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.
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