I kind of sort of hate basketball (but I love the Thunder)

I kind sort of really hate basketball. It's loud. The shoes are squeaky. The game moves too fast, and I always forget which color I'm supposed to be cheering for. And don't they switch ends of the court sometimes?

But, last night, I ate dinner with James Harden.  If James Harden were three years old, three feet tall, and had no hope whatsoever of ever scoring a three pointer. (I do know there's some curvy line that, if you stand behind it and hit the basket, it's three points rather than two.).

You see, nearly every night, RJ becomes James Harden, and his playmate (be it mommy, daddy, grandma or Boo Kitty) becomes Kevin Durant: "I gonna be James Harden. You gonna be Kevin Durant. We gonna shoot hoops." And the game is on. The hoop isn't regulation--it hangs from the closet door. The ball isn't regulation either, but it is yellow and blue with a fancy Thunder logo.

Which brings me to my point. I kind of sort of really hate basketball. But, I love the Oklahoma City Thunder. For once, there is a team that we all like. There are no familial allegiances. There is no history. It's a new team, so there seems to be very little for us to dispute.

The players strike me as decent role models. I've watched a lot of games, and I've yet to see ugly sportsmanship, ugly attitudes or even ugly tattoos. I hear Kevin Durant drives a van (and I'm secretly jealous). I've seen players at the mall, and they actually talk to little kids. And take cell phone pictures. And sign autographs. In fact, they seem like big kids themselves--not quite believing their fame just yet.

My three year old James Harden wears his Thunder colors with pride. He watches games with his daddy, and they talk about rules of the game--an important concept when you're just learning that there are rules everywhere.  He finds confidence in his own three pointers. He talks about Rumble like they're old friends: "You remember last week (everything is last week in his memory) when we saw Rumble? He's a really hairy guy." Somewhere in there, I found a team to cheer for--even though I kind of sort of really hate basketball.

Siblings

Before GiGi was born, I worried that RJ would hate her. I'm an only child, so I'm not familiar with the sibling concept. I don't understand the boundaries of the sibling relationship--or the lack thereof.

Tonight, I watched RJ show GiGi see-food. (Chew food, open mouth, "see, food?!").  I was horrified. Grossed out. I mean, ick. GiGi, on the other hand, laughed. She sits in the middle of her table in her Bumbo seat during supper time--we felt too guilty when she was laying in her bouncy seat next to the table. She is a person after all. She likes to feel involved. Now she's involved with a purpose: center piece.

She's a communicator. I hadn't realized how much could be discussed through coos and goos. She tells me "I'm good" at least once a day. (It might actually be more like "ahgoooo," but I'm her mommy, and I know she's telling me she's good.). She talks a lot. So does her brother. They chat about their days, and sometimes I find out more about what's going on in RJ's world through his conversations with his baby sis than I do through my conversations with him.

Two nights ago, I bathed GiGi in the tub with RJ. He's observant, so I got the inevitable, "Hey, where her junk?!" But, I forged ahead, answered as best I can. And, sibling tub time was born. RJ blew bubbles while GiGi floated on her back. (Her thighs give her lots of floatation).  Sibling tub time gave way to GiGi's first ever belly laugh. I've tried to get that belly laugh from her. I've danced. I've sang. I've shaken my boom boom. The best I can get is a coo, a goo, and a smile. Big brother, on the hand, gets belly laughs.

Every morning RJ waits impatiently for GiGi to wake up. Sometimes he helps her along. One morning I discovered him poking between the rails of her crib with his toddler broom.  "What are you doing?" I hollered.  "I want her to wake up," he responded, matter of fact. Of course mom. He just wants her to wake up.  Once she's awake, they begin their morning routine. She lays in the floor, and he lays beside her. And on top of her. He "sniggles" her--his version of snuggling. An inch from her face, he asks her, "How your day been?" He pokes his fingers in her nose, and every now and then I catch him licking her cheeks. (They are pretty irresistible.).

I'm GiGi's mom, so it's my obligation to defend her from sticky fingers and brotherly licks. But, I'm learning that in their sibling world, I can't defend against brotherly love. RJ doesn't hate GiGi. He loves her, and I'm learning that in sibling world, the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior are blurred--or non-existent. And, for this only child, it's a joy to watch.

The Equation

I'm not a math person (so you'll forgive any calculation errors please). I am an English major. A writer of sorts. A creative soul. But today, I'm working on an equation. There are 8,760 hours in a year. If you assume 8 hours a day for sleep (or computer time, or tv time, or reading)(2,920 hours), that leaves 5,840.  Assuming a 50 hour work week (more on that later) and two weeks of vacation a year, that leaves 3,340 for everything else. Everything else = commutes, showers, family dinners, soccer games, gymnastics, doctors appointments, dentist visits, trips to the dry cleaners, post office, grocery store, and yes, even vacation.

In 1958, an American Bar Association publication suggested that a reasonable billable year for attorneys was 1300 hours. Nowadays, we have the Internet. We have online research. No longer do lawyers spend hours and days sifting through dusty bins of law review articles and micro-fiche. Instead, we log on, put in a search term, and Bing! 1000 results. We have email, fax machines, and conference calls. We are, in theory, far more efficient than we were in 1958.

A reasonable billable year in 2012 is 1800 hours (some would say a reasonable year is 2200 hours). Days haven't gotten longer. A "business day" is still Monday-Friday.

The billable hour requires that each day be tracked in 6 minute increments. A study by Yale University found that in order to bill 37.5 hours, a lawyer will spend about 50 hours a week in the office.  I struggle with billable hours. I don't bill my clients for time I spend getting coffee in the kitchen. I don't bill potty time. And, I don't bill every 30 second email as a 6 minute time entry. I try to get home in time to see my children before bedtime, and I like my coworkers, so I spend some time visiting everyday. Like everything else, keeping time is a careful balance.

Today is my last day of maternity leave. And I struggle with a billable, workable balance. There are variables in every equation. My equation takes into account 7 years dedicated to a 7 year partnership track, stigma attached to "balanced hours" plans, childcare, and scheduling conflicts. I can assign values to each of those things. If X is childcare and Y is stigma, then X plus Y equals breaking even. The variables I struggle with are these:

There is no reasonable, feasible way to assign a value to time spent with my babies. The coos and goos I will miss with GiGi, and the fresh tales of RJ's day at school. There is a certain morbid reality to recognizing that it is very likely that I will never pick my children up from school on a regular basis. I won't make the after school snacks, and I won't be the first person to hear about playground fights and spelling test successes. I don't suggest that I am the first mom to deal with these issues. I certainly won't be the last. But, for today, the equation is mine alone, and no list, no formula, and no study or article can solve it. For once, an equation is solvable only by heart.

Baby Jesus is Where?

Christmas is over. RJ is sad. It makes me sad to find that the after Christmas let-down begins as early as age 3. He cried when we mentioned taking down the Christmas lights, and he is insistent that Hamilton Hank Holiday (our elf) should stay for a longer visit. But, as Dr. Seuss says, "Today was good, today was fun, tomorrow is another one."

And so today, I began the task of taking down our Christmas decorations. Collapsed are the honeycomb paper trees. Silenced is Snoopy playing "Oh Christmas Tree." The lights are dark, and the gingerbread house is stale.

Of course, with a toddler (or is he a preschooler now? Gasp!), there are always a few surprises. I started to put away the candy village, complete with the plastic candy house (not to be confused with the real gingerbread house, which would NOT survive an Oklahoma spring anyway--construction isn't my gig). In the chimney, I found a surprise. Baby Jesus. No, really. Baby Jesus. He's been missing from our little nativity set for a while. Apparently RJ thought he needed somewhere warmer than the manger. Fortunately, we didn't need our plastic Jesus to remember the "reason for the season." A rare opportunity to sit in church with my mom, dad, husband, and two children helped me to keep Jesus in my Christmas. I rescued Baby Jesus--he's now snug in his manger. Once again, Christmas has gone. But, the warm snuggly feeling I have after a Christmas with my boy and my new baby girl will be here all year. I'm glad. These Oklahoma winters are cold.

(More to follow on Christmas as soon as I find 20 minutes to upload photos. The weather here is beautiful, and I've made the right decision and spent every afternoon outside rather than trapped at a computer. As soon as a blizzard arrives, so will Christmas pictures and tales).

A Princess Problem

When I was in college, there was always a moment near the end of a party where I felt my heart race, and I thought, "Just give me 15 more minutes. I should have danced. I should have sang Karaoke with the girls. Just give me 15 more minutes." The finale at my senior concert: "I should have played louder, sat up straighter, really felt the music. Just give me one more try." The ten minutes before the bar exam: "Just give me another hour. I promise I'll learn commercial paper."

I have two weeks of maternity leave left. That makes my heart race, and I'm searching for my 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes to play cars, to make cookies, to snuggle RJ with both arms (per his request), to rock my baby girl before she decides I'm just not cool anymore.

If you Google work-life balance, you'll find hundreds of pages. Advice. Commiseration. Stories. There are books devoted to the idea of balanced hours and part time plans for lawyers. They describe the plight of working moms as being torn, fragmented,  and mommy-tracked. I am all of those things. But in reality, I have a princess problem. (Princess problem: a problem affecting princesses--those of us who have everything we could possibly want and yet still have problems).

My parents told me that I could be anything I wanted to be. I believed them. For years, I was on a one-track path to becoming a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader and a veterinarian. Then, I realized that I'm not much of a dancer or a crowd pleaser. And I hate football. I still thought I would be a veterinarian. Until I observed cat surgery and found myself in the parking lot of the clinic hoping I wouldn't pass out in the driver's seat and further humiliate myself. Surgery is so gross! I veered left, changed my major to English and tried to figure out exactly what to do with an English degree.

I edited textbooks about cementing oil wells. I climbed on water trucks looking at a new borehole so that I could write a technical bulletin about it. I wrote user manuals for telemarketing software. I took the LSAT and surprised myself.

It's almost January 2012. Eight years ago when I started my job, I thought 2012 would never get here. I kind of sort of assumed I would either (1) be fired; (2) hate the practice of law; or (3) find myself at another firm. I surprised myself again. I (1) haven't been fired; (2) love the practice of law; and (3) find myself happy at the same firm eight years later.

I'm not a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. I'm not a veterinarian. Things changed. I'm happy about that. Eight years ago, I billed 1907 hours in a year. I spent New Year's Eve in a hotel room billing a final 4 hours on a document review. Just because I could. Things have changed:

I have a princess problem. I don't have to search for evening childcare while I run the checkout stand at the grocery store. I don't have to worry that whether my car will start in the morning or whether I have enough Huggies to make it to the end of the month. I have good childcare, and I have family who wants to help me.

Princess problem. Torn. Fragmented. Mommy-tracked. I want my 15 minutes to pick up RJ after school and hear about his day. I want my 15 minutes to rock GiGi to sleep. I want to be a good lawyer. I want to be a good mother. I'm just not sure where the intersection is located. I need a map. I've tried to find one. There is no GPS, and so far, Magellen hasn't mapped this part of the world.

I've learned my lesson. The party hasn't ended, and we haven't sung the final song. I'm enjoying my last two weeks of leave. I'm taking my 15 minutes (thus the limited posts lately). And, in the meantime, I'm searching for the magic pixie dust to fix my princess problem.

P.S.

When I start to feel too sad, I remember that during this photo shoot, RJ repeatedly tried to smack GiGi over the head with a plastic bat. I was too sleep deprived to wipe the smile off my face and send him to timeout.

One Christmas Tradition

New advertising campaigns are dedicated to tradition. I try to follow some traditions. I try to make some new ones. But, for us, it's not a matter of creating or sticking to tradition.  Some things just haven't changed much.

I went to a little Lutheran school where we did little Christmas programs every year. In kindergarten, I was a little French girl in a little French girl dress--made by my mom, of course. I felt really special: 

But in hindsight, we each played a special part: 

Years of little Lutheran Christmas programs followed. Each with a special dress or costume. (Each made by mom, of course): 

There was the shepherd girl: 

(with a sheer scarf so my hair would show. It was freezing that night. I still remember the smell of ice in the air. )

There was the pretty princess ribbon dress--a compromise. I wanted gold lame'. Mom said no. She was right. In the '80s little girls didn't wear gold lame' (but Barbie did). I still felt really pretty:  

 (Santa came during the church service.)

And then, there was the angel: 

I had one line: "The King has arrived!" I sold it. Loud and clear. Brought down the house. (The hottie is my mom, of course--love her).

Eight years of little Lutheran Christmas programs. And then they ended. I graduated 6th grade. We still went to church on Christmas Eve. But Christmas wasn't quite the same without the hours of rehearsal, nerves, costumes, and of course, cookies and red Koolaid afterward. 

Until this year. 

R.J. goes to a little Lutheran school. And, we went to a little Lutheran Christmas program. He wore a special vest (made by my mom, of course): 

(Gigi dressed up too and added her own soundtrack.)

He felt pretty special. RJ's teacher tells me he's her most sensitive student, and she worried about him handling the crowd. RJ will tell you he's shy. Johnny Carson claimed he was shy too.  RJ walked in, saw me, and waved. He saw his daddy from the stage: "Hi Daddy!" He sang. He celebrated.

Afterward, we ate cookies and drank red Koolaid.  I hope that RJ's classmates felt special too, because each played a special part. 

This year, for the first time in a long time, my Christmas season is complete. The King Has Arrived! And, we intend to celebrate. 

I have a secret

My first car was awesome. V-8. Two seater. Muscle car. Vroom, vroom. I washed it until I was in danger of buffing off the paint (that I helped apply). I knew the compression ratio, the engine size, and the serial number engraved on the dash. It was awesome.

(a 1969 American Motors AMX, British racing green with white racing stripes).

And so, when I was 16, I took a vow: "I will never (ever) drive a four door."

Following the muscle car, I drove the wheels off a '95 Dodge Neon. Two doors. Sport model. Zippy. And cute.

I grew up and graduated college. Got a master's degree and a law degree. The Neon stuck with me. We battled tornadoes (really), ice storms, and blistering summers. We got along well until The Neon developed a wire shortage and made me late to work just one more time. "Get a new car," my boss told me.

I listened:

It was adorable. Most days it sported a giant daisy on the hood and pink daisies down the sides. Professional, it was not. But it made my heart smile.

This made my heart smile too:

(So does this):

(The Muscle Car still resides at my parents' house. RJ is smitten.)

I said goodbye to my Beetle Bug and hello to this: 

It has four doors. Four. It is sporty and zippy. But, the daisies didn't quite work. And the wind doesn't sing quite the same through the sunroof as it did in the drop top. But, it serves its purpose--and works much better for shuttling the occasional client. (One of my best lawyer tales is "How to Fit a Six Foot Client Plus Two Others into a VW Bug." It worked. Barely. They were surfers from California and thought the bug was cool. Thank goodness.). 

I've adapted to being a mom. Grown up. Moved on. I find myself wearing a teal velour sweatsuit in the carpool line. Pony tail. Walking shoes (not running, walking shoes). My Chanel heels are mourning in the darkness of my closet. 

And now, I find myself surfing the web late at night saying things like, "It has automatic doors!" And, "Ooooooh, look at the walk through seating!" "Captains chairs!" "And a rear view camera!"

I, the girl who swore to never drive a four door, confess. I have a secret. I am shopping for a minivan. It's a dark, dark day. The pigs' wings have blocked the sun as they fly in formation. I don't know if I'll make the change. Automatic doors are hot. Integrated window shades flip my switches. But it's a minivan. 

This makes my heart smile: 

Now, there are two. Four doors. Mom shoes. I've adapted. And it makes my heart smile. (So does a cool box console, optional trash can ring, and magic 40/60 flip fold seat).