sick baby night.)
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