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.

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:

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.)

Lots of Treats, A Couple of Tricks

When I was a little girl, Halloween was awesome costumes, a party at school (at least until my little Lutheran school decided that Halloween was really Hallow-evil and started making lye soap and butter in baby food jars--shake, shake, shake, shake, shake--and called it the "Fall Festival"), and lots and lots of candy.

A few Halloweens stick out in my mind: the year I dressed as Cheer Bear. It was monumental because I wore a store-bought costume. It had to break my mom's heart. But she let me do it. And that's why she's awesome (among other things). I had a pink plastic suit with furry mittens (made by mom).

There was the year my best friend and I went as punk rockers with pink hair and crazy big t-shirts. We were 11, and that night boys from our class came to trick or treat her house. My ear drums never quite recovered from the shrieking we did that night. (Love you Angie).

There was the year that I finally knew I was too old to trick or treat. I wasn't too old, but I felt overgrown.

I've embraced Halloween again. I managed to unearth my decorations:

And, I added to my Halloween memory list. Because this Halloween was the best ever.  We did it right this year. Lots of treats (I will be wearing sweat pants for the next week while I waddle off the Twix bars.).

We started with the Storybook Forest, where all of your favorite childhood fairy tales (and nightmares) come to life.  RJ was Batman.  GiGi was a bear. A baby bear. Because it was too cold for Tinkerbell.

 For just $7 we met the Big Bad Wolf, the Three Little Pigs, and the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. We rocked the baby in the treetop and hummed along to lullabies piped over the treetops.

It was by far the creepiest thing I have ever seen. Until we met up with Snow White:

This is in fact the creepiest thing I have ever seen. RJ was scared to have his picture taken. Do you blame him? A plexiglass casket in the woods? That was NOT in the storybook.  Even GiGi was concerned: 

But RJ recovered:

We let RJ eat candy in the van (we have embraced the Swagger Wagon).  He was supremely happy with the idea. 

The next morning we headed to church. This isn't really a costume, but doesn't she look like a secretary from "Mad Men?" 

Later that day, we went to our Little Lutheran School's fall festival. RJ went as Batman (Again. I asked him in September what he wanted to be. His immediate response was "Batman." And we've gotten the good out of that suit.). GiGi went as herself--an Oreo lover--just like her Daddy: 

On Monday, we carved a pumpkin. RJ, being a four year old boy, was all in. That is, he was all in until the gagging, dry heaving, and demands for latex gloves to clean out the pumpkin. (I do not think this is normal. But, it's who he is. The drama is strong with this one.).

Tuesday was GiGi's parade day at our Little Lutheran School. She Tinked. You'd never know that she had a trick up her sleeve. 

Later that day, I left her in her crib to nap. She likes her alone time after a morning at school. I watched her play via her monitor. Such a sweet baby with that little bottom in the air, resting. She played again, and I went upstairs to check on her. There she was, in all her glory. Bare bottom. Huggie in the floor. Pee? Everywhere. The crib, the floor, the blanket. Everywhere. 

Trick or Treat? Trick's on you Mommy. 

Wednesday was RJ's parade and party. He Batmanned. 

And after the party, we celebrated, because sometimes the best treats are the little celebrations. In our family, celebrations often involve fries. (Don't judge. They're delicious). RJ and GiGi celebrated Halloween. I was celebrating that I found the week-old milk sippy spill before it made it to the carpet of the Swagger Wagon. Now that was a treat. 

And then, the finale. The biggest treat of all. Tinkerbell trick-or-treated:

So did Batman: 

He felt pretty tough. Until we got to the haunted house up the street. Our neighbor joked, "The first room must be filled with Band-Aids." (RJ is terrified of Band-Aids. Really. It's weird. You can judge.). 

Our neighborhood does it right. Hayrides. Lighted go-carts (the drivers might have been a little lit up too).  Haunted houses. A circus.  Hundreds of kids. One house gave out Ring-Pops. That's serious candy. We walked with new friends. Lots of treats. A few tricks: 

Mommy:  "RJ, What do you say?" ("Trick or treat" and "thank you" are the acceptable answers.). 

RJ: (to the neighbor opening her door a bit slowly) "Where were you? We was about to leave." 

Mommy: "RJ, Do NOT jump out and scare anymore of our neighbors." [After he had hidden behind the porch post and nearly scared the pants off an 80-year old man]. 

Neighbor lady to RJ: "Who are you supposed to be?" (We had long since lost the mask and cape). 

RJ: "I'm RJ. I live up the street." 

Lots of treats. Quite a few little tricks. 

We arrived home for "The Great Pumpkin" and snuggles.  GiGi helped clear out RJ's candy pail, and we discovered that she likes Skittles.

 Clearly, she's a genius:

Another Halloween. Another memory for our books. Trick or Treat!

On Jesus and Santa Claus

Christmas is confusing. We say it's to celebrate the birth of Jesus, and RJ's school teaches him to sing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus instead of "Here Comes Santa Claus." But, Santa Claus still visits our house. So does our holiday elf, Hamilton Hank Holiday. (A few weeks ago, RJ tried to trip me up by asking me the name of that little guy who wears green and who visits our house around Christmas. I nearly couldn't remember. Note to self, any future elves shall be named Bill, Sally, Ralph, or Mary.).

Because he's four, RJ spends a lot of time analyzing the finer points of Christmas, like how Santa makes toys, why there are toys at WalMart, and how Jesus helps fill the stockings. This morning on the way to school (because RJ likes to debate fine philosophical questions before 9 a.m.), RJ asked me, "Mommy, Do Jesus make toys?"

Not thinking in terms of Christmas (because it's October, and I'm not a retailer), I answered, "Of course he does."

"Then, do he help Santa?"

Oh snap.

"Yes, I think so. Hey, look over there, it's a broken stoplight!" Distraction fail.

"Mommy, I think I know. Santa make some toys. Jesus makes some toys. And that's what they call 'fairian.' Do that make sense?"

You betcha. Fairian--definition: (1) the process by which Santa makes half the toys, and Jesus makes the other half; (2) also known as the way we celebrate Christmas with Santa, Hamilton Hank Holiday and also sing Happy Birthday Jesus.

The power of four-year old logic. Flawless.

P.S. I had to look up the word "fairian" just to make sure that RJ didn't really know something I didn't know. He doesn't. I'm still smarter than a four-year old. Barely.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

I went to a junior high where the call rang out at least once a week: "Fight! Fight! Fight!" Sometimes the moms even got involved.  (All my West Junior High ladies know what I'm talking about.). Most often it was just 13 year old girls--because there's nothing meaner than a 13-year old girl. And man, did they ever know how to fight. Biting, scratching, tearing at clothes. Not  pretty.
Not something I want my little girl involved in, that's for sure.

I know GiGi is tough. She handles her brother's snuggles and his tussles. She'll fall down, look at her knees, and get right back up.

So, when I was greeted by, not one, not two, but three different moms today at school, I knew something was up.

It seems my GiGi got in a playground fight.

Avery pulled her hair. Serious business. If they could talk, the other kids in the class would have been holding hands in a circle around my little chickadee and Avery yelling, "Fight, fight, fight!" As it was, I understand that they watched for a minute and went back to graham cracker time. A 1- year old just isn't as mean as a 13-year old.

Avery's mom greeted me, "Avery pulled GiGi's hair. I'm soooo sorry." (Avery is two months older than GiGi. About 2 foot 10 with blond pigtails and pink sparkly tennis shoes. A bruiser.).

How bad could it be?

GiGi's first teacher (a mom) tells me, "She cried. But she's okay."

Well of course she's okay. Of course she cried. It's a one-year old smack down.

GiGi's second teacher (also a mom) tells me, "But there's no bald spot."

Hold up. Bald spot? How hard did Avery pull? Bald spot!? She's one! How does she even have the pincer grasp down that tight?

Fight! Fight! Fight! Mommy wants to fight! (Okay, not really. It's kind of funny. Since there's no bald spot.).

GiGi survived. But, I'm not sure about Avery's mom. I saw her carrying Avery to the car, giving her a good talking to. Avery looked at her mommy and squarely head-butted her in the face. Someone needs a nap.

Here's hoping there are no more playground fights for my little lady. She's not 13 yet. And mommy can't handle bald spots (or bruises, scratches, or bites).

Two in One

Total Mama's Boy 

Today, a colleague at work answered his cell phone: "Hi mama." He proceeded to spend 10 minutes telling her that he had been sick; assuring her that he wasn't working too hard; and finally telling her he had to talk to some nasty lawyers in Seattle. When he hung up the phone, he asked me, "So, do you think I'm a total mama's boy? Because I am. It's okay." This guy is a Litigator with a capital "L." So, it made me smile that he's a proud mama's boy. 

My boy is a total mama's boy too. I hope he always is.  He's four (almost four and a half) now. He's growing up. Lately, he's a walking survey: 

"Hey mom, I gotta question."  "How do they make bananas?" "Is God in the donut shop?" "Can I have a treat?" RJ's questions range from the curious to the philosophical to the demanding and downright irritating. 

I worry that he's growing up too fast. He knows his alphabet and his numbers. He can recite his address and introduces himself to every kid on the playground.  He even has a bully at school. Big boy issues. But, last week he asked, "Do you remember when last week [year] we went and saw Thomas?" "Do he live here?" "No," I told him, "But he's visiting this weekend."  I hadn't gotten tickets. The train table has been in a state of disrepair due to G-zilla (GiGi) lately.  So, when RJ tells me he wants to see Thomas, I get a little happy. A lot happy. Kind of giddy.  

This kind of happy. Little boy train happy. 

Look at that concentration. He's going to be an engineer someday. And when I call him in the middle of a meeting, I hope he'll answer, "Hi mama."

For now, he's four. And nothing can stop him. 

Not even scary Diesel Ten and his claw. 

Complete, total joy. The Thomas train ride lacks a bit in scenery. We see the school bus service center--which, to a little boy, is thrilling. We also see some ramshackle government housing. And, every year, I secretly believe that the "conductors" in their jaunty Sodor Railway gear are really off-duty policemen packing heat. That train goes through some rough 'hood.

But none of that matters. Because it's Thomas! We helped him pull the freight cars: "Pull, Thomas, pull!" And, RJ wanted to know if we were riding Annie or Clarabel. 

He is growing up though. When we toured the gift shop, he asked, "Mom, instead of a train, when we leave here, could we, I mean, may we, I mean, can we go to WalMart and buy a Transformer?" 

What else could I say? 

Of course we adopted a Transformer. Because, "Mom, when I grow up, I'm going to be a super hero." "But, I'm going to live with you." 

A superhero? I suppose I can live with that. 

So, someday, when he answers his Bat-phone, even if he's saving the world, I know that I'll hear "Hi mama." And Wonderwoman will know that he's a total mama's boy. 

Enter Autumn

School is in full swing by now. RJ loves it. In fact, he gets angry, really angry, when I can't let him stay late to play with his friends. Last Sunday, he sang with his classmates. He's a showman. Really a showman. Jazz hands and everything. 

Ready for Broadway.  

Sissy is ready for show time too. 

The weather is getting colder. And that means it's time for the annual field trip. I'm "that" mom--the one whose babysitter called in sick at the last time and who had to bring the baby sister when the note from the teacher said "NO siblings." But seriously, who could turn this down?

She is not amused. But I am. And I'm the mommy. 

 I don't think I've seen him this happy in months. It makes my heart smile. 

So does this.

So does this. 

Girlfriend is growing up. But she hasn't quite grown into her cheeks. I hope she never quite does. 

She is, however, ready to take on the world. She already knows the keys to success: great shoes (she picked them out herself and wore them to bubbie's gymnastics class) and a Star Wars conversation starter (it's bubbie's lunch box, but she thinks it's her purse--battles ensue).  She's taking on her Mothers' Day Out class with style and adapting. The leaves are changing. We're sleeping in fleece, and the heater has already blown its first-of-season stink. 2012 has been a year of change. And we've adapted.  We're adapting to this Autumn season of our lives. And it's a good season. 

No Vampires. A Travel Review--The Sleeping Lady Resort

We traveled to Seattle last weekend for a wedding. Actually, we landed in Seattle and traveled to the created Bavarian village of Leavenworth, Washington. Situated about 2 and a half hours east of Seattle, the "village" holds a McDonald's, a Howard Johnson, and the Cashmere Valley Bank--all dressed up like German gingerbread houses. It's adorably corny. We spent an evening and an afternoon enjoying the Fall Festival--an art show, accordions, lederhosen, and street dancing. It was delightful.

But the real treat was something completely unexpected.  We drove through the Cascade Mountains on our way into Leavenworth. Trees towered miles above our heads. Being near Forks, I of course expected to see vampires leaping from treetop to treetop, sparkling in the mid-morning sun. There was a promising haze of smoke, but, there were no vampires. (The haze was actually the remnants of a devastating forest fire that didn't seem real until we got there. It's real. And it's horrifying. Miles and miles of indescribably beautiful forest, gone.):

Smoke aside, the drive was incredible. In Oklahoma, we set the car on cruise control (auto pilot) and let it go north, south, east, or west until we hit another state.  In Washington, there is no such luxury. The roads wind, climb, and dive. And they use the same guardrails we use in Oklahoma.  The trade off? Miles of pine trees, mountains of fall color, fruit stands every 200 feet.  Lovely.

We stayed at the Sleeping Lady Resort. The first thing I did upon arriving at our cabin was look up (for vampires, of course):

Breath taking. Really. It takes your breath away. And then you breath deep and know the taste of happy. You know the sound of wind whispering in the pine trees? I didn't know it until this weekend. The wind in the pines usually blows about 60 mph and involves some form of ice that is either going to (1) destroy my car or (2) destroy my roof.  There's a different wind in the pines in Washington. 

We checked into our cabin.That's right--I stayed in a cabin. With no t.v. (We had WiFi--I don't do camping. I don't even do "glamping."). But it was a cabin--quite an adorable one at that: 

Pine everywhere. And the throw at the end of the bed doubles as a snugly wrap to wear on the deck and on the trail to breakfast in the morning. Our room key came with a flashlight to light the way back at night. We didn't need it, because there was a full moon over the mountains. Breath taking. 

We stayed in an alcove cabin. It has a real alcove with a charming little window and reading lamp. 

I kind of loved the alcove. (I also kind of love the shoes I'm wearing--Sanuks--get some. You won't be disappointed.). 

The day of the wedding, we woke up around 6. (It's not that I hate mornings, it's just that I live in the wrong time zone.).  Breakfast was an unexpected treat. I don't like breakfast food. But fresh berries, apples right off the tree, waffles, and organic tea and eggs have made a breakfast eater out of me. We were stuffed. But not so stuffed that we couldn't explore: 

This is right by the pool, which is in a natural rock formation and is heated. As in hot. As in, we went swimming at 9 in the morning when it was 55 degrees outside, and it was amazing. 

This is the river on the resort property.  I want to go back. And build a cabin. And grow apples right on a tree and forget I ever knew law. 

My husband's old friend got married (more on the wedding in another post). He's seen me through countless military academy events. Trips to New York. Spring break. 

He told my husband he'd never seen me smile so much. 

Nature agrees with me. Or vampire hunting. 

I think it's nature. Fresh air. No cell phone signals.  

Quiet peace. We walked. And talked. And enjoyed silence. We didn't see any vampires or werewolves. We did meet the resort dogs, an aging golden retriever and an aging black lab.  We drove winding roads (in our Subaru Outback) and felt like we had adventured. And all of this while enjoying heated towel racks and in-shower all organic lemon scented amenities. 

The Sleeping Lady Resort in Leavenworth, Washington. Go there. You won't be disappointed.