Powerful Women Wearing Sunshine Rainbows

I guess I'm a powerful woman.  Most days I feel like a Care Bear with a business suit covering the sunshine rainbow across my tummy.  I try to exist in a "man's world"--whatever that is (I think it has something to do with leather recliners, flat screen t.v.'s, beer, and gray t-shirts).  I want to teach my daughter that there is no "man's world," just a world.  I want her to feel powerful when she lets her sunshine rainbow shine--figuratively, of course.  I want her to feel like she can wear ruffles and argue an appeal.  I want her to be able to take a morning off to drop off her babies and have her coworkers think, "She's such a good mom." Not, "This is the fourth time this year that she's been late."

Today, GiGi took her first step toward being a powerful woman:  Mother's Day Out.  The name suggests that mommy gets some time out and about.  Which, in my case is kind of sort of true.

RJ started school yesterday.  He loves school. He marched right in, shouted, "Good morning Ms. Ancick! I'm here!" And with that, RJ had arrived. There are ten boys and two girls in his class. Good morning indeed, Ms. Ancick. And my heartfelt prayers for patience, strength, and perhaps a classroom donation of Febreeze.

Today was my GiGi's first day of Mother's Day Out. In my perfect dream world, I snuggled GiGi on the couch, fed her breakfast, and dropped her off in the loving arms of her teachers.  In my real world, I woke up at 5, finished a brief, and then had to dye my hair (this isn't my natural color--shhhhh) because we had a "Power Woman" photo shoot for the firm at 9 a.m.

Daddy got GiGi out of bed and fed her Cheerios while I put on eyeliner for the first time in a month.  I barely had time to kiss her fuzzy little head before I left.  And I couldn't even shed a tear because I would ruin the eyeliner if I did.

I was powerful in the photo. I shifted poses when they said "shift." I smiled. I pouted. I gave 'em some attitude. And then they separated us into "senior" attorneys and "associate" attorneys. I'm somewhere in between. A misfit of sorts. A complication.  Fortunately for me, there are a lot of powerful women at my firm; and I get to count them as friends.  They don't care if I take off a morning, or an afternoon, or a whole day to take care of my babies.  They still ask for my advice, and they recognize that I'm in that "in between" phase. They tell me I look too young to be in a senior level photo.  They ask how GiGi is surviving her first day. They share stories about kids and cases.  I posed for the associate photo.  That's where I fit for now I suppose. And it nearly broke my heart. But we are powerful women still learning. I know the law.  But, I'm still learning how to juggle and balance. Still learning life.

Apparently, GiGi gave her teachers some attitude too.  When I arrived to pick her up, I heard a screaming baby up the hall from the classroom. My baby. She was displeased about the nap arrangements (they wanted her to take one).  So, she had been sent to the hall with the church secretary.  And, it nearly broke her heart (and mine too).  But she's a powerful little woman still learning.  Learning the rules. Learning to giggle. Learning life.

Someday, we'll both have it figured out. And when we do, we'll both wear our ruffles and let our sunshine rainbows shine. Figuratively of course. Until then, I'll do my best to offer kind words, hugs, and encouragement to my baby and my powerful women.

(A very heartfelt thank you to my powerful women friends. You know who you are. And you rock.)

I am Woman, Hear Me Shriek

We've been in our new house for a couple of months now, and I'm almost used to the stairs and the idea that I can send RJ out in the backyard to play and search for squirrels. The "wildlife" has been a bit of a surprise. We're not exactly in the country. But, the neighbors tell us that a peacock had set up residence on our roof for a few nights before we moved in. And, one particularly chubby squirrel has appeared enough times that RJ named him Perkins.

Two nights ago, while RJ and GiGi played bumper babies on the front sidewalk (she's parked in a stroller, he rides his tractor into her. Bump!), I pulled weeds. Because I have a goal to try and keep the yard picked up, I actually walked the weeds to the trash cans rather than just tossed them behind the front porch pillar.

As I walked up, I notice that my hybiscus is a little broken. A lot broken. And, is that fur? What is that fur?

Shrieeeeeeeeeeeek! It's something dead! And it's furry!

I hustled the kids inside, and when hubbsie got home, I sent RJ upstairs to put away underwear while I frantically whispered, "There's something outside at the trash cans. It's furry. I think it's dead. I don't know what it is. You  have to handle it. Please handle it. I can't handle it."

I am woman. Hear me shriek.

He handled it. It was a possum. Poor possum. I'll have to make a donation to a wildlife fund to purge myself of this.

Because, while I am woman, and I am lawyer, and I am strong, powerful, and can handle just about everything, I can't handle furry and dead.

I am woman, hear me shriek.

A Sigh of Relief

Ever since I had my babies, I feel like I'm holding my breath 23 out of 24 hours a day. I hold my breath when RJ bounces too high on the trampoline. I hold my breath when he hip checks his sister and I want to hip check him. I hold my breach when I change GiGi's pants and when I wipe RJ's bottom. (No call sets off a sense of dread  more than, "Mom! I pooped! Can you clean me up?").

Because I work, I hold my breath over other things too. I hold my breath hoping that my babies won't call their nanny "mama" before they call me "mama." I turn blue hoping that they won't choke on grapes while I'm at work or skin their knees or cry because they missed their goodbye kisses at the door.

Lately, GiGi has been cruising, crawling, and bear crawling. It's a matter of days before she walks. And I've been holding my breath. I'm pretty sure I missed RJ's real first steps, though his nanny at the time would have never told me if I did. But GiGi just isn't quite "there" yet.

So I thought. This weekend, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as my little woman took one tiny step for baby, and one huge leap for mommy's heart. Tentative, barely, but it was a step. A real one. And my heart leapt. I can say I saw my baby's first step! (And she did it again last night!)

She could be running when I get home from the office today, and I'll breathe a sigh of relief because I saw where it all started.

Shameless

It's time to play catch-up. Work is too busy, and someday, when my cases wrap up, I'll tell one heck of a story. But until then, sometimes, I just have to play mom (non-family folks may want to just skip this one--it's shameless):

GiGi is still sunny. And hungry.

We swim nearly every night. 

GiGi is adventuring. And discovering the blinds. 

My little woman turned 10 months old. 

She knows mama, dada, bubba, and every once in a while we get a "hey cat!"

They're still best friends. 

And he still gives the tightest hugs. I hope he always gives his sister the best hugs. 

RJ is learning to take pictures. Can you imagine? We've had to establish a no cameras in the bathroom  rule ever since I found an oddly out of focus video that started, "Say cheeth daddy!" Daddy was in the shower. He was not amused. I was. 

Shameless.

She loves to swim. 

And I love ruffle butts. 

RJ can swim all the way across the pool unassisted now. I'm kind of proud. 

Shameless.

She has no teeth. Not one. 

I love sticky baby fingers. 

Not one gopher. None. 

Bubbles are still super cool. This makes me smile. 

Shameless. I love his hair long again. 

He loves the camera. And it loves him. 

Speed racer. 

And her speed racer brother. 

Now you know why they're laughing. It's bumper baby!

GiGi has a new trick. 

We've convinced him the sprinklers are really Misty Island (off the Island of Sodor of course). 

Family Vacation: The Final (Finally)

Time has mellowed some of my memories of family vacation. But I still get a little chill when I hear that sing-songy "M-I-C-K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E!" A duck in a sailor hat sometimes makes a cameo in my dreams, and I still can't manage breakfast on my patio for fear of dive-bombing sparrows.

But, unfinished business must be finished. And so,

Day Five:  All of the guidebooks will tell you to plan a day of rest. We did. But a Disney prescribed day of rest probably doesn't involve a Hertz rent-a-car outside the gates. Yes. We dared to leave the gates of that magical kingdom.  We rented a car, rounded up the snack cups and suckers and hit the road to Clearwater to visit Gma C and Great Gma C.  Pizza, sword fighting, lullabies from a great grandma, and a trip to Publix to restock the fridge, and we were as rested as rested gets at Disney.  Add to that a visit to the laundry room at the hotel, and I finally managed to shake the pixie dust out of my hair, socks, shoes, and underwear--that stuff is sticky and tends to cling. (Ok, not really, but there's some kind of scunge that seems to cling when you've spent hours at the parks--I prefer to think it's pixie dust).  RJ and daddy raced remote control cars, and we pretended that the Magic Kingdom wasn't steps away. It was lovely really.

The pictures:

GiGi met her great Gma. They got along swimmingly. GiGi particularly appreciated the lullaby that Gma C sang for her. Singing Minnies are nice, but they don't compare. 

Gma C put up one heck of a sword fight. But I think the Jedi won. 

Four generations. I'll never have that. It's a treasure.

She helped me do laundry. She picked Minnie out herself. We walked by the display, and she said, "ooohhhhh!" I'm powerless. 

We fed him chocolate. After dark. In bed. We're at Disney World!

The force is strong with this one. Let's hope that Lutheran Skywalker lets her play with his light saber when we get home. We share. But it's hard. 

Day Six: Bound and determined not to spend another morning trapped on the speedway, we ventured to Animal Kingdom. Ten minutes in, we hit a street carnival in Africa. RJ was highly entertained, as were we--though by far the best adventure was the safari. It gave us a chance to rest. But, we saw zebras! And lions! (and tigers and bears oh my!--wrong movie--We're at Disney World!).  RJ faded fast. Six days is a very long time. He melted down. We melted down. We went back to our hotel. (The room is getting smaller; it must be.). We napped. We swam and washed off the pixie dust. We rode the go-carts. Again. We spun ourselves silly in teacups. And then...it's dark. They've closed the castle. We're trapped. Again. So, we watched fireworks. Again. And we found Walt Disney's little gift to parents: the People Mover. It's a couch disguised as a ride. We rode it twice. RJ convinced his daddy to ride the astro blaster rockets. I convinced RJ to try Dumbo first. He was bored. He and daddy boarded the astro blaster rockets. My baby is three stories up in a spinning rocket?! We're at Disney World!


The pictures:

How we started out at Animal Kingdom.

He lollipopped. We're at Disney World!

How we ended Animal Kingdom. He isn't medicated. I promise.

And he's done. 

So is she.

I can't believe he wend down this slide. After naps. Clearly. 

He's a fish. 

We spun. And spun. And promised we wouldn't spin any faster. And then we did. 

And we drove the race cars. Again. Twelve times. 

 Day Seven:

I'm not proud of Day Seven:

 We reached a new low. With luck (and a sprinkle of pixie dust), no one will ever associate me with this child.

Or this one:

He has turned into a Who from Whoville. It happens.

I hope they don't associate me with this either: 

Her adorable sunhats were packed. It was hot. RJ wanted to ride the race cars. One more time. 

Our flight was delayed. By seven hours. RJ had spilled chocolate milk on his shorts at breakfast. Milk sours. GiGi had four Huggies left. We were NOT staying overnight. I fought Delta, and I won. We took off sometime around 7 and flew to Chicago. That's right. Orlando to Chicago. Little sidetrip. We made our connection. And hit a massive thunderstorm. I thought the plane might fall apart. Or that I might. It was late. We (thankfully) landed to find one gate open and two planes ahead of us. RJ slept. So did GiGi. I am thankful for my sleepy good travelers. We're at home!

And someday, this is the memory I will have of our magical trip: 

It's Just Epic

I am in the middle of a chapter 11 filing. So, I've been working weekends, weeknights, and midnights. Thus, the limited mommy words lately.

But, one incident is worth a short break from the panicked frenzy:

We know RJ is a "highly verbal" child. And I know he's brilliant (because he's mine of course.). But sometimes I do doubt that he really understands some of what he tells us.

Two nights ago he threw a fit. A big one. Huge. Epic.

In the midst of the tears, the screams, and the biting (yes my child is a vampire--not the cool kind either), I told him, "RJ, if you don't cease with the fit throwing, I will take down  your train track."

"No!" he wailed, "Don't take down my epic train track!"

When later asked what "epic" means, he told us, "It means, like, really good. Incredible!"

Incredible indeed.

Let Me Call Him Baby

Mommies have a lot of little jobs: wiping little bottoms, filling little cups, scraping little plastic-y puddles of cereal off of tile floors, kissing little boo-boos. Taken individually, the little jobs aren't so much. All at once, they're overwhelming. And if you add in the children that actually created the mommy position, those little things can be downright impossible. Other little things add up too. One little timeout, a little impatient sigh, and a little sharp word suddenly become one big meltdown--for mommy and little one. I've given up on being perfect. I've given up on being an "A" student. I aim for the little things. Recently, I made a little change with a big, surprising impact on my little man.

I've called my kids a lot of names (not the bad kind): RJ and GiGi for starters. And there are the baby nicknames like Yoda Baby, Boogie, Pooh, and Stinker. There are the ego boosts--Rockstar and Superstar. The "usuals"--Bubba, Sissy (I kind of live in the south, cut me some slack), Little Woman, Little Man, Brother Man, and Sister.  And, of course, the current terms of endearment: Sweet Bean and Baby Girl.

Someday Sweet Bean will swear he never answered to such ridiculousness. But he totally does.

One name, however, speaks more to RJ than any other. Simple, to the point, I call him Baby. It works like abracadabra on my little man. Ask to eat his supper, "RJ, eat some chicken," and he'll nibble a corner, stare me down, drop his fork, his cup, his napkin, and his plate all while sticking his fingers down his throat trying to gag himself. (Did I brag about this child's table manners last week? Erg.). But call him Baby, "Baby, eat some chicken," and he's eating nuggets with a fork, dabbing his chin with his napkin, offering to pass me the ketchup, and busing the table.

You catch more flies with honey I suppose.

I'm not particularly patient with RJ. He's four, and he's the kind of four that wants to know why he can't   eat goldfish for breakfast and why mommy's car is white and why there's carpet on the floor. He'll see an empty jar of apple juice, look me in the eye and ask, "Mommy, can I have apple juice?" It is exhausting. Add to that a propensity to want to knock his baby sister over and blow raspberries on her belly and a strong desire to poop his pants just so mommy will change him, and well, you've got RJ. He's the four year old whose biggest concern when moving was whether the change table was coming with us. It's pink. It is his sister's. He does not care. I try to be patient, but sometimes he gets the best of me. I've yelled. I've said things I shouldn't. Little disagreements have turned into tantrums leaving both mommy and RJ in timeout.

I have found the cure: just let me call him baby. RJ struggled when GiGi was born. He still does. "Am I your baby?" he asks me often. "Did you want a little boy just like me?"

And so, in recent weeks, I've taken to calling him Baby. It works. He gives me the word's biggest hug every morning when I leave for work. He gives me sugars. We're still in the midst of Lovefest 2012. And all because of a kind word. We all know we shouldn't lose patience with our children. Anyone who says they never  have is either lying or has access to much better pharmaceuticals than I do. Kids are kids. It's their job to make us crazy. It's our job to find their love language and use it.

Sweet Bean knows I love him. He also knows that I would prefer that he poop in the potty, learn to dress himself, and eat some chicken nuggets every once in a while without my begging. He knows it's his job to press my buttons. He also knows it's my job to love him unconditionally. And with one little change in our routine, I've found the key to his little man heart. "Just let me call you Baby," I tell him. "Let me take care of you." "Baby" fixed his skinned ankle and made him feel all better. "Baby" got us through church on Sunday with nearly no fits. And, "Baby" gets me out the door most mornings without tears.

One little change, and my screaming Rockstar becomes just RJ--a little boy who bites his finger nails and worries that he may have bit his daddy just a little too hard during their wrestling match (He did, but daddy will survive. And if it hurts too bad, I'll call him Baby too. I'm pretty sure the effects are universally applicable to little boys and their daddies.). Just that one term of endearment, and my Bubba is the best big brother in the whole world, watching that GiGi doesn't tumble into the fireplace wall or try to eat one more piece of lint off the carpet.

The little things are what matter so much in a little one's little world. I'm glad I've found RJ's abracadabra. He deserves that from his mommy. All kids do.