Easter Memories

When I was little, I loved Easter. The jelly beans, the stuffed bunnies, the chocolate, the dresses, and even the white patent leather shoes.  This year, I nearly missed Easter.

I can say it now that it's public: we filed the GMX Resources bankruptcy this past week. And, like any other chapter 11 filing, it took a lot of work.  I used to lament that I haven't been to trial since 2005. But really, a chapter 11 is a trial--with about 60 pleadings to go along with it on the first day.  We edited on the Saturday before Easter Sunday. I managed to put together a lasagna, an Easter egg hunt, some white dress shoes, and ruffled tights.  On Sunday, we managed church as a family, including Poppy, the great baby whisperer (GiGi was good almost the entire service!) and Grandma, who GiGi has now determined to call "Shotzy"--at least for this weekend.

I fell asleep in RJ's bed while trying to tuck him in for a nap, leaving Auntie Amy to fend for herself downstairs. (Not really, she and my mom had a great visit, but still, Emily Post would never fall asleep at her own party.). Then, I worked and edited and revised for 6 more hours. We filed the case at 7 a.m. on Monday.

To say I've been busy is an understatement at best. But, I did manage a few pictures:

This is the only hairstyle she'll let me do. She knows the deal. When she sees me coming, she begins, "Ow, owie, ouch!" She knows. It hurts to be beautiful. 

We made it to the church Easter egg hunt. These two are the best of friends.  They crack each other up. And that makes me crack up too. 

This is how little boys really want to celebrate Easter. 

Eggs! We got eggs!

Sissy got an egg too. Actually, she got two. But her brother helped make sure she didn't have too much to carry. She was happy enough with her bunny basket from Gma C. 

His school Easter egg hunt was nearly as exciting. 

This. This is what happy looks like. 

This. This is what friendship looks like. Look carefully, RJ's bestie is sharing eggs with him.

This is also what friendship looks like when you're a four-year old boy. (Someday when I'm 60, this will be the coolest picture ever. Did we really drive cars like that?!)

Easter cookies at our little Lutheran school.

Shhhhhhh, don't tell, but I think he's smitten. 

We managed a few hours out back. Some decisions I regret. The play set is not one of those regrettable decisions. 

They have lots to talk about, especially their crazy mom. 

The Easter Bunny brought a bubble machine!

He also brought books, toy cars, and a Samantha doll (quite possibly the best thrift store find ever). But all GiGi really wanted was jelly beans. Lots of jelly beans. 

He's quite dapper. 

And she's quite the little lady. 

When I was 8, I asked if I could wear a suit for Easter. GiGi got her first suit a little sooner. 

She has her own sense of style. 

Did you hear?! Did you hear?! He has risen!

Optimus Prime. 

Or maybe just a little boy with a bubble gun on a sunny Sunday morning. 

She loves her little house. And, she's quite the clean freak. You'd never guess that this adorable little lady is the same little person who spits Koolaid on the floor and comes to find Mommy saying, "Juice! Ew!" Just so that she can get a rag to clean it up. 

Welcome to my home. Please come in. 

I won't tell you how many pictures I took to get this one. Let's pretend it was just one. Because it was Easter Sunday, and they love each other. 

Most of the time she's a little lady. But when she's not, she's really not. 

He planted these tulips with his grandma. Every morning, he wants to check on them. 

I look tired. I am tired.

Tired and happy. Happy to have celebrated with family, jelly beans, pretty dresses, and even six hours of edits, orders, and motions. But mostly happy just to have found 30 minutes to record another family milestone for the family album. 

A Gym Short

One of RJ's favorite songs is from the movie "Madagascar 2." It is called "Big and Chunky." I do not make up things like this. And I quote, "I like 'em big, I like 'em chunky. I like 'em big. I like 'em plumpy." 

Today, I ate four Rolos, two Hershey's miniature Mr. Goodbars, waffle fries, and a fried chicken sandwich. After six o'clock. P.M. 

I felt big and plumpy. So, I decided to visit the gym for the first time in, let's just call it "a while." I used to be a gym rat. No longer. But, I steeled myself, took a deep breath and walked in. I faced the front desk guardian and held my head high when she had to re-enter my information so that I could log in. (Apparently the system deletes you if you haven't visited in "a while."). 

I took my plumpy self up to the fitness room where I faced a wall of new equipment. I carefully selected an elliptical trainer and stepped on. Plugged in my headphones, and away I went. But I didn't go. At least not the way an elliptical goes. Because you see, I hadn't stepped on an elliptical trainer. I had mounted a stair climber. As in, it'll make you climb approximately 25 flights in 20 minutes. I know this because rather than face the embarrassment of immediately dismounting the machine in front of the plumpy man on the machine beside me, I chose to step it out. 

My knees are wobbly. My booty aches. And I'm not sure I'll be able to climb out of bed in the morning. But at least I won't take it personally in the morning if RJ sings "I like 'em round, with somethin' somethin'." Because I may feel like a bowl full of jello, but my gym shorts fit just a little bit better, and I don't feel quite so plumpy. 

(My next post shall be titled: My Favorite Things--Ibuprofen, Heating Pads, and Rest). 

The Next Nadia? Perhaps. Perhaps Not.

There are any number of things I could (and should) write about tonight. The Supreme Court is making a historic decision. The governor of Oklahoma is about to sign in to effect a law that would allow the slaughter of horses just up the road from my house (not really up the road, but 30 miles is still too close).  I still need to finish out my series on the practicalities of part time work. And, I have a few (hundred) Easter egg hunt photos that I need to upload.

I've done a lot of things that require confession, particularly in this Lenten season.

I fixed my children's hair with the cat comb this morning when I couldn't find their hairbrush in the morning rush.

Whew. I feel better. Had to get that one off my chest.

But, tonight was GiGi's first gymnastics class, and since I am convinced she will be the next Nadia, I feel that I should document it for the sake of history.

She's the youngest gymnast by about 6 months. So young, in fact, that when her coach asked her the "question of the day," "what did you eat for lunch?", GiGi's response was "Eat! Eat!" It's one of her words. Her other phrase of the night was "I done! I done!" She's the shortest gymnast by about 6 inches. She's a tiny little thing, but hey, so was Nadia.

She refused the balance beams, the forward rolls, the trapeze, the foam pit, and the climbing wall. "Neow, neow." (She really says "no" like a little cat.).

But, she surprised me by swinging about 4 feet in the air on the ring-swing.  And, she spent the entire class trying to break loose and run for the trampolines. She can't quite jump, but she's got the knee bend, booty shake down perfectly. She also very much enjoyed mommy's rousing rendition of "If  You're Happy and You Know It" while bouncing cross-legged with GiGi in her lap.

It's a hands-on mommy and me class. I'm the mommy. So, my hands were on GiGi nearly the entire hour. I did manage to snap a few pictures with my phone. Excuse the quality (but someday we won't care that they're slightly out of focus because they will be historical when she's the next Nadia):

If you squint, it almost looks like she's on the balance beam. 

The squishy mats were the best part. It's the first time in weeks I haven't been afraid that her climbing habits will end in broken gophers (teeth). 

She finally managed the beam! Sitting counts. It does. 

I think she's pretty proud. (And she looks nothing like her father. If you believe that, I'd like to talk to you about a lovely coastal home I have for sale in Arizona.)

Taking turns is a new thing. She had to put her bottom on the apple (not to be confused with an apple bottom). It was painful for her to watch the other gymnasts in her class. After all, she's the next Nadia, and she wants to keep up with her training. 

Soon enough, I'll end my intellectual vacation and start to tackle real topics. But, for tonight, I'm clearing a shelf in the living room. Because those medals will have to go somewhere. 

Still a Soccer Mom...

It's Spring again, and I'm still a soccer mom, complete with the van.  RJ kicked off his third season last weekend. (His third season! How is this possible? He's still my baby!).

Every time registration rolls around, I wonder if this will be the season when it starts to matter who wins, when they score in the wrong goal, and stop pausing in the game to make sure that their skinned-knee teammate is going to be okay.

This isn't that season.

Pure joy. They both scored goals this game. RJ scored one in the wrong goal, and you'd have thought he had won the playoffs. 

Someday he'll wonder how he was ever this athletic. I think he's amazing, but I'm biased. 

There is no better day in this boy's life than game day. 

Even when mommy forgets the rule of the soccer fields: It's always 10 degrees colder, and the wind always blows about 20 mph harder. That is, it's cold. 

But that didn't stop my boy. 

Not even for a moment. 

But, at the end of the day, what matters most? They have fun. These two are best buds. They check on each other when they fall. They celebrate each other's goals. For four year olds, they have a real understanding of real friendship that is remarkable. 

GiGi cheered on her team. 

And enjoyed some concessions from the mommy concession stand. 

And, at the end of the day, they enjoyed the rain together. 

It was just another day at the soccer fields--one of many, I'm sure. For now, I'm grateful that we don't remember who won; we don't care that RJ scored in the wrong goal; and the cheerleader wore Hello Kitty and pigtails. 

The Pantie Race: Time Management as a Part Time Mom

Of all of the challenges in working part time, time management is my biggest hurdle. I thought I was pretty good at managing my time. Sure, I've done the out-of-breath-heart-pounding panicked walk across campus to slide a term paper under the professor's door one minute before the final cutoff. But that wasn't a time management issue; it was a perfection issue. There just wasn't enough time to get it perfect.

So, I've been a bit bamboozled as to why time management is more difficult working part time than it was when I was constantly under the crushing press of work. I have more time now, so it should easier to manage, right?

Here's the thing: when I worked full time, I could cheat on time management. I could find an extra 15 minutes to online bill pay; I could sneak away once in a while to pick up dry cleaning and tag the cars. Now, I cram a day's worth of work into four hours, and after that, my time belongs to my kids, my laundry, my dirty dishes, and what's left of my career.

As a lawyer, I'm used to working quickly. I'm efficient (to my detriment and the detriment of my billable hour total). At work, I run on high octane and idle at about 2500 rpm. As soon as I scan my parking card out of the garage, I have to force a shift into low gear. It's to my benefit if it takes us 30 minutes to get home from school because what will we do when we get home? The longer I can take to change diapers, change shoes, and get coats on to go outside, the longer I get to stay in climate controlled comfort.  At work, I work for a finished product. It's not about the process. At home, it's all about the process.  My kids function better when I move slowly. I function better when I move slowly.  I remember the sippy cups, the snacks, the blankets, backpacks, lunch boxes, and nap mats. Everyone is happier when that happens.

The shift from high to low gear has been an adjustment. I often have to remind myself not to hurry. When RJ was about two, I taught him to sing, "Have patience, have patience, don't be in such a hurry, have patience, have patience, right now." He reminds me of this frequently. Most mornings, we're not running late, but most mornings, he asks me, "Mommy, are we late? Why are you mad?" I'm not mad. I just forget to shift to low gear sometimes.

Of course, in my particular situation, I'm not always clearly at work or at home. The two blend. Not seamlessly, but they blend. Like glitter in water. A whirling tornado of activity that can settle or spin up in an instant.

When I get home most afternoons, I can get RJ to nap. GiGi, on the other hand, has become my time manager. I put her in her crib and the race is on. The pantie race (or rather, the Huggie race, but we're potty training and thinking positively in terms of panties right now).

GiGi used to take off her shoes at every instance. She leaves those on now, but I wish she'd stayed focused on the tennies. Now, I keep one eye on the monitor every afternoon while I catch up on email and try to close out my day. I have exactly as long as her pants last. First, she empties the crib of all toys. Then the blankets. Then, after careful consideration, she tosses Bug Bug (her blankie).  After Bug Bug, there's only one way she's headed. Sometimes the race takes an hour, and I can get a lot of work done before I see a shiny bare bottom on the monitor. Some days, it takes 10 minutes. One thing is constant. The moment I see a bare booty, the pantie race is over.  Mommy's time has been managed. Because, we're potty training, not potty trained.

Time management has taken on a whole new meaning with this part time gig. Some days I win the race. Others, I'm the loser (with the laundry to prove it). But, win or lose, for now it works, and someday, I'll miss the days of the pantie race.

Even More Bits and Pieces

By now, it's established: RJ is a talker. As his daddy says, "The child is allergic to silence." He just never stops talking. And because he never stops talking, he is a constant source of entertainment:

Mommy:   "Next week is career day at school. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

RJ:  "Optimus Prime!"

Mommy:  "Really? Not a doctor?"[because we have a doctor's kit already] "Or a lawyer?" [Give the kid a red pen and an old iPhone and he's ready to go]

RJ:  "No."

Mommy: "What about a truck driver?"

RJ:  "Too many hours."

Mommy (thinking sports are an obvious sell): "What about a baseball player?"

RJ:  "Too much hitting." "But can I be Spiderman when I grow up?"

Mommy:  "Absolutely!" [because we have Spiderman PJ's at the ready.]


He gives me fashion tips:

On seeing me in fishnet stockings, RJ tells me, "Mommy! Your legs are in jail!"

And he lets me know exactly what he thinks of my dancing:

"Mommy, I want to do cool dances, not lady dances."

He is my entertainment.

Meanwhile, his baby sister is becoming my daily mommy panic.

She's a climber, a daredevil of her own kind. Today, she took a tumble off a tricycle at school. The end result? A baby girl with a bloody nose. But, she knows how to make it better:

Sparkly things always make a girl feel better:

So does chocolate (her daddy brought her an ice cream cone since she had a rough day). I think he's a little smitten. 

She is Prissy (yes, with a capital "P"): 

This isn't posed. It's really how she plays.

This is really how they play. He's going to make a fantastic husband someday. I bet he'll know that chocolate can fix a bad day too. 

This, on the other hand, is totally posed. She was getting ready to greet my lady lawyer friends who came to visit last Friday (more on that later--because the best part of being a lady lawyer is getting to hang out with other lady lawyers).

This is posed too, but someday I'll forget that it was posed, and I'll think it's the cutest little barefoot picture ever: 

Soon enough, I'll get back to writing about things more interesting than bare feet and bloody noses, but for tonight, these are the things I want to remember best of all.