How to Say Goodbye to Private Practice-- Unabridged

A little more than a week ago, I said goodbye to my law firm and private practice. Tradition dictated that I send a final, firm-wide farewell. This is the unabridged version (some of which didn't make it into publication on that last day): 

Thank you," I told my not-quite-two year old this morning when she put her PJ's in the hamper. "Thanks so much," I told the cashier last night when she handed me change. "Thanks," I told the stranger holding the elevator doors.

 

I've said thank you thousands of times. Sometimes I think about it. Sometimes I don't, the meaning diluted by rules of society.  "Thank you" becomes rote--a subconscious reaction rather than a thoughtful expression of gratitude.

 

Today,  I say thank you, not as a diluted, rote reaction but as a concentrated, heartfelt expression of my gratitude.

 

To all of you who have helped me prepare for hearings, chased me down the halls with forgotten papers, stayed late to help with mass mailings, and made it your job to make my job a little easier, Thank You.

 

To all of you who trained me, who taught me the local rules--written and unwritten-- who counseled me on law and life, Thank You. From the outside, you appeared to be my supervising attorney, my boss, or (on really good days) my colleague. You have been so much more. You've been my mentors, my advisors, my trusted confidants.  You did more than teach me legal procedure and brief writing. You taught me professional courtesies. You introduced me to the judges, their clerks, and bailiffs; and you taught me that relationships in the practice of law are worth more than any letter, brief, or pleading could capture.  For all of those times your door remained open, Thank You. And, for all of those times that your door was closed, only to be opened, documents set aside, and phone calls left unanswered, Thank You.

 

To all of you who welcomed me to the lunch table, who shared stories, recipes, and the occasional slice of cake, Thank You.

 

To all of you that I've been fortunate enough to call friends, Thank You. You've welcomed my babies into your offices. You've written encouraging notes. You've listened, laughed, sympathized, and empathized. We've spent countless hours discussing the practice and practicalities of law, life, love, and everything in between. You are the reason I managed to hang onto private practice as long as I did.  Thank You.

To my mom, you made me practice the violin--every single day. I hated it until I loved it, and along the way I learned that it takes time--lots of time--to really know what you love and what you don't love. Thank you. You taught me that it doesn't cost a million dollars to look like a million bucks. Your chicken noodles were the key to my college success. And you always know exactly when to tell me that I'm smart, or pretty, a good lawyer, or a good mom. Thank you. 

To my dad, you drove 100 miles in a snowstorm to pick me up so that I could spend one night at home, keeping a homesick freshman from quitting a full ride scholarship in lieu of home cooking every night. Thank you. You taught me to be true to myself and to never compromise my own code of ethics--no matter how ridiculous it may seem sometimes. And, after 20 years of preaching, I think I finally understand how important it is to check the air in my tires, the oil in my engine, and the compass of my heart. Thank you. 

To my husband, you recognized what I couldn't see, and you encouraged me to make life work with me instead of against me. Thank you. You continue to keep your days in .1's so that I can pick up our babies from school, snuggle away tummy aches, and create childhood memories that won't belong to a nanny. Thank you. 

 

Nine years ago, I stood facing the reception desk. I was terrified of what private practice had in store for me and awed at the mighty "Crowe & Dunlevy." I resolved that I would never leave this Firm. But, times change; priorities change. And for now, there is only one thing left for me to say: Thank you.

The Agreement and Compromise

Somewhere in the first week of law school, I learned that a legal agreement (contract) requires, among other things, an offer and acceptance. In life, most agreements are too complex to be limited to mere elements--thus the reason for lawyers, I suppose. A lot of things can go wrong in an agreement; we call it a lack of mutuality. We say there's no meeting of the minds.

Somewhere in my first month of motherhood, someone bypassed the usual new mom compliments of  "You look great!"; "He's such a handsome little guy!"; and "He looks just like you!" I appreciated those compliments, but of everything that was said in those first weeks, the compliment I remember most is this: "Motherhood really agrees with you." Motherhood agrees with me? Motherhood agrees with me?

I never knew I wanted to be a lawyer until I was one. I always knew I wanted to be a mother, and then I became one. I slept no more than an hour and a half at a time for the first six months. I smelled of spit-up and baby poo. I went more than six weeks without touching up my roots.

This? This is what other people think agrees with me? What about what I agreed to? Absolutely. Yes. This is what agrees with me. It's not a legal agreement. There certainly wasn't a typical offer and acceptance, but as any seasoned family lawyer could tell you, motherhood certainly can require good counsel now and again.

I spent my first week away from contracts since 2001. And I'm surprised to find that motherhood does agree with me. So does housework (except loading and unloading the dishwasher--gah, the tedium!). I decorated and dusted. I ran four miles--at one time--without stopping. My house looks lovely. My children are rested and at peace. So am I.

This is how I spent my first agreeable week away from private practice:

My big boy started kindergarten. His thoughts on the matter? "Well, I don't really like it. We don't get to play trucks in the morning when we arrive." 

Things got better. It only takes that one special friend, and RJ has found his. Because there can only be two five-year-old boys in this world who are this concerned about their shoes: "Me and C don't play in the sand as much anymore 'cause we don't want to get our new shoes dirty. We take the short way around. You understand me? It's complicated." (His friend talks as much as he does; we have to separate them on the soccer fields to avoid mid-field discussions about school lunches.). 

He made some other friends too. I think. He told me, "My friend is going on vacation tomorrow!" "Where?" I asked. "To Africa," he replied. "Well, who is it?" I persisted. "Oh, some friend I don't know but who I know." 

She's ready to go too; she stole a Hello Kitty backpack off the kindergarten cubby hooks and tried to head to class. 

He looks so small, but for such a small little person, he has some big thoughts. On Friday, he told me, "It's a strange thing about weeks, Mom. They move very quickly." Indeed they do. 

GiGi and I spent more time together this week than we have since I was on maternity leave trying to determine if being a mother of two agreed with me. 

We had our moments. We didn't always agree. 

And she voiced her opinions loudly. "No!" "I no wanna swing! Wanna slide!" 

She wasn't kidding. 

The slide was her happy place. 

We explored. She found some super powers for her bubby. (He firmly believes that his super powers reside in rocks aligning the sidewalks and paths that we walk.). 

We visited and got to know each other again on our own time. And we reached a few agreements. 

We agreed that lunch is best served on the patio. 

We did not, however, agree on this outfit. There was no meeting of the minds; in my mind, her pink ruffle butts made her t-shirt pop far more brightly than her bubby's train PJ's. But, with any master agreement, there are some compromises on the minor terms. Motherhood agrees with me, and I am confident in my ability to make the right compromises on the minor terms. 

Releasing the Whirligig

When I was about eight years old, I would take a piece of strong cord (or dental floss if that's what I could find), thread the ends through a button, tie them together, and enjoy my instant toy, spinning the button round and around until the threads were pulled so tight they seemed near breaking. Then, boing! Instantly, I'd snap the string, releasing the spinning button, hoping it would buzz, and then let it swing, slack from my hand.  I had forgotten about those whirligigs until this last few weeks where I've felt just like one--as though someone had spun my insides round and round until they'd reached the snapping point when suddenly, boing! Last Friday was my last day of private practice.  Saturday morning I awoke to find that the spun-up button inside my stomach was gone, and I felt as though the elastic holding my limbs to my body had stretched, loosened so much that my arms and legs had a wider range of motion than they've had in years. (But I'm sure that's all in my head. Maybe.).

Someday (soon) I'll tell you how I said farewell to my firm and finish the non-goodbyes that I didn't have the emotions to voice. But for now, it's the last official day of summer, and it has been a tremendously good one:

Did you know they still make those disposable underwater cameras? They do! And they're still as much fun as they were when I was 16. 

Gummy (as GiGi calls her, aka Gumma, Grammy, and Grandma) is an outstanding swim teacher. 

Of course, she has a model student too. 

These boys are fish!

She's equally as comfortable under the water as above it, and she'll tell you (right before she hurls herself into four feet of water) "I cwazy!"

This one is pretty comfortable underwater too. 

I have a friend who will tell you, "I love Vegas. No, I mean I love Vegas!" I'm that way about water parks. I love water parks. No, I mean I love water parks. RJ and I went down a five story slide about 10 times in a row together in a double cereal. Okay, it was a double inner tube, but if you're five, it looks like a double Cheerio. 

We've zoo-ed. 

Shhhhhh...Auntie Amy played hookey with us one day. 

Selfies usually work better if the other party in the picture is in on the joke. 

His mother made him do this. 

I forgot swim suits, but it didn't stop them. 

Oopsie daisy!

Even her shadow was having fun. 

We Andy Alligator-ed (two separate days thanks to an unbelievably rainy August). 

It was his bestie's 5th birthday; they were just a little excited. 

We came back another day to use up pre-purchased tickets--and it was the best day ever. 

The car of the future--driverless. (He's just a little too short, but they let him drive anyway.). 

He needed a little assistance on the home stretch. 

The next round was better thanks to a carefully placed cushion. (I could use one of those to see out of the Swagger Wagon.). 

The blue bumper boat worked. The red one didn't. Guess who was driving the red one. 

I'm not sure who had more fun with this. 

We've just generally summer-ed. 

The day after I gave my notice at the firm, I ate my favorite breakfast with my two favorite people. Donuts in the park--and it wasn't even donut day!

She poses. He does not. 

The game? "Taller than GiGi" The rules? Make a tower taller than GiGi before GiGi knocks it over. Very few winners. 

Pigtails make her rascally. (RJ wasn't a fan of the morning photo shoot, but you've gotta shoot while the hairstyle is fresh.)

We celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary with a backyard bash. 

We forgot to take a picture of ourselves. 

The next morning, we politely asked the children to play outside. I caught them snuggling. 

Then they caught me. 

I lied. We locked them outside so that we could clean up from the party. 

I would love to know what she's thinking. 

This. This! This is the smile I look for every day. 

We made ourselves beautiful. I'm probably teaching her all the wrong priorities, but when a woman asks for a mirror to put on a hat (hair clip) and to put on her lips, you give her the mirror! 

And then you take her  glamor shots. 

Today was the first day since before college that I had no job. It was strange. I checked for my email one too many times, and I answered every call--even the ones from telemarketers. My limbs felt looser; and, for the first time, I didn't put a timer on our visit to the park. 

We walked. And talked. We loitered and played. 

We watched the ducks. 

And someday, they'll say this never happened. But it totally did. And for once, I was the one there to snap the picture of it. 

It has been a stressful two weeks. I'm relieved and exhausted. The whirligig has stopped spinning. 

And finally (finally), I'm starting to make order where there has been none. Stay tuned. Because two days ago, I caught GiGi standing in her brother's sink drinking mouthwash (yes, you read that correctly). Things are bound to be interesting.