But I do have a law degree...

A Solo Date

2013-06-17T14:27:00.002-04:00

I've never been one to be self conscious about doing things alone. I have no problem dining alone, and in fact, I actually relish the rare opportunity I get to sit at a bar with a book, an appetizer and a glass of wine. I also really enjoy going to movies solo, if not for any other reason than my husband hates going, and I am a hard core lover of buttered popcorn.

As you can imagine, solo dates don't come often for me anymore. And of course, that makes them all the more appealing. The fact is, I am generally constantly in the company of someone (my kids, predominantly). And while I'd hardly call myself a loner, the idea of some time to myself - just by myself, for just a little bit - is somewhat of a luxury.

For the past week I have been with my kids in Wilmington, North Carolina, visiting the grandparents. It's fun and great, but also exhausting and stressful to be out of our fully childproofed environment. My parents are always offering to give me some time to get out by myself, but I usually decline. To be honest, I'm usually just so exhausted I don't have the energy to venture out of the house when I have the opportunity.

But last night I mustered the energy, and I indulged.

A few days ago I had read a movie review on CNN of the movie, This is the End. I had never heard of the movie, but the review was stellar. I mean, in the I can't remember the last time I've read such a good review of a movie stellar. It stars Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, and James Franco. Given the great review and the weird connection I have with James Franco, I had a sudden urge to see it. (I should clarify - I don't directly have a weird connection with James Franco, but my sister does, so close enough. See picture from TMZ below).

That's my sister in the red with the glasses, three people down. I've felt close to him ever since.

I decided to forgo dinner so I could indulge in a small popcorn and Raisinets. I got a great parking spot, arrived just in time to watch the previews, got an aisle seat, and put my feet up so no one would sit in front of me (and it worked).

And the movie? The movie WAS FREAKING FABULOUS.

I'm not any good at writing movie reviews, so I'm not going to attempt to. But suffice it to say, if I was 18 or so, in college, and smoking pot (not that I would ever do such a thing), this would probably be the kind of movie that I would watch over and over again, and it would get funnier every time. (Probably like A Very Brady Sequel, circa 1996).

I was by myself, mind you, and I was laughing out loud so hard that I was covering my mouth so as to not bother the people in my vicinity. It's vulgar, it's stupid, it's genius. I want my husband, my friends, my family, and all who I care about to see it, so we can discuss it, and then watch it over and over again together. (A warning though, it's not for the prude at heart. I saw at least two people walk out of the movie).

Here's the trailer. (Please note - I'm not being compensated or receiving anything for this post. I just loved the movie that much. And I wasn't even on any mood altering substances. I promise. I'm pregnant, remember!)

A highly successful solo date. Thanks, James Franco, for the memories once again.

Up and Away

2013-06-13T15:31:00.001-04:00

Last month I announced my partnership with OTC Safety. As part of that partnership, every few weeks I'll be posting on how to use over the counter medicines safely, particularly with little ones running around. And it's all quite timely, because June is National Safety Month, and in conjunction with that, the CDC and the PROTECT Initiative is launching the social media #MedsUpAway program, which is a campaign to encourage parents to keep their medicines up and away and out of kids' reach.

Don't think you need the advice? Think you're on top of this? I thought I was. Until I took a closer look...

This is about to get embarrassing.

This past weekend, I took inventory of where we kept medicine in our house. And here's what I found.

I kept it here:

That would be my bedside drawer.

And here:

That would be my husband's night stand.

And here:

That would be under the sink, in the bathroom my kids bathe in!

And shamefully, even here:

That would be my son's dresser!

Why would you keep all these medications in these places, so easily accessible to, I don't know, the two CHILDREN living in your house? You may ask. Perhaps you don't have a medicine cabinet?

Au contraire. We do have a medicine cabinet. A spiffy new one we got a couple years ago during our bathroom renovation. But it's been a bit neglected. A bit haphazard. It's been looking a little something like this:

Prescriptions on night stands, and toothpaste in the medicine cabinet? Hmmm.

So, in honor of the #MedsUpAway program, on Sunday I did a major overhaul. Major.

I threw away a ridiculous amount of medications. I cleared our night stands, our drawers, our under the sink cabinets, our anything and everything to get any medicines or vitamins out of the potential reach of my kids. And it resulted in this:

Ahhhhhh, the organization.

But more than that, the safety. It's really about time.

I really try to be safety conscious. I am all about organic fruits and carseat weight limits and small, chokable legos laying around. But in this department, I got lazy. I got reliant on the safety seal and the fact that my kids aren't allowed in my bedroom and the fact that since they've never gotten into anything before, they probably never would.

Not smart.

It took me about 30 minutes to rearrange everything and make this beautiful masterpiece of a medicine cabinet. That's really nothing, when considering the potential adverse consequences of my kids getting into my skittle looking ibuprofen container...

Where are your meds? Really? Do an inventory, and get them up and away! And if you're so inclined, join the initiative and tweet or Instagram photos of your own safe medicine locations using #MedsUpAway!

Disclosure: I receive compensation for my participation in the CHPA educational foundation's OTC Safety Ambassador program. However, the content and opinions in this post are my own.

On the Side of the Road

2013-06-11T13:08:00.001-04:00

A few years back Above the Law ran a story about a mom partner at Kaye Scholer who left her kids at the side of the road. Apparently, they were bickering and the mom had had enough - she dropped them off in downtown White Plains. One child (age 12) ran after the car, while the other (age 10) wandered off. The partner was arrested and charged with endangering the welfare of a child. (See full story here and here).

I remember reading that story all smug and judgmental like. Braden was around 6 months old at the time. What kind of mom does that? I remember thinking.

For some reason, the story has stuck with me.

To this mom, today I would like to apologize for my judgment. Not that I condone leaving your kids at the side of the road, and not that I would ever do it really...

But today? Today I think it might feel amazingly satisfying for a moment or two.

It's been one of those days.

It's been a day of hitting, kicking, screaming, 5 am wake ups, and defiance all around. It's been a day of empty threats and desperate rewards and proclamations like, "If you don't stop throwing things and kicking the seat, I'm going to stop this car and...."

Well, you know.

Seven hours to go, God help me.

Need a will? A GIVEAWAY for legal services!

2013-06-06T14:34:00.001-04:00

The best thing about this blog is that I get to meet people I never would have encountered otherwise.

A month or so ago, in conjunction with the Mommy Esquire event, I was contacted by Maria Simon, an attorney with the Law Office of Rebecca Geller, a firm comprised solely of moms with young children that specializes in wills and estate planning. That's right, an all mom law firm! I was intrigued.

We had a bit of a dialogue, and she mentioned that she would be interested in doing a giveaway for legal services (wills/guardianship documents, trusts, advance medical directives, and legal family documents) on my blog. I thought it would be a great idea, particularly since I know that many families don't have a will, despite how important it is to have something in place when kids are involved. I agreed, and asked that she also grant me an interview, as I figured many readers would be interested in hearing her story.

So without further adieu, here is Maria's story of success in having a legal career with children. And be sure to read the entire thing (or scroll to the bottom), because details of the giveaway are below:

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Tell us a bit about your career prior to having children.

I was a corporate litigator working for a boutique firm in DC, that while small in number, had big firm standards. It was exciting work. I got to travel. Because of the size of the firm, I was given tons of responsibility right from the start.

The quintessential example of my career priorities prior to having children is the day my son was born. I was on the metro intending to head to work after my 39 week appointment when my water broke somewhere around Woodley Park. I answered a bunch of emails, checked into the hospital and got ready to have a baby. After a few hours I ended up with an epidural. Perfect time to catch up on email! A colleague I was emailing with to get a deal done said he had just called my office and my secretary had informed him I was at the hospital having the baby. I responded that it was going to be a few hours yet, we had time to finalize the agreement before the kid was born.

I was in labor. It was the last day that it would only be me and my husband. I was working.

How did having children change your career trajectory and goals?

At first, I wanted to do it all and do it all really well. And then I realized I wasn’t doing anything well and started to feel really terrible about myself. I wasn’t doing my job to the standard I (or my bosses) wanted. I wasn’t being the type of mother I wanted to be. And forget about being a wife / friend / partner.

I decided I needed to make a change and reassess what was important to me. I stepped aside for a few months. I did a lot of yoga. Most importantly, I realized that I needed to not identify myself as a lawyer first; it’s not a characteristic, it's an occupation. I realized I did miss being a lawyer, but that I needed to find something that would let me be the type of person I wanted to be.

Your current firm is made up solely of moms. How did you find it?

My amazing law school classmate, Rebecca Geller, started it in 2011. She was at a large firm and realized she didn’t want to do that her entire life. She wanted to see her two adorable sons (age 4 and 2), so she created her own opportunity. The firm took off and she needed someone to join her. I happened to be at the right place at the right time.

We just hired our first non-mom, but it’s still all female.

How do the moms balance work and family?

While we have a shared office where we can meet clients, we primarily work from home and for the most part create our own schedules. There is a ton of coordination and lots of lists and google docs that go back and forth between us. The fact that there is so much communication is key. Everyone knows what the other is doing. We have access to each other’s calendars. And, most importantly, we make it a priority to have family time.

For me, making my own schedule is key. I wake up most days around 5:30am, get a good hour or two of work in, check email, and do admin things that take up time, before my son gets up. I work while he’s at school and during nap. We play post-nap until bed. I still find time to work out and make dinner (on occasion). There is food in the fridge and clean laundry (also on occasion).

What's your favorite part of your job?

As a litigator I felt like I was constantly tearing something apart – a company, a contract. No one was ever really happy with the work I did because even if they received a favorable result, they still had to pay me to get what they perceived was theirs to begin with. You need lawyers like this. It was exciting, but also exhausting.

Now, I get to build something. We specialize in providing legal services for small businesses and writing wills, guardianship documents, and trusts for families and individuals. I get to build something with a client, helping them shape a concept into reality. I get to help people protect their families by creating wills and trusts to ensure that their children will be cared for physically and financially. (We offer free initial consults if you email me at msimon@rebeccagellerlaw.com and serve clients in DC, MD, VA and NC!). Also, I get to build a firm, and it is exciting to see something you put so much time and effort into grow and really be apart of it.

What's your favorite part of being a mom?

I am not enjoying toilet training, that’s for sure.

I love being constantly shocked by what my son comes up with. The things he remembers, the games he plays with himself. I watched him read a book to himself the other day for 10 whole minutes. It was incredible to watch him tell himself the story. Also I was shocked to see him sit still for so long.

I also love the quiet moments where he just wants to cuddle. I know these years do not last forever, and I am trying to cherish those moments, even when they occur in the middle of the night because he has an ear infection and is refusing to sleep anywhere but on top of me.

Do you have any words of advice or inspiration for moms out there who are trying to achieve a work-life balance?

Someone told me this once and I think it really rings true: we are all juggling a lot of balls, some are crystal and need to be kept up in the air. But some are rubber, and if you drop them, they will bounce right back up, maybe a little dirtier than before, but still intact. It is ok to let the rubber balls drop.
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Maria's firm, the Law Office of Rebecca Geller, is giving away five $250 gift certificates to be used toward wills/guardianship documents, trusts, advance medical directives, and legal family documents. These will and estate planning documents are so crucial to have, and it's amazing how many people put it on the back burner (I am guilty as well - we didn't get our will set until I was pregnant with my second!). The firm serves clients in DC, Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina. Winners will be chosen at random. To enter the giveaway, do the following:

1) Like my facebook page, if you haven't already (click here), AND
2) Leave a comment below with your email address.

The giveaway will close on Monday evening (6/10) at 11pm. I will notify the winners by email. Good luck!

Pool Days

2013-06-04T14:44:00.002-04:00

Last week, while chatting with my sister on the phone, I mentioned that I would be taking the boys to the pool.

Aw, that's so great! she said. I'm just picturing you and Braden and Casey walking arm in and arm and playing and splashing in the water. So cute!

I laughed. It's not quite like that. I told her. No, it's not quite like that at all.

Our neighborhood pool is 4 houses down from our house. It's convenient, inviting, and a great place for the neighborhood kids to gather. When the summer arrives in full force in the DC area, it becomes a staple of our day.

But man, is it an exertion of energy.

Lets break it down:

Step 1: The Preparation (Approximately 25 minutes)
We don't just get to decide that we want to go to the pool and then go. Noooooooooooo. Instead, a lengthy preparation must take place.

First, I get myself ready. This is the easiest step of the process. Suit, coverup, sunscreen, done.

Then I make the announcement to the children. Who wants to go to the pool? The boys usually always say yes, but when it sinks in that they must cease whatever activity they are currently engaged in (playing downstairs, playing outside, torturing one another or the dog), they aren't happy. It takes a few minutes to get them rallied and in one room.

Once I do, I fetch Braden's bathing suit and plead with him to put it on himself (which he is perfectly capable of but usually refuses to do). I bribe, I reason, I threaten, and 9 times out of ten I end up dressing him myself. I do it quickly, slather on sunscreen, and then turn to Casey.

Casey, my needier child at the moment, requires a bit more energy. First, there's the swim diaper, which inevitably gets stuck and twisted and turned around somewhere at his hips. I then put on his bathing suit and turn to the sunscreen. My God, that kid hates sunscreen. I basically pin him down on all fours and smother it over his entire body, with him thrashing and screaming the whole time. There's snot, there's tears, there's major defiance By the time I am done, only half of the sunscreen is sufficiently rubbed in, I am sweating, and my ponytail has somehow been removed. I usually don't put it back in.

At this point, I pack the pool bag. Why I don't pack this bag before the kids are ready and rearing to go and screaming at me to open the front door, I cannot say. I run around frantically, looking for towels, kickboards, bottled water, pool passes, sunglasses, phone, and cash. Usually at least two of these items are left behind.

Then, we are on our way. We rush, so that I can make it to the pool before Casey pees in his swim diaper, meriting a turn around. (On a completely different note, what is up with those things providing no absorbency whatsoever? What the hell is the point of them?).

Step 2: Pool Time (Approximately 45 minutes)
Arriving at the pool is a shit show in and of itself. Upon seeing the water, both boys go crazy running and tearing off sunglasses and shoes. I in turn run after them, screaming No running! and tearing off my own clothes, in anticipation of having to jump in the water to rescue one or both of them.

Luckily, the pool we go to has a fenced in kids' area, so they can't run too far. But my kids seem to be missing that gene where they are able to FEEL ANY KIND OF COLD WATER, so they are all about jumping right in, literally. I, accordingly, must do the same, and I don't do it gracefully. I scream, I shiver, I do that thing where I wipe my shoulders with the cold water before fully submerging myself in the water, as if that's going to help.

Since there is two of them and one of me, I have to constantly weigh who is worth sacrificing at a given moment. Usually that sacrificial child is Braden, as he has greater swimming ability and (usually) better judgment. Out of necessity, I let him go and hope for the best. I give the lifeguard a knowing nod and a smile as to say, Work with me here.

Casey, on the other hand, is at the stage where he doesn't understand the concept of depth or breathing or water generally. He will walk right in to the deep water, head submerged. He will jump in from the side of the pool, and sink down slowly. I tend to let him do these things initially, as I want him to learn that he CAN'T DO THESE THINGS. So far, that lesson has not been learned. Instead, he throws a fit when he gets water in his nose, and then throws a fit when I refuse to allow him to continue to walk or jump into the deep water.

It is during these times that I remind myself, Oh yeah, I have another kid here. Braden! Braden! You okay, Braden? Or, he makes himself known anyway. Who is that annoying kid splashing water over everyone? Oh, that's Braden. You okay, Braden?

After about 45 minutes of this, the whistle is blown. Adult swim. I will leave you to guess how happy my kids are at being asked to leave the pool, because listen, boys, it's adult swim and you just have to.

Not happy at all.

I usually take that as my cue to leave. By that time, I am more than ready.

Step 3: Getting Home and Getting Clean (Approximately 25 minutes)
After I have wrestled with the children to leave the pool, and we have walked up the steady, gradual hill up to our house in the 90 degree weather, we reach my least favorite aspect of the pool going experience. The arrival back home.

I open the front door and the boys file into the air conditioned house and they both start whining and screaming about how cold they are. I immediately start to peel off their wet bathing suits, which is really, really, hard, given that boys nowadays wear those swim shirts that stick to their skin like, well, water.

Once they are disrobed and naked, they tend to run around the house laughing and screaming while I high tail it to the bathroom to start the bath. While the bath fills, I gather the wet clothes and towels into a single pile by the front door (which usually is neglected and ends up sitting there overnight), or I clean up Casey's inevitable pee on the floor, which somehow always happens during my 30 second absence to start the bath. I bathe the kids, and get them dressed.

Immediately after the bath, they both start screaming for food, having worked up quite an appetite swimming. I scramble to make them a somewhat nutritious meal in as little time as possible. Once done, I realize that I am freezing cold, as I have not yet changed out of my wet bathing suit. I turn on the TV, sit the boys at the table, and finally go get into dry clothes. I table my shower until after the kids go to bed, if I get around to taking one at all.

Then I'm done.

And I'm exhausted.

And we do it all again the next day.

(Pictures taken from Summer 2012- I have not yet had the opportunity to break out the camera during this season's pool excursions).

A Partnership with OTC Safety

2013-05-31T08:33:00.001-04:00

As moms we wear a lot of hats. Disciplinarian. Comforter. Cheerleader. Role Model. Chef. Cleaner. Chauffeur. Teacher. Doctor.

I don't mean doctor as in the kind with a medical degree (though obviously some moms have that). I more mean the family caretaker, pharmacist, soother. We become the resident experts of our children's health. We are the first line of defense against illness in our own homes - we dispense medication, we sanitize, we tend, and ultimately, we become the gatekeepers for deciding when it's time to call in the professionals.

Because after all, we know our children better than anyone. We learn to read their cries, their body language, their jumbled words. Our lips on our children's forehead end up serving as the most accurate thermometer there is. We have, for lack of a better word, mother's instinct. We know when illness descends, and when it does, we know what works and what doesn't.

And man, does it descend.

When I embarked on this whole motherhood journey I'm on, I knew my kids would get sick. I knew I would take them to the doctor and give them vitamins and dispense medications as needed. But I wasn't aware of just how often this would happen, and just how seasoned I would become. In the course of nearly five years, we've had it all - strep, stomach flu, allergies, every rash known to man, impetigo, hand foot and mouth, Fifth disease, fungal infections, RSV, croup, scarlet fever, and probably a hundred other diseases I've never heard of and can't even think of right now. So, yes, after five years, when it comes to my kids' health, I do consider myself an "expert" in a way.

But even the most expert, seasoned, mom can use a little help.

A month or so ago, I was contacted by OTC Safety to see if I was interested in becoming a Blogging Ambassador. In all honesty, I was a bit hesitant at first because I typically don't do that type of thing on my blog (I mean, who can get enough of rants about lawyers, pregnancy, and stay at home mom drama?). But when I learned more, I realized it was a perfect partnership and an amazing cause.

OTC Safety isn't selling or promoting any product. Rather, it is run by a nonprofit foundation (CHPA Educational Foundation), and their website, http://otcsafety.org/ serves as a resource for over the counter medicine safety. It is geared towards giving moms the information necessary to safely use over the counter medicines for their babies and small children. It is the ultimate resource for us "Dr. Moms," who don't have a medical background and otherwise don't have such resources at our disposal (apart from that dosage handout you get at the pediatrician's office when your baby is born, which is inevitably impossible to find at midnight when your child is screaming with a fever).

We moms NEED something like this. The fact is, this "Dr. Mom" role comes with great responsibility. When to give medicine? How much to give? Where to store it? How to store it? And while it's great that kids medicines all taste so yummy these days, how do I keep it away from my kids when they aren't sick? What about my own medicine, that to my kids, looks like a very yummy version of Skittles?

With the launch of this partnership, I have taken the "Up and Away" pledge, which is a pledge to keep medicines up and away and out of sight in your home. Each year, "more than 60,000 children end up in emergency departments because they got into medicines while their parent or caregiver was not looking." Huge issue (and one that has touched me personally - more on that in a different post!). I encourage you, and caretakers and family, to take it as well!

Over the next few months, I'll be posting a couple of posts a month on topics related to over the counter medicine safety that are relevant to all of us with small children. In the meantime, check out this safe medicine use fact sheet.

Disclosure: I receive compensation as part of the CHPA OTC Safety Ambassador Program. All of the opinions reflected here are my own.

Macro Traders - Beware of the Bosom!

2013-05-28T14:45:00.000-04:00

By now you've probably already heard the sound bites. Last week, Paul Tudor Jones, a hedge fund billionaire, appeared all over the national media regarding his comments to an audience at the University of Virginia about what happens to women "macro traders" once they have children. Apparently, in his vast experience with women traders (which involves working with two women turned mothers in the 1970's), once motherhood hits, women are worthless at trading.

"You will never see as many investors or traders as men, period, end of story . . . . As soon as that baby's lips touch[] that girl's bosom, forget it . . . . Every single investment idea . . . . every desire to understand what is going to make this go up or go down is going to be overwhelmed by the most beautiful experience."

Quotes taken from here and here.

To be fair, Mr. Jones acknowledged that men could also have such lapses, such as during a divorce. In fact, he says that one can "automatically subtract 10 to 20% from any manager if he is going through a divorce." (Quote taken from here).

So basically, if you're looking for a macro trader, avoid someone who is going through a divorce. And avoid all women with children. And maybe even avoid Paul Tudor Jones himself. Given the public relations disaster he has been enduring for the past week, I'm betting he's lost some focus himself.

Look, I almost feel sorry for the guy. He was just being honest. He is saying what many people think, and in a way, that's refreshing. I know when I went part time at my former law firm, there were a handful of partners that thought it was ridiculous, and didn't want to approve it. They didn't want to deal with a woman with a kid who only came in half of the week. And you know what? If they said so, it would have cleared the air a bit. Just lay it on the table.

So here's a guy that's being honest (though he didn't know the cameras were rolling). Saying what many people think. That once women have kids, their careers are over. They lose focus. They lose productivity. They lose ambition. And in some ways, he's right. Yeah, when we women are sleep deprived and nursing and recovering from giving birth to a child, we do at times lose that focus.

But guess what - once that phase is over, much like a divorce, we are capable of being normal, functioning people again.

Let me go out on a limb here, and say that the reason there are so many more men than women in macro trading is not because women procreate and lose all intelligence and focus once a baby touches their bosom. Instead, perhaps it's because the schedule of a macro trader doesn't support the type of balance that many mothers want. Perhaps it's because of the sexist attitudes of their colleagues, such as Paul Tudor Jones.

Maybe, instead of giving up on moms altogether, we can try to change things up a bit to support them reentering their career. Maybe we can give them a generous maternity leave to allow them time to recover and regain their focus. Maybe we can come up with flexible working arrangements so they can work less than the 60 hours per week required of many macro traders. Maybe we can provide them with mentors and support and a tad bit of empathy.

After all, research has shown that overall, women are better traders than men.

A lot of us are smart cookies, you know? It's worth it to keep us around, Mr. Jones.

Your Turn - Sarah's Story

2013-05-23T13:34:00.001-04:00

"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.

When I joined a large Washington, D.C. based law firm six years ago, I fully expected that Big Law firm life was incompatible with family, but I thought that I had plenty of time before I had to worry about it. After all, I was newly married, no kids, and a lot of ambition. About two years into litigation practice, with a baby on the way, I knew that the time had come to take stock of my life, my career, and my priorities. I came home only to shower, sleep, change clothes, and occasionally walk the dogs. My husband took care of everything else from cleaning to bill paying to grocery shopping. He was growing tired of our arrangement. Our home was my hotel, restaurant, and dry cleaning service. Convenient for me; painfully frustrating for my husband.

After a particularly grueling month of working around the clock late into my pregnancy with our first son, my husband gave me an ultimatum: do something about your job or this marriage/family is going to fall apart. Bamm! Less than 2 years into my legal career and I was at the mom vs. career crossroads—job or family. The next month I requested an alternative work schedule (AWS).

My firm offers a part-time policy that allows attorneys to work a percentage of the full-time 1950 billable hour track. In return, I received pro rata compensation and pro rata annual advancement. For example, if I worked 70% AWS beginning in my third year, I received 70% of the salary of a 3^rd year associate and advanced to a 3.7 year associate at the end of year 3. In my fourth year on AWS, I received 70% of a 3.7 year associate salary and advanced to a 4.4 year associate at the beginning of my 5^th year.

Moving to AWS was a life-altering decision. For starters, I stopped stressing about billable hours. Before moving to AWS, I thought about billable hours ALL OF THE TIME - in the middle of the night, at family gatherings, on lazy Sunday afternoons - when all I wanted to do was relax. After adopting AWS, I set my billing target low enough to be achievable by working 7 hours x 4 days a week. Now I have just enough work to keep me fully billable, but not so much that I allow work to interfere with my family time. I also work from home at least one day of week and take off most Fridays. Of course, I may work late into the evening, on a Friday, or a weekend every now and then, but I view that as a small inconvenience.

Choosing a part-time schedule in a big law firm is not without its drawbacks. First, some attorneys will not work with part-time associates. Several of my “go-to” partners prior to going part-time will not call me back now that I am on a reduced schedule. To them, I violated an unspoken rule and I can never be trusted again. If not for the large number of partners in the firm, I would find myself without work and out on the street in a hurry. Fortunately, our firm has enough good partners that are perfectly fine with my arrangement, and I have been fully billable for the past 3 years. A growing number of partners do not care where you are in the world or what time you work, so long as the work is done. However, when those sources for work dry up, it is a real challenge drumming up new work. All things being equal, traditional partners who have never worked with a part-time associate would prefer to use another (often less expensive) associate who is in the office 5 days a week and available 24/7. By comparison, I am only in the office 3 days a week and am often the parent who has to stay home when my child is home sick from preschool or the baby sitter cannot come to work. And as a practical matter, I have fewer opportunities to run into important people in the elevator or smooze at happy hours.

Second, my career track has slowed down significantly. I am no longer viewed by many in the firm as a superstar associate on the rise to partner, but instead as a mom limping along on the inevitable path to salaried of-counsel. True, my road to partner is longer and less certain than that of my full-time peers, but odds are that I will still be here while the “superstars” burn out and fade away to other law firms, companies, or government positions. Do I care whether I make partner in 8 years, 10 years, 12 years, or never? No, I do not. But I would never forgive myself if my children grew up knowing that mommy was a lawyer and that’s about it, or if I let my marriage fail.

In full disclosure, I have an amazing husband that works a normal 40-hour week work schedule, does our grocery shopping, packs our lunches every day, and is an equal partner in parenting our two young boys. Credit where credit is due. We also are in the financial position to hire a nanny four days a week for our infant and send our 3 year old to full day preschool 5 days a week. I have it pretty darn easy compared to so many other women. That being said, sometimes I wonder about job opportunities outside of big law. But the reality is that it will be very hard to find a job that pays as well as this one, that gives me the flexibility to work from home, and that offers a 35 hour work week.

As I write this, I am unclear of my own long-term career objectives. Perhaps I will strive for partnership at my firm, or an of-counsel position, or maybe my future lies in another company, in the government, or another career entirely. But I am certain that there is no other place that I would rather be in this phase of my life than in my current firm. No doubt that I would have left my Big Law firm years ago without a part-time alternative work schedule option. Moving to AWS saved my marriage and allows me to be the mom that I want to be to my children. I think that I am a better lawyer because of it, or at least a less stressed one. I am that rare example of mom-lawyer-litigator who is actually happy in a Big Law firm.

This post was written by "Sarah."

The Seven of Us

2013-05-21T14:58:00.001-04:00

When I was in college I had six best friends. I know that sounds all cheesy and sorority like (and it kind of was). But the fact is, there was a group of seven of us that more or less spent four years together. We lived together, we drank together, we traveled together, we grew up together. Our senior year, we dressed up as the seven dwarfs for Halloween (I was Dopey).

It wasn't like we all always got along perfectly and we all were equally close, but for a group of seven girls, we went through college surprisingly drama free. We looked out for each other. We were a team.

Now having had children, I can't say my time at college was the best time in my life, but it was damn well near close. I can't imagine having a better college experience. Truly. And in large part, it was because of those six girls.

Thirteen years ago.

We've all kept in pretty good touch since graduation. Some of us even lived together over the years. And during what I like to call the "wedding circuit" (that five year period where every one you know and then some gets married), we saw each other all the time as we attended bachelorette parties, showers, and wedding receptions.

But then life went on, and we all went our separate ways. There was marriage, careers, and lots of kids (15 so far between the seven of us). There was also divorce, separation, and setbacks. Our visits got less frequent as life, and distance, got in the way. And before I knew it, it had been several years since all seven of us had been reunited together, all at once.

It had been since March of 2008, to be exact, when all seven of us were last together in the same room.

Until this past weekend.

It's not that we hadn't seen each other - we had, in all sorts of permutations and combinations, lots of times. It's just that it seemed that someone always had to bail at the last minute for some reason or another. Flight cost, or sick kid, or personal drama. As last week approached, I wondered if we would actually do it.... Would everyone make it?

We did.

Thirteen years later. I think we look damn good, if you ask me!

And it was so nice.

I find that at this stage in life, there is something so incredibly therapeutic and refreshing and relieving about being around people that knew you before your present life. Before marriage and kids and titles and career and all of the serious stuff. People that knew you when you were just you, and that was enough.

It's hard to keep in touch with those people. Really hard. Because people move and people change, and time gets in the way. I find that as I age, there are less and less of these people I can draw upon. So when you have these people in your life, and when you can actually see these people, it is such a gift.

And what a gift it was for all seven of us to be in a room together again.

It's so funny how years have gone by, yet our dynamic of seven hasn't changed. There's still the crazy one. The cruise director one. The down to earth one. The girly one. The sweeter than anyone you'll ever meet one. The laid back one. The dry sense of humor one. When we all get together, we all play and feed off of each other the same way we did thirteen years ago. It's as if we haven't grown up, which I suppose in some circumstances, can be a bad, unhealthy thing. In this situation, however, it's just as it should be. It's perfect.

We all went out to dinner on Saturday night. (I was the designated driver - must I always be pregnant for these get togethers?) We laughed, we cried, we reminisced, we made new memories. We woke up on Sunday morning and all returned to our respective lives, across the east coast and midwest.

Who knows when we will all be together again. But I hope it's soon. Seeing these girls is good for the soul.

There's simply nothing like old friends.

Warning - Pregnant Lady Bitching

2013-05-17T15:10:00.001-04:00

When I found out I was pregnant a couple of months ago I made a promise to myself not to turn this blog into a pregnancy rant. I mean, who wants to read that? For leisure? I have stuck to it. Until today.

Allow me to bitch.

1. I REALLY WANT A GLASS OF RED WINE OR A MARGARITA OR A CORONA. HELL, I'D EVEN TAKE A SHOT OF JAGER AT THIS POINT.

Look, I don't want to appear to be an alcoholic. But as some of you long time blog readers will know, I really enjoy a glass of wine or two. Not just for the nice relaxing buzz it gives, but also for the taste of it. The feel of it. The aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh you get after a long day and you finally get to sit down. As far as beverages go, for me it's a staple.

Fine, I get it, I'm pregnant, inx-nay on the wine. But with this nice weather and vacation coming and walking past people sitting in sidewalk cafes having cocktails... I am getting a major hunkering for a margarita. Or a nice cold beer. Or something that indicates celebration and summer and adulthood and the chance to numb my stresses if only for a few minutes. And the fact that I CAN'T have it, that I SHOULDN'T have it, that it's PROHIBITED just makes me want it more in an almost frantic, psycho way.

I know, I know, I know, I probably could have a small glass of wine here and there. But there are two issues with that: 1) One small glass of wine may not cut it. I may want more, which would just make the whole state of things all the more painful, and 2) Can someone please formally tell me it's okay? Because there's this study that says it's fine, but then there's this study that says it's not. Then there's the strict OB that says no, and the laid back OB that says yes, and the women in France and the women of the 50s and my neighbor down the street. Everyone's got an opinion, everyone's got a story, everyone's got a judgment.

How about someone do us women a favor. How about someone actually TAKE THE TIME to figure it out definitively, and then let us women know? Because this whole attitude of, oh, we're not sure, it's probably fine, but just abstain, what's the big deal makes for a whole lot of grumpy pregnant women. If we could all get together and have a glass of wine or two with no guilt, we'd probably be a little more chill.

Disclosure - I had a four ounce glass of wine in Disney World. It was fabulous.

2. OKAY, FINE. I CAN'T DRINK ALCOHOL. BUT WHAT ABOUT DELI MEAT OR SUSHI OR SMOKED SALMON OR SPROUTS FOR GOD'S SAKE?

Noooooooooooooooo, you cannot. Sure, the chances of contracting listeria or some other random food poisoning I've never gotten before are slim to none. Nonetheless, we must abstain! Never mind that other countries advise that such foods are fine for pregnant women. Here in America, we decline. We take no chances. We are martyrs! Patriots!

Disclosure - In the past week, I have eaten smoked salmon and prosciutto. Sushi is next on my list.

3. IF AT 14 WEEKS THE BABY IS LYING "ABOVE MY PUBIC BONE," THEN WHY THE HELL IS MY ENTIRE STOMACH PROTRUDING OUTWARD AS IF I'M ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH?

Everyone always says you show more with subsequent pregnancies. But this is out of control.

I wore a sundress last night to a park to meet my friends. Granted, you always look bigger than you are when you wear a dress, but the comments I got were along the lines of: Oh my God!!!! Yeah, I'm officially large and pregnant, at 14 weeks. I actually considered posting a picture of my stomach on here, but thankfully I am resisting (too bad I can't have that glass of wine mentioned above - then maybe things would be different). I still have some dignity.

If it's not the baby making me look 6 months pregnant (remember, the baby, according to Baby Center is "above my pubic bone") then what is it? Gas? Pure fat? Loose muscle/skin that will never regain its form? Whatever the answer, it's gross. And it doesn't bode well for my post partum body, which I have vowed to get in shape with the help of a personal trainer and a strict diet (ha!).

I am at the point where I refuse to weigh myself. I am just too damn scared.

4. HOW IS IT EVEN POSSIBLE THAT I HAVE TO PEE 8 MINUTES AFTER I JUST WENT? AND WHY DOES THIS ONLY HAPPEN AFTER 9PM?

Last night I got into bed exhausted. All I wanted to do was get comfy, cuddle up, and fall asleep to an episode of the Wire. I did all my pre-bed duties - brush teeth, take vitamins, wash face, and ultimately, do my final pee of the night.

But it wasn't my final pee of the night. About 8 minutes after I got in bed, I had that feeling. So I went again. And again. And again. Four times in the span of a 55 minute Wire episode, which ultimately kept me awake and unable to fall asleep. It got to the point where I felt like I was in a race against time. If I didn't fall asleep within 15 minutes, you can be sure I'd have to get up to pee again, which would only re energize me and restart the clock to get to sleep before the next urge. Ultimately, I succumbed, but then of course there was the 2am pee, the 4am pee, and the 6am pee.

Thankfully this is only happening at night, but I know it will get worse. Towards the end of my last pregnancy, it got to the point where my own father suggested I wear Depends so I wouldn't have to bother myself with so many bathroom breaks while out on child-related excursions.

I declined. The whole dignity thing, you know. But in a weird way, it kind of made sense.

5. CAN YOU PLEASE STOP POKING AT ME WITH A NEEDLE AND ACTING LIKE IT'S NO BIG DEAL BECAUSE I REALLY FREAKING HATE IT.

So I'm pregnant and I go to the doctor a lot. But I had forgotten how much they STICK A NEEDLE IN YOU LIKE IT'S NOTHING.

It seems like every time I am going to the OB (which is often, and will only increase) they are putting me in some form of major discomfort. At my first appointment there was a ridiculously massive blood draw where they fill up like 6 of those vials. Out of convenience, I go to the lab of the hospital where I will deliver, where a very unfriendly, clearly disgruntled nurse/worker/temp drags me in the back, wraps a sticky rubber band around my arm before I can even get in Can we just wait a mi-...., and then takes all of her day's frustration out on the poor vein running on my forearm. Once she is done, she slaps on a fist full of gauze followed by a piece of what appears to be duct tape, and I am pulled out of the chair before I can even ask, Do you have any jui-...

But I suppose that's better than the blood draw for the nuchal test, which involves a finger prick. Have you had your finger pricked lately? IT HURTS LIKE BLOODY HELL. The sting, my God, the sting! And then after they swiftly sting you they take your finger and wring it and knead it and SQUEEZE THE BLOOD OUT OF IT onto a piece of paper with small circles where they get this weird glee out of getting it right in the lines. Ow. Just ow.

But even all of this is not as bad as the glucose test, which I will endure next month. On that day I will have to guzzle a ridiculous amount of some fake orange toothpaste tasting liquid. After sitting there letting this sumptuous liquid sit like a lead balloon in my stomach, I will then get to endure yet another massive blood draw (see above).

And then there's the fact that I have to at some point get this baby out of my body, which will not be comfortable in the least. But that's a bitch session for another day.

Okay, I'm done.

A Co-Parent

2013-05-14T15:16:00.001-04:00

As is typical, my trip to Disney World has been followed by a bad case of post-vacation depression. This tends to happen every time I return from a trip, to varying degrees. I'm used to it, and I'm prepared for it. But this one hit me hard and is still lingering, 8 days later.

Ugh.

I have really been analyzing this phenomenon this time around and wondering, WHY? There are the obvious things of course - the fun, the warm weather, the casting aside of concerns about money and routine and a well balanced meal. But really, at its heart, I think I have figured out what makes me so sad about coming home.

I miss having a co-parent.

When my husband is around, he is very hands on. We alternate who changes poopy diapers and tag team bedtime and share meal and bathing responsibilities. I have a partner to deal with the meltdowns and a co-spectator when the kids do something adorable. The highs are that much higher, and the lows are not as low. It's just better, easier, calmer, more enjoyable, when my husband is around. And when we're on vacation, he's around all the time.

When we're in our real lives, he's not around so much.

It's no secret that my husband has a demanding job - a demanding job that he happens to love, and that he is damn good at. I am proud of him, and it's his job that allows me to stay at home. But it's also his job that renders me a solo parent for much of the time.

I deal, and I try not to complain. But at the end of the day, it's lonely. Very lonely. Sure, there are playdates and park excursions and the occasional visitor. But it's not the same. The fact is, I spend most of my day on my own, with two children in tow. It's not that there's silence - far from it, but there's not someone to bounce things off of. To have a real adult conversation with. To pass off something to when I just need 5 minutes to myself. It's in large part a solitary lifestyle. I generally eat all of my meals alone.

I do take efforts to mitigate this. I talk to my best friend and my sister daily. I try to time these phone calls for when I'm really struggling - usually first thing in the morning, right after my husband leaves (and I am struggling to kick-start the day), and around 5pm when I have to start dinner and my patience is starting to wear thin. I relish these calls - I count on them to get me through those moments, and when for some reason one of them doesn't answer, I panic. Somehow the notion of having someone with me during those times, albeit on the phone, is a huge support for me.

I also try to do playdates and make plans with friends each day. But as the kids get older, this is getting harder and harder. My friends and I will make plans to meet at a park with the best of intentions, only to get there and run after our respective children, never having a chance to finish even the shortest of conversations. We'll meet for dinner and attempt to communicate over our respective kids' screams. And now that Braden is getting older, activities are focused on him, not me (and rightly so). He has karate twice a week. He has soccer once a week. He has drop-off playdates now - where I barely even see the other parent (and sometimes barely even know them). In so many ways, it was so much easier to find company and companionship when the boys were babies - when social activities revolved around the moms, not the kids.

When I made the decision to quit my job, I knew what I was getting into. My husband would "lean in" to his job fully, and I would "lean in" equally fully into mine, at home with the kids. But our lives are polar opposites in many ways - he is at one extreme and I'm at the other. And while we have talked about wanting to change that, there really isn't any practical way at this point. It is what it is.

I have no regrets, but I can't say I don't wish it was a little more balanced. I wish my co-parent was around more - for my kids' sake, and for mine.

Until the next vacation...

A Poem for Mother's Day

2013-05-12T12:56:00.000-04:00

Love this poem. Happy Mother's Day, everyone.

On Children, by Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,

but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children

as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might

that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Placing an Order

2013-05-09T14:54:00.001-04:00

When one gets pregnant, one of the first thing one is asked by friends, family, co-workers, and random belly touching strangers is: So what do you want? A boy or a girl?

It's almost like placing an order in a restaurant. Yes, I'll have a boy this time, please. As if we have any say in the matter.

Most people will play the game, though most will answer coyly - It doesn't matter to me, as long as the baby is healthy. (As if we won't love our children if they aren't healthy, but that's a topic for another day).

This is generally a lie. Usually there is some kind of gender preference. And I haven't conducted any research on this, but from what I can tell, in America today, that gender preference is generally for girls.

Why? The typical reasons are draped in gender stereotypes: Girls are so much calmer than boys. Boys are wild. Girls clothes are so much more fun! Boys clothes are boring. Girls will stay close with their families. Boys will stray. Girls will be their mother's best friend (eventually). Boys will never talk to their mothers (eventually). Girls will share their emotions, express their love, and show vulnerability. Boys will be aloof and cold and strong. Girls are sweet. Boys are rough. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

I certainly felt the pull for a girl. Coming from an all girl family, for my first child, if I were placing an order, I would have ordered a girl. When I found out it was a boy, I wasn't upset per se, but I wondered what it would be like. What am I going to do with a boy? I thought. Eventually I got used to, and embraced, the idea. I went crazy for blue bedding and baby suspenders and figured I could do all the frilly stuff with my next child.

When I got pregnant for the second time, I felt a bit differently. I already had a boy, who I loved more than life itself. I knew what to do with a boy, and I knew that no matter what, I would love the child I would get, no matter the sex. But, knowing that it may be my last child, if I had to place an order, I probably would have ordered a girl. After all, I already had a boy, what would a girl be like? I'm the type that likes to experience it all - to visit every country I can, to try all types of food. When it came to motherhood, why not have the girl and boy experience?

When I found out #2 was a boy, I mourned for a day or two, but quickly recovered. I embraced the idea of two boys - brothers. Besides, who knew - maybe we would have a third child, and maybe that third child would be a girl.

After a couple of years, my husband and I started talking about having baby #3. When we discussed it, we acknowledged the fact that, in all likelihood, we would probably have another boy. I know it's supposed to be 50/50 and all that, but from observation only, it doesn't seem to happen that way. And anyway, having a child just to have a girl seemed like a pretty crappy reason to have one. I sat long and hard and really looked inward - why do I want a third child? When I realized that the gender was not the reason, we decided to fledge forward.

I started telling some close friends, family, and acquaintances that we had decided to have a third child, sometime in the near future. The reactions were ..... interesting. Most all of them centered on the gender of the child - Hopefully you'll get your girl! or You know you could end up being one of those moms with three boys who has to buy 50 gallons of milk a week? or You know about the Shettles method, right? Such comments came from parents of boys and girls alike.

The assumption was that we were going for that girl. And in a weird way, I started to feel like I would let people down if we didn't get just that.

It's not that I didn't want a girl. Once again, if I had to place an order for this pregnancy, I probably would have ordered a girl. But all the anti-boy sentiment had me a bit defensive about the boys I already had. What's so wrong with them? Would having one more of them be that bad? That lamentable? It's as if people were feeling preemptively sorry for me. And I don't like people to feel sorry for me, generally. Especially when the subject of their sympathy is what I find to be my life's treasure.

Once I did get pregnant, the gender question hung over me with a pressure I hadn't felt in my prior pregnancies. But this time, unlike other times, I was convinced I was having a girl. EVERYTHING pointed to that. The Shettles method, the chinese fertility calendar, the heart rate, the nausea, my friend Sabrina's pencil test that has worked for generations... I just felt it this time, I felt different. And with that certainty, I felt.... relieved. Relieved that I wouldn't let anyone else down. Relieved that I would get "my girl" and know what that felt like.

I narrowed down my baby girl names. I fantasized about painting the baby room a pale yellow and throwing away all of the raggedy boy clothes we had been storing in the attic.

On April 30, we got the call from the geneticist.

BOY.

Let me say that one more time. BOY.

I wasn't upset at all when I heard the news - not in the least bit actually. The only word I can use to describe my emotion was SHOCKED.

I was shocked as hell.

I don't know why. Obviously, it could have been either. But I was shocked at the fact I had been so wrong. Shocked at the fact I would never have a girl. Shocked at the fact I would be a mom to THREE BOYS.

THREE BOYS.

I picked up the phone to call my husband, who shared in my shock. But also in my happiness. We laughed, and in that phone conversation, I started picturing my baby boy in my belly. The boy I would love more than life itself. I started remembering what my sons looked like as infants - what it felt like to hold them, to smell them, to nuzzle them. And in that moment, in Target no less, I realized I didn't care. My reality became my reality and my visions of my fictional daughter vanished. Of course he was a boy. He always was. And he is mine. My baby.

I love that baby inside of me.

Despite coming to my own peace, I remained nervous about telling others. Because there's that sense of failure, isn't there? I didn't get my girl! And THREE BOYS! Some people couched their reaction in, Oh, three boys will be so fun! or You'll never be bored! (Read - your household will be a looney bin). Some weren't so subtle - I actually had a mom of two boys say, See, this is why I'm scared to have another child - I couldn't handle another boy! Some merely laughed and shook their head, almost to say, Well, you took a chance! I could be wrong, but I venture to say the reaction to having three girls isn't the same.

There was one person who didn't react that way. It was my former neighbor, Heather, who also happens to have three boys. I thought about calling her that day - the day I found out, but I didn't. When I finally did reach out to her, and I told her why, I was honest. I said: I couldn't call anyone. I was just too shocked.

She said she completely understood. In fact, she said that when she found out her third was a boy, that she also experienced the shock factor. She said that she couldn't tell her co-workers face to face, and instead sent an email on a Friday night.

I don't know why, but when she said that, I burst into tears. There was a relatability about it that was just so close to home, so real, so understandable, that it made me emotional.

I want this baby. I want this boy. And the fact that his impending arrival elicits anything than utter happiness in anyone - that anyone would feel sorry for me, or wish something different for me, is devastating to me. This boy is not a third child. He is my child. He is a child. And I know that no matter who he turns out to be - wild and crazy and stoic or emotional and vulnerable and calm, or, more likely, some combination or permutation of all of the above - he will be my world, my everything.

These stereotypes about what gender represents do us all a disservice. At the end of the day, our children are first and foremost people, before they are a boy or a girl. Gender is secondary, and more often than not, not an accurate predictor about who a person is at their core. And while I may wish I was able to experience having a daughter, I also wish that my husband had an English accent and an EU passport. There are some things about it that would be more exciting, but nothing that would make me wish for someone else.

I have never once looked at either of my children and wished they were anyone other than exactly who they are.

I know I will feel the same about this boy.

Stepping Out of My Comfort Zone

2013-05-07T15:09:00.001-04:00

When I worked in big law I allowed stress to take over my life. I was stressed about deadlines, stressed about pleasing the client, stressed about meeting the firm's expectations, stressed about defending depositions and giving presentations and finding the perfect case and making sure everything was always just right. I felt like there was always someone counting on me, always some kind of performance to orchestrate, and a million opportunities to let everyone down. There was little rest from this pressure, particularly because so much of it was self inflicted.

Leaving my job was driven by my desire to be with my children, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved to leave some of that responsibility behind. It's not that all responsibility went away - obviously kids come with a whole new set of obligations, commitments, and burdens. But my duties to them didn't intimidate me - I knew I could do it, that I WOULD do it. I had a faith in myself as a parent that I never had in my myself as a lawyer.

A trade off to being a stay at home mom, I always thought, was that any sort of professional satisfaction I had would cease to exist. And despite the stress and the pressure of being a firm lawyer, I certainly did experience notions of achievement - particularly after I overcame an obstacle or a fear: getting through an oral argument, negotiating a settlement, making my colleagues proud, or just finishing a project that had hung over my head. I figured those senses of accomplishment would be replaced by something even more profound - the joy of being with my children, every day.

It is joyful and rewarding and gratifying and worthwhile. But generally, being a stay at home mom is predictable and routine. It certainly is stressful at times, but it's a different kind of stress than the stress I felt as a lawyer. As a parent, I rarely have to get out of my comfort zone like I did as a full time professional attorney.

I think it was a matter of weeks into my role as a stay at home mom that I realized maybe I did need something more. After all, isn't that what this blog was about? About "professional" satisfaction? About feeling like I'm still adding something real, something thoughtful, outside the confines of my own home? About putting myself out there? About stepping out of my comfort zone?

A few weeks ago I really put myself out there.

First, the DC branch of "Mommy Esquire" had its first meeting. I had organized the event, Montage Legal Group agreed to sponsor it, and I had received a fair number of rsvps. But still, on my drive into downtown that night, I was nervous. What if no one shows up? What if people don't have fun? What if the whole event bombs? Why do I put myself out there like this? Wouldn't it be easier to order pizza, stay home, and finish Season 4 of The Wire? But nooooooooo, I decided to add some stress and obligation and blah blah blah.... Well, guess what. The event was awesome. There was a great turnout, and all of the women were friendly, open, and engaging. Notwithstanding the fact that some of us were stay at home moms, while others worked full time, there was a sense of camaraderie that was palpable - just how it should be. Everyone agreed we should meet again. I drove home that night hopeful, relieved, and, overall, satisfied - I was glad I took a risk, glad I stepped out of my comfort zone, and glad I did something different. I vowed to make a habit of it.

Four days later, opportunity came knocking. I was having a normal night, getting ready for bed, when I saw that I had an email from a producer at Huff Post Live. It was an invitation to participate in a live segment the next day, on "Quitting the Law." I emailed the producer back, thinking nothing would probably come of it, and sure enough, the next morning she called and gave me the instructions for doing the live chat on my computer, and told me to log on at 5pm that day. How should I prepare? I asked her. Oh, no need to prepare, she said, It's just a conversation. So I didn't, and apart from arranging for a babysitter to come so my kids wouldn't bust in on the interview, I went about my day as normal. Until 4:45pm when I began getting ridiculously nervous and asking myself those familiar questions: What if I don't know what to say? What if I stumble on my words? Who do I think I am doing this interview anyway? Why do I put myself out there like this? Wouldn't it be easier to order pizza, put on Yo Gabba Gabba, and have a normal night? Well, guess what. The interview was awesome (see it here). And fun. And enlightening. And while I keep going back thinking of things I should have said differently or better, I have to give myself credit for doing it. I felt proud, accomplished, and overall, satisfied - a familiar feeling from four days prior.

I didn't have much time to ride the high, because the very next day, I started another professional endeavor that had me wracked with angst. Back in March, I wrote about how I interviewed for a part-time position at a local university. I didn't get it. But a few days after the initial rejection, they offered me the opportunity to teach an online course. It doesn't pay particularly well, but it would give me some valuable teaching experience and get me an "in" with the university. I was very grateful for the opportunity, and jumped at it. Over the next few weeks, I did some training sessions, reviewed the syllabus, and read the textbook. It all seemed abstract until last week, when the class actually started. And with that came the realization that I was TERRIFIED. Wait, didn't I realize how scary this would be? I don't know how to teach! What if I suck? What if the students hate me? What if I just can't do this? And of course... Wouldn't it be easier to just focus on my kids? Why do I put myself out there like this? The jury is still out as to whether I am professor material, but I can say, after being a week in to the course, I am glad I am doing it. I am challenging myself, I am taking a risk, and I am doing the best I can. And for that, I feel strong, able, and overall, satisfied.

It was a crazy, exhausting week (after which I rewarded myself with a fabulous vacation). But it was one of the best weeks I've had in a while.

Despite my fear of stress and my voices of self doubt and my feelings of trepidation, I like putting myself out there. I like stepping out of my comfort zone. It's who I am, and who I always have been. I was wrong when I thought I would have to give up that part of myself by being a stay at home mom. On the contrary, being home has allowed me the freedom to better manage my stress, to explore my interests and to take opportunities that I never would have had if I had still been working at a law firm.

It certainly didn't happen all at once, and it has taken time, but slowly but surely, I am finding myself again. Ironically, the longer I am out of the full time workforce, the more professional satisfaction I am garnering. And it has nothing - absolutely nothing - to do with a paycheck.

My professional endeavors these days are on my own terms. I've never felt more empowered.

Hello from...

2013-05-03T15:33:00.000-04:00

In the midst of everything else going on lately, I neglected to mention the fact that we were going on vacation...

Today, I write to you from Disney World. Well, actually, I write to you from a pitch black hotel room where I am sitting in silence while Casey naps. But, that's how it goes.

I did a post on our last trip to Disney World where I chronicled our Disney trips over the years, starting with a trip with just my husband, then a trip with Braden, and then our last trip, with Braden and Casey. I ended it by saying: "Who knows what our next Disney trip will bring?"

Well, it brought two boys more excited for the flight than Disney World itself:

It brought RAIN (ugh), ponchos, and rides on Dumbo.

It brought meet and greets with Mickey.

It brought family photo attempts, with swords weilding.

And it brought a growing belly (seriously, it's out of control).

We have two days left to make some more Disney memories until we are back to reality. Until then, I shall bask in the Disney magic. Who doesn't love Disney World? (Don't answer that.)

Two Secrets

2013-05-01T21:23:00.000-04:00

I've never been a good secret keeper. In fact, I'm pretty damn awful at it.

But since March 6, I've been keeping a really big secret.

On the evening of March 6, my husband and I were up late packing for a road trip to Cincinnati to visit my best friend. We were a bit tipsy - we always crack open a bottle of wine before a trip, to make the packing a bit more entertaining. I was in the bathroom packing up my toiletries, when I glanced under the sink and saw a package of pregnancy tests. I honestly don't know WHAT enticed me to take one. Sheer curiosity? Tipsy-ness? The fact that I was sure to be tipsy during my weekend away?

I don't know, because we certainly weren't planning anything pregnancy related that month. But for some reason, I took it. And this happened:

A faint line = a line.

Yes, people, I took a pregnancy test drunk. And it came up positive.

I ran out of the bathroom and blurted out the news to my husband who thought I was kidding. We laughed. Because we were drunk. Then we went to bed and fell asleep easily. Because we were drunk.

I woke up around 2am, sober.

Thoughts swirled. Due dates were calculated. I mentally went through the next nine months and thought of all the things I would be fat and sober for. I thought about our house and how we would reconfigure the furniture. I thought about college funds and sibling age differences and minivans.

I got stressed, but I also got excited. We weren't preventing this, per se. This was right. This was going to stick. Not like last time. I just knew it.

I managed to get a few hours of sleep. When we woke up the next morning, we went about our day as normal. We had our weekend in Cincinnati and returned and life went on. Because that's what life does.

And for the next two months, I carried this secret with me. And that secret started making its presence known - through nausea, through bloating, through fatigue, through OH MY GOD HOW ON EARTH DID I FORGET HOW MUCH THE FIRST TRIMESTER SUCKS? If you have a lot of time on your hands, and are so inclined, go back and read all of my posts since March 6th and read them with the undertone of I FEEL LIKE CRAP AND I LOOK LIKE I'M SIX MONTHS PREGNANT ALREADY AND MY HEMORRHOIDS ARE BACK.

It was rough at points.

But I am overjoyed.

This will be my last pregnancy. It will. So instead of wallowing in my nauseated misery, I am trying to take it all in. Commit it to memory. Imprint it so that years from now, when I look at my three children and marvel at the fact that they were all at one time actually inside of me, I can still hang on to this feeling. Even if it is an exhausted, nauseous one.

Because after all, this whole thing is pretty miraculous.

On April 2, we saw this:

On April 29, we saw this:

And on April 30 at 10:15 am, two days before I officially exited the first trimester, I got the call from the genetic counselor saying that we got the results back from our Verifi test (this is a new test, and science is freaking amazing). We got great news - the baby is healthy. And she also was able to tell us...

The gender.

That's my second secret.

Stay tuned.

Getting Through The Witching Hours

2013-04-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

By far, the hardest time of day for me is 5-7 pm. This is when the kids start getting whiny, when dinner has to be made, when the kids refuse to eat dinner, when I fight with them over it, when I ultimately clean up the huge mess that was made by them not eating dinner, and when I have to face and deal with said whiny kids until the bedtime routine begins.

It's during this time where I call or email my husband begging him to come home to provide me some relief. It's during this time that my patience gets worn thin. It's during this time where I am simply beaten down. I lose all capability to experience emotion - no happiness, no sadness, no anger, no impatience. Just blank, spent, flat. Kind of like Goldie Hawn in Overboard when all she does is say "Buh buh buh buh." (Click here for the clip. It's classic).

I have found some ways to mitigate these difficult hours.

1) Go out to eat. It's not that eating out is necessarily relaxing, but it takes away from the making and cleaning up of dinner.

2) Order pizza. Again, no making, no cleaning, and it really is the only thing the kids will consistently eat.

3) Turn on the TV. For a long time. This is not a healthy option, but it shuts the kids up and cuts back on the whining.

4) Have a glass of wine. This also is not healthy, nor a good habit, so I try to limit it to my low, low moments.

5) Go on a walk.

Given that we are coming out of a cold, dark winter, it had been a while since I had exercised option #5. But after a very rough dinner on Tuesday night, where I emailed my husband the following - Neither kid had a single bite of dinner. Not a single bite. Braden is in time out now for the fourth time after he threw his food on the floor then smeared the ketchup all over the table and threw his plate. I am done. - only to find out that he would not be home from work imminently, I decided I had to do something.

We went on a walk.

For some odd reason, I took my camera.

And you know what? It was nice.

We stepped outside and all of a sudden the boys turned into cute little angels. That really liked each other.

And without cooking and cleaning and time outs to worry about, I exhaled.

We walked.

And admired spring.

This is my attempt at an artsy photograph.

We gazed at the community pool's playground, which will open next month.

And we stopped to appreciate the small things.

By the end of it, we were all sufficiently chilled out.

And I realized that in the midst of the witching hours, I can find moments of peace. Of happiness. Of fun.

A horrific evening was turned around. Thank God.

The next night we went out to dinner.

*******************************************************************************

Casey's Penn State t-shirt was given to us courtesy of Baby Sport. Baby Sport offers a wide variety of baby sports products for NFL, NCAA, MLB, and NBA teams around the country. Check out their website - www.babysport.com to see if your favorite team is featured. They have really cute clothes and other sports paraphernalia for little ones!

A Thursday Night Out

2013-04-24T12:19:00.001-04:00

Just a reminder for those locals reading this - tomorrow is the first DC area "Mommy Esquire" meet-up. This group intends to promote fellowship, education, and networking for lawyers with young children.

And it's a good excuse to get a drink.

The event is downtown tomorrow night from 6:30-8:30pm, and appetizers will be provided courtesy of Montage Legal Group. Email me at butidohavealawdegree@gmail.com if you are interested in coming and want details.

Otherwise, happy Wednesday everyone!

Self Portrait

2013-04-22T08:42:00.001-04:00

Last week we had Braden's parent teacher conference.

We were excited - we love going to Braden's school. Remember last year when I wrote that post about how I was all in a tizzy about Braden changing schools? Well, turns out it was the best decision we ever made. Seriously. This new preschool is amazing and warm and nurturing and impressive and worth every ridiculously expensive penny.

So suffice it to say, we couldn't wait to go and pat ourselves on the back once again about making such a great decision for our child. And of course, we couldn't wait to hear all wonderful things about our little angel.

Generally, it was all wonderful. It's so great to talk to people who get your kid, who care about your kid, and who can give you insights that even you as a parent might not know. They talked about Braden's strengths, weaknesses, interactions with other kids, and at the end, there was an elaborate display of his artwork.

Let me start by saying that neither my husband nor I are even the least bit artistic or crafty, so I was pretty impressed at the size of Braden's portfolio. And I was equally impressed when I saw Braden's self portrait, which had legs, arms, a face, etc. That is, until I caught the details, and the caption.

Here's Self Portrait #1:

Hmmmm, I said to the teacher, Is that a sad face?

She smiled a bit, and read me the caption (which he had dictated to her):

In case you can't read it, it says: "It's a sad face - because my mom is screaming at me."

Um, WTF?

Apparently that was a bit too dark, so they asked him to do one more self portrait, with a happy face.

Here is Self Portrait #2:

Ahhh, that's much better, right? Then I read the caption on this version:

This one says, "It's a happy face because my mom stopped screaming at me."

Oh dear God.

Let me say this about my parenting - I'm not a screamer. Really, I'm not. I try to reserve the screaming/yelling for moments that really matter - like when Braden tries to open a hot oven, or kicks his brother in the face, or splashes water out of the toilet, or stomps on the Ipad, or runs into a crowded street, or throws large items against the wall, or creates a pool of pepper from our pepper shaker which he then rubs into his eyes. Yeah, I admit it, at those times I yell. Scream, if you will.

But you know what makes me sad? Braden won't remember that. He won't remember the reason why his mommy was screaming at him. He'll just have this vision in his head, as he gets older, of this poor, innocent child, being yelled at by his antagonistic, evil mother. And so it begins.

We all laughed about the self portraits in the parent teacher conference. In fact, it was my funny story of the day and I damn well nearly told every person I saw that day (this may have included a Starbucks barrister). But man, all in all, when I really think about it, it makes me kind of feel like a big pile of poo.

(And if you happen to comment on this thread, please be nice, as I'm feeling vulnerable about this these days).

But it also kind of makes me smirk. Because that's Braden. He's a manipulative one, that one. Maybe it was the morning of the toilet splashing incident. Maybe he went to school pissed. And maybe when he did that self portrait, he thought to himself, I'm really going to stick it to her.

Well done, Braden. I can't say you aren't clever.

I love that boy.

I'll end this post with my favorite piece of "artwork" we saw that day - Braden's definition of kindness:

Truer words have never been spoken.

Is The World Going to Shit?

2013-04-16T14:55:00.002-04:00

Yesterday's tragedy in Boston was just another event in what seems to be a sequence of tragedies that makes me wonder, Is this world going to shit?

I mean, it's hard not to think that way. When children are being murdered in schools, when an 8 year old dies while waiting for his dad to cross a marathon finish line, when women in Syria are being systematically raped, when road side bombs in the Middle East are no longer a front page news story, when North Korea is about to unleash its terror, when U.S. Ambassadors are killed in their embassies, when there is still racism and sexism and homophobia and anti-semitism and global warming...

It makes you wonder what the hell is going on. And if our world really is, indeed, going to shit.

I've thought on this for the past 24 hours. And I think the answer is no. I don't think our world is going to shit. I think it's always been that way.

I am an avid watcher of Mad Men. It's a great show, in part because of the acting, script, etc., but also because it gives the viewer a glimpse of a generation that we weren't really a part of - our parents' generation. I think about what it must have been like to live in that time - to have a president, his brother, and a civil rights activist assassinated, all in succession. To have a war going on with unbelievable carnage and political unrest and a drug culture and a sexual revolution and the Cuban Missile Crisis and murders at a university and thalidomide.

I bet a lot of people around that time thought the world was going to shit.

But lets go back further. Lets think about slavery and the Holocaust and the attack on Pearl Harbor and religious intolerance and ethnic cleansing and the dark ages and the guillotine and the black plague. I am not a history buff, so I'm just glossing over the major tragedies here.

But that's definitely some shit.

On September 11, 2001, I was living in London. Due to the time difference, it was around 3pm when I heard news of planes going into the twin towers. I stopped into a pub that had a TV, and it was packed with people. And silent - very uncharacteristic of a pub.

At one point I ordered a pint of lager. When I ordered, someone overheard my American accent and offered to buy it for me. He was a man in a suit, and I am certain he was not hitting on me. He said it was his pleasure, and that he was sorry my American innocence was being taken away from me. I thought it was a weird thing to say, but upon further reflection, I got it.

The British are no strangers to tragedy themselves. In fact, if you walk around London you'll notice that there are barely any garbage cans to be found. Why? Because in the 1970s-90s, the IRA planted bombs in garbage cans. In fact, during this time period there were over 30 IRA bombings in London. Over thirty!!! No, London is no stranger to terrorism. (Just check out this Wikipedia list of terrorist attacks in London. It's sobering.). And I venture to say the world isn't a stranger to such violence either. The fact is, we in the United States have been sheltered. Notwithstanding Oklahoma City and 9/11 and school shootings and yesterday's bombings, we have been comparatively lucky.

I have read a lot of articles regarding the Boston Marathon bombing, and a lot of them lament that yesterday's violence confirms that there is nowhere that we can be safe.

I agree completely, but I don't think it's anything new.

The world is full of danger and death. We aren't guaranteed safety in a car. In a plane. In a school. In a swimming pool or or a tall building or a sporting event. We can't even be safe in our own homes, in our own beds, while cancer or disease or infection attack us from the inside out.

This world is a crazy, dangerous place. No one makes it out alive. Tragedy is everywhere. Hasn't history shown us that human suffering is inevitable?

In my moderately long life, I have accepted this. I follow the lead of the British and I don't let it stop me from doing things. I still drive, I still fly, I still eat things that aren't so great for me, and I will still go to public places and sporting events and concerts. I am not the type that has an emergency plan or stockpiles canned goods. It's just not my thing. Everyone copes in different ways.

But what throws me for a loop, and is a new thing for me, is my children. How do I explain this harsh world to them? How do I break the news that not only can I not keep them safe, but that none of us, truly, are safe?

Right now my children live in a world of Disney and fairies and Santa Clause. They haven't heard of the concept of death, apart from me explaining to Braden last weekend that we "killed" the bee that was harassing him on the playground. They think that everyone who gets sick, gets better. They think that the world is fair and just and even. They think that I will always be around, that I will always protect them, that the worst thing that can happen to them is that they will get one too many time outs and get their cars taken away.

At what point do I break the news that the world doesn't work that way? And how do I help them accept what the world really is? Is there any way to truly accept it?

I don't mean to be doom and gloom. I know the world is a beautiful place, that there is so much joy, and so much love - I live it every day.

But last night, I held both of my boys extra tight, for as long as they would let me. And in that moment, I felt this urge to never let them go. To put them back where they came from - to put them back in my stomach, inside me, where I really could protect them - where I really could always hold them close.

Because now that they're out, living and breathing and getting closer and closer to one day being on their own, it seems that sometimes I just can't hold them close enough.

"You're Such a Mom"

2013-04-11T13:28:00.000-04:00

Let me say this about myself: I'm not really a shopper. I'm not the type that goes on a buying binge and then comes home and models clothes for my husband, soliciting flattery. When I do refresh my wardrobe, for a new season, for example, I generally do so out of sheer necessity and keep it at that. I like to think when it comes to this department, I'm pretty low maintenance.

Let me say this about my husband. He is really smart - probably one of the smartest people I have ever met. He consistently outperformed me in law school and typically beats me in Words with Friends. But... he is a man. And, like all men, he can at times be a gargantuan idiot. You know, saying stupid things without thinking. Being well meaning, yet offensive. Neanderthal-like, really.

It is upon this backdrop that I tell the tale of last night's incident.

Wednesdays are my only day with any time to myself, sans kids. I have ninety whole minutes. I decided to spend a portion of this ninety minutes yesterday at DSW Shoe Warehouse, since the unseasonably warm weather made me realize I was in desperate need of sandals. I was in and out quickly, and made three purchases: a yellow purse, a pair of brown sandals, and a pair of black reefs - to replace the other black reefs I have been wearing for the past three summers. Here is Exhibit A: Picture of Black Reefs:

Exhibit A

They have a little sparkle to them. But otherwise, they are nondescript. Uncontroversial. Ordinary. They are black flip flops, for God's sake.

For some reason, last night I uncharacteristically waited to unpack my shopping bag until my husband got home from work. I even waited until the kids went to bed. Then, like a presentation, I unwrapped each package for my husband to see and ooh and ahh over, as if he really cared. I saved the black flip flops for last.

Look, I got new flip flops! I said to him eagerly.

You're such a mom, he replied quickly.

Okay, lets pause to take this in for a second.

YOU'RE SUCH A MOM.

I smiled for a moment, and then pondered what that meant. What exactly did that mean? I asked him so.

What does that mean?

I can't even remember his blundering reply. I think he sensed that he may have said something wrong, so he scrambled to recover . Oh, I didn't mean anything by that. I love the shoes.

But the words rang in my ear like an echo. So I asked again.

What the fuck does that mean?

Again, he had no rational answer. After a few harsh words, a minor argument ensued, after which I stormed off, black reefs in hand. And I couldn't shake the thought for the rest of the night : WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?

I know I'm a mom. I really do. I know it EVERY SINGLE SECOND OF EVERY SINGLE DAY. I know it in the morning when my kids scream my name beginning at 6am, I know it throughout the day as I race from one preschool pick up to another, as I make their meals, as I clean up after them constantly, as I wipe their asses, as I host playdates, as I referee arguments, as I enforce time outs, as I watch Sophia the First for the hundredth time, as I give baths and read books and tuck them in, and then collapse into a pile of nothingness on the couch and manage to eat my own dinner, if I'm lucky. I know it when I look in the mirror every day, as I ponder whether it's worth it to shower or put on makeup, as I try and squeeze into the jeans that were loose on me four years ago, as I reminisce about my perky boobs and a time when I didn't have an intertube sitting nicely around my hips. I know it when I think about the last time I went to a movie, the last time I traveled abroad, the last time I went out past midnight without dreading the early morning wake up, the last time I had a single day when I thought of no one but myself.

I KNOW I'M A MOM.

But is it too much to ask that in some aspects of my life, I have an identity separate from motherhood? I don't know, perhaps when I'm working. Or when I'm out with friends. Or when I'm exercising. Or when I'm lost in a book or listening to music or driving solo or WEARING BLACK FLIP FLOPS. Must motherhood be so intrinsically wrapped into every single thing that I do, down to the shoes on my feet?

Perhaps I missed the boat, which is entirely possible, but what exactly is it about black sparkly flip flops that makes me "such a mom"? Am I going to wear these out and are people going to stare and point and say, "Hey, look at that mom! She's really let herself go!" Are these the new equivalent of mom jeans (Exhibit B)? If they are, just tell me so.

Exhibit B (taken from http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/mom%20jeans)

I don't wear mom jeans (at least I don't think I do). But when you see me on the street, with my two kids in tow, all disheveled and sweaty and unshowered, I probably do look like a mom. In some ways, I have let myself go. I've had to. I don't have time to primp and spruce and exercise every day. I'm not as skinny as I once was or as fashionable as I once was and I certainly rarely wear my contacts anymore.

But to think that I can't escape that if I want to - that I can't buy cute things and dress up and look fashionable and young and childless... That I am so inherently a mom that I can't even find a shadow of my former self and trick people every once in a while into thinking that I am well rested and confident and put together.... To think that even something as simple as my shoe choice gives me away.....

Well, that's just depressing.

So to all the men out there, learn from my husband. If your wife ever comes home and shows you some of her shopping purchases, don't ever, ever, ever reply with, "You're such a mom."

Just don't.

Because I ask again. WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?

Can't. Take. Much. More.

2013-04-09T12:54:00.001-04:00

Since having children, we have had some notorious, unforgettable, nightmarish weeks where everything just seems to go wrong. It always involves illness, and usually multiple parties. Our infamous Thanksgiving comes to mind (where 7 out of 8 house residents were violently vomiting within a 24 hour period). The Thanksgiving before, Braden got sick, then Casey, who was 5 weeks old at the time, and had to be hospitalized for three days to ensure he didn't have meningitis or some other awful thing infant malady (Casey getting a spinal tap ranks as one of the lower points of my life). Then there was the hand foot and mouth, followed by strep, followed by the cold, followed by impetigo. You get the drift.

I'm in the midst of one of those times right now.

It all was precipitated by Casey's injury nearly two weeks ago. So much so that I keep replaying that moment in my mind.... If only I hadn't put him in that chair... If only I'd given him something else for breakfast.... If only SOMETHING HAD BEEN DIFFERENT AND HE HADN'T FALLEN DOWN AND WE'D GONE OUT WITH OUR DAY...

Because it all started with that.

Casey falls. Casey needs stitches. Casey ends up in the ER for five plus hours, where undoubtedly, he picked up some wretched communicable disease.

48 hours later said communicable disease takes hold, and Casey throws up. Casey gets a fever. Casey becomes miserable for days on end. I take Casey to the doctor, with Braden in tow.

Here's where I can't quite figure out how things splintered. Did Braden simply catch Casey's wretched communicable disease? Or did he pick something else up at the pediatrician's office? Or, most likely, did he catch both, creating the perfect storm for two equally wretched communicable diseases to join as one and create the affliction from hell?

All I know is that on Friday around 2:30am, Braden threw up in his bed. Fine. I can deal with this. We kept Braden home from school. Probably one of those 24 hour things.

But it wasn't. It hung on and on and on. More vomiting was involved. More diarena (as Braden calls it). By Sunday evening it seemed to have ceased. And it had to have, right? I mean, how long can a stomach bug last?

I was contemplating that very thought when my husband started complaining of stomach pains. And sure enough, it hit him hard Sunday night. It was a long, long night for both of us. It's one thing for a toddler to be up all night with the stomach flu... But a full grown adult? Gross.

By Monday morning I had had it - with sick days and doctors appointments and ER visits and Lysol. I was SO ready to send Braden back to school. After all, my husband was home from work recovering, and I could only handle one patient at a time. So off to school he went.

Perhaps it wasn't the wisest decision.

Let me say something about sending sick kids to school - I am strongly against it. Of course, you don't want your child to be uncomfortable at school, and you don't want the other poor innocent children to catch your child's disease, but more than that it's the whole karma thing. If I send my sick kid to school and he gets everyone else sick, then undoubtedly it will come back at me ten fold. I firmly believe this, and I generally act accordingly.

Around 2pm I got the call of shame - Braden had a "diarena" incident at school, and could I please pick him up. Yes, I am the crappy mom that sends a sick kid to school. Title assumed.

Poor Braden looked miserable upon my arrival. I showered him with hugs and kisses, apologized profusely, and put him in the car, where approximately ten minutes into the drive he vomited all over himself, the carseat, and the car. It was a chunky vomit variety, so much so that in order for me to unbuckle his carseat, I had to navigate through the pile of vomit and ended up getting the chunks underneath my fingernails.

(Grossed out by the details? I apologize. But this is my life).

Luckily, my ill, vomit ridden husband was home to help me get Braden out of the car and clean up the mess. What luck!

We hosed the carseat down. We fed Braden bananas and rice. And I fell into bed as early as I could, exhausted and exasperated and sick of sickness.

So here I am, THE LAST ONE STANDING. But how long can that last? Every stomach pang, every weird sensation - is that it? Is it taking me down?

For the love of all that is holy and kind and good and just okay, PLEASE let this be the end of it.

I can't take much more.

Why Are Lawyers So Miserable?

2013-04-03T15:00:00.000-04:00

It seems to be common knowledge these days that being a lawyer isn't always the best job. I remember Tom Hanks giving an interview once on Inside the Actor's Studio, when he was asked what the job is he would least want to do. His answer? A lawyer, because "it's like doing homework for a living."

How oddly true.

But now, it's official.

According to a recent Forbes article, the number one unhappiest job in America is..... (drum roll, please).

Associate Attorney

I can't say I'm entirely surprised. But what is shocking is that not only are we an unhappy bunch, but we are also the most depressed. According to The Dave Nee Foundation, lawyers are the most frequently depressed occupational group in the U.S., lawyers are 3.6 times more likely to suffer from depression than non-lawyers, and lawyers rank 5th in incidence of suicide by occupation.

What gives?

I don't really know.

Whether the law profession attracts people who are unhappy and have a proclivity for depression (or really like homework), or whether it makes people unhappy or depressed, I cannot answer. But I do have a few observations:

1) A lot of people go to law school because they don't know what else to do. (I was certainly one of those people.) They are smart. They are ambitious. They want to achieve success. But they aren't vocally talented and they faint at the sight of blood and they don't want to get an MBA. So they go to law school, without really thinking about what it means to be a lawyer and whether they will even like it.

2) A lot of people go to law school because they want to make a lot of money. Because all lawyers are rich, right? Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I've been around long enough now to know that this career is not easy. A lot of lawyers are struggling for work. A lot of lawyers don't find jobs upon graduation. And after incurring six figures of debt and working your ass off in law school to do your very best, that can be depressing. And make one unhappy.

3) A natural product of being a lawyer is that there is always someone waiting to tear you down. That's just the nature of being an advocate - if you are are advocating for something, there is some other lawyer out there advocating for something else. So if you spend hours, days, weeks, working on a brief, and you put your ALL into it, there will be some attorney out there waiting in the wings to tell you just how crappy your argument is. Just how sloppy your research is. Just how preposterous your position is. There is always someone waiting to pounce on a mistake, and exploit it for all to see - which can make for long days, and nights, of anxiety waiting to be "found out" for what you really are: inadequate.

4) Being a lawyer, particularly if you are at a firm, is a time based practice. It's not about efficiency, or about balance - it's about billing, billing, billing. And if you aren't willing to bill, then someone else certainly will. So there are no time outs for illness, for hobbies, for sick children, for episodes of depression. An hour not billed is an hour wasted, which allows stress and anxiety to breed, spread, and flourish, and leaves little time for that weird thing called "life."

5) Miserable people breed miserable people. As discussed, supra, the law profession is home to many miserable people. If you are unlucky enough to work for such a miserable person, you too will most likely be miserable, as said miserable person will do all they can to make your life miserable, because how is it fair that they be miserable and you be happy? Not fair at all. You, eventually, will be miserable like them.

So this is all the bad news.

But I think there's some good news too.

I know a lot of lawyers. (A lot). And a good portion of them don't fit into the unhappy, depressed category. Most of them are.... happy. Why are they happy?

1) They like what they do. Maybe they didn't really know what they would do when they went into law school, but for some odd reason, they get really excited about negotiating credit agreements (yes, honey, that's you) or spending hours on Westlaw. They like it so much that they don't get phased by the potential tear downers mentioned above in #2. They know someone somewhere may rip their argument to shreds, but they don't care because they are confident, secure, and in some ways, above it all. They are oddly unphased.

2) They have forged their own path. Maybe they didn't find a job upon graduation. Or maybe they left a firm after a few years. Maybe they are taking a few years off to be at home with their kids (ahem). But being 8 years out from my own law school graduation, I can say that I am amazed at the variety of careers one can have with a law degree. I have fellow graduates that are in-house counsel, professors, comedians, writers, freelancers and of course, firm lawyers. The fact is, if a particular field of law is not a great fit, there is plenty of opportunity to change it up.

3) They work with awesome, happy people. In some ways, I can't say I am surprised that "associate attorney" was the most unhappy job. In my six years at law firms, I saw some pretty miserable, bitter people. Really miserable. Really bitter. But, it's not always the case. Some lawyers are happy (see #1). And if you happen to find yourself working with a group of those people who really care about each other - who appreciate the importance of the billable hour, but who also recognize the supremacy of family, of mental health, of the bigger picture - then it makes ALL the difference.

4) They don't take themselves too seriously. When one is a practicing lawyer, it is easy to think that the world will end or continue turning based upon your performance. And once you get into that frame of thinking, it's hard to turn it off - If I mess up this motion, the entire case will fall apart! If I miss an important document, I will cause my client to go into bankruptcy! The fact is, no one is that important. We aren't saving lives in this business. All we can do is our best. And from what I've seen, happy lawyers are the ones that do their very best, and are then at peace with that.

There is hope for us.

But it's certainly not an easy profession.

I remember when I was in law school I would absolutely HATE it when future attorneys would warn me about joining the legal field. "Get out while you can," I remember a family friend joking to me during my first year in law school. I even got such comments from attorneys during on campus interviews. "Are you sure you want to do this?" they would tease.

Those kind of comments would always annoy me. Just because you're miserable, doesn't mean I'm going to be miserable! I wanted to be a lawyer. I wanted to argue for what is right and do what is right and use my analytical brain and my semi-polished writing skills. I would do what I wanted and not be deterred by older, bitter lawyers who just couldn't hack it themselves.

Now I am the one that urges young, ambitious attorneys to take caution. Really think about if you want to do this, I warn. Think about it hard.

We all want to be the happy lawyer. But we aren't all that lucky.

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If you are in the legal field and are experiencing depression, or know of someone who is, please check out this great resource: http://www.daveneefoundation.com/

Falling Down

2013-04-01T14:34:00.000-04:00

Remember that Michael Douglas movie?

That's me today. (Minus the gun and violence).

I have spent 1 hour and 45 minutes in the car today, just driving locally.

I've been to two doctor's appointments already.

And I've kind of had it.

Doctor's Appointment #1- At a plastic surgeon, to get Casey's bandage removed and to check on the stitches. First I had to pick Braden up from a playdate downtown, and then head all the way back up to Bethesda in ridiculous traffic (yes, it's nice out, I get it people want to go to the zoo, but PLEASE GET OUT OF MY WAY AND DRIVE). Once out of the thick of traffic, I missed the exit for no real reason at all, adding 20 minutes to my trip. Once I arrived in the vicinity, I could not find the office, despite google maps, printed out directions, other forms of technology, etc. I called my husband in a panic (as we were already late), where he instructed me to "calm down." (As an aside, if someone ever calls you somewhat hysterical, the absolute worst thing to say to them is to "calm down," followed closely by, "relax."). We finally found the place and saw the doctor, and I was able to explain that Casey fell out of a bar stool in the kitchen and had to get stitches, etc. etc., and the wise doctor actually said to me: "Way to go, Mom." He then pulled off the bandage (which took about 3 seconds), said it looked fine, and charged us $88.

Doctor's Appointment #2 - Casey has been off since Friday night - fever, lethargy, not eating, whatever. As I was leaving Doctor's Appointment #1, I thought that maybe I should try to make a sick appointment at his pediatrician's office, which happened to be right around the corner from Doctor's Appointment #1. Who knows, maybe they could even see me now? I sat in the parking lot and called Doctor #2. When presented with menu options, I selected #2 for "make a sick appointment," and was then promptly disconnected. Three times. I then decided to select option #3, for "make a well appointment," where I was then put on hold for 12 minutes before I hung up (with both kids screaming at me from the back seat - MOM, GOOOOOOOO!!!!!). I decided fuck it - I will just freaking drive there. I showed up at the office, with both kids in tow, and told the receptionist that I couldn't get through and could I please get a sick appointment for some point that day. She gave me a nasty look and a big sigh and told me to call the sick line - that's the protocol- to which I responded I CAN'T GET THROUGH ON THE SICK LINE, HERE I AM, PLEASE TALK TO ME. They eventually took pity on us and took us in, and Casey was examined and prodded and of course nothing is wrong with him, it's just me. Meanwhile, T minus 3 days until we all get sick from whatever virus we picked up in the waiting room, either there, or at Dr. Appointment #1.

By the time we got home it was 1:30 and we were all starving and tired and done. Yet my kids won't eat a thing. And won't go to sleep. And while I'm at it, let me just complain about the fact that it's beautiful out and we can't go outside (because Casey has to "take it easy" or he will reopen his wound and then I will have to revisit Dr. #1 so he can once again tell me, "Way to go, Mom").

And the fun thing? I have my own doctor's appointment tomorrow. Braden has a dentist appointment to get a cavity filled on Wednesday. Thursday is OT. And Friday is something I am probably forgetting.

On weeks like this I don't know how working moms do it. Mad props to you.

I cry uncle on today.

A Not-So-Stoic ER Visit

2013-03-28T10:24:00.000-04:00

When my oldest son was a baby, I was pretty trigger happy with the ER. I remember taking him to the ER at six months old for a high fever. And then once when he fell and busted his lip. Both maladies have occurred another 100 times or so, and each time I laugh at my once naive first time momness. I've gotten a much thicker skin now - with two boys, one has to. Blood, bruises, and the biweekly fever and/or cold are all par for the course.

That being said, we are still ER frequenters. Three months ago for a skin infection (on a holiday weekend). Two months ago for a severe tongue laceration (aka, Braden bit through his entire tongue - gross). One month ago for an x-ray for a sprained ankle. I no longer approach the ER with anxiety; I do so rather with quiet resolution - Okay, here we go again. Please let this be as painless as possible.

But yesterday - yesterday rocked me a little.

We were visiting family in New York, and my husband and I were literally almost out the door (coats on, car packed) to have a night away in Manhattan, just the two of us. We bid farewell to the kids, and just as we were headed towards the door, I looked back at Casey and watched as he fell backwards, slow motion, out of a barstool. It was quite a bang and I knew right away it wasn't going to be good. My husband ran towards him, and immediately we both saw blood. A lot of it. Coming from a huge gash in his cheek.

Instead of heading to Manhattan, we headed to the local ER.

My husband and I both panicked at the outset, but by the time we arrived at the ER, we were calm and stoic and going through the motions. I knew we were probably looking at stitches. When we checked in, I requested he be seen by a plastic surgeon (as the gash was right across his right cheek). They told me they would page the on-call plastics doctor, and we were taken to our own room with a TV and two beds to await his arrival.

Let me say this about ER's - generally, I am pleasantly surprised by how quickly I get in and out. Sure, there are times it takes longer than others, but I have never had a multi-hour (aka, 3 hours+ ER visit). I arrive optimistic that we can get in and out. After all, we're dealing with a two year old here. Surely there is some sense of urgency? So when they told us it would be up to two hours until the plastic surgeon would arrive, I silently expected, for no real reason, for him to arrive earlier.

That was at 9am.

Feeling optimistic.

Two hours passed by. Then three. Then four. By 1pm, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, convinced that we were going to spend the entire day at a Long Island ER. And what could we do but sit and wait? I paced. I cursed. I gave dirty looks to the nurse passersby's. I lost it, a little. Casey, on the other hand, was as happy as a clam, and it was all I could do to keep him from climbing all over the beds, the chairs, and the hospital equipment. Apparently the large gash in his cheek wasn't phasing him at all.

At 1:33pm, approximately 4.5 hours after we had arrived at the hospital, the doctor finally arrived. I was so happy to see him, I forgot to be angry. I was still hoping to salvage our romantic night in Manhattan. Lets get this done, yo.

The doctor explained that the stitches would be easy and straightforward, but that Casey would have to be very still. How do we accomplish that stillness? We hold him down. I was assigned to the head, my husband to the arms. I assumed position, and tried to soothe Casey with a calming voice. Understandably, before he even got the first shot of Novocain, he was getting a bit upset. Who likes to be pinned down to a hospital bed?

I rubbed his head, and tried to distract him. Then the doctor took the needle, separated the wound, and began to give him shots straight into his bloody flesh.

And that's when I began to feel the blood rush from my head.

Mentally, I was fine. I could understand logically what was going on. Yes, it was gross and bloody and fleshy. But this was my baby, and he needed stitches. I needed to be there for him. To be strong. Stoic. This was no time for me to get squeamish. This was not about me! This was about my baby and his pain and me comforting him.

Then I started to get a bit hot.

Then I felt my knees start to buckle.

Then the nurse commented that I "look pale."

And then I squatted to the floor, willing myself not to pass out and/or throw up.

Not my proudest moment.

At my notable absence, Casey started screaming. Still squatting, I reached my hand up and held his. Mommy's here, baby! You're doing so great! It's almost over!

Another nurse came in, brought me some apple juice, and took over the securing of his head. By this point, Casey was pretty much silent and seemed resigned to his fate. I was amazed at how brave he was, at how still he was. And so ashamed at the fact that I couldn't be the same.

They offered to let me lay down on the bed next to him for the remainder of the procedure, but I refused to leave his side. I remained squatted on the floor next to him, clutching his hand, while they finished stitching him up. I figured it was the least I could do. Once they were done, I did assume position on a bed, just like Casey.

My precious boy.

He awoke shortly after this picture was taken and was, true to character, once again bouncing off the walls. The doctor told us that he should be fine, but that we should "take it easy" for the next couple of weeks. Ha! We'll see how that goes.

Instead of heading into Manhattan, we ended up heading back home. We were all exhausted. Except Casey, who didn't seem to notice that anything of any real consequence had happened to him that day. And I have to say, despite a bloody rag and a swelled up cheek, I think he looks as adorable as ever.

I, on the other hand, am still recovering and trying to forgive myself for how things went down. I know it's not my fault, I know I couldn't help it, but still . . . I feel like I should have been stronger. Calmer. Cooler. A little more like my little boy.

I have to say though, I now have a healthy respect for men who witness childbirth. I don't know if I could watch that crap without buckling over.