A Not So Very Downton Dinner

I recently started watching Downton Abbey. And, once I got started, I finished Season One in three days. If you know what happened in Seasons Two and Three, don't tell me. The story is all the scandal I could hope for. But, ladies, can we be honest? It's the clothes. And the house. And the maids.

After watching the show for nearly seven hours straight (I've been sick--I do have an excuse), I've pillaged my own closet for anything chiffon. I want to wear my hair in curls. I want to drink my ginger ale out of crystal goblets. Shoot, I'd wear a corset if it meant I'd have a ladies maid to lace me up and launder my nightdress (not that I wear a nightdress, but if I had a ladies maid, I'd totally scrap my yoga pants).

I can't complain. I love my house. I love my life. I actually like driving my own car, and honestly, I'd probably get tired of having to ask someone to pour my tea, draw my bath, and comb my hair. Maybe. But, the meals. Five courses! Or more! Dessert! Drinks! Civilized conversation!

I tried my best to recreate a Downton meal. Roasted chicken. Veggies. Rice. I pretended that my "Happy Birthday Jesus" cup was crystal (had to use something that RJ couldn't see through since I had already told him he couldn't have ginger ale with his dinner--but I wanted ginger ale with mine).  Unfortunately, Downton Abbey doesn't go into any detail about dinners when the girls were toddlers. And they didn't have a little boy.

Five minutes into my Downton dinner: "Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom." "Then go. Don't talk to me about it. Just do it."

Eight minutes into my Downton dinner: GiGi throws her cup at my face. She's got an arm, but pretty is as pretty does. Lady Mary did not pitch her goblet at her mother during family dinner.
Ten minutes into my Downton dinner: the bathroom door is open. "Mommy! I need to poop more! Don't come clean me yet!"

Fifteen minutes into my Downton dinner: "Mommy! I'm done! Hurry! It stinks bad!"

And....Downton dinner is over. Because I don't have a Daisy, or an Ana, or an O'Brien. Civilized conversation does not exist for a four-year old boy. I do, however, have a lovely silk robe that I wore after my bath (after clearing at least a dozen hot wheels out of the tub).  I found my 1920's turban style stocking cap with the rhinestones. And I dug out my strands of pearls.

Tonight, I'll trade in "Happy Birthday Jesus" for some real glassware and try again. But really, who wants to spend all evening in the dining room anyway? We have video games to play, trains to run, and shoes to sort.

P.S. GiGi discovered my shoes today--first time she's been in my closet. It was her own Downton moment. "Oooooooo! Shoes! Shoes!" And, she proceeded to select my highest heeled, fanciest gold dress sandals. She has good taste. Someday, she'll probably want to wear her hair in curls, pillage her closet for chiffon, and pretend her plastic cups are crystal too. I hope.

The Negotiations

When I was in law school, my contracts professor tried to teach us a little bit about negotiating a deal. I got the basics: offer, acceptance, conditional offers, conditional acceptance. I'd like to think that I'm a little better at making deals now than I was before law school. But, my recent dealings with my children might suggest otherwise:

We have the basic offer: "RJ, are you hungry? Do you want to eat?"

The basic rejection: "No, I'm not hungry."

The counter offer with express ramifications for rejection:  "RJ, you need to eat now, or there will be no food later on. This is the last call."

The basic rejection:  "No. I'm not hungry."

And then things fall apart.

"RJ, it's time for bed."

"But Mommy, I'm hungry! There's nothing in my tummy! I want to eat now!"

Someone needs to teach the child about offer and acceptance. Because the offer expires every night the same way. And, every night, we have the same dilemma. So far, I'm winning this battle.

Then, we have the conditional offers:

"RJ, if you don't take a nap now, there's no video games tonight." (Mario Kart is preschooler crack and makes for some great bargaining currency).

Four hours later: "Mommy, if I'm good, can I play the video games?"

Response: "No. You didn't take a nap."

And then things fall apart. And the Wii goes in the cupboard for another week.

I can handle the preschooler negotiations. I feel like I'm winning. The toddler negotiations, however, have thrown me for a loop.

Three a.m. GiGi wants to negotiate: "Mama? Mama! Nay nay!" (Mommy is sleeping. Turns over and tries to ignore toddler.).

"Mama? Mama!" (Toddler situates adorable ruffled butt on Mama's head and commences bouncing. Ruffle butts are cute, but not at 3 a.m. Not like this.).

At this point, I should note that GiGi does actually sleep in her crib a good portion of the night. And, after last night, she'll be spending more time in her crib.

"Mama? Mama!" "Bug bug. Bug bug baby!" She's looking for her new blankie. And I gave it to her. At this point, toddler negotiations crater completely. (Toddler carefully situates bug bug blankie on Mama's face and tucks it in.).

Toddler goes to crib. And then to the playroom with Daddy. Where she resorts to violence. There's screaming (hers). Reports from Daddy indicate that she threw a shoe at his head after he refused to let her shop in the pantry at 5 a.m. She's an angry toddler. 

Throwing shoes is not in my law school offer/acceptance repertoire. Neither was a bouncing ruffle butt or a bug bug blankie. Just goes to show that I'm still learning every day. And hoping that my opposing counsel are more dignified than my children.

Bits and Pieces

• RJ went back to school today (and the cats sighed in relief). "Hey mom, I saw a crab in the sandbox today," he tells me. "And it tried to bite me, but I ran away." His teacher tells me he has a great imagination. Imagination? Fibs? A fine line. But if he's going to imagine a crab in the sandbox, I'd prefer if he was fighting it with light sabers and taking it hostage. He's a lover not a fighter.  

• And, on that note: "Mommy, I love you. Did you know that? Even when you go to work. And even when you're naughty to Daddy." (I often have to reassure him that I love him even when he's naughty. He spit in my face last night. He's lucky I'm his mother and that I love him even when he's naughty.)

• And why would my precious little boy spit on me? Two words: video games. We got a Mario Kart video game for Christmas. I knew he liked the go-carts at Disney World an awful lot. Turns out, we could have spent 20 bucks on a used video game and a couple of steering wheels and had just as much fun (almost--I'm kind of a Cinderella junkie).  

This is what evenings look like (cat included) when RJ has had a good day. He's intense. Let's hope he has that kind of focus for the road when he's 16. 

•  GiGi is equally intense, when it comes to shoes at least. I know there's a lot of debate out there about whether gender roles are taught or born. My daughter is 15 months old, shoe obsessed, baby crazy, and spent the morning spoon feeding tea to her dolls. She is Prissy with a capital "P." I am too. So, maybe it is taught and not born. But I'm not so sure about that. 

When I say obsessed, I mean it. Girlfriend loves her shoes. I'm happy to report that she uses her castle to park cars nearly as often as the princesses dance on the lawn. 

We had a tea party. On bubba's blankie (don't tell). If you look carefully, you'll see her favorite bag: RJ's Star Wars lunch box, of course. 

•  We've taken advantage of the warmer days lately: 

This is what happy looks like. 

And this. 

(Her father is dreading the day she turns 25 and is officially allowed to date. Just look at those eyes!) 

True bliss. He is way too big for the baby swings, but he's my baby. That counts, right? (He wanted me to swing him. How could I refuse? He has also asked me to rock him to sleep the last two nights. Again, how could I refuse? He'll be 13 and angry soon enough. For now, I'll let him snuggle his way to sleep every night.)

Yes, I do make her wear the bear hat everywhere. 

•  When I was considering cutting back at work, I worried that I'd lose my mind. I haven't lost it totally. But, I have set up a squirrel feeder and a bird feeder in the backyard. The squirrels are very merry: 

RJ has named him Perkins, and he visits everyday. 

• This is what nap time looks like at my house: 

He was totally supposed to be asleep, and he got totally busted. 

She's dangerously close to climbing out of the crib. This scares me. She can also tell you that a dog goes "oof oof," a cat goes "ow, ow," and she'll play peek-a-boo with the table cloth if you're really lucky. She's growing up, just a wee bit too fast. 

• I was wary about giving RJ video games, but his toddler tablet has been more than I could have hoped. He and Sissy play together (when they're not fighting).  (Ignore Ugly Chair. I'm working on her. She's getting less ugly, but she's kind of sensitive about her spots.)

• I haven't lost my mind, but I also have a cat who visits me most days too. I haven't named him yet (mostly because he belongs to the neighbors and very likely has a name already). I have referred to him as Old Puss Puss. RJ, of course, thinks that's fun to say and repeats it to everyone.  Out of the mouths of babes. 

GiGi is entertained and talks with him: "Ow, ow! Hi cat!"

And then she talks to me about it.  

• I've mentioned before that nursing moms need to get a sense of humor. GiGi has now started to grin at me and then grab my belly while saying "tickle, tickle, tickle!" It's cute. Kind of. Until I realize how much more belly there is for her to grab than there should be. Kids say the darndest things. 

• I often have to tell my little woman, "Pretty is as pretty does, Nelly Olsen." Sometimes she forgets. She does know how to throw a fit: 

Of course, if I had to wear horizontal stripes on those thighs, I'd probably throw a fit too. (Eat the cake, GiGi. Don't ever lose the thighs.).

• We reached a new milestone today. GiGi can stand in the tower to help us cook.  She's curious. Nosy in fact. We call her Mrs. Kravitz these days when she stretches out her little neck, turns that little mouth down, and peers around corners (mostly when I'm on the potty, but hey, she's at that age--I hope). 

• And those are the little bits and pieces of our little world that I don't want to forget.  

The Practicalities: Part One--Expectations

I don't purport to be an expert on mothering, wife-ing, or lawyer-ing. But I've learned a lot in the last year, and I find that what I appreciate most these days are honest assessments. I don't mince words, and I don't expect others to sugar coat reality for me. My honest assessment of going from a full-time, partnership track lady lawyer to a part-time mommy track lady lawyer can be reduced to five points (for now): Expectation, Appreciation, Compensation, Degradation, and Organization.

I talk a lot about expectations, and I believe that for a truly successful part time (or "balanced hours") arrangement to work, expectations have to be adjusted both from the lawyer side and the firm side. I can't adjust the firm's expectations. And so, I've adjusted mine.

When I started as a baby lawyer, I expected to make a few mistakes. I made more than a few. I expected to work from 9-6. I worked from 9-6, 7, 8, and weekends. I expected to bill all of my time. I bill about 80% of the time I'm in the office. The rest is reserved for bathroom breaks, sanity breaks, doctor's appointments, and life. I expected to become a director at my firm. I didn't.

When I started out as a mom, I expected to put my baby in daycare from 8-6 every day. I didn't. I expected to have his nanny take him to his doctor's appointments. I didn't. Because really, how could I send him for shots without his mommy? I expected that baby number 2 wouldn't change things much. She did.

And so, I went part time at my job. Part time for me means that I try to be in the office at least 4 days a week and most weeks 5. I work shorter days and pick up my kids from school. I expected that I would have time to do the dishes and vacuum the rugs. My pantry would be organized, and supper would magically appear on the table every night. I expected that I would stay at the top of my class and continue on an upward trajectory at the firm with just a few bumps along the way.

I expected I would work consistent hours. I failed my own expectations, and this has been the toughest aspect of part time work to address. Some weeks I work 1 day; some weeks I work 7. Some months I bill 80  hours, some months it's more like 150. Because, being part time doesn't change the fact that I'm a litigator. There is a natural ebb and flow to the work, which cannot be accounted for by virtue of going part time.  There are weeks when supper isn't on the table. I struggle to find childcare for odd hours. I work weekends and nights. Other weeks, I'm able to take advantage of my arrangement and put my kids down for naps. I find time to untangle the mass of dirty clothes in the closet. Some weeks, the stars collide, and I need to be at work while GiGi needs to be at the doctor or while RJ desperately needs me to hold his head while he throws up. Those are the hard weeks.

Most days, I do at least one call from my van or from the narthex at the church where my kids go to school. I forward my office phone to my cell phone so that I can't be accused of being "unavailable." (There is an inescapable expectation that I be at my desk 40 hours a week while permissibly working part time.). It will be years before I can save enough money to have a life-size replica made to hold down my chair at work and make people feel better about the time I'm "out." Until then, I make myself available all the time by cell phone and email.

I expected I would have time away from the office. I don't. I am always on email and answering my phone, because if I don't, I'm "unavailable." When I worked full time, it was okay for me to take a couple of hours off now and again. Now, it isn't.

There are those lawyers who will argue that they too make calls from their cars and never sign off email. That's probably true. But, for me, there was a certain expectation of relief when I agreed to give up other things that a fulltime position offered (like benefits, promotions, and expectations that I would still have a career rather than just a job.). I expected that I could be away from my desk without murmurings of "lazy." I expected that I would continue to do interesting important work. I expected that I would embrace part time work. I haven't.

Working part time is a daily scheduling struggle. It's a daily internal emotional struggle. Some days, I'd give it all up to be able to work from 8-5 with a few days vacation and a couple of holidays built in. Unfortunately, being a lawyer doesn't work that way. Some days, like today, when I've been home with my children for five days straight, I can't wait to get to my desk. And, when I get to my desk, I can't wait to be home again.

When I worked full time, I had time to myself. Now, I have none. My time belongs to the firm and to my children.

What going part time has taught me? Adjust my expectations. As my husband tells me often, "You have to make it work for you." And so, about 8 months into the part time gig, I adjusted my expectations. I gave myself a break. I don't have supper on the table every night, and I'm not a star litigator. If I'm giving myself an end-of-the-year grade, I probably come in around a B-. I used to be an "A" student (if we ignore Property I and Algebra III). I'm not entirely comfortable with being a "B" student, but adjusting my expectations has allowed me to enjoy what part time work has to offer. I still get to be a lawyer. I get to use my brain and continue to learn. I contribute to the family's bottom line (and earn a few extra dollars for Ruffle Butts and Hot Wheels). I've been to every school party. I've tended every fever and sniffle.

Is part time work perfect? Not even close. Is it worth it? Probably. Maybe. Perhaps. We shall see. I'm still adjusting my expectations.