But I do have a law degree...

Homecoming

2012-05-29T09:57:00.001-04:00

My husband and I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania Law School in 2005. We haven't been back since.

We have been in and out of Philadelphia over the years, but we just never made it back to the campus. I'm not sure why. To be sure, I definitely don't feel the affinity to UPenn that I do to my undergrad school, Penn State (not to be confused with UPenn. Even though most of America thinks it's the same place). I only spent 3 years there. I never lived on campus. And though I made friends, they haven't been the lifelong friends I have from college.

But then of course, there is my husband. It's where we met. Where it all began.

It seemed fitting, and long overdue, that we make the homage back to UPenn with our kids. So this weekend, we made the trip to Philly. And on Sunday morning, we awoke from our hotel and set out to tour the campus for the first time in seven years.

It's a weird feeling to go back to a university that you've left. There's almost a feeling of disloyalty toward the institution itself - How could you continue on without me? Don't you realize I left? That I grew up? How dare you pretend like nothing's changed? How dare you go on as if I never came?

The fact is, people change more than places. And though the law school had undergone a major renovation and was looking swanky new, so much was the same. The restaurants, the coffee shops, the squirrels running across the campus. I had flashbacks of studying for Crim Law at a table outside of Cosi - the same table that the four of us sat at this weekend on Sunday morning. We passed by Mad Mex and I had a raw memory of red frozen margaritas and the hangover from hell. We peered in the windows at the Barnes & Noble where I bought all of my text books. All still there, all the same. If I closed my eyes, I could feel myself go back in time for a brief moment - when I was 23, young, naive, and yet thought I knew everything.

Back then I never thought about a career. That may sound funny, given that I was in law school, but everything on my horizon was short term. I was concerned about getting a summer job, finding time to travel, and maintaining a positive balance in my checking account. The truth is, in law school, I never thought about being a lawyer.

I also never thought about being a wife. Or a mother. Of course I wanted those things. But those were theoreticals. Dreams idealized. Things that grown ups did when they were done with law school and had entered the real world.

I avoided the real world for a long time. And in a lot of ways, law school was my final attempt to do just that.

I suppose it would be easy for me to be angry at UPenn. For giving me a career that didn't work for me. For burdening me with student loans. For unleashing me into a real world that isn't all dreams idealized.

Not everything has gone to plan since I left UPenn. A lot has changed, and a lot has gone wrong. But at the end of the day, UPenn led me to the greatest gifts of my life.

So ironically, what I thought about when I was touring the campus this weekend wasn't how my law career has been sidelined. Or all my student loan debt.

It was how nearly ten years ago, I was assigned to Section 3. And so was my husband.

And how I never could have imagined how that would lead to my real purpose, and my most important job in life. A job that a legal education could never prepare me for. But one that is all the more fulfilling.

So to the University of Pennsylvania Law School, I will be forever grateful. It was worth every penny.

Tiny Dancer

2012-05-24T14:56:00.004-04:00

Back in December, Braden had his first "performance" at school. It was a mix of holiday songs and some choreographed dancing.

It didn't go well.

He stood on his designated "X" for the first few bars of music, looking pale white. He tapped his foot slightly, but otherwise stood there frozen, that is until he decided to collapse horizontally on the floor and cry hysterically. His teacher scooped him off the stage and delivered him to my lap, where he silently cried for the remainder of the performance.

I've analyzed and analyzed and over analyzed the conditions under which this stage fright breakdown occurred. He was a little sick that week. He was overtired. He had been going through an aggressive phase. He was too young. He was shy. Or maybe he just doesn't like standing in front of a crowd. I can't say I really blame him.

In any event, as this week's "spring performance" approached I started to get anxiety over yet another onstage breakdown. But I held out hope because this time around he LOVED doing his little dance routine. He would do it for us every night, try to teach it to us, and then correct us when we were doing it wrong. He would sing the songs. And he would smile the biggest smiles while he was doing it.

On Tuesday, the day of the performance, we got him dressed in his black pants and white shirt and made promises of presents, hugs, and chocolate milk. And Braden was excited.

He had to leave the guitar at home.

But when we took our seats in the audience, and I caught a glimpse of Braden's face, I knew it wasn't going to happen.

I recognized the look. The look of fear. Anxiety. Of get me the hell off of this stage right now or I will lose it in front of everyone. I went and got him before the performance even began and asked him if he wanted to be in the show, or if he wanted to sit with mommy. He wanted to sit with mommy.

We watched the show together. He stood on my lap and watched his friends and subtly did the dance moves himself. I periodically asked him if he wanted to go join his friends for the next number, to which he would emphatically say, No!!!

He was okay. But me, I don't know. There was a point during a dance routine to Justin Bieber's "Baby, Baby, Baby" where I actively was holding back tears.

What the hell is wrong with me? I thought. How incredibly selfish and immature and ridiculous?

I got over it. But I've thought a lot about why I had that reaction. And here it is:

I don't want Braden ever to feel scared. Or anxious. Or overwhelmed. Or pressured. I want him to feel safe and loved and secure.

I want him to feel free.

I want him to be able to dance like no one is watching. Even if everyone is.

Because that kid loves to dance.

That look I saw on his face up there - I never want to see that look.

I wanted to hug him so tight that he would forget he ever felt that way.

And I want to protect him so that he will never feel that way again.

But I can't.

And he will.

It may not be at a dance performance (and if he wants to sit out every stupid school performance for the rest of his life, I'll support him wholeheartedly).

But it will be on a playground. Or at a sports game. Or with friends. Or with a girlfriend. Or with a career.

This world is a cruel, scary place.

And Braden will be sad sometimes. And scared sometimes.

And I can't do anything about it.

But God, I want to. If I could spend the rest of the minutes of my life expending every bit of energy to ensure that my little boy never felt an ounce of fear or pain or sadness, I would do it.

Life doesn't work that way.

Shit.

And sitting there with Braden in my lap watching his friends rock it out to a Justin Bieber song, I guess it hit me.

This releasing him into the world thing is going to be hard.

Out Out

2012-05-22T08:56:00.000-04:00

I can't even remember the last time I've gone out two nights in a row on a weekend. And I don't mean out to a restaurant, or to a park, or to the zoo. I mean OUT OUT.

"Out out" = an excursion without children. With other adults besides one's spouse. With drinks. And food. At least 2 miles from your place of residence.

Perhaps some of you reading are childless, or single, and go "out out" all the time. Perhaps you can't even imagine what it is like to come to a point in your life where you repeat the word "out" twice and put quotation marks around it to reflect the rarity of it all.

To you I say, you are familiar. I used to be you. I never thought I wouldn't be you. But now, I am so not you. Someday you could be me (shudder).

Perhaps some of you reading don't feel the need to go "out out" anymore. To deal with crowded restaurants and reservations and taxis and babysitters and all the hassle.

To you I say, I get it. But really, you need to get "out out" more. Because going "out out" is fun.

Here's the lowdown of events:

Friday (May 19th)
Occasion - Friend's birthday
Babysitter - Hubby
Venue - 901 Restaurant & Bar
Partners in crime - Four super cool moms.
Restaurant review - Eh. It took them 45 minutes to bring our first round of drinks, so we got them comped. And then the food took so long that we got a comped entree. But hey, with such good company, who cares? And they had super cool menus that light up like an IPad. Oh, technology these days!
Drink of choice - Dirty Martini, then red wine (which may explain my Saturday morning headache).
Transportation - Metro and taxi
Bedtime - 12:45 am. Whether you think that's early or late probably depends on what category of person you are, as summarized above. For me, I think it's late. Very, very late.
Overall comments - Ahhhhhhhhh. What a great night. Usually when I hang out with these women we are handing out goldfish crackers, chasing after rogue children, and struggling to maintain an uninterrupted conversation longer than 30 seconds. We've done girl's nights out before, usually locally or at someone else's house, but getting downtown? Getting downtown made us feel REAL. We're not just mom friends lurking in the suburbs. We are COOL, yo. We can get dressed up and put on make up and go out with the rest of the DC populace and blend in fine, thank you very much. The 6:30am Casey wake up call and slight hangover the next morning was entirely worth it.

Saturday (May 20)
Occasion - We hadn't seen these friends in forever there really is no excuse so lets get together on Saturday so we don't fall off the face of the earth officially.
Babysitter - Dear Emma, a neighbor and college student who doesn't care that my dog jumps all over her and Casey screams upon her arrival.
Venue - Tsunami Sushi & Lounge followed by a house party (yes, you read that right - a house party).
Partners in crime - My husband, his friend from college, and his boyfriend. Said friend from college stripped down to his underwear at our wedding while dancing to "Living on a Prayer." (Just to give you an idea of the tone for the evening).
Restaurant review - Oh so yummy. We ordered rolls and rolls and more rolls. And how can you beat the transsexual hostess, who has a way better body than me, even in my glory days? I would definitely go back. Even without homosexual escorts.
Drink of choice - Saki. Cold. Good stuff.
Transportation - Hubby (18 months of pregnant sobriety earned me something).
Bedtime - 11:30 pm. Not super late. But respectable for the fact that we were paying a babysitter by the hour.
Overall comments - Oh, gay DC. How I wish I could hang more often and go to fun restaurants and house parties, where it makes no difference that I don't know the host or hardly anyone else for that matter. Call me stereotypical, but I tend to get along really well with gay men. And they like me too. So I go home feeling loved and energized and tipsy and saying things to my husband like, "We really should adopt a baby someday." Sigh. It's another world. But it's fun to go "out out" and step into it every once in a while.

All this fun didn't go unpunished. To say I was tired on Sunday is a bit of an understatement. But how often do you get an "out out" doubleheader weekend? Not that often often.

Fine

2012-05-17T12:26:00.004-04:00

In the past few months, I've gotten a lot of 'how are you's'?

And then their eyes lower, and they look at me seriously - No, really, how are you?

I'm fine, I respond, automatically.

And then I give a smile and a little giggle, to really give the confidence that I am fine, and I notice the person relax a little bit, almost as to say, Oh good. So we don't have to go there.

Because do you really want to know?

Probably not.

You may want to know out of your own curiosity. Wow, what is that like, when someone really is not fine? Maybe to make yourself feel better about how fine you are, in comparison to my not fine-ness.

But you don't want to really deal with it. Really face it down and feel it and revel in the brutal truth of it all. That's too much. There are things that people just don't want to hear. So we all walk around acting like all is fine. All is perfect. With the job and the marriage and the house and the two kids and the dog and the vacations at the shore. No, we don't want to let people into the non-fine-ness of our lives. The trauma and hurt and messy kitchens and meltdowns. That would just be shameful!

There are things we don't talk about. Things we wouldn't dare admit.

Why can't we just be real?

Here's some real.

NEWSFLASH -

Your wedding probably wasn't the best day of your life.

You don't have a perfect marriage.

Your baby's birth was not the happiest time in your life (well, maybe the first four hours - but then it wasn't). You were probably in pain and confused and overwhelmed and cried a lot. And had bad hemorrhoids.

You don't love your job all the time. Sometimes you wonder if it's worth it.

You don't love staying home with your kids all the time. Sometimes you wonder if it's worth it.

Your house is in shambles sometimes and you race around to clean it up before people come over because you don't want people to think your house is indicative of your life - in disarray.

Sometimes you yell at your children and you hear your mother's voice come out of you and it scares you shitless.

You found breastfeeding really hard and wondered why you just couldn't enjoy it. Or maybe you quit and you think back on that and feel guilty, no matter how old your kids are and no matter how much you profess that it didn't matter.

You don't like exercising THAT MUCH! Sometimes you want to veg on the couch.

You don't like eating grilled chicken and raw vegetables THAT MUCH! Sometimes you just want a burger.

You don't want to take on that extra assignment at work because it will provide you opportunities to develop your skill set and work with new people. Deep down, you think that's all bullshit and you just want to be home with your family.

Underneath your make up and your designer jeans, you feel insecure about yourself and your body and how your youth is slipping away.

You worry about your kids and their development and if they will fall victim to the same traumas and insecurities that plagued you as a child.

You don't always feel grateful even when you know you should.

You doubt yourself sometimes.

You feel sorry for yourself sometimes.

You second guess your decisions sometimes.

You feel lonely sometimes.

You feel scared sometimes.

You cry sometimes.

You probably aren't fine either.

But that's what you tell me, so I'll go with it. And I'll respond likewise.

But here is my admission that no, I'm not fine.

But I'm fine enough.

Thanks for asking.

Your Turn - Laurie's Story

2012-05-16T08:42:00.000-04:00

On April 3rd, after three months of maternity leave, I eagerly returned to my law firm, filled with a sense of renewal and optimism. On April 12th, I quit my job. What I thought would “never happen to me,” happened to me. Quickly. Painfully. Surreally. I am writing this so that other women might prepare for returning to work in ways that I didn’t, or at least spend more time thinking about what could happen when returning to work after a baby.

Some background. I am (or was) a workaholic. I must admit that a big part of my identity is (or was) my job. Yes, we all know that true happiness comes from lasting relationships with friends and family, but there’s something in my blood that makes me feel, I don’t know… Important? Validated? Alive? when I’m working. It cuts deeper than pride or the desire to buy things. It has been an essential part of my being for a really long time.

(Here’s the part where I lay down on the therapist’s couch for a few minutes; feel free to skip ahead to what actually happened with my job). I think my intense work ethic stems from being brought up poor. There are many degrees of poor, I know, and while we never went without food, I still think we were poorer than most (or at least poorer than those around us, which makes you feel poor, even if you are not). My father had recurring bouts with drug and alcohol addiction, at times welfare was our family’s safety net, and while there was always a roof over our heads, it sometimes wasn’t a particularly desirable one. As I watched my parents struggle - mom cleaning hotel rooms to make ends meet and dad working shifts at Wendy’s in addition to his night job - I was determined from a very young age not to live “paycheck to paycheck.”

It’s a harsh lesson for a young kid, but one I’m glad I learned because it helped me achieve things throughout my life. As young as middle school I thought about my grades as my access to college. When choosing a college, I thought about my loan debt after school and opted for the “best value” school. When picking a major I didn’t think about what I would enjoy, but rather what would land me a job. Even going to law school, it was more about financial stability than a drive to be a lawyer. Frankly, I didn’t know the first thing about lawyers. I just wanted to enhance my career.

And boy, did my employers love me. Whether waiting tables at Waffle House or working around the clock in a Manhattan law firm, I always had a great attitude and worked as hard as possible. Team members are slacking off and leaving me with all the work? That’s great, gives me the opportunity to shine! Going to work for a notoriously difficult partner - the one the other partners openly warn you about while you are interviewing? Sounds like job security to me! Okily-dokily.

And of course, when the money starting flowing after school (my husband is also an attorney) we went straight to work paying down our student loans, building up our savings and maxing out our 401ks. Up until I left my job, my husband and I both had six figure jobs. He drives a Honda Civic - an old one. I wait until I have a coupon to buy a 12-pack of paper towels at BJs. That’s not to say we don’t splurge once in a while, but worrying about money and whether there will be enough is always at the back of our minds.

But I digress. In summarizing many years in a few short paragraphs I am trying to convey to you that a big part of my life – what I do for a living and how I live when I’m not working – has been premised on my desire for financial security for my family.

Which is why no one is more surprised than me that I quit my job.

(Here’s where you can jump back in if you opted to skip the therapy session). After law school I did two clerkships (one in state court and one in federal court). Then I went to work in a firm in Manhattan. It wasn’t BigLaw, but it still required me to be available 24-7, and when I went to work in the morning, I didn’t know if I’d be getting home by 8:00 pm or 2:00 am. I couldn’t plan anything on weekends because I never knew if I’d be working (and most of the time I was). After 3 years of insanity and making excuses to friends and family as to why I was always brushing them off, I found a job closer to home with better hours and less stressed out partners. I was happy with my new firm and thoroughly enjoyed going to work each day.

While I was pregnant, I didn’t think much about how having a baby was going to affect my career. The federal judge that I clerked for and the women partners at my firms had children, and those kids grew into well-adjusted, loving and successful adults. If my role models could do it, surely I could too. Yes, I would have to work hard, on little sleep, but I’ve been there and done that before. Just find a good day care, enjoy every minute of maternity leave to bond with my son, and come back to work more resolved than ever to work hard for my family.

I didn’t have a clue.

Looking back now, I was pretty naïve. When my bosses asked me how long I thought I would need for maternity leave, I was thinking that three months was probably too long, but other people said I would need at least that, so that’s what I asked for. I didn’t want my bosses to think I was a slacker or that they couldn’t count on me for future work. I didn’t want to start maternity leave until the week of my due date. Again, I was already trying to demonstrate how my son would not interfere with my job.

Even while I was on maternity leave, falling in love with my son, I was looking forward to getting back to work. I loved every second I was with him, but with my husband working all the time, I was getting tired of being the sole house cleaner and cook (neither of which I am especially good at). I even went out to buy new office clothes, happy that I could fit into something that didn’t have an elastic belt and wasn’t a floral print. As my return date loomed near, I got my son ready for daycare (we went on play dates at the center to meet the other kids) and overall I was feeling blessed to have a beautiful son, a wonderful husband and a great job, everything I ever wanted. And then my first day back at work…

Did I mention how I didn’t have a clue?

Nothing could prepare me for the intense emotions I felt when I dropped my son off for his first day. It was at that moment that I realized that I was placing my infant child, who cannot not yet talk, or walk, or communicate other than by crying, into the custody of strangers for 10-12 hours a day, 5 days a week. One person is trying to watch three other crying babies in addition to watching mine. How can she manage that when I found it all-consuming to nurture one child? Why is she trying to prop Jacob up on a Boppie? He’s never been propped up on a Boppie before; why does she think he wants to try it now and why isn’t she sitting with him to make sure he doesn’t fall off? Why am I crying like a baby in front of these other parents and day care employees?

That was the first morning. Everyone said the first day would be tough, that I would feel better with time, but I didn’t. Granted, I didn’t give it much time. Each day made me feel more certain that I was making a mistake by leaving my son for so long. It bothered me that every time I went to visit him (I breastfed him during my lunch hour), there was someone new watching him. It bothered me that babies were crying and no one would immediately rush to their side to make sure they were ok. It especially bothered me that when I went to pick Jacob up at night, he was the last baby there. All of the other babies were out of there by late afternoon.

So my schedule very quickly set in as follows: Wake up. Feed Jacob and get him ready for the day. Drop him off. Do a little work. Pump some milk. Do a little work. Drive to the day care center for lunch. Do a little work. Pump. Do a little work. Drive back to daycare. Go home. Try to wipe the guilt away by playing with Jacob for the limited time he had before bedtime. Do a little work. Sleep. Repeat.

In a nutshell, I wasn’t getting my work done because I was doing it on such a fragmented basis while I was constantly worrying about my son, and I wasn’t getting much mothering done because work didn’t stop when I left the office.

I knew in a matter of days that I’d need to go part-time/telecommute or I’d have to leave and find other work. Unfortunately, my firm, though very understanding, did not look kindly to either part-time or telecommuting. So I gave notice. When it came down to it, my concern for the well-being of my child outweighed my life-long quest for continued financial security.

I don’t mean this to be all doom and gloom or to suggest that mothers can’t be simultaneously incredible at working and parenting. I know people who do it every day and I assumed that I would be one of them. I still hope to be one of those people. I send out my resume almost daily in search for part-time employment. But this experience has taught me that working moms make a huge, huge sacrifice that is largely ignored (or at least not really talked about) - having to deal with the emotions of being separated from their children while they are earning money for their family’s sake. My point in writing is to share my experience that, by not planning and not really understanding what I was getting into, everything blew up in my face in a way that I wasn’t expecting it to.

Lessons learned:

1) If you can, live close to family. So many people I’ve talked to have Grandma or an aunt or someone else chipping in. I think I would have managed the transition back into full-time work if a family member was watching Jacob. My mom and sister live down south, and I live in the northeast. After law school, I thought it would be easier for me to find work close to my law school instead of returning to Georgia. While I still think that is true, it really doesn’t matter if that first job was easier to find since I now need that family support.

2) Don’t dismiss nannies: every woman partner that I’ve talked to that has succeeded with both work and motherhood has had a nanny. I dismissed the advice; I didn’t want a stranger in the house and I thought I’d feel better with a regulated institution watching my child, but I didn’t. Had I put in the work and found someone loving that I could trust, maybe I would have felt less guilty when I returned to work.

3) There is no such thing as too much maternity leave. Take what you can if you can afford it. I think I would have been less stressed out if Jacob was a little more responsive and less helpless. Even at four months, Jacob looks bigger and less fragile than he did at three.

4) If working all the time is going to make you feel guilty, try to plan accordingly. My firm had a high billable hour expectation. I wish that I looked at part-time/in-house/government jobs a long time ago instead of voluntarily leaving a job (I still can’t believe that I did it!) without having the next one lined up only to swim in the vast sea of unemployed lawyers.

I do not regret my decision to stay home with my son, and I feel so grateful that I am in a financial position to choose to do so. Still, I feel like I could have avoided a very traumatic couple of weeks and the making of big life-changing decisions on short notice if there was better planning on my part.

This post was written by Laurie.

A Good Day Is...

2012-05-14T14:05:00.000-04:00

Sleeping in until 9:15 am.

9:15 am!!!!!

Awakening to this face:

And this face:

Eating 1300 calorie Fajita Nachos from Don Pablos for lunch. (My choice for venue - I'm high class, you see).

Buying flowers.

Planting flowers.

Laughing at my husband as he pretends to have a green thumb.

Napping.

Not working.

Not watching my husband work.

Going to the pool.

And getting wet.

Eating outside.

With a Corona. On a Sunday.

Hugging my kids as we struggle to get one good picture.

And then kissing them both goodnight.

Talking to my mom and stepmom and best friend.

Talking to my husband.

Breathing in and out.

And going to sleep. Without stress or sleep aids.

It was a good day.

A really good day.

It just so happened to be Mother's Day.

But the beauty of life is that it didn't have to be.

Happiness is there for me every day if I want it.

It's just up to me to embrace it.

Mother's Day Battle Cry

2012-05-11T08:08:00.000-04:00

Earlier this week Braden asked me what Mother's Day was. After a long winded explanation, involving explicit instructions to not disturb me until after 10am on Sunday, he asked the quintessential little kid question:

When is kid's day?

To which I gave the quintessential adult answer:

Everyday is kid's day.

It's true isn't it?

And it got me thinking. How is that fair?

Why is it that we mothers have to wait until Mother's Day, a fake, generic, impossible to get brunch reservations Hallmark holiday, to take a little time for ourselves? To ask for what we want?

And what is it mother's really want? It's not flowers or jewelry or framed pictures of the family. (Those are nice - thanks, honey).

It's time for ourselves.

Because every day of every month of every year we spend every ounce of ourselves on others - on our work, on our husbands, on our kids. And guilt ensures that we wouldn't have it any other way.

We do it with a smile (most of the time). But we are tired. We are burnt out. We are, in many ways, shadows of our former selves, straining to remember who we were and what we used to do before we had the children that we love more than anything.

In many ways, that's the inevitable result of wanting it all.

But it doesn't mean that we don't deserve more time for ourselves. With no guilt, no regrets, and no second thoughts. We shouldn't have to wait until May to be told that we are entitled to a luxury or two.

What we mothers need to ask for on Mother's Day is the opportunity for more Mother's Days. For time to regroup. For time to self reflect. For time to find ourselves again.

Because although we are mothers, a job that brings more joy than anything, we are also women. With an identity. With needs. With dreams.

And the more we are allowed to take some time outs, the better mothers we will be for it.

So lets all enjoy our brunch, our sleep in, and some well deserved pampering this Sunday.

But lets do it more often.

Thanks

2012-05-09T11:13:00.000-04:00

I really was a complete novice when I started this whole blogging thing. SEO, sponsors, Babble Top 100 lists, Twitter - I didn't really get it (and I kind of still don't).

My blogging was more of a hobby - an outlet of sorts. A way to connect.

But I wasn't a real blogger. Not like Amalah and Kelle Hampton and Redneck Mommy and all those "famous," professional, bloggers I read. And let's be honest - I'm still not there at all. Far from it.

But today, I do feel a bit more legitimate.

Check me out - I made the Find Law Greedy Associates: Top 5 Lawyer Mom Blogs. And that's kind of cool!

Thank you so much, Find Law blog editors, powers that be! You've made my day. Perhaps I shall celebrate later tonight with a margarita.

Yes, that sounds quite nice.

Some Rare Facebook Gems

2012-05-08T10:29:00.001-04:00

I'm the worst kind of Facebook user.

I have a profile, but I don't really use it - I rarely post pictures or status updates. Instead, I quietly judge those that post pictures of food on a plate, status updates such as "Thank you for all the birthday wishes," and "like" campaigns that say if I don't participate, I want children with cancer to die.

But yet, I check it incessantly.

And sometimes, between all the Bejeweled Blitz statistics and sonogram photos and Spotify sharing (really, I don't care what song you are listening to) and comment soliciting status updates ("Having a bad day," "Got the best news!" "Sometimes I question humanity"), people post some good stuff.

Here are three of my favorites:

It doesn't get any better than this.

The perfect anniversary card.

Oh, the innocence.

Thank you, Facebook friends!

My 33rd Year

2012-05-03T08:46:00.003-04:00

I read an article a few weeks ago that said that a study found that 33 is the "happiest" age.

My first reaction? Well, crap. I'm 33. And this year has pretty much sucked. Am I wasting what is supposed to be the happiest year of my life?

It's just a stupid article. But it got me thinking.

About myself. About happiness. About control. About letting go. About life.

(Warning, this is going to be a deep one.)

What is happiness? Does it come from a compilation of circumstances all lining up in just the right way? So that BOOM - here it is. 33. Everything in place. The pinnacle of happiness.

That seems like a scary way to think of things. Because it depends so much on external factors. On things you can't control. It almost makes it seem like happiness hinges on luck - on things going according to plan.

What I have learned in my 33rd year so far is that there is no such things as plans. And no such thing as control. So if I can't plan for happiness and can't control the circumstances leading to it, where does that leave me?

Maybe my 33rd year is about learning some lessons.

I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to keep everything under control. Trying to manage my surroundings. Trying to plan. Trying to make sure that everyone is happy, and doing whatever must be done to ensure that.

It has affected all of my life decisions. Law school, marriage, children, career - the choice to opt out of a career.

Always trying to control. Always trying to please.

And always beating myself up when I failed at doing both.

Maybe it's time for a paradigm shift.

Maybe it's time to really learn - to really internalize - that nothing really is in my control. I can plan, I can micromanage, and I can cling to the notion that I can make everything right - that I can make everyone happy. But at the end of the day, it's futile.

Because things always seem to blow up in my face anyway.

I've been toying with the idea lately that there is no certainty in life. And when I really think about it, it's terrifying.

You mean you can't guarantee me that we will all be okay? That we will all be healthy? And happy? And prosperous? And live a fairy tale ending?

But that's not fair! I've done everything right!

It doesn't matter.

Someone reminded me the other day that every time that I drive in my car, it could be the end.

And for some reason, it really made me feel better to think of that.

It was liberating.

It's true.

Maybe I can put my hands up.

And stop trying so hard.

Maybe instead of focusing so much on controlling my circumstances, I can focus on the one - the only - thing I can control. Me.

Maybe my 33rd year is all about becoming a better person. About channeling all of that energy and effort and frustration into me - which will in turn make me into a better wife, a better daughter, a better mother, a better friend.

And that means I'm going to have to step out of my comfort zone.

It means I'm going to have to stand by and watch other people make mistakes. Without intervening. Without trying to fix it. Because at the end of the day, I can't save anyone from themselves. And everyone, including my own children, need to learn from their own mistakes.

It means I'm going to have to disappoint people. And be at peace with that. Because I can't control how people view me or how people understand me. I can only be myself. And not everyone will like me or the things I have to say.

It means I'm going to have to accept that maybe life isn't going to go exactly as I planned. That maybe things won't have the outcome I want. And maybe that's okay.

It means I have to accept the things that I can't control.

And focus on the things I can.

As I was talking some of this through with a friend last week, she mentioned a poem she had read once about being on the back of God's bicycle. If you've read this blog, you know that I am the farthest thing from religious. FARTHEST THING. So the fact that I'm about to post a religious poem is kind of weird and out of character. (And it's all about Jesus. And I'm Jewish. But I digress).

But I love the message from it. That we are all on a ride in this life. And eventually, we all just have to learn to let life take over the pedals. And maybe that's what my 33rd year is all about. Maybe, in the most unexpected way, that is what will bring me real happiness.

A Tandem Ride with God

I used to think of God as my observer, my judge, keeping track of the things I did wrong, so as to know whether I merited heaven or hell when I die. He was out there, sort of like a president. I recognized His picture when I saw it, but I didn't really know Him.

But later on, when I met Jesus, it seemed as though life was rather like a bike, but it was a tandem bike, and I noticed that Jesus was in the back helping me pedal. I didn't know just when it was He suggested we change, but life has not been the same since I took the back-seat. He makes life exciting. When I had control, I thought I knew the way. It was rather boring, but predictable. It was the shortest distance between two points. But when He took the lead, He knew delightful long cuts, up mountains, and through rocky places and at break-through speeds; it was all I could do to hang on! Even though it often looked like madness, He said, "Pedal!" I was worried and anxious and asked, "Where are you taking me?" He laughed and didn't answer and I started to learn to trust. I forgot my boring life and entered into adventure. And when I'd say, "I'm scared," He'd lean back and touch my hand.

He took me to people with gifts that I needed, gifts of healing, acceptance and joy. They gave me their gifts to take on my journey, our journey. And we were off again. He said, "Give the gifts away; they're extra baggage, too much weight." So I did, to the people we met, and I found in giving I received, and still our burden was light.

I did not trust Him, at first, in control of my life. I thought He'd wreck it, but He knows bike secrets, knows how to make it bend to take sharp corners, jump to clear high rocks, fly to shorten scary passages. And I'm learning to shut up and pedal in the strangest places, and I'm beginning to enjoy the view and the cool breeze on my face with my delightful constant companion.

And when I'm sure I just can't do anymore, He just smiles and says. . . "Pedal."

- Author unknown.

Your Turn - Kate's Story

2012-05-02T08:01:00.000-04:00

I wish I could say this was my plan all along, that I could claim this as my own brand of wisdom—but I can’t. I do think I was guided along a plan that was best for me, a plan that would incorporate all the things I held to be important.

It was important to me to go on to graduate school and do something meaningful in my life. It was also important to me to be the best mother I could be to any children I might have. I had no idea how to reconcile those two aims.

I applied to the medical school of my choice . . . and I was waitlisted. I became a police officer and a firefighter, and I volunteered on the side as an EMT. I met and married another police officer who had two children already. Medical school was put on a back burner as I immersed myself in sudden motherhood and cut back my work hours.

Then, my marriage fell apart, and I was a single mom of a very young child. If trying to balance a career is hard when you have a spouse to share the load, being a single mom borders on the brink of insanity. Going to graduate school was no longer even on the agenda. Instead, I worked as a medical transcriptionist from home as it seemed the best way to provide for us and to be a “stay-at-home mom.”

This way, I was there when my daughter got up in the morning, there to see her off to school, there to welcome her home and hear about her day, there to make dinner, help with homework, and take her to activities, and there to tuck her into bed at night. One thing I especially appreciated was that I did not have to weigh my work needs against how sick my daughter might be. School breaks were more difficult because she had to entertain herself for hours at a time while I worked.

However, my brain was melting. I would have mental images of my brain, in its liquefied form, draining from my ear canals. The monotony was driving me insane. Transcription is putting some else’s words into written form. I have learned that, professionally, I need to create my own words, my own ideas, and develop my own themes.

About two years ago, I was called to jury duty for a second-degree rape case. It was a two-week trial. As I sat in the jury box, I realized that this was where I needed to be, in a courtroom, advocating for what is just and right. The thought had never crossed my mind before. No one in my family was an attorney. In fact, my family was shocked when I became a police officer. Besides, I hated television depictions of lawyers. I found them conceited, condescending, abrasive, and rude. But the lawyers, on both sides, in this trial behaved nothing like that. This was important work. The lawyers crafted their own arguments, and used their own creative abilities.

I did some calculations. My daughter was older, more independent, and developing her own interests. She still needed a parent, but not a full-time caregiver. We could both be students, graduate at the same time, and begin new adventures.

The trial ended, and I began studying for the LSAT (and started my blog, Today and Tomorrow). I started law school the following year. I am currently finishing my first year of school. My daughter is currently finishing her sophomore year of high school.

I love the way it has worked out. I wish I could say that I had two important goals in my life, both of which asked for my focus and dedication, and that I decided to raise my family first and then to go to law school and begin my second career. But, that would not be the truth. The truth is that while I did make conscious decisions to put my children first while they were young and have faith that the career would work out later, it was happenstance in light of my personal efforts. Had I been accepted to medical school immediately, I would have gone. Then, if and when children came, I would have had to make the same heart-straining decisions as other dual-career women. Instead, mercifully, I was waitlisted, and the priorities presented themselves in an order that was best for me.

Now, I want to be a successful example of another option for women to choose from. Clearly, this plan is not without concern. I am “old.” I will have huge student loan debt. I have more responsibilities while I am in school than my footloose and single classmates. But, I am so incredibly happy.

This post was written by Kate. You can read her blog at http://allthistomorrow.blogspot.com/.

My Bum Toe

2012-04-30T11:12:00.000-04:00

I am one of those people that always has random ailments. Or maybe everyone does, they just aren't as big of a baby as I am and don't complain about it. Or write blog posts about it.

A few months ago I started getting these weird shooting pains in my left big toe every time I exercised (which I did for three weeks or so. Now that's done). It probably didn't help that I was wearing the same sneakers I had worn when I went to Australia six and half years ago. I AM SERIOUS. That's how little I exercise - six years, same sneakers.

In any event, I noticed it was hurting, but then my life kind of fell apart.

I stopped thinking about my big toe. And stopped thinking about my health generally.

Things just started to fall to the wayside. Exercise (okay, I wasn't really doing that anyway). Eating three meals a day. Eating vegetables. My one weeknight a week wine policy. My no regular soda policy. My no caffeine policy. My vitamin intake. My sleep schedule. My leg shaving habits.

The truth is, I just haven't been taking very good care of myself. I haven't had the time to. Or the energy to care.

But last week, when I took Casey to his 18 month appointment, I realized I probably needed to check in with myself too.

So I went on a doctor appointment scheduling spree. I went ALL OUT. We're talking gyn appointment, endocrinologist appointment, dermatologist appointment, annual physical, psychiatrist appointment, and dentist appointment. Appointments, appointments, oh my!

Oh yeah, and my bum toe. That's what this whole post is about, right?

A few weeks ago the shooting pain turned to numbness. So now the tip of my left big toe is numb. Which isn't the worst thing in the world, but what if the numbness eventually spread from my big toe to the rest of my body and then I would be one of those people that couldn't experience pain and I'd have to wear eye patches while I slept so I didn't scratch my corneas?

I wasn't sure who exactly to make an appointment with, so I chose an orthopedic surgeon. As I write that, it looks even more ridiculous. But that's who I saw. I went this morning.

And can I say it was the BEST DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENT EVER! The appointment was at 9:00am. I was leaving the office by 9:12am.

Let me tell you, this big toe numbness is SERIOUS BUSINESS.

Apparently I bruised my nerve when I jogged in 6 year old sneakers. Perhaps someday the feeling will come back. Perhaps it won't.

Whatever. If the worst thing I have to deal with in life is a numb left big toe, I should thank my lucky stars.

One appointment down, 6 to go. I'm on my way.

Would Have Been Me

2012-04-27T08:50:00.003-04:00

One of the cases I worked on at one of my prior jobs is finally going to trial. Years of discovery and research and depositions and settlement starts and stops and motions back and forth and Judge reassignments - my life for a long time - are finally coming to a head.

And I'm not there.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm pining to be there. The trial is in another state, and is going to last weeks. The preparation is brutal. The nights are brutal. Life, outside of the trial itself, screeches to a halt. You live and breathe transcripts and documents and witness prep sessions.

How could I have done that? Left my children and put my life on hold for months in preparation, and weeks in court? I couldn't have.

But I'd be lying if I said that there wasn't a small part of me wanting to be there.

Wanting the rush of going to a courtroom and watching testimony and slipping notes to the first chair attorney with questions they should ask on cross.

Wanting the satisfaction of those "look what I got that witness to say" moments.

Wanting the camaraderie that comes with being on a trial team.

Wanting the pride of finishing something I started.

Wanting to feel like a real lawyer.

Biglaw was crazy and tedious and stressful. But there were moments - rare moments - where I felt excited about what I was doing. Where I felt a rush of adrenaline that it was all worth it.

And this morning, I'm cognizant of the fact that I'm missing out on what would have been some of those moments for me.

So while I am thanking my lucky stars that I am avoiding the late nights and the stress and the craziness of it all, it still makes me a little sad.

It probably would have been kind of cool.

Pretty Bird

2012-04-25T08:52:00.000-04:00

Assuming the weather isn't treacherous, I try to take the kids on a walk every night after dinner. It breaks up the final "witching hours" of the day, and it's good to get outside.

Last week we were doing our general routine, and I was outside trying to get Casey strapped into his stroller. He wasn't being cooperative and the straps were all tangled and in the midst of all this, I hear Braden:

Mommy, look at this!

Hold on Braden, Mommy's busy trying to get Casey in his stroller.

But Mommy, look now!

Braden, please be patient!

And so on and so forth until finally, after about 90 seconds or so, I could look at Braden.

And then I screamed. Loudly.

He was holding a dead bird. And a very newly dead bird, because said dead bird looked to be in pristine condition. With no trauma, blood, etc. Perhaps the dead bird died of old age and simply fell from the sky? Or perhaps some kind of freak bird flu? Which was now contaminating my son?

I panicked.

I picked Braden up and raced him into the house and washed his hands like I've never washed them before. In the process, I left Casey outside, strapped into his stroller, unattended and still crying from the fear of my gutteral scream just moments before.

I'm Mother of the Year!

Braden was quite confused and couldn't understand why I made him throw the pretty bird in the grass. And why the pretty bird wasn't flying away.

It was a red cardinal, by the way.

It took about 10 minutes before I was able to chill out and laugh about the whole thing. Especially when I realized it kind of reminded me of this clip from Dumb and Dumber:

Yes, the whole thing is funny in retrospect. But I am still traumatized.

Humbled by a Shot (at Life)

2012-04-23T09:12:00.000-04:00

Casey's 18 month birthday was last Friday. And with it came pride, some bittersweet tears as I entered stats into the baby book, and then the dreaded well check up at the doctor's.

Why the dread?

It's the vaccines. I always opt for them, but it always makes me nervous. I can't pinpoint why. Perhaps it's a mistrust of all powers that be or modern medicine or memories of being held down for shots as a child myself. Perhaps it's my autistic cousin and the big question mark that surrounds the why (and yes, I know there is no proven link). Perhaps it's just the angst of being a mom and having something injected into my baby.

Casey was set to get the MMR this go round. You know, the big one. The one that's controversial and has all the side effects and potential for fevers, rash, etc. I was stressing about it.

And then came Friday night.

I attended an event hosted by my friend and fellow blogger Monica Sakala, (if you haven't read her blog, Wired Mama, you should check it out) and UN Foundation Specialist Anastacia Dellacio. The event was to benefit the UN Foundation's Shot@Life campaign, which aims to ensure that all children worldwide have access to vaccines. It was held at Dolci Gelati headquarters, which Anastasia and her husband own (Yes, she's a do-gooder and owns a gelato company. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn't. She's just that awesome.)

First, the fun stuff. Did I mention there was gelato?

Photos courtesy of Tech Savvy Mama, also in attendance!

And pastries.

And prosecco.

And awesome women, many of whom have blogs I have read for months now (and yeah, I was a little star struck at the beginning. Just a little).

There was indulgence. And good conversation. But there was also a cause.

First there was a presentation, where we learned some pretty horrifying statistics. Every 20 seconds a child somewhere dies from a vaccine preventable disease. The number of children dying every year from preventable diseases in developing countries is nearly equivalent to half the children entering kindergarten each year in the U.S. And this doesn't have to happen - it only costs $20 to vaccinate a child for life.

The presenter told a story of meeting a woman at a third world vaccination clinic. The woman had walked 15 miles, with a baby on her back, to get the measles vaccine for her son. She had done this because she had already lost two children to the measles - the very disease I had huffed and puffed about getting Casey vaccinated for that very day.

To say I was humbled put it mildly.

But really, they had me at this video:

No matter what your vaccination stance is, I think we all agree that we are lucky to have a choice. And every mother, everywhere, deserves that choice.

So lets make it happen!

You can donate here and give some child somewhere a shot at life.

Your Turn - "Alice's" Story

2012-04-19T07:30:00.000-04:00

So a lot of people have asked me what it’s like to be a working mom.

Actually, that’s not true. No one has asked me that.

But you know, I bet people are somewhat curious. Because when I was considering whether to go back to work after maternity leave, I desperately wanted to know.

What is it like to leave your baby for hours at a time in a stranger’s care? Will you feel sad for missing all the ‘firsts’? Will it weaken the bond between the two of you? Will you be replaced as the most important person in your baby’s eyes?

I especially wanted to know what it would be like for a corporate attorney working mom. My job is notoriously unplannable. We are on-call 24-7, 365 days a year, resulting in many cancelled vacations and telling my family every year--I might have to miss Christmas, start without me! When a deal is on, it is ON and you work night and day like kids in a sweatshop until the deal is done. If you need to fly out to another coast 3 weekends in a row to bash it out, you do it. Heck, if you need to fly to another continent to bash it out, you do that too.

How could I possibly be a somewhat present mom with a job like that?! On top of it all, I was a nursing Nazi. For some reason, I was fervently attached to the idea that my baby MUST DRINK MY MILK for at least one year. Anything less would feel utterly demoralizing. But let’s just say that high-stress and lactation do not mix. Making milk requires as much psychological conditioning as anything else. And who is going to let you take a pump-break in the middle of a 7 hour client meeting?!

The more I considered these obstacles looming ahead of me, the more I wanted to just throw in the towel and not go back to work. But the ever level-headed spouse reminded me that we really needed my income and it just might not be so bad. Why don’t we give it a try? If it’s really all that bad, I can quit. Anytime.

I looked at my $300 breast pump and thought, that’s going to be the dumbest investment I ever made. I’ll use it for 2 weeks and then quit. Well, it’s been more than a year since I’ve returned to work from maternity leave, so shut my mouth and color me surprised!

So what has it been like?

In a word: exhausting.

If ever in my life I have felt tested and stretched, it was laughably ridiculous compared to the unrelenting strain of working a high-stress corporate job and trying to be as present as possible with a high-need insatiably curious baby.

Being a working mom is like having 2 jobs. No, it IS having 2 jobs. You work all day with the stress and pressures of various project deadlines and then you come home and instead of winding down with a bowl of ice-cream and some Netflix, you jump right into the fire of your second job.

In my second job, the client was much more demanding and unreasonable than any in my corporate job. This client would scream and wail every time I tried to change his diapers, leaving trails of his poop everywhere as he wriggled and writhed. He refused to eat the nutritious food I slaved to make and screamed for crackers and chips. He threw his food on the floor repeatedly. He wanted you to carry his 23 lb body on long walks and screamed and wailed if you so much as hinted that you were going to drop him in a stroller. In fact he wanted to be carried all the time. Hoisted up so he could see the world from a different vantage point. And gesture that he wanted this and that PRONTO.

And finally, after you’ve engaged this little client in an epic bedtime battle and WON, you don’t even get to relish that sweet victory with some ice-cream and Netflix. Nope. You tiptoe out of his room and right to your desk and continue grinding out the mind-numbing draft for your other job. After working the night away, you brush your teeth and hop into bed, hoping and praying that insomnia does not rear its ugly head.

What about the weekends? You don’t get weekends as a corporate lawyer.

So where in this narrative is exercise? Where is meeting up with friends? Where is going out with your hubby? Where are your hobbies? Where is your freaking bowl of ice-cream and next episode of Big Love?

It’s as poignantly absent as your sanity.

After living this kind of “so-called” life for a while, I had an epiphany--a beam of sunlight amidst the foggy clouds. Why don’t I just hire a babysitter and give myself some ME time? It’s worth spending a little cash to get back a little sanity.

And you know what? I can’t.

When I need a break the most, that’s the time I can’t do it the most.

I can’t spend any more time away from my baby.

Maybe everyone has a different equilibrium point after which they are happy to spend time away from their kid. In a given week, I don’t want to spend any more than 30 hours away from my baby. That’s why I work a 70% schedule.

But if work is killing me that week and making me put in 50+ hours, there’s no way in heck I’m going to take precious baby time away and do something for myself.

But I want so desperately to have some me time.

So there you have it. The catch-22 of working moms. Damned (by guilt) if you do make time for yourself. And damned if you don’t. Eventually I start to feel like a rubber band getting stretched way too thin. It seems like only a matter of time before the inevitable snap.

Of course not every working mom is going to feel this beleaguered. Hopefully your job is not as hellacious and/or your child is not so demanding. And I imagine it’s probably a lot easier if you’re one of the lucky gals with loving parents in the vicinity.

But that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it…for now anyway.

This post was written by "Alice in Wonderland." You can read her blog at www.onaxos.blogspot.com.

Stay at Home Survival

2012-04-17T08:04:00.001-04:00

I've received a lot of emails from women who are considering staying home. Women who are like I was - struggling with the balance between work and family in a stressful job, but who never considered or planned on becoming a stay at home mom. These women aren't crafty. Aren't good cooks. Really have no desire to clean a house or do laundry or become a room parent. But they, like I did, are considering throwing in the towel on a career nonetheless.

These women are nervous. They ask me questions like, what do you do all day? Does it get boring? How do you keep from feeling completely isolated? How do you meet people? Do you still shower daily? Am I about to make a huge mistake?

I am by no means a pro at this. But after a year plus, I have learned some things. So here is the post where I impart my survival techniques onto you:

SAHM Survival Tip #1 - Download "Words with Friends"
To answer one of the above questions, yes, it does get boring sometimes. Very! Days are long. Yes, I play with the kids. I engage. But a person can only do so much for so long. So what can one do to pass the time?

Words with Friends, people. It has changed my life. Just when I think I can't take another five minutes of listening to my kids fight over a matchbox car, I reach for my Iphone and there it is. I have multiple games going at once, so there is always a play to be made. It is the perfect distraction. And it keeps the mind sharp, just like legal research!

SAHM Survival Tip #2 - Ignore your kids sometimes.
When I was working, I remember coming home once and being annoyed that the nanny had put Braden in his crib so she could clean up the kitchen. How dare someone relegate my 1 year old to an empty room, to an empty crib, when it isn't nap time? He must be entertained! Engaged! Constantly stimulated!

Okay, former self, chill out. I have learned the art of ignoring my kids, and it is essential to getting through the day. For a while I was doing all of my self care and household chores during nap time, so as not to interfere with my time with the kids. Guess what? That meant I had no time to myself. ZERO. So now, I do the dishes and the laundry while the kids play by themselves downstairs. I chat on the phone with friends during snack time. And in full circle fashion, I put Casey in his crib in the morning while I shower. And you know what? My kids are fine and will be all the better for it.

SAHM Survival Tip #3 - Get out of the house.
This may seem obvious, but it's HUGE. When you have a newborn and it's cold out and you're tired and looking like crap, it's easy just to hang inside all day. BIG MISTAKE. I learned this the hard way. Now, no matter what, I get out. If it's raining and dark and miserable and Braden has no school and we have no plans, I go to the grocery store. To the post office. To the (gasp!) mall. I'll make errands for myself. Hmmmm, I really feel like a Diet Dr. Pepper. Perhaps I will drive to the Harris Teeter (approximately 20 minutes away) to purchase one?

Must. get. out. Everyday.

SAHM Survival Tip #4 - Don't be afraid to annoy others.
When I first had kids I was very cognizant of what restaurants I took them to. I didn't want to annoy other people with "kid noise" when it wasn't appropriate. I stuck to fast food type establishments where I could get in and out quickly.

I've let that go, to a reasonable degree. Kids cry. They throw stuff. They can be irritating. But my philosophy is, if I am at a restaurant before 6pm, then anything goes. Other patrons must come at their own risk. And lets face it, I'm not going to fine dining establishments anyway, but you get my point. I like to eat out. It's always been something I look forward to. And after a long day with two kids, I reward myself with that sometimes. My apologies in advance.

SAHM Survival Tip #5 - Embrace McDonalds
Speaking of fast food, I used to be all about organic food for my kids. And that's still what I buy. But I have to say, there's just something about McDonalds.... Kids love it. The fries. The nuggets. The apple slices. The stupid toy. Meals at McDonalds last longer than any other meal my kids eat. They relish every moment. So why deny them of this happiness? (Or myself, for that matter?)

I limit it to once a week for lunch. It breaks up the day, and it won't kill them.

(And also, along these lines, please also embrace Velveeta Shells and Cheese).

SAHM Survival Tip #6 - Embrace Nick Jr.
Another rule I had for the nanny - no TV! I think there is some rule decreed by some people somewhere that you shouldn't let your kids watch TV until they are 2.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Look, I don't spend my days gallivanting about the house while my kids are hypnotized by the television. But, there are times that things need to be done. Meals need to be made. Laundry needs to be done. Sanity needs to be restored. Every once in a while, I, and the kids, just need a breather.

My rule is never more than 2 hours per day total. I break that rule sometimes, depending on circumstances (illness, federal holiday, mental breakdown, etc.). Some days they don't watch any. But I don't have guilt about it anymore. Besides, have you seen Yo Gabba Gabba? Or heard the Mickey Mouse Hot Dog song? Fabulous!

SAHM Survival Tip #7 - Get a Babysitter
Why, oh why did it take me so long to take my own advice? When I first started staying home, I had a shitload of guilt about getting a babysitter during the weekdays. I mean, come on, I had just quit my job. Meaning, I was not making ANY MONEY. Where did I get off hiring someone to come relieve me from my new job?

Then, when some freelance work started coming in, I got a regular babysitter to come for a couple of hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays so that I could do work. Now the work is drying up, and guess what - I am keeping the babysitter! At the end of the day, I think nothing about eating out once or twice a week, or going to a movie. Why not forgo a meal out and give myself an hour or two of free time once or twice a week? It does wonders for my sanity. And the kids love our babysitter, Joey. (Yes, a guy. He's awesome).

SAHM Survival Tip #8- Lose your pride.
As a SAHM, it is crucial to keep an active social calendar. Not for your kids - for you. Otherwise, you will be starved of adult interaction and find yourself talking just a bit too long to Starbucks barristers.

How do you find friends for such a social calendar? Become shameless.

I have been known to approach random women at Barnes & Noble and ask for their phone number. It's a crazy thing, the whole SAHM dating thing. But you've got to put yourself out there. Risk rejection. Take a chance. And for me, it's paid off with some good friends (oh yeah, for the kids too).

SAHM Survival Tip #9 - Become a wine-o.
Self explanatory. With a couple of rules:
1) Only to be enjoyed after the kids go to bed (with a few exceptions).
2) Try to limit it to one weeknight per week (and have it to look forward to).
3) Weekends are no holds barred (weekends have to mean something).

SAHM Survival Tip #10 - Enjoy it.
Staying home with the kids is hard work. (I've written about it extensively, so I won't belabor the point). But I chose this. I wanted this. And despite the challenges, I still think it's the best job in the world. It is a job that, by its nature, is meant to be enjoyed.

But just make sure you follow tips 1-9. That makes the enjoyment come a bit easier.

Working Women

2012-04-13T08:29:00.000-04:00

Maybe I'm getting overly sensitive.

But this comment by Democratic Strategist Hilary Rosen kind of pisses me off:

"What you have is Mitt Romney running around the country, saying, 'Well, you know, my wife tells me that what women really care about are economic issues, and when I listen to my wife, that's what I'm hearing.' Guess what? His wife has actually never worked a day in her life," Rosen said.

Ann Romney's reaction?

"I made a choice to stay home and raise five boys," Romney tweeted. "Believe me, it was hard work."

Amen.

(And in the interest of full disclosure, I am a Democrat myself).

My first reaction is to go all Ann Romney on here and to yell and scream and preach that yes, raising kids is HARD WORK. Yes, work. If I was not staying at home with my two children, I would be paying someone else to do so. It's a job for them, it's a job for me. I may not receive societal recognition for it - no 401ks or social security contributions - but it's work nonetheless.

But at the end of the day, that's all just semantics.

What's more concerning is the notion that women without paying jobs shouldn't have a voice in the debate when it comes to economic issues.

Women that stay at home with their children may not receive traditional monetary rewards, but many of these women manage finances. Go grocery shopping. Fill up a gas tank. See firsthand the state of public schools. Many of these women have advanced degrees and read the newspaper and know something about something.

I'm not saying that women with paying jobs don't do or have these things.

I'm simply saying that women without paying jobs do still have something to say.

And I think it's a sad state when those in politics think it's okay to insinuate otherwise.

Just sayin.

Your Turn- Amy's Story

2012-04-11T07:43:00.000-04:00

I am mother of two wonderful (and exhausting) children, a Navy Wife, a part-time attorney, a daughter, a sister, a friend- like many of you readers, I am trying to do it all. Which I believe only multiplies the amount of guilt I feel!

I am a lawyer. Though I often wish I could talk to my 20 year old self and tell her to really reconsider her career choice. At the time, I just was not ready to be done with school and I wanted to know I could always support myself. I was not thinking like a mother and certainly not like a Navy Wife (i.e., I have already taken 2 bar exams and will probably have to take at least 2-3 more before it is all said and done). I just don't believe that at 20 we should have to decide what we are going to do for the rest of our lives. I luckily have found a wonderful nanny to love my children when I am not there and a small law firm that allows me to work only 4 days a week and recognizes the importance of my family and how that will always take precedence. But this unfortunately is a rarity in the legal field, and in 2 years time I will be moving again, starting over again, building a reputation again, all the while trying to make the move as seamless and easy on my husband and children as possible.

I am a Navy Wife. As a fellow Navy Wife once said, I am the happiest married single mother there is. My husband is an excellent partner and an amazing father. I was once told to marry a man who you would be happy to have a son just like- and I would be thrilled if my son is as wonderful as my husband. But with the nature of my husband's job, he is gone A LOT. When my daughter was 6 weeks old, he left for the first time. I was in the throws of post partum depression, and I had no family close. But I survived because if there is one thing us military wives are it is survivors. Now, I need to clarify because as far as military wives are concerned I have it rather easy. The longest my husband has every been gone straight since we have been married is 3 months. He has never been deployed for 12-18 months, or gone to Afghanistan. But I still live in constant fear that this will happen. I do not write this as a pity party, but more as informative of what military wives go through and that there is no civilian job that compares. That being said I am very blessed. My husband has a great job that he loves and is proud of and in which he is secure, which is a rarity these days.

Most importantly, I am a mother. My children are the most important thing in the world to me, and I would give anything to protect them and care for them. I work, not because I want to, but because I have to in order to provide them with the security that I often times did not have growing up. I want them to be secure, but not spoiled. I want to teach them to be sweet, but strong and independent (but not so independent that they move far away from their mommy); to be smart but not smart-alecs; to be respectful but question what is not right. But most importantly I want them to know they are loved and how special they are, and I think as a working mom this is the hardest as I feel like I am constantly leaving them! Which brings me to the guilt I mentioned above.

Guilt- no one tells you as a mother how much guilt you will feel. I feel guilty about going to work (even though I have to), about losing my patience with my children when I have only been home an hour, about wanting time to myself even though I have been at work all week, about not keeping the house clean enough, about not staying in touch with friends, about not working out, about letting my children watch tv, about serving my son cheese puffs and yogurt bites for dinner, and the list goes on and on. And my husband never feels any guilt it seems- I think men are just missing that chip.

But despite all the guilt, and all the stress of the different hats I wear, I would become a mother again in a heartbeat (in fact I want a third baby now but that is a whole other post). It is the most exhausting yet rewarding job there is. What I try to remind myself of daily is that God made me exactly the mother that my children needed- and he (unlike me) does not make mistakes.

This post was written by Amy. You can read her blog at http://parttimelawyerfulltimemommy.blogspot.com/

Flying High

2012-04-09T08:49:00.002-04:00

Scotland has come and gone. And it was amazing.

But no trip to Europe starts out great. Why? Because it inevitably involves this (hopefully minus the lightning).

Photo originally used in this post where I similarly rant about my flying phobia but similarly survived yet another trip.

So I do my normal thing. Pop a xanax before the flight. Pop another one right before take off. Pray that the drugs have enough effect to put me to sleep so that I can sleep through all the inevitable turbulence and anxiety and potential sudden death by fire bomb, if it comes to that.

Needless to say, when I arrived in Edinburgh I was relieved. The flight was over. My friend, Nigel, was waiting at the airport for me with a huge smile. I was on vacation. I had made it. My children were not rendered motherless.

It was morning in Scotland, and I had the whole day ahead of me. To be honest, with the jet lag and xanax hangover all I wanted to do was sleep, but I fought it off, knowing that the only way to adjust to the time change was to tough it out until at least 8pm. Perhaps sensing this, Nigel decided to take me on a tour of Edinburgh and its surrounding areas in his newly purchased vintage Jaguar convertible. The ride was awesome, but it was windy. And cold. On my face. Mission accomplished - it woke me up.

We stopped at a pub for lunch (fish and chips and a glass of wine, thank you very much), and on our way back to central Edinburgh, Nigel pulled into a large farm area. He mentioned that he had a friend there that flew planes. Nigel has been flying helicopters and planes as a hobby for a while now and has met a lot of interesting people in the process, so I figured he just wanted to introduce me to one of his friends who happened to be in the area.

As it so happened his friend, Jim, was home, and he was lovely. Jim was on the older side, and mentioned that he just got back from the gym, and was working out at his doctor's suggestion due to a heart condition. Despite our unexpected visit, he suggested we go visit "the hangar." Hmmmm. Okay. We drove across a field or two, and there it was - his own aircraft hangar with several planes, all of them being of the propeller, WWII, crash into a crowd at an air show variety.

I took some pictures. I had a cup of tea. And then Jim offered to take me up in one of his planes for a quick scenic flight.

The irony of this was not lost on me. I had just disembarked a commercial flight where, despite statistics and rationality, I was convinced of my own impending death. I was still experiencing the remnants of the anti-anxiety medication that enabled me to make the journey. And that was on a large, frequently inspected, these things never crash ever commercial jet flown by professional pilots with health screens who didn't have heart conditions. No, this flight would not be like that. It would just be me. And the pilot. And this plane:

It was just too perfect.

I had to do it.

He loaded up the fuel. And by loaded up the fuel, I mean took a handheld gas tank and poured it into the wing of the plane.

Then he started the plane. And by started the plane, I mean Nigel had to physically start spinning the propeller in order to get the thing revved up for the engine to kick in.

I had a seatbelt. And windows on both sides. And by windows, I mean, if I wanted to open them (which we did at one point), it was to the open air.

The weird thing is, I wasn't scared one bit.

I flew.

And it was beautiful.

And I felt free.

And my life back here in DC - with all its stresses and all its joys - seemed like world away.

It was just me. And Jim. In the air. Soaring over the coast and hills of Scotland.

It was exactly what I needed.

I won't call this conquering a fear. Just two days later, I was back at Edinburgh International Airport, taking a xanax and trying to manage my anxiety over boarding my United flight home.

But it gave me hope. Not hope that I'll get over my plane phobia (that will probably never happen).

But hope that I can still surprise myself sometimes.

That I can be whoever I want to be.

That there are still adventures in store.

That I am still evolving.

And changing.

And that every once in a while in life, I can throw my hands up in the air and say, the hell with it.

That I can fly high.

Your Turn - Leemore's Story

2012-04-04T08:30:00.000-04:00

"Your Turn" is a series of posts where readers share their stories of parenthood, work, the struggle for a balance, or just life generally. If you are interested in contributing a story, please email me at butidohavealawdegree@gmail.com, or click here.

I have been practicing as a litigator for nearly ten years, and I can't even believe it's been a decade. When I was a budding associate at one of the big firms, I thought for sure I would be out after year five. But here I am, ten years later, reevaluating my life and career choice.

I don't have regrets - I received a fantastic legal education that has not only benefitted me career-wise, but has been incredibly useful in life. My salary paid for a nice house in Los Angeles. We take nice vacations. My son goes to my preschool of choice.

I've worked at a big firm, at a small firm; for complete assholes, for lovely mentors. I've pulled countless all nighters. Most years I made - and far exceeded - my billable hour requirement, and last year, for the first time, I fell short. I was in trial until the day before my due date (I am probably the only woman relieved that my son came a week late because I needed the rest). I breastfed for a year and pumped in the most interesting of locations, including in a public restroom, during a break while deposing the plaintiff in a multi-million dollar case.

I always thought I would be able to balance it all, but when my son turned three, I realized that I could not be a litigator and the kind of mom that I wanted to be. Those two very full-time jobs simply don't mesh for me. I feel like a cliche in that I constantly feel guilty about my inability to either put in 100% at work or 100% at home.

Mostly, it's the stress of the billable hour requirement that I simply can't deal with. If I take a day or a morning off, I have to make those hours up sometime. But when? After a full day of work, followed by cooking dinner, bathtime, play time, book time, and bedtime? After all that, I am spent and need to just melt into the couch.

So, inspired by the quote "She took a leap, and grew her wings on her way down," I am giving my notice this week. And I'm scared. But extremely excited at the same time. Financially, it will be a big adjustment and a struggle, but I'm setting myself up with some contract work and other (hopefully) interesting work that I can do from home. I am also exploring the wonderful world of blogging (you can find me at A Tired Working Mommy - unfortunate name but I was clearly tired that day).

I wish I could have made it work, and perhaps this is just a phase in my life and I'll go back to full-time litigation in the future. But I haven't felt this happy and carefree in a very long time, and I'm looking forward to the possibilities that lie ahead. Wish me luck!

This post was written by Leemore. You can read her blog at www.atiredworkingmommy.blotspot.com.

My Anthem

2012-04-02T09:00:00.001-04:00

It's no secret I've been having a rough time lately.

I have had some bad days.

I have had some people in my life not treat me so great.

And not be so nice to me.

I have had people who read this blog leave some pretty nasty anonymous comments (seriously, if you're going to leave a nasty comment, at least have the balls to leave your name).

And the random stranger who shushes my child for crying at a public park (a park, people!) is getting to me more than normal.

But you know what always seems to lift my spirits?

Ms. Kelly Clarkson.

I'm normally a country girl, but how can you not want to kick some ass after listening to this song?

So take that, world!

Loving DC

2012-03-30T12:04:00.003-04:00

People ask me all the time how we ended up in DC, and the fact is, I'm not really sure. We had no good friends here. We had no family here. Our jobs didn't take us here. Instead, I think we kind of ended up here by default.

I was miserable in Manhattan. MISERABLE. For a variety of reasons, mostly of my own making. But I got to the point where everyday I just felt overwhelmed. Claustrophobic. Smothered by my job and traffic and crowded bars and booked restaurants and the four walls of our apartment. I wanted kids. I wanted freedom. I wanted OUT. And fast.

DC just seemed like a logical choice. It was in between my parents and my husband's parents. It would be cheaper (I laugh at that now). The hours would be better (I laugh at that too). We could have a house and a dog and kids (check, check, and check). We had some tangential friends and friends of friends and hey, it was closer to the south, so people have to be friendlier, right? (This is totally true by the way).

Of course, the grass is always greener, but five years in, I am loving this town. So, in gratitude for the amazing weather DC has dished out these past few weeks, here are the top 10 reasons why I love DC:

1) You can live in the 'burbs, but not really be in the 'burbs.
After leaving Cincinnati for college, I swore off the suburbs. I decided I never wanted to live anywhere where I absolutely HAD to have a car. I kept that promise for a long time, until we moved to our current house. Now, we need a car. A minivan, actually. There are trees everywhere. There's a community pool down the street. We're really in the 'burbs.

But, wait! Not really. We are five minutes from the DC border. We are 10 minutes from DC's best shopping area (in my humble opinion). We are five minutes from downtown Bethesda, which has the cutest downtown ever and the best restaurants in the area (in my humble opinion). If I am ever inclined to go out and have one too many drinks, I can easily find a taxi home. If I am ever inclined to take public transportation downtown, I can hop on a metro bus. If I am ever inclined to meet my husband downtown for lunch with the kids, it's a 20 minute drive.

Where else can you be in the 'burbs but still be so close to everything?

2) There's tons of stuff to do for kids.
I forget how spoiled we are sometimes. On a whim, I can take my kids to the Air and Space Museum. Or the Building Museum. Or I can head the other direction and go apple picking in the middle of farmland. Or I can see the cherry blossoms down the street from me. Or I can say to hell with all of that and just head to Barnes & Noble. But there are options, you know? (And I'm really not doing this justice - if you really want to see the awesome kids activities DC has to offer, check out Kid Friendly DC).

3) It is diverse.
I took Braden to a birthday party the other day and realized that we were the only American born people there. And that. is. awesome. There is a huge diplomat population here, meaning that my son has friends whose parents are from India, Pakistan, New Zealand, Canada, Scotland, and Norway. I always had this dream to raise my kids in a foreign country. I don't know why. I think it was all a part of this pipe dream adventure of world travel and having children with cute English accents. But if that's not going to happen, isn't this the next best thing?

4) The stay at home moms are awesome.
I hate saying I'm not the "stay at home mom" type, because what does that really mean? I guess when I say that, I mean that I never thought I would stay home. And I didn't think I fell into the stereotype of women who did stay home - women that bake muffins and join the PTA and host book clubs and have a clean house all the time (I now kind of envy those people, by the way). I was worried that there wouldn't be anyone else "like me" to hang out with.

One nice thing about DC based stay at home moms is there are a lot like me - they have left careers they never thought they would leave. They are struggling with this new identity. And they are open to meeting new people to break the monotony of their day. But you know what else is nice? There are a lot of "traditional" stay at home moms too. And sometimes it's nice to hang out with people that aren't necessarily "like you." And I'm realizing more and more that despite our backgrounds and plans and intentions, we're all not so different anyway.

5) Most people don't have family here.
I know this may sound weird as a thing I love about DC, but it's true. There's a lot of people in DC that come here for jobs - political, legal, non-profit, whatever. It's few and far between that I meet someone who was raised here and has parents, grandparents, and/or siblings in the area. What that means is that friends become your family. They become your weekend dinner plans, your backup for childcare, and your Thanksgiving Day guests (unless everyone in your house comes down with the stomach flu. Then they don't come). They become better friends than they otherwise would be out of necessity. And it's great to be surrounded by good friends.

6) People come here.
As per #5, DC is a place where people migrate for a variety of reasons. And so, I have friends from high school that have moved here. From college. From law school. My boss from my first job in London back in 2001 lives 1 mile from me now. No shit. You never know who will come here. And I'm loving the new arrivals!

7) The restaurants don't suck.
I'm trying to put a positive spin on this. It's nothing like New York. Nothing like Philadelphia. But I've had some good meals.

8) You don't have to like politics.
The first time I lived in DC was in the summer of 1999, when I was a White House intern. I was wide eyed and excited and convinced that this stint in politics was going to shape my career. Instead, the only thing it shaped was that I realized I could never again be surrounded by kiss ass already connected I don't care what I have to do to meet the First Lady type of people. I swore off politics. And though I'm kind of getting back into it again (how can you not be incensed by this), you don't have to be involved in politics to find kindred spirits in DC. You just have to be a lawyer. (Kidding. Kind of).

9) The hours are better here. A little.
Let me state it for the record. Manhattan is an insane place to work. Insane. I don't care what your profession is, your hours are long and the expectations are ridiculous. So coming here, there really is nowhere to go but up. Yes, compared with most of America, the hours here are probably still considered to be long on average. But you know what? On the rare occasion that my husband works until 2am, there is a recognition that that is really crazy. And that's more than I can say for New York.

10) It's home.
I complain about DC a lot. The heat in the summer. The lack of snow plows in the winter. The cost of living. But at the end of the day, after having no real prior connection here, it feels like home. And DC is like that - it can be sterile, it can be overwhelming, and it can be transient - but it is welcoming. I truly believe that the world is anyone's oyster - you can be whoever you want, do whatever you want, and go wherever you want. And out of anywhere in the world, my husband and I have staked our claim on a little house on a little piece of land in the DC 'burbs. And sometimes, when I'm in a good mood (like today), I think there's no better place to be.

Your Turn - Karin's Story

2012-03-27T20:56:00.011-04:00

"Your Turn" is a series of posts where readers share their stories of parenthood, work, the struggle for a balance, or just life generally. If you are interested in contributing a story, please email me at butidohavealawdegree@gmail.com, or click here.

Awoke from 4-5 hours of disrupted sleep on time – check. Got self and 1.5 year old up, dressed, fed, lunch packed, pee-peed, washed out potty, out the door by 8am – check. One daycare drop off, one temp training session for my upcoming maternity leave, two hours of fighting spontaneous cubicle nap – check, check and check.

As my 37 week OB appointment was wrapping up I was mentally checking off all my usuals. It had been a good day. Until Dr. Sabado asked something I was never asked during my last pregnancy – “Um… Are you dieting?”

Under any other circumstance this question would be met with smiles, thanks and a glance at my skinny jeans which must be really working. But during a trimester in which I’m to be gaining about a pound a week, I had apparently lost weight since last week’s appointment. This question had me in tears in .4 seconds. It was the pointing out by an unbiased, unassuming party that despite my best efforts, I was not doing so well.

The Thursday prior to this appointment I had entered a dark hospital room with soft music playing and all my local relatives crammed in standing around, most in tears. My dad’s health had taken a sudden and unexpected turn for the worst. He suddenly went from a Niagara Falls expedition to an upcoming Panama Canal Cruise to a terminal cancer diagnosis with a 4-6 month life expectancy two weeks prior. But looking at him with closed eyes, head slumped to the side and a large oxygen mask over him, it was clear that there was no way this was going on for 3.5-6 more months.

We all held his hands and told him we loved him, but mostly we just all stood there watching him slowly and very intentionally breathing for about an hour until he suddenly and quietly just stopped. He was gone.

My uncle, aunt, cousins, sisters, and mother cried. I cried. My confused little daughter cried at my crying.

After that night what I really need is to just check out, disconnect, and cry for as long as needed to pull myself back together. But my roles as mom, wife, full time graphic designer and 9 month pregnant woman don’t allow me to really do any of those. A one year old doesn’t understand “Let’s just take it easy today.” The house doesn’t feel sympathy and clean itself or make us dinners. Having just started a new job, maternity leave is going to be difficult and short anyway as it is - taking time off now isn't an option. And as nice as a break for me physically would be, I can’t take off the 9 month pregnant belly.

The demanding roles I play can be difficult even on my best days, but on my worst days playing them can seem to be an insurmountable task. Singing “EIEIO” for the 12th time in a row, trying to be interested (and interesting) in conversation with my husband, being mentally and physically present in a long winded meeting at work that I’m only half certain I need to be at, and having to walk slowly and delicately to the bathroom every two hours to avoid a hip giving out, all the while performing all of these usual tasks while feeling hurt, shocked, lost, empty, scared, and just trying not to cry at any given moment – lately doing it all has felt like too much.

These past few weeks have been more difficult on me than a blog can describe. But I have to say, the thing that keeps me going - the thing that makes it all worth it - is remembering the mental state I was in just a couple months prior to today.

I was sitting on my daughter’s bedroom floor with my husband, watching her play with the 8 dollar little bubble blower we got for her 1st birthday. She was laughing hysterically, which made Jon and I laugh hysterically which made both of our long days at work seem like a distant memory. And at that time I remember thinking of my various friend’s Facebook statuses showing them in exotic locales, fulfilling their performer dreams like I had, being gorgeous and having these thriving city night lives. My knee jerk reaction had always been jealousy, but as I sat there totally captivated by my adorable little girl; feeling loved, safe and happy, I thought – wait a minute, I’m not jealous at all.

It was in that moment I realized that I had done what I set out to do. I aimed, shot and fired at happiness through marriage and kids and (with many blessings and the grace of God) accomplished it. I didn’t need any of those other things to feel fulfilled. I was already there.

And today as things are a bit greyer than they were just a couple months ago, I anxiously await (and am confident I will be) getting back to that same content and peaceful place again very soon.

This post was written by Karin Richey.

** To everyone who has expressed an interest in contributing to this series, thank you so much! I aim to get everyone's post included. I will email you a few days before I post your story to let you know it's coming up soon.**

Sunday

2012-03-25T22:08:00.000-04:00

I awake with a slight hangover headache.

My best friend from college is visiting me, and we had a late dinner the night before. But the evening was cut short a bit, as she started feeling queasy around 11:00pm. Was it the alcohol, or the stomach flu that her daughter had been enduring for the past couple of days?

I see her in the kitchen and she confirms the latter (and most unfortunate of the two options).

I give her my condolences and offer gatorade. She accepts, and then I realize we have no gatorade.

I ask her if she wants a banana. She accepts again, and I give her a spotted brown version.

She leaves to drive home to Philly.

We lysol the crap out of our house (we know this routine all too well.).

My husband and I both start to experience psychosomatic nausea.

We take the kids to Barnes & Noble. Braden is screaming as we walk in that no, he doesn't want the book store, he wants the toy store. I tell him that he had better calm down or he will get no store at all, and we will be going to the book store today.

Ten minutes later, we are at the toy store.

We eat lunch at a deli. I realize that I have a hefty appetite which makes the psychosomatic nausea seem all the more psychosomatic. (For God's sake, please knock on wood).

We come home and put the boys down for a nap. I am looking forward to getting some work done, as I have a deadline looming for a freelance project and I can't seem to get my act together or find more than 15 consecutive minutes to sit at my computer.

I get ready to start typing on my laptop and I realize the 'r' key doesn't work. Or the 'e.' Or any of the keys on the left half of the keyboard.

I call out for my husband and we can't figure out the problem.

Until we remember that in his lysol happy state, he lysoled the computer keyboard.

Bad idea, by the way.

I start to have a minor panic attack.

I so don't have time for this. I so don't have time for this.

I try to remain calm. I have to get this work done. I need a computer.

We have an old computer that I break out of the proverbial vault. It takes 25 minutes to turn on, but it works.

I relax and load Word and try to open my document.

I hear Braden screaming for me - he has been in his room for 45 minutes and it's clear the nap is not going to happen.

Which has been happening more and more lately. As in, almost every day.

Word won't open the document because it is so freaking old that it's some ancient version of Word, and why Word, whatever version, can't open another Word document is lost on me, but that's beside the point.

Nervous breakdown arrives.

I start to cry.

Braden continues to call for me.

My husband goes out to buy me a new computer.

Braden joins me in the living room and we watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse (which has replaced YGG as his favorite show which is slightly devastating).

I fantasize about seeing the Hunger Games by myself. Maybe my husband would be kind and let me go to the evening showing.

But I just had a night out last night. I don't deserve another break.

And I start to cry again.

My husband returns with the new computer. He is super excited. I just want to get work done.

Or actually, I don't want to work at all. I just want to go see the Hunger Games.

But instead I work.

And watch the kids.

And then stop working and watching the kids and write this post.

And I feel incredibly guilty for not working.

And ignoring the kids.

And I'm tired.

So tired.

In every way.

We order pizza.

We bathe the kids.

I put both kids to bed and get the most amazing cuddles.

I smile.

I know it's just one of those days.

Bring on tomorrow.