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."

Bright Shiny Childhood Memories

There are few childhood memories that adulthood hasn't dulled in one way or another. But, I'm fortunate to have a few bright and shiny memories to share with my children. Wentz Pool is one of those:

(I'm the one on the right; it was always so much more fun with good friends). I was a total babe. 

I grew up--graduated to sunglasses over goggles. But Wentz is still the same castle like fantasy. It's like swimming at a country club fit for Gatsby. 

GiGi was pretty excited at her first look over the pool. For RJ, this was old hat: 

And I do mean old hat (he wore it for three seasons.).

Been there, done that. (Nothing changes. That's what makes this place so fabulous.)

See the castle? It's still there. Actually, there are lots of them. 

She pulls off total babe better than I did. 

Although, I did fill out a bikini pretty well around her age (again, on the right).  

She's thinking about something. I just wish I knew what it was. 

My strong man. 

It was just kind of an ordinary Saturday in an ordinary town. But, for once, my memories of a not-so ordinary place weren't jaded by they eyes of adulthood. Wentz is still my Gatsby castle fantasy (I even had my senior pictures taken there, but those way pre-date digital photography and copyrights and all that).  I count myself lucky to be able to share my castle fantasy with my babies. (P.S. It's only $2 for adults and $1 for kids--pretty much worth the drive no matter how you do the math, and they have a concession stand that sells snow cones!). 

The Happiest Statistic

According to the American Bar Association, 42% of women lawyers take the "off ramp," leaving their career for a time, for one reason or another. Generally speaking, those off-rampers cite raising children as the primary reason for leaving the practice of law. Others cite dissatisfaction with firm life, billing practices, or the practice of law in general. Some studies suggest that gender bias is, at least in part, responsible for women leaving law. In some cases, it's a matter of personalities, personal beliefs, and the day-to-day minutiae, including things as simple as computers that work (every time you turn them on), reliable assistants, and a feeling of belonging. And, of course, there are tee ball games, swim lessons, stories, supper times, and laundry. 

For me, as for anyone I suppose, there's combination of factors--some more weighted than others. But ultimately, those factors all work into the equation that equals my own happiness. After months of agonizing and self reflection (which some of you have tolerated, analyzed, and heard time and again whether over lunch or by virtue of this blog), I made the choice to leave my firm. I'm a quitter of sorts, I suppose, but I don't see it that way. I made it nine years, and in those nine years I learned a lot about the law and more about myself. I re-evaluated my priorities. And ultimately, I decided that leaving my firm is, for now, what will make me outrageously happy. (Someday soon, I'll tell you all the things I'm going to miss, but I've cried enough in the past week.)

This has been a long time in coming. I missed my partnership window. I had two babies. I went part time (and someday I'll add my final thoughts on working part time and why it does and doesn't work). And when I took a first tentative step onto my off-ramp, a very dear friend gave me a gift:

This used to sit on my desk, but for now, it holds a place of priority right inside the door where we come and go--so I can see it and remind myself that when I grow up, I want to be outrageously happy. I think I've taken a step in the right direction. 

Private practice used to make me outrageously happy. This was me then: 

I loved everything about private practice. The deadlines, the late nights, and the hours arguing about lien avoidance and mobile home security perfection issues. I loved the incessant phone calls and the nearly weekly trips to bankruptcy court, the 30 page briefs, and the nationwide research projects. I ate conflict and confrontation for dinner and spit out compromise after compromise. 

Things changed. My practice changed. I got older, and with that came more administrative tasks. I spent more time managing cases than writing about them. I discovered that I'd rather read Goodnight Goodnight Construction Site for the 115th time than work on one more litigation budget.  

I lost sleep. I became exhausted. This is me working part time: 

A little frazzled. A lot crazy--and most of the time not in the crazy fun good way. 

This was me finally making the decision to leave private practice: 

There were a lot of tears. I tried not to roll around in the floor and show my panties (even though I really wanted to roll around, kick, scream, and throw things). 

I sulked. I resisted. I crossed my arms and cut out a lot of people who might have been able to help. (But I doubt it, because really, for now, private practice isn't for me--at least until the mortgage crisis has passed). 

And so, today, I'm an outrageously happy statistic. I'm one of the 42% leaving a private practice law career. I don't know what the future has in store. I secretly hope it will be something legal. (I suppose I should rephrase this as "something in the legal field," but really, I hope it will be legal too.). 

This is me after having finally made a decision--be it the right one, the wrong one, or somewhere in between: 

I think she's excited. Or terrified. It's hard to tell. I understand where she's coming from with that. 

Pure joy. Relief. 

And that relief is why for now, I am the happiest statistic you'll find in the world of law. 

Allergic to Silence

My son is allergic to silence, and to complicate matters, he was vaccinated with a talking needle when I wasn't looking. He never stops, from the moment his eyes see daylight until long after the sun has set. At night, I have to tell him to close his mouth, because it's too hard to sleep while you're telling stories. It's charming--on occasion. It's exhausting, because there's a biological compulsion to respond when someone is asking a question, even questions such as "why did you close the car door?" (So you won't fall out.) "why are are you leaving me?" (so that I won't hurt you. Oops, did I really say that? It's because I have to go to work.)  "Why can't I paint on the carpet?" (Seriously?).

Some of his better ones, however, are something to remember:

"I'm going to learn to float on my back. 'Cause then I can be a lifeguard and get in the water during safety break and blow a whistle." (I can't argue with that logic. Safety breaks are the bane of my pool existence.).

On refusing to nap: "I just really felt so much like a grown up today." (Doesn't he know? Taking a nap is the one things grown-ups want to do the most!)

On a late night shuffle to daddy's bedside: "RJ, was it storming?" "No, it was the earth readjusting." (He was right--there was an earthquake).

Nostalgia: "Remember when I used to feed Sissy puffers out of my hand like a little duckling?"

On cleaning his room: "Clean-up time is not jolly time."

"When I get home, I'm gonna practice sneaking." (This might sound like something I should correct, or at least be concerned about. But I'm not. Because when I was about 6 or 7, my bestie and I had a game called simply "sneaking," the entire goal of which was to see how quietly we could tiptoe through the hallways and giggle.).

I don't have just one talker. Apparently, both of my children suffer from the same affliction. Though the discussions with GiGi are a little more limited (she's not quite two, after all):

"Gigi, what are you doing?" "Nuffin, nuffin!"

On lullabies: "Twinkle star! I want you! What you are!"

On wet toes: "I drive my toes. I get it."

On the air conditioner kicking on, a truck driving by, seeing a dog, a lawn mower, or her brother: "Ooo! Ooo! I squared (this is her word for scared--she's not really hip to be sqaure)."

And, of course, on her cats: "Cat! Noooooooo! My baby!" (GiGi is not willing to share her blankie with Ben the cat.).

When they're together, there's a noise level somewhere between a 747 coming in for a landing on top of my van and 25 barking dogs.  I wouldn't change it for anything--except maybe a soundproof curtain between the front seat and backseat, to be used only occasionally of course.

Summertime

In my world, the Fourth of July traditionally is a day for relaxing with family and friends; parades; drinks; and panic!--summer is halfway over! I need to take the kids to the zoo and the water park and RJ still can't quite write his name and GiGi isn't remotely potty trained and panic, panic, panic!

It's only half over; and, the first half has been pretty darn fun.  We did make it to the parade this year, because my boy does love a parade.

We compromised. She wanted to wear her "Hi Cat" (Hello Kitty) shirt. I wanted her to wear the outfit I had bought for this Fourth of July. We went half and half. 

He loves a parade. 

She's her Poppy's girl. 

He's my all American boy. 

Sissy was scared of the marching bands ("I skeered.")

I hope my baby boy and his baby sister love each other as much as this guy and his baby sister. 

We haven't made it to a real water park yet (but we have done an awful lot of swimming). We did make it to a splash pad for an hour of summer fun. 

She has new yellow "flaps." She refuses any other shoes. Opinionated. 

I think this one is going to be a heart breaker. 

Then again, this guy might break a few hearts himself. 

This is what summer should be. 

We've driven a few miles here and there. Mostly to Grandma's house and back, complete with the requisite "I need to potty" stop 10 minutes from home. Every single trip. 

No man wants to see his little sister driving his hot rod. It's just not right. 

Even if she does try to sweeten the deal. 

Sissy got a pink tricycle. Because we love her. And mostly because she made us so nuts over her brother's bicycle that we had to give her something to make her stop screaming. 

I'm kidding. This little precious would never scream. Except when you ask her to wear tennis shoes. Or get in her car seat. Or sleep. Or wear a diaper. 

We've managed to snag a few afternoons in the backyard at home too. 

And we celebrated Mom's 36th and Poppy's 30th birthday.  GiGi and her Poppy have a thing going on; I know another little girl who thought (and thinks) he's the tops too. 

I turned 36 this week. I should have something philosophical to say about it. I don't. The cake was sweet. The company was sweeter. And, someday when I'm not quite so exhausted, I'll ponder the meaning of life and the passing of another year. Until then, it's summertime, and so far, I think we've done just enough to stave off the panic. 

Wheels!

My first real bicycle was white with pink air brushed shadows. Streamers off the handlebars. 16 inches of raw pedal power.  To be fair, I had a 12 inch yellow bike when I was a toddler, but it was that pink and white 16-inch that gave me my first chance at freedom. Wind in my hair (because who wore helmets back then?); freedom; wheels!

I wrecked that bike when I was 6--flipped right over the handle bars on Donner street and landed smack (whack!) on my forehead. It was a mighty goose egg, and I was mighty scared. The training wheels went back on after that, and I kept them for a long time after that.

My next bike was totally awesome. Blue. Banana seat with flowers. Streams and a basket. 20 inches. I rode it until I got too cool and needed a rad 10 speed.

My favorite will always be that first pedal powered pink wonder.

I hope RJ looks back on his first pedal powered wonder with the same sense of nostalgia. Because his first bike is a total bad***. Blue. With a kickstand! (This was a big deal). 20 inches--because my boy is already so tall.

He got his first taste of that freedom. Wind in his helmeted hair (we know better now). Wheels!

We surprised him on an ordinary Saturday morning--just because. (I wish every little boy could be surprised at least once in his life on an ordinary Saturday morning just because.)

At this point, he wasn't sure if the best surprise was his bike or the gum from the gumball machine. 

Every little boy should be surprised by his daddy on an ordinary Saturday at least once. 

Wheels!

Freedom!

Concentration and joy. 

He graciously let his sissy try it out.

I feel like I'll be seeing this view far too often from now on. (His helmet lights up--almost as exciting as a new bike--and this makes me happiest of all, because he's still my little boy even with wheels and freedom.).