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. 

Goodbye to the Trophies

"RJ," I sighed, desperate for the two hours of freedom that nap time brings, "What are you doing?"

He flipped from stomach to back and focused on the book we were reading (Ramona the Pest, for the interested). "Oh nothing, I'm just lookin' at my trophies," he grinned up at me.

His trophies are comprised of four M & M Olympic gymnastic trophies--metallic blue, red, and gold, three of which proudly display a golden male gymnast, and one of which proudly displays a golden female gymnast, because it's his sister's, and he stole it.

He also has three soccer medals and a tee-ball medal. They start 'em early here.

Periodically, he'll come downstairs with a medal around his neck, or a trophy in his hand. He'll watch Rescue Bots with his golden gymnast balanced beside him on the couch; he'll mangle his lunch with a medal around his neck. (My child doesn't eat; if he eats a whole meal, I feel like he has earned another trophy. Someday, when he's old enough to know how crazy his mother is, I may give him a gold nugget to wear on a chain. He'll think it's something sparkly and valuable, but really, it will be his golden chicken nugget--an award for one day finishing a meal. I have faith it will happen.).

He's five; and, his trophies make him feel important. They're his way of bragging about himself without specifically bragging. His trophies remind him of all the things he's accomplished, and the make him feel special. They tell the world that he's on top of his world.

I have trophies too. When I was younger, I collected swimming ribbons. The ultimate goal, always, was to finish in the top three. Because, a top three finish earned a medal, or at the really important meets, a rosette ribbon--it was like winning the Kentucky Derby!

When I was ten, I earned a gold satin jacket with a special embroidered patch that told the world, "I'm a golden swimmer! I earned an A time! I'm on top of my world!" I still have that jacket. And when winter is coming, I might just slip it on and see if it still makes me feel like I'm on top of my world.

My trophies aren't fancy anymore, and I can't wear them to school (for the car pool line--I'm not going back to school!). But, they remind me of my accomplishments. And, they make me feel important.

I worked hard for three college degrees. I won't pretend that I put myself through school and worked a full time job all while raising three kids, a dog, and a rabid hamster. My college years were about as easy as it gets, thanks to my parents and the kind generosity of scholarship donors. I did work hard. I never missed an orchestra rehearsal or violin lesson--even with walking pneumonia. I worked in computer labs during my free time. I had boxes and boxes of homemade flash cards, and I pulled more than one all nighter.

My trophies will tell you, without bragging, that I graduated with honors. That I was once first in my class. That I took not one technical writing class, but a whole bunch of technical writing classes--and survived!

 I gave four weeks notice, and I knew weeks before then that I ultimately would be stepping away from private practice. I tell myself that I'll go back in a few years; that the courthouse doors aren't closing on me; that I haven't taken my last deposition or fought my last fight. Last week, I took a deposition, because I wanted to remember what my last one was--just in case I don't go back. (The witness didn't disappoint. He had four answers: "No." "I don't know." "I don't recall." "I have no idea." These answers applied to all questions, including the one asking for his address.).

This weekend, I began slowly tearing off the bandage that has been holding my heart together as I transition out of private practice, slowly, slowly, slowly. I lifted my diplomas off their hooks, leaving behind nails, dust, and a hollow echo.

RJ and GiGi helped (and so did my husband). And I was grateful for their snuggles and demands for lemonade from the kitchen, because it kept me from dashing off an email or two saying, "Just kidding! I didn't mean it! Let's put my trophies back on the wall and pretend this never happened!"

GiGi almost sent the emails for me, but then she realized that this means I'll have time to take her to library story time and make sure she has clean ruffled pants to wear. 

I know I've made the right decision. My children are little only once. My husband's job is more demanding than any ordinary lawyer could comprehend (those aviation guys are some crazy cookies). I need to be full time somewhere, be it home or work. In my practice, part time just didn't fit.

So for now, my trophies are resting quietly under my bed, protected from toddler tantrums. A friend recently joked with me about what to do with all of my framed diplomas and certificates: "you mean, you aren't going to hang them in the living room and invite people in? Welcome to my Proud Room!" I laughed. It was funny.

But then again, I'm sure some afternoon, RJ will find me peering under the bed skirt and ask, "Mommy, what are you doin?"

"Oh nothing," I'll reply, "Just lookin' at my trophies."