But I do have a law degree...

Girl Friends

2012-03-01T08:10:00.000-05:00

In the past two weeks I have been showered with love by my girl friends. Not that I didn't know this already, but I have some pretty amazing friends.

I've had dinner brought to me. I've had dinners out planned for me. I've had wine nights brought in for me. I've had countless offers of childcare. And that's only the local ladies. For the next three weekends, three of my best friends are descending upon DC to hang with me.

I'm very lucky. Particularly because as I've gotten older, I've noticed that it's easier and easier to let friendships fall to the wayside.

It's nobody's fault, really. Life just gets in the way. People live in different cities. People have husbands. People have kids. Weekends are designated family time. And before you know it, weeks have gone by without a phone call, and facebook becomes your major mode of communication.

Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of friends in DC, and as I've written about on here, I'm always trying to keep an active social life. But it's a social life based on playdates and parks and early bird specials. Time spent together is heavy on the kids and light on the moms.

With career and family and kids and all the stresses of every day life, I suppose it's only natural. But it's not a good thing. It's sad that it has taken this rough patch in my life to drive this point home to me, but I'm grateful for the wake up call.

Women need other women. Simple as that. Sure, we're catty and bitchy and jealous creatures, but at the end of the day, we understand each other. Only we understand what it's like to carry a child. Only we understand what it's like to leave that child for the first time. Only we understand the pressure of balancing a marriage with motherhood with a career with a thousand other things. Only we understand the pressure that society puts on us to assume a role that is unattainable or perhaps we don't even want - the ability to do it all with a smile on our faces.

We can have husbands, children, mothers, fathers, and siblings, but when crisis strikes, we need more than family backing us up. We need a village. I'm so happy to have so many amazing women in mine, and moving forward, I am going to make it a priority to foster these relationships I have a little more. More dinners, more heart to hearts, more phone calls. No matter what is going on in life.

Thank you, friends. You know who you are. :)

Getting Away

2012-02-27T22:41:00.001-05:00

Way back when I used to be a world traveler. When I had kids, I figured it was something I would need to give up, for a variety of reasons - some financial, but mostly practical. It's just not so fun to jet set with a toddler.

Then, when Braden was 15 months old, a good friend in Australia proposed that we meet in London, where we both had mutual friends. My gut reaction was to say of course not, but then I reconsidered.

Why not?

So I did it. I flew out on a Wednesday night and was back on Sunday. It was exhausting, it was fun, it was refreshing. I felt like I found me again, if only for a few days. The me who wasn't a wife, wasn't a mother, wasn't a lawyer. The me who was just a fun loving, laid back, globetrotter up for anything. And I really love that me.

The two that made the trip all worth it. Love you guys.

And I'm so glad I went, because I almost didn't. A few days before the trip, I got really scared. Me, the former world traveler - scared! It had been so long since I'd done anything like that by myself, that I wondered if I could still do it. Travel overseas? Alone? With luggage? How ever would I do it? It's crazy how a learned helplessness had crept up on me.

I felt strong when I came back. I felt independent. I promised myself I would make it an annual thing. Not necessarily a London trip, but some kind of mini-trip just for me. A chance to reconnect with myself.

It hasn't happened.

Then, this past week, I found myself yearning for a get away more than ever. And I allowed myself to silence all of the excuses I normally give myself: How will the kids survive without me? How will they ever get over their grief of missing me? Should I really spend money on something like this when I'm not working? What if the plane crashes and my children are left orphaned? What I just want to kiss their faces and I can't because they are thousands of miles away? What if some volcano erupts on Iceland and I get stuck in Europe for a year or more?

And so on and so forth.

I said screw it. I went online. I brainstormed all the possibilities, and I had a few key criteria:

1) The destination had to be international. I just get super excited about using my passport, that's all.
2) The destination had to have friends. This narrowed down the search to London, Edinburgh, Melbourne, and Tel Aviv.
3) The destination had to be close enough to do in a long weekend. Melbourne and Tel Aviv got the ax (sorry Simi and Kim).

So London or Edinburgh? Drum roll please.... I chose....

Edinburgh!

For a variety of reasons. It's green. It's pretty. It has a castle. It has deep fried Mars bars. My friends there have a real house, with a real guestroom, with a garden. And my best friend from London will meet me there.

But the real reason is that it's been seven years since I've been there, and I just need it right now. It's a home that I need to return to.

T minus six weeks, and I'm Scotland bound.

Preparing for Reentry

2012-02-23T22:23:00.000-05:00

No matter how old you are, there's still something nice about going to your parents' house. It doesn't matter that I stay in the generic guestroom, or that all of my childhood belongings have long since been packed up in boxes. There's just something freeing about going home.

In the midst of this hurricane in my life, that's where I've been for the past week. Sheltered, well fed, taken care of.

But real life beckons. Even though this real life I'm returning to isn't that recognizable to me.

First, as you may have gleaned, my home life has been turned upside down. That's really all I'm going to say about that. I'm scared. I'm sad. But I'm hopeful.

Second, in the midst of all this, freelance work has come flooding in. I don't feel like I'm in a position to turn it down. So I guess you could say I'm working part time again, even if it is on my own time and in my own home.

What the fuck, right?

If there's anything I've gleaned in the past week during days of introspection, it's that life is crazy. As Ronan Keating likes to say, it's a rollercoaster. For a while now I've been having a nice, steady ride, and at this point in my life, that's how I like it.

But I suppose it can't stay that way forever, and there's no telling when it's going to veer off the track. With life taking twists and turns again, the only thing I can do to cope is just go with it. So that's what I'm doing. I'm going with it.

And in the process of going with it, I have a few resolutions to myself.

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

I want to learn to accept help more.

I want to spend time more time with my girlfriends (without children around!).

I want to travel more (Scotland - here I come! Stay tuned for details).

I want to be less judgmental of others.

I want to be less judgmental of myself.

I want to take more time for me (and finally find a regular babysitter!).

I want to make sure this blog is not all doom and gloom (sorry the past week has been a bit of that - not to worry, I'll be posting about law firms and homemade Valentines in no time).

And most importantly, I want to find the joy in every day, because my God, with kids like mine, how can each day not be joyful?

**********************************************************************************
Here I come, DC. I'm ready.

Silver Linings

2012-02-20T20:56:00.005-05:00

In the past week, my life has been turned upside down.

But I'm trying to find solace in the silver linings:

Silver Lining #1 - An Impromptu Trip to Wilmington, North Carolina
... to see my parents. It's hard not to be humbled by the ocean.

And it's hard not to feel happy when I look at this:

Silver Lining #2 - Not Giving a Shit
In my haste in packing, I forgot to pack a hair brush, and a hair dryer. The result? I have not brushed or blown my hair dry in four days (yes, I have showered, I am not that depressed peoples). The result has been a wavy frizzball that I didn't know existed. But you know what? I don't give a shit. And there is something freeing in that. I'm just letting it go. Watch out Wilmington.

Silver Lining #3 - I'm Super Skinny
As I've written about before, when I get stressed, I lose my appetite. Completely. So, those extra few pounds I gained in the Caymans? Gone. And then some. Nothing like a major life crisis to get your body back in shape.

Silver Lining #4 - All of You
I'll be honest. I've gotten word of disapproval from a choice few that I chose to express my discontent on such a public forum. To those people, I am sorry. But come on, you know me. Am I ever one to be silenced?

The support I have gotten in the past few days has been nothing short of incredible. I am so appreciative of the comments, the emails, the phone calls, the texts. When I am having a low moment (and I'm having many of those, unfortunately), I literally scroll through all of the words of support and just reread everything. It gives me a sense of strength. It makes me feel less alone. Thank you.

Silver Lining #5 - I'm Not Sure
For the past 20 minutes, I have been sitting here watching the Bachelor and wracking my brain for another positive out of this whole thing. I can't sincerely think of one right now. I'm sure it's something like a recognition of an inner strength or a life wake up call or some other BS that someday I will believe, but right now I'm just not feeling it. So stay tuned for this one.

But I will say this: At the end of the day, I still believe I am lucky. We are all healthy. We are all here. We will survive. And we will all be happy again. In one way or another.

A Bomb

2012-02-17T08:35:00.000-05:00

A bomb has gone off in my life this week.

I am not ready now, if ever, to write about the nature of this bomb, but suffice it to say that:

It's a really big bomb.

Really big.

It has me teetering on the edge of spiraling back to my post partum insomnia and anxiety - a state that I never thought I would return to again, least of all without said post partum hormones to blame.

It has me questioning everything.

It has me more thankful than ever for my two beautiful boys.

It has me realizing that money and title and vacations and restaurants and losing weight and all of that crap I write about and think about really means nothing.

It has me filled with gratitude for support that has poured in. For friends that have dropped everything without question, for family that is saving the day.

It has me just trying to get through the day. Just get through the day.

I knew a pin was going to drop.

I just had it too good.

It's not everyday that you pound on your bladder for 20 minutes

2012-02-16T08:59:00.000-05:00

In general, I consider myself to be an up for anything, open-minded kind of person. In particular, since leaving my career, I have been committed to trying new things, meeting new people, and being receptive for whatever comes my way. As part of this whole self renewal thing, I have been wanting to start doing yoga again.

Right before I got pregnant with Braden, I was going through a really stressful period in my life (during which time my jaw was locked shut for two months, but that's a whole other story!). I took up yoga, and actually really enjoyed it. After a few months, I ended up on pregnancy bedrest, and my yoga mat has been collecting dust in my closet ever since.

But now? There really is no reason I can't do a yoga class here and there. I've been trying out a couple of different yoga centers in the area, and this weekend, I cashed in a Groupon I had purchased for 10 yoga classes at Dahn Yoga.

As I approached the studio, I noticed that it said on the sign "Yoga and Healing Center." Hmmm, healing center. This should have been my first red flag that this was not going to be your typical cafe latte drinking, Colorado exile yoga crowd, but hey, whatever. I walked into the main reception area, with yoga mat and Groupon coupon in hand.

A petite asian woman in a white robe and thick accent greeted me. She asked for my release of liability form, which I hadn't brought. She seemed a bit annoyed, and then handed me a pen and clipboard and told me to walk through the hall and join the class when I was done. She then locked the front door, and ran through the hallway herself. She was clearly the instructor, and she obviously wasn't expecting anymore guests.

As I took off my shoes and placed them in the cubby, I heard loud counting coming from the hall. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, AAAAA. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, twenty, AAAAAA. It sounded more like chanting than counting. Also not what I was used to at a yoga class, but okay. I slowly tiptoed down the hallway and peered through the door.

I saw the instructor, who was also the receptionist, with the one other participant. My sole fellow student was also a petite asian woman, in a white robe, and looked to be in her mid-fifties. They were both standing there, with their eyes closed, counting/chanting, and pounding their hands, curled up in fists, against their lower abdomen. Bladder perhaps? Liver? I don't know. I assume it was meant to target some organ.

At this point, I realized that we would not be doing sun salutations and downward dogs in this class. I didn't know what kind of yoga this was, but what I did know was that I really didn't want to go in that room. I was about to turn around and quietly book it back to my car, when I was spotted. The instructor motioned for me to come in, and indicated that I should leave my yoga mat outside the door. I wouldn't be needing it.

I joined the two women in their chanting. I pounded on my bladder. I jumped. Later, I would also pound on my head, upper thighs, and butt, while listening to some form of tribal drumming music. We did a few yoga poses for a few minutes, but the pounding on various body parts seemed to the crux of the class. I have been scouring the internet for a youtube video of what this actually looked like, and this is the best I can find (it starts around 2:34 and lasts for about 40 seconds).

Have you ever truly laughed at yourself, when no one else is looking? I find that doesn't happen very often. But in that yoga studio, with the lights dimmed and my eyes closed and my fists pounding on my stomach, I had a moment where I really thought I was going to lose my shit.

I mean no disrespect to those that do practice this particular form of yoga - truly. I don't doubt that it really does improve circulation, balance the body, and bring one close to nirvana or self realization or whatever the highest consciousness is. I obviously have a few rungs to go myself.

But at that moment, I had to stifle a real, sincere, guffaw that was just aching to come out of me. I did, thank goodness. But it was the kind of thing that when the moment was over, the corners of my mouth hurt because they had been working so hard to keep from turning upwards.

It was myself I was laughing at, and not the other two women or the yoga itself. Just me and my awkwardness and my immaturity and the fact that I spent a good twenty minutes of my free time pounding on my own bladder.

I may just go back.

Bah, Humbug!

2012-02-13T21:32:00.000-05:00

I've never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day.

The whole thing is just so contrived. The flowers. The set price dinners. The gross Russell Stover chocolates. My husband and I go through the motions and do cards and perhaps a dinner (on a different night, to avoid the aforementioned set price meals). But between wedding anniversaries and dating anniversaries and birthdays and Christian and Jewish holidays, I think we're both kind of over it.

But this Valentine's Day? This Valentine's Day REALLY sucks. For a couple of reasons:

First, I was inspired by some of my fellow bloggers (check out this and this) to do something crafty with Braden for Valentine's Day. Why? I have no idea. We all know I don't have a crafty bone in my body, and by all indications, neither does Braden. But for some reason, when we were at a specialty toy store last week, I thought this might be a good idea.

Over the past few days, I have tried to get Braden excited about it. I've given him full access to the glue stick. I've attempted to entice him with hearts and stickers and a bic pen. But no. Out of 18 Valentine's cards we had to make, do you know how many Braden made?

One.

So what am I doing tonight, on the eve of the sacred preschool Valentine's' Day party?

Making stupid homemade Valentine's Day cards.

And trust me, they ain't pretty.

If I seem overly bitter, it's also because I'll be flying solo on Valentine's Day evening, as my husband must answer to work demands.

Sigh.

At least I can look forward to the Teen Mom 2 finale. It's the little things, you know?

A Year Out

2012-02-10T09:04:00.000-05:00

In the past few weeks, I have picked up some additional freelance work. I love that I am making a bit of extra money, and I especially love that the work doesn't require a law degree. There's just something strangely satisfying about getting paid for work involving no legal skills.

It's been almost one year since I left my job. And the longer I am out of the workforce, the more I am realizing that I may never be a lawyer again.

I don't know what I thought when I quit. I guess part of me always assumed I would go back to a law firm after this little break at home with the kids - as if I was on another leave of absence, or maternity leave. I even found myself researching law firms which did in fact have sabbatical programs for women (Skadden's Sidebar program being one of them), and casually mentioning it to my former supervisors, as if they would form a special program just for me. Ha!

But now, one year out, the idea of going back to a law firm, or even being a practicing lawyer again, is scary as hell to me. When you're in it, you accept it, because it's your life. But having the opportunity to step away - I get anxiety just thinking about it. The pressure, the hours, the politics. I just don't have the energy or the passion for it anymore, and I don't think I ever will again.

So maybe my law career really is over.

It's a shame really, because I was a good lawyer. But what made me a good lawyer wasn't my love of the profession. It was my work ethic. It was my responsiveness. It was my need to excel at whatever I did and my fear of disappointing others.

The fact is, for me, so much about being a lawyer was the pride in it. The feeling that I was successful at something. The title to throw around at cocktail parties. Some people go to law school because they really want to be lawyers. But most people are just success driven overachievers who don't know what else to do. They have energy and intellect, but little passion, courage, or drive. They use their pedigree as a measure of success. I fell into this latter category.

But over the past year, I have really redefined my notion of success. It no longer depends so much on the standards of others - the things that you would put on a resume or discuss in an interview. Instead, my success hinges on my own sense of freedom.

I felt so trapped when I was working as an attorney, for a variety of reasons, some of my own making. But now I am fashioning a life for myself where I call the shots. I hang out with my kids. I see friends. I write this blog under no deadlines. I take the occasional class, I meet interesting people, and I read books. And slowly but surely, I'm starting to make money again, without the the aid of law school career services. Nothing like the money I was making a year ago, but money that feels so much more mine. And I'm so proud of that.

In my first post on this blog, I wrote about how I dreaded going to work functions with my husband, because I was scared of someone asking what I did for a living. Now I don't feel that way at all. In fact, I feel like I have a lot to say. About being a mom, about blogging, about connecting with so many other women who have taken my same path. And you know what? I find that people are interested, and some are even (gasp!) envious.

I don't rest my laurels on a title anymore. And if that's not success, what is?

The Era of Casey

2012-02-07T21:09:00.003-05:00

For all of Casey's life, he has essentially been a tag along - dragged to his big brother's playdates, to preschool pickups, to parks he was too little to navigate. The poor kid has taken it in stride.

But now? At 15 months, Casey is coming into his own. As of this weekend, his morning naps officially ceased. So on Monday, when my husband left to take Braden to school, we bid them farewell as we usually do and waved until they drove out of sight. And when 9:00 am rolled around, instead of putting him back to bed, we just looked at each other.

Now what do we do?

Casey's lack of morning slumber left us with 4.5 hours to kill.

4.5 hours. That is a long, long time to hang with a wandering 15 month old who is determined to engage in continuous suicide drops from stairs, coffee tables, couches, anything above six inches, etc.

Just two years ago, I found myself in a similar position with Braden. I had just left my law firm on a leave of absence, and was, for the first time, home five days a week. On my first day home, I went to a Children's Museum, picked up a new friend, and poached all of her friends. Before I knew it, we had an active social life and days filled with activities. I was living the real stay at home mom dream, people. And the dream lives on, but generally only in the afternoons, when the older kids get out of school.

But what about my Casey? Doesn't he deserve some Casey-centric activities? So far, I have failed him. But perhaps it's not too late!

I trekked out of the house Monday morning on a mission. I needed to find partners for this new era of Casey. Fellow mothers to go to parks with and drink coffee with and talk about poop with. Fellow mothers who, in any other scenario, I may never have been friends with, but who I bond with through a mutual boredom and search for activities. I was bound and determined not to come home empty handed.

Having sworn of off said Children's Museum after contracting numerous illnesses there over the years, I opted instead for the only slightly less germ filled kid's play area in the basement of Barnes and Noble. I scoped out my Casey's potential playmates and ended up talking to a mom with a two year old girl. She also went to Penn for grad school and recently quit her job. We talked about staying home and swim lessons and coupons and how annoying it is when friends and family make comments insinuating that we "wasted" our educations.

Does like attract like, or are we opter outers taking over the world?

We exchanged numbers and I considered the morning a success. We made plans to meet up next week.

On our way out, Casey tripped and hit his head on the corner of a table and got a bump the size of an egg on the side of his head. I called the pediatrician in a panic and watched for signs of disorientation and light sensitivity for the rest of the afternoon.

All in a day's work.

Bringing Vacation Home

2012-02-05T22:03:00.000-05:00

My internal pep talk began on the second to last day of my vacation.

See this, Shannon? See how relaxed you feel? How happy? How at ease? You can carry this on beyond your vacation. You don't have to be depressed about going home. Vacation is a state of mind!

Two days later I was on the plane ride home, with my head between my legs, assuming crash position, during a particularly turbulent patch of clouds. The xanax hadn't worked.

Who am I kidding? I don't want to go home! Get me off of this mother !*?ing plane, and take me back to the Caymans!

And it's been a bit downhill from there.

I love vacation. I mean, who doesn't? But I REALLY love vacation. You know how some people say that they love traveling, but they always are ready to come home by the end of it? I never feel like that. Ever.

If I could be on perpetual vacation, I would. Never mind living out of a suitcase. Never mind shoddy hotel rooms. Never mind a lack of a home cooked meal. Never mind crappy cell phone service and slow internet access and the lack of Bravo TV. For some reason, I just love being away.

I love forgetting about all the crap that normal life entails. The bills. The doctor's appointments. The vitamins and the parent teacher conferences and the guilt over lack of exercise and doughnuts and expensive boots. When I am on vacation, I say the hell with all of it. I spend what I want. I eat what I want. I drink what I want. I turn off my i-phone. I don't watch TV. My kids eat chicken nuggets and french fries every night. The four of us sleep in one room and I don't even care that Braden talks in his sleep and Casey wakes us all up at a ridiculous hour. I have fun - real fun. The kind of fun that can only come with a sincere throwing of caution to the wind and a disregard for the crap that accompanies the responsibility and accountability of everyday life for a control freak like myself.

As I attempted to reason myself out of my post-vacation depression this weekend, it dawned on me that I was right - vacation really is a state of mind for me. Sure, I love to be at a sunny beach. But at the end of the day, I could care less whether my days away involve clouds or sun. Or pool or beach. Or 5 star restaurant or dive bar. What I love is how I am, who I am, and the person that I allow myself to be. Relaxed, happy, laid back, and content.

And if that's true, then why can't I take vacation with me?

Obviously I can't sustain eating and spending and drinking whatever I want. And my kids need their vegetables.

But maybe I can say to hell with it a little more. Go outside a little more. Eat a doughnut every once in a while and stop counting calories. Stop sweating the messy living room and preschool pick ups and dental coverage disputes. Stop checking my email and twitter and blog statistics incessantly. Start trying to distance myself a bit more from that anal, stressed, always on time, always ahead of the game, always people pleasing, always responsive lawyer that I once was trying to be. Start trying to ease off on just going through the motions, and start enjoying myself more. Enjoying my kids more. Enjoying my everyday life more.

Because really, I am so, so, so lucky. And I have EVERYTHING to enjoy, no matter where I lay my head.

But when I am wavering, there's always this to inspire me:

So bring it on, February. I'm ready for you!

M.I.A.

2012-01-31T15:15:00.000-05:00

You'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit M.I.A. from the blogosphere this week. The thing is, I am SUPER busy.

I'm busy sitting by this:

And staring at this:

And marveling at the clarity of this:

And swimming with this guy:

And this guy:

And saying to hell with my Weight Watchers diet by indulging in a couple (okay, maybe a few) of these:

And I am already on the cusp of a depressive state when I realize that I only have three more full days of this hectic, busy schedule. But I am managing to keep in good spirits, considering the circumstances.

Is there anything better than vacation?

The Ladies that Lunch

2012-01-27T11:39:00.000-05:00

The highlight of my week this week?

Lunch. Yesterday.

It had been planned for over a month. I dropped the kids off at my neighbor's house (who is a saint for taking both of them). I drove downtown BY MYSELF. I arrived early and walked around the block a few times, watching the people in suits and feeling a knee jerk gratification that I wasn't one of them.

Then I went to the venue - Potenza. I had looked up the menu ahead of time, trying to find something to fit within my Weight Watchers diet (which expires tomorrow, hooray!). I decided on a salad, and upon entering the restaurant and catching a lovely aroma of garlic, decided the hell with it. I would order what I wanted.

So how did I end up at this nice venue, sans children, on a Thursday afternoon?

It all started with Valerie Young, who writes a blog for the National Association of Mothers' Centers. I have been in touch with Valerie for a few months now, after she found my blog. She is passionate about women's rights, she is intelligent, and she has provided some much needed personal advice to me. She was organizing a lunch for local women bloggers and columnists, and invited me along.

Um, yes!

Amongst the cast of characters? Valerie (mentioned above); Janice D'Arcy, who writes the Washington Post blog, On Parenting; Petula Dvorak, who is a regular columnist for the Washington Post (as an avid reader of her column, I have to admit I was a bit starstruck); Monica Sakala who writes The Wired Momma and is a parenting contributor to The Huffington Post DC; Alison Stevens who writes the MomAgenda blog for Women's ENews; and then me.

Given the presence listed above, you may be wondering where I fit in. I was wondering that myself.

These women are smart. Articulate. Involved. Passionate. Amazing writers. They actually get paid for what they do. And I'm not putting myself down by any means, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intimidated. I'm just a boring former lawyer who started a little blog with a little following.

But, I do have a voice. And that's something.

And that's what these women have too. The lunch conversation vacillated between the light and the serious. We talked about spray tans (guilty), sex talks with kids, dental procedures, and preschools. But we also talked about politics, about women's rights, about the notion of a government childcare benefit, about paid parental leave, about social security credits for caregivers. About real things and real ideas and what the future could hold.

I felt so lucky to be a part of that conversation, with such an amazingly talented group of women.

I don't really know why I started this blog. I think at first I wanted to reach out. I wanted to connect with other people and know I wasn't alone. I didn't really expect much out of it. Maybe some extra spending money, if I was lucky.

But what I have lacked in financial reward has been made up and then some by the people I have met through this crazy internet discourse. Some of it is virtual, and our relationships consist of emails, and the exchange of comments on each other's blogs. Others have developed into true friendships, and a monthly night out.

And then there was this lunch. And there never would have been a spot for me at that table, deserved or not, if I hadn't claimed this little piece of the internet.

Who knows what the future holds for me?

Interviews

2012-01-26T10:25:00.011-05:00

So I had an interview this morning. Don't worry, I'm not returning to the dark side. It was just some Craiglist ad I responded to for a part time legal writing position that actually turned out to be legitimate. (Go figure?).

Back in the day, I used to be a master interviewee. I was never nervous. Why would I be? When else do you have the opportunity to talk about yourself for 30+ minutes and have someone pretend to care? Plus, I had a lot to say. I had interesting experiences, and a solid educational background. I felt that the jobs were competing for me, not vice versa. I guess you could say I was cocky.

But my cockiness paid off, and in the two times I went through the whole interview process (during law school, and then when moving to DC), for every call back I had at a law firm, I received an offer. (Except Zuckerman Spaeder. Why Zuckerman? Why?).

Today's interview was a conference call at 9:30, and I hadn't given it much thought. Then around 9:05 or so, I started getting nervous. As in, pit in my stomach, dry mouth nervous.

WTF?

There was no reason for me to be nervous. I don't even NEED a job. I have absolutely nothing to lose.

But I think the root of it is, that since leaving biglaw and staying home, my confidence has been rocked a bit. For better or worse, when facing the corporate world head on, I do feel a bit of shame in my decision to take a step back, and take a break.

Shame.

I hate that stupid word. And I hate the sentiment of it and everything it stands for. And at the end of the day, I have come to peace with my decision to leave full time employment. For God's sake, I spend most of this blog talking about how I have no regrets and that women should be empowered to do what they want to do and spend time with their kids and it's all society's fault for making us feel bad about it.

But, there it was. That pit in my stomach. Evidence that, as a professional, I am not the confident, you'll be lucky to get me, candidate that I once was.

As a lawyer, I am apprehensive, I am unsure, I am intimidated. And I'll say it - I am ashamed. I've broken the proverbial "rules."

But as a mom, I am fulfilled, I am happy, I am confident. And I am proud. I am where I want to be.

And I know that's what's most important.

Getting My Shit Together

2012-01-24T09:15:00.002-05:00

Does it ever seem like everyone else has their shit together? Except you?

This past weekend I went to visit one of my best friends in Pittsburgh. She has two boys my kids' age, and we had an awesome time. Her house is beautiful. Her kids are adorable. She hosted dinner and then brunch. She is six months pregnant, yet still looks stylish. She has amazing window treatments and a wine refrigerator and multiple throw pillows on the guest room bed. She has a dog that can go outside without a leash. She stays at home with her two kids and has all their toys organized into plastic bins which are labelled by topic with a typed sticker.

She really has her shit together.

And it's not just her.

My good friend and neighbor baked almond bars for all the neighbors last winter. She has three boys, and her house is always clean.

Another good friend put up a wall sized chalk board in her apartment, so that her daughter could draw and create to her heart's content. She already has the correct pencil hold.

In the past two weeks, two moms in my weekly playgroup have cooked dinner for all the kids and moms at our weekly get together. Cooked! One mom even has a six week old baby, and she still managed to cook a pasta bake and homemade macaroni and cheese.

Then there's my blogging friend, Darcy. Have you seen her blog? She bakes. She crafts. She takes awesome pictures. She does art in the mornings.

And don't even get me started on moms who go to the gym.

Now lets talk about me.

This is what our den looks like:

Pretty much all the time.

This is what our hall closet looks like:

All the time.

This is what I provide at playgroup dinners:

And it tastes so good.

This is what I wear for most of the day:

Rocking the Christmas pajamas. In January.

This is the extent of crafting in our household:

And this bag isn't opened very often.

And this is how our dog spends most of the day:

I admit I staged this photo. But you get the idea.

I honestly don't know how so many of these moms do it. They make it look so easy! And it makes me wonder what is wrong with me. Why can't I get my shit together?

But then again.... when I have people over, I do clean. I put on make-up and non-pajama clothing. I arrange couch cushions. I provide food (nevermind it's usually not cooked by me). I am happy and carefree and momentarily put together.

So I have to wonder - do some people think I have my shit together?

Ha!

The answer is no. No, I do not. But for now, I'm thriving in the chaos.

Pic of the Week - Worn Out

2012-01-20T13:40:00.001-05:00

I'm not the only one who is exhausted after a long week....

But I'm not nearly as cute.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Flashbacks

2012-01-18T21:40:00.000-05:00

When I was a junior in college at Penn State, I remember having a conversation with a friend of mine about her older sister. Her older sister had just had a baby, and had given my friend some advice:

"Go out in college as much as you can - resist the urge to stay in, even if you are tired. Because someday, when you are rocking your baby to sleep in the middle of the night, those are the memories that you will come back to."

This advice haunted me, but I probably didn't need it. I went out all the time in college on my own accord. I had a blast.

But 10 years later, when I had just had my own baby, I thought about this admonition. And I didn't really find it to be true. When I was up rocking Braden to sleep, I wasn't thinking about getting drunk at frat parties. I was more focused on "when on earth can I go back to sleep and how many hours of sleep will I end up getting tonight? Four? Five? Oh God, please six?" Sometimes I thought about doughnuts or when I would make time to get my hair highlighted. But mostly, just sleep.

Lately, however, I have found that I have been having intermittent flashbacks to my youth. Not while rocking anyone to sleep, but just throughout my regular day. They usually are prompted by hearing a random song. So, for example:

Hearing "One More Time" by Daft Punk while in line at Starbucks:
- Flashback to dancing with my friend Lauren at a bar in Mykonos, Greece in 2001.

Hearing "So Yesterday" by Hilary Duff at Casey's gym class earlier this week:
- Flashback to my husband and I sitting on the sand at the Full Moon Party in Ko Phangan,Thailand in 2005.

Seeing Sugar Ray perform "I Just Wanna Fly" in Disney World (I did not pay for this, btw, it was part of the Food and Wine Festival)
- Flashback to a 1998 fraternity formal where I stood next to a fireplace all night and ended up smelling like chimney.

And so on and so forth.

I think it's natural to have random memories come to mind every once in a while, but lately I feel like they are creeping up more and more, and causing a somewhat emotional reaction. So maybe my friend's sister wasn't all that far off. Maybe it just took a few years to catch up with me.

I have very few regrets. I did go out all the time in college. I studied abroad. Then I lived abroad. Then I traveled - a ton. Then I went to law school, and still managed to go out all the time and study abroad and travel a ton.

For a while, life was a real adventure.

Then, with the start of a legal career, real life started. And it's not that I stopped having fun, or going out, or even traveling. But somewhere along the way, the adrenaline diminished. The party was over.

And it had to be, right? I even admit it got boring after a while. A bar is a bar is a bar. A city in Europe is just another city, and after a while even those start to look the same. And as much as I loved living out of a backpack for months at a time, I have to admit that that ship has certainly sailed.

But lately, perhaps because of the dichotomy of what my life was once, and what it is now, I am missing that part of myself. The me that was outgoing and gregarious and fun and brave and always up for an adventure. And I find myself wondering how it is possible at all to feel a bit of that again, and still be a 33 year old housewife.

My last post was about the books I have been reading lately, but I neglected to mention that the current book I am reading is a book written by my father. It is unpublished, and is in manuscript form. I am doing a first read for him, and doing a bit of editing along the way.

The book is about my dad's experience in the Peace Corps in India back in the 1960s. Although my dad had told me about his experiences there, to read about it and learn the details is fascinating. Can you imagine going into an Indian Village 40 years ago, with no plumbing and no sanitation and no phones and no air conditioning and no working knowledge of the language? And completely assimilating yourself in the culture for two plus years?

It all sounds so awesome.

Part of me would do anything to have an adventure like that. To join the Peace Corps. To volunteer in the Third World. To take some risks and live freely and save the world in my own little way.

But, we all know I won't do that. I can write about doing it, but I won't do it. Such is life, and such is growing older. And having responsibilities and mortgages and a husband and kids. All things I love (well, maybe not the mortgage part), and all things I wanted.

Perhaps this is just a process of reflection that all people go through as they get older - a reconciliation of who I was, who I am, and what I want next. All natural, all okay. And I'll just enjoy the memories as they come, and maybe secretly plan a trip to Asia. And definitely stop listening to adult alternative radio stations.

Now, back to my suburban day. American Idol is on, peoples.

My New Hobby

2012-01-17T10:14:00.001-05:00

When I quit my job and decided to be a stay at home mom, a goal of mine was to find some hobbies. For the 5 years prior I had been so busy with work and kids that all hobbies had fallen to the wayside. And to be honest, I'm not sure if I ever really had a hobby. Can you call travel a hobby? Or reality television? Or the enjoyment of a few too many cocktails at happy hour?

For a while, I didn't do too well. I did take a photography class, and I enjoy playing around with my camera here and there, but I suck at it, so I haven't really embraced it as a full fledged hobby. I started exercising, but I loathe every second of it, so surely that can't count. I signed up for a yoga class, but after years of doing it on and off, I have come to accept that I will never be able to form a human pretzel.

However, I am happy to say that in the midst of all this attempted betterment of myself, I have actually found something I enjoy doing.

Reading! Yes, I enjoy reading. How novel! (No pun intended.)

I have never really been a big reader, and once I started working as a lawyer, reading for leisure completely fell to the wayside. If I ever had any downtime, I certainly didn't want to spend it thinking, about anything. Once the kids came along, reading was pretty much exclusively devoted to books about pregnancy, babies, sleep, and developmental milestones which, lets be honest, is not good for anyone.

Last Mother's Day my husband got me a kindle. I liked the new gadget, but didn't expect to use it much, and for the first few months I didn't. Then, after a recommendation from a friend, I downloaded The Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell. The book was fantastic! I couldn't put it down. It is a non-fiction book about success - who gets it, why they get it, and how they get it. There was even an entire chapter devoted to Joe Flom, one of the founding partners of my alma mater law firm.

I suppose it's ironic to be so enthralled and attracted to a book that deals with success in the corporate world, when I had voluntarily just exited it, but I found it fascinating. It made me think. And this time, I liked the whole thinking thing. I had missed it, actually.

Since then, I have become somewhat obsessed with reading. Once I finish a book, I go through a brief mourning period, and then frantically search for the next one. I have read some really fabulous ones (I just finished The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series which was AWESOME), some entertaining but fluff ones (the Hunger Games Trilogy - hard to put down, but a bit too pre-teen for me), ones that have made me cry (The Year of Magical Thinking, anyone?) and some really crap ones (yes, I read the Brooke Shields PPD book - a good cause, but a crap read).

I am loving this reading books thing.

It makes me feel smart. It makes me feel connected. It makes me feel like I am still learning. It is a good hobby - simple as that.

So internet, I am appealing for your help. I am currently without book. Help support the cause, and give me your recommendations!

Too Stressed to Eat

2012-01-13T11:46:00.000-05:00

You know what I miss the most about biglaw these days?

Being too stressed to eat.

There would be days when I would completely forget to eat breakfast and lunch. It would be around 4pm, and I would realize I hadn't eaten anything all day. I would make a mental note to eat a bigger dinner. But by the time dinner rolled around (usually 8:30 or 9pm when I was in New York), I had completely lost my appetite. So I would order my $50 worth of food to be delivered to the office (paid for by the firm, of course), take a few bites, and then retire home for the evening an hour later.

No wonder I was so skinny.

Now, I am not so stressed. Tired, exhausted, a bit bored? Yes. But stressed? Not in the way I once was.

So I'm no longer so skinny. Or let me reword that. I probably would be considered skinny by societal standards, but I have to work at it. Like really hard. I am forcing myself to do Jillian Michaels DVDs. And Weight Watchers. And I am starving and thirsty for soda and all I want is a big Surfside sub from Jetties.

But nooooooooooooo. I shall eat a granola bar and an egg salad sandwich on wheat with egg whites only.

The thing is, when you are a stay at home mom there's not a lot to look forward to in the day that is just for you. Actually, there's hardly anything just for you except a shower and meals. So I make my meals count. I want them to be good. Satisfying. Something to look forward to. I no longer forget to eat. Instead, I count down the minutes until I can!

Take that away, and I am cranky. And bitter. And cursing Weight Watchers and all those who swear by it.

Oh, how I miss the days when I didn't think about food. If only I could be a stay at home mom with a food aversion. Probably not the healthiest of things, but at least I'd look fabulous in a bathing suit.

But hey, everyone needs a break. Tonight I am headed to Komi. If you live in the DC area, you know enough to be jealous. If not, lets just say that it involves 13 courses, lots of wine, and way too many calories. But I don't care. Not one bit.

Is the day over yet????

Brothers

2012-01-12T11:25:00.001-05:00

When I was a little girl, I got really into the Cabbage Patch Kid craze. I think I had something like 25 Cabbage Patch Kid dolls. And of all 25 dolls, my favorite was a little boy with brown curly hair.

He's the one on the right.

I think I always knew I was going to have a little boy.

When I got pregnant for the first time, everyone predicted I was going to have a girl, but I knew different. And at the 20 week ultrasound, I proved them right. I was completely okay with having a boy. I was never one of those people that just had to have a little girl mini-me. I'm not a girly girl. I hate pink. I hate ballet. And besides, I knew I would have another child.

When I got pregnant for the second time, I told people I didn't care about the gender. And I didn't think I did. After all, I loved Braden more than I could ever have imagined. A boy. So if we had another boy, it would just be another amazing little miracle who I would love more than anything. And besides, I'm not a girly girl. I hate pink. I hate ballet.

I don't know how people go through their whole pregnancy without finding out the gender. Because for me, from the second I got that positive pregnancy stick I was dying to know. Dying! I would harass my husband to death asking him, "So what do you think it is today?" I did all those online tests - Chinese calendar, stupid questionnaires, that ring over the belly test. All with mixed results.

So when the time came to get the 20 week ultrasound, I barely slept the night before. I was filled with excitement.

I still remember the ultrasound technician's words: "It looks like you're going to have double trouble."

It took me a second to understand what she was saying. Oh, okay, she means I'm having another boy. I'm going to have two boys. My husband and I laughed and smiled at the news, and I remember taking a big sigh. Deep down, I knew it all along.

I was happy. I texted the news to relatives and called my best friend. But there seemed to be an underlying tone in the reaction of everyone - are you disappointed you didn't get a girl? Of course I wasn't, I would tell them. Braden would have a best friend for life, and I would have another mini-Braden. Where is the disappointment in that?

That day, I took Braden to a park. And I found myself staring at the little girls. And then staring at the parents of the little girls in envy.

I may never have that.

After few minutes of these thoughts swirling through my head, I had to leave the park. I got in the car and cried.

Which surprised no one more than me. I thought I didn't care! Look at how much I love Braden! What would I do with a girl anyway? I hate pink, remember? And ballet!

But in the back of my mind I knew that this second baby may be my last. And then that was it. No pink. No ballet. No shopping excursions and spa days and trying on wedding dresses and all that crap that society tells you mothers and daughters are supposed to do together.

After a few days of a a pity part, I got over it. And when Casey came, I fell absolutely in love with him. Like Braden, he's not just a boy. He's a person and the most amazing gift I can imagine.

And lately, I find myself being more and more thankful for boys.

There are the practical things of course. We can reuse toys. We can reuse clothes. I am an expert at changing boy diapers and pointing it down (always point it down!).

But more than anything, I am thankful for brothers. And as I bear witness to this brotherly relationship bloom and unfold, I am beginning to realize what an amazing gift it is.

Obviously there are no guarantees. But my hope for my two boys is that they are best friends. That they are playmates. That they can kick around a ball outside and give advice about girls and give best men speeches at each other's weddings. That they will spend Thanksgiving and holidays together long after I am gone. That they will take care of each other.

A few weeks ago I was having a really bad day. It was long and it was dark and it was cold. My husband had called to say he would be working late. It was dinner time, and I just wasn't feeling it. I was counting down the minutes until bedtime and just going through the motions.

Casey was sitting in his highchair, and Braden was running around the living room not eating dinner. I yelled at him to come back to the table, when he decided to run over to Casey and start singing BINGO, accompanied by a little dance. After a minute of staring at Braden blankly, Casey all of a sudden erupted into hysterical laughter.

Which made us all laugh.

Encouraged, Braden kept going. He would pause for a minute in between songs and tickle Casey's neck, only making him laugh harder.

It's hard to describe how I felt at that moment, but all of a sudden a feeling of pure happiness came over me.

Look at what I have given them. A brother.

And I realized how lucky I am to have two boys. Not just because each of them individually are the most amazing people I have ever come to know, but because they are a gift to each other. They are brothers. Double Trouble.

I think a part of me will always mourn the girl I didn't have, but I wouldn't trade what we have now for anything. How could I? Just look at my two boys.

(And besides, the jury is still out on number 3!)

The Pressure of a Balmy Winter Weekend

2012-01-09T10:06:00.000-05:00

In the sixties! In the northeast! In January!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Whatever will we do?

First, we must be grateful. Very grateful. Because it won't last and the wrath of winter will come back and bite us in the ass and knock out our electricity and force us to be stuck in traffic on the GW Parkway for 12+ hours. (And no, that didn't happen to me. But I have PTSD just thinking about it). Make no mistake - trees will fall once again.

Second, and most importantly, we must make the most of this precious gift. It musn't be wasted! We must go outside and dance and sing and skip in the 60 degree air! And then on Monday, we must discuss our chosen outdoor activity with friends, family, co-workers, and Starbucks employees. And we better have something good. It can't simply be taking the dog for a walk. No. It must be impressive. Unique. Something that shows that we had a true appreciation for the weather blessing that was bestowed upon us.

On Saturday morning, my husband and I faced this challenge. What to do? A simple park seemed insufficient. The National Zoo was out of the question (worst. zoo. ever.). The Smithsonian is overrated (National History Museum = Stuffed Zoo). Sipping on Bloody Mary's at a sidewalk cafe, though enticing, felt inappropriate.

So we decided on the airport. After all, what's better than the smell of burning jet fuel on an overcast day?

Braden loved it. Casey hated it. I was just grateful I was watching the planes, and not flying in them.

Not bad though. Not bad at all. This should cause some jealousy at the water cooler this morning for sure. (The fact that I will not be talking with anyone at a water cooler is irrelevant).

For January, I'll take it.

The Answer

2012-01-04T22:50:00.001-05:00

I am happy staying at home, you know. Really. Notwithstanding all my recent posts on my devilish toddler, my guilt over splurging on a pair of boots, judgmental attorneys who hate women, and the monotony of my daily life, I actually am happy with my current job.

I am the first to admit I've been a bit of a Debbie Downer recently. I have a couple of excuses: First, it's cold and dark outside. As I've mentioned before, this tends to bring on a funk each year, no matter my employment status. Second, this blog is my place to vent. For some reason, I have more of an urge to vent when I am sad than when I am happy. So the "wah wah wah," "I'm bored," "feel bad for me posts" tend to outweigh the "what an awesome day," "my kids are the joy of my life," "you know you want to be me posts." When I'm happy, I don't always want to write about it. I'd rather just live in the moment.

My last post was a particularly depressing one, in large part because I'd just gotten back from vacation. (Isn't everyone depressed when they get back from vacation?). In any event, I suppose I can see why, to an outsider, it may seem like I am a miserable stay at home mom who regrets and laments walking away from my career. In fact, a commenter asked me this very question:

"Why do you choose to stay at home? It seems as if you don't enjoy it. Every single thing you typed is the exact reason I work outside of the home (the need for something other than monotony, the need to be intellectually stimulated, etc.). I have great admiration for SAHMs, and I'm not at all trying to judge, I promise. But, it seems that so many SAHMs are not happy..."

I thought this was an interesting, genuine question. So here's the answer:

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

This job is hard.

Really hard.

It's harder than my biglaw job for sure.

It's all consuming and exhausting and there are no sick days.

It can be boring.

It can be isolating.

It can be demoralizing.

It can be completely unrewarding.

It can make you question who you are and who you have become and who you are supposed to be.

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

BUT

And this is a big but.

Someone has to do this job.

And if someone has to do it, I want that person to be me.

I want to be here in the morning to wake the kids up.

I want to pick Braden up at school, even when he throws a tantrum and hits me and causes a scene, because I want to see him in his element and know his teachers and know his friends and make sure he is wearing his gloves.

I want to make sure that Casey's food is cut up in teeny tiny pieces so that he doesn't choke. I know that no one, not even my husband, will cut it up as small as me.

I want to be there for the tantrums.

I want to give the time outs.

I want to hug them when the time outs are over.

I want to witness the tender, most unexpected moments when Braden decides to make Casey laugh.

I want to volunteer at school events and host playdates.

I want to take them to the park when it's sunny out.

I want to take them to doctor's appointments.

I want to take their temperature and make sure that they get all 1.8 mls of Motrin, and not a drop more.

I want to kiss their faces whenever I want to.

I want to kiss their boo-boos when they fall.

I want to cuddle with them both as much as they will allow me to.

I want to document this time in their lives - in my memory, in photos, in this blog.

I want to live and appreciate every single moment.

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

And here's the thing:

I could probably still do all of the above things if I was working outside of the home.

But, NOT working means that I can do all of the above things without added stress.

Without outside responsibilities.

Without the pull of billable hours or clients or bosses.

Without having to take vacation days.

Without having to monitor a blackberry.

Without distractions.

Without having to think of anything of real importance outside of the two most important people in the world to me.

And that is a gift.

A gift that makes all the tantrums and boredom and hard days worth it. SO worth it.

************
Every night when I put Braden to bed we "talk about today." We go through all of the day's activities ad nauseam, and the narrative always ends with, "It was a wonderful day." And you know what? I mean it. Every time. And as I tuck him in and leave his room, I silently mourn the day that has passed and know that it's one less day I'll have with him as a little boy.

The fact is, I have the best job in the world.

Dangerously Close to Falling into a January Funk

2012-01-03T09:56:00.000-05:00

January is starting off as it pretty much always does for me.

Blah.

We got back from North Carolina on Sunday. It was warm there. My husband didn't have to go to work there. I had free babysitters at my disposal there. I ate whatever I wanted there. I drank wine each night and didn't feel guilty about it there. I showered whenever I wanted and went shopping and enjoyed my kids and my family and playing Words with Friends.

Don't get me wrong - there was ample family drama and on more than one occasion I yearned to come home. But it is just different being away. There were always people around. There were always activities. Each day was different from the day before. As all vacations are, it was a break from real life and the stresses and guilt and obligations that come with it.

Now I am home. My husband went back to work this morning. Braden is back at school. And I am on Day 2 of Weight Watchers.

This morning, I will do laundry. I will attempt to clean the house. Then I will bundle Casey up in the frigid cold weather and pick up Braden from school, where he will probably bitch slap me upon arrival. I will bring them home and pray they nap (which is happening less and less these days). I will try and fit in a Jillian Michaels workout video, which is my own personal 20 minutes of hell. Once the kids wake up, I will have to find some way to fill a few hours of time, which will either involve going stir crazy inside for the rest of the day or going to some indoor play area where both kids will inevitably come down with an illness within 48 hours. Around 5:30, I will start the nightly process of calling my husband to ascertain when he will be coming home. I will sigh when he says it will be past the kids' bedtime. I will feed and bathe the kids. I will clean up. I will put the kids to bed and watch crappy tv and tomorrow it will start all over again.

I'm just not into it all right now. Not at all. It's mundane and it's monotonous and it's stressful and it's lonely.

My only saving grace right now is our upcoming trip to the Cayman Islands, at the end of January. THANK GOD FOR THAT!

Until then, I think I'm going to turn on my happy light.

Past Midnight

2011-12-29T10:44:00.000-05:00

I find it funny when people ask me what I'm doing for New Year's Eve. It's a perfectly polite and well meaning question, but really? REALLY?

Let me tell you a few things about New Year's Eve:

Even before having children, I dreaded New Year's. It was always this high pressure night when you had to make big plans and find dinner reservations and pay some price fixed New Year's special and then find a party or bar where you would fight for drinks and a cab home.

After years of concerts, trips to Europe, and overpriced Manhattan nightclubs, in 2005 we decided we were getting too old to venture out. Instead, we decided to keep it more "low key" and have a party at our apartment in Manhattan. Our apartment was actually on the bigger size by NYC standards, so we cleared out the furniture, cleaned, and had about 40 people over. This was great, until I realized that we LIVED in the apartment and it had been trashed. At 2am when everyone left, and I wanted to do some minor cleaning (aka, there are bottles of vodka spilling in our bath tub), my husband (then fiance) could not be roused from this position:

If you are seeing this photo, you are lucky, because undoubtedly my husband will force me to delete it.

The decision was made to never host a New Year's party again.

The next year, we went to Charleston, South Carolina with my family. We went out that night with my sister and her boyfriend to a random bar where everyone there must have gotten in using a fake ID. After witnessing a ~~high school~~ college student vomit in the women's bathroom sink, I was feeling REALLY old, until our walk back to our hotel room, where we ran into this lady:

That's my sister, with the legend herself. It's hard not to feel young.

By 2007, I was officially done with the whole New Year's Eve thing. Which made my pregnancy that year all the more convenient, since it meant no alcohol, no night out, and a justifiable excuse to fall asleep before midnight.

And I have not made it past midnight in the four years since.

It's not that I haven't tried. Usually we will go out to dinner (around 5:30). We'll put whatever kids are around to bed at 8pm. We'll open up a bottle of champagne, put on our pajamas, and put on whatever New Years Eve special is the most appealing to the majority. (Last year I believe it was the Bette Midler HBO special. I'm not kidding). But inevitably, by 11:30 I am out for the count.

But this weekend, I am upping my game. We are in Wilmington, North Carolina with my family once again. We are going out to dinner at 5:30pm. We will put the kids to bed at 8pm. But that's where the tradition ends. Instead of moving on to pajamas, we are going to get all dressed up. We are going to get several bottles of champagne, along with wine and vodka and mixers. We are going to make fancy desserts and eat smelly cheese and hang out in the formal living room and wear shoes (after all, I have an awesome pair of boots I want to wear). We will have sophisticated conversation and listen to country music and watch the ball drop.

That's right - I WILL stay up past midnight.

And I will curse myself six hours later when Casey decides it's time to wake up.

But it's all worth it, right? Can't I be a little crazy once a year? After a four year New Year's Eve strike, I think so.

Boots

2011-12-26T14:42:00.000-05:00

There are children starving all over the world.

My kids have 529 accounts that need to be filled.

I am technically unemployed.

It is the season of giving - you know, like to others.

We really should be paying down our HELOC while interest rates are low.

I have no need for any form of high fashion given that I am in pajamas 90% of the time.

I pay almost $1000 a month in student loans for a career that I have all but abandoned.

And yet, somehow, this morning I justified to myself that it was acceptable to spend $312 on these:

And now, for the justifications:

They were on sale (40% off). When will I ever find such a bargain on Tory Burch shoes?

I take care of two kids all day every day, one of whom beats me up on a regular basis. I totally deserve this.

I am getting old, and if I don't start paying attention to what I wear I am on the slippery slope to mom jeans.

I actually have been earning money, totally out of the blue, for some recent freelance legal work. (Never mind that this money has now been allocated to a thousand different things that it can't possibly cover - upcoming vacation, Braden's preschool tuition, a year's worth of car payments, and now, unnecessarily expensive boots).

My husband doesn't get word of his holiday bonus until mid-January. Maybe it will be some crazy ridiculous number and we won't ever remember spending two weeks worth of groceries on boots.

And now, for the inner monologue:

I really want to get these boots.

I shouldn't get these boots.

But wouldn't it be nice to get these boots?

Okay, I think I'll get these boots.

I got the boots.

Oh shit. I paid a lot for these boots.

Oh well.

I'll enjoy these boots.

I LOVE these boots.

These boots will change my life and make me free and young and rich and all the things that I want to be!

Thank God I found these boots!

My Son is Beating Me Up

2011-12-21T16:16:00.000-05:00

It's getting official. My sweet little boy is turning into a TERROR.

He hits. He kicks. He throws. He screams. He pulls hair.

Sometimes it's because he doesn't get what he wants (aka, wrong Gabba episode, juice in the wrong colored cup, shirt he wants to wear is dirty - you know, the real tragedies). Other times, it's just because.

To his credit, he will give me a fair warning. I.e., "I'm going to hit you today." or "I'm going to go kick Casey." And then, the simple, yet poignant, declaration of: "I'm going to be a bad boy." Yes, my boy tells it like it is.

I have tried various approaches to dealing with this, none of which have been successful:

Approach #1 - Time Outs
I've read parenting blogs and watched Supernanny, so time outs were my first plan of attack. Every time he hit or acted aggressively, I would calmly put him in his time out chair, explain to him why I was placing him in time out, leave for a few minutes, come back, ask for an apology, and then hug and make up. Simple enough? Nope! For some odd reason, Braden loved these time outs. He would get a huge smile on his face as he would sit on the chair. He liked it so much that he ended up hitting me, just so he could get a time out! How do I know this? Because the little s#@! would say, "Mommy, I'm going to hit you and then I can go in time out." APPROACH #1 FAIL.

Approach #2 - Yell Really Loud
I've never been a huge yeller with my kids. I'm from that school of thought that it will harm their wee little minds and spirits and make them untrusting, miserable adults. But I figure that it is okay to yell on occasion, when you save it for the really important things - the things that you really need to drive home. And wouldn't domestic violence be one of those things? So I tried it for a week or so - when Braden hit me, I would kneel down, get in his face, and very firmly, and loudly, yell: "No hitting!" At first this seemed to do the trick, and Braden would start crying and want a hug and apologize. But with having to yell every 20 minutes or so, after a few days the novelty wore off and the yelling wasn't so scary. It was just how mommy was talking. And then I just became that mom that was yelling all the time, with nothing to show for it. APPROACH #2 FAIL.

Approach #3 - Ignore
He's doing this for attention, right? If I don't reward his behavior with attention, even negative attention, then surely he will stop. Surely! Um, no. Instead, I spent three days sitting around the house getting beat up, kicked, and manhandled whilst I sat there with a pleasant, neutral expression on my face, gritting my teeth, and cursing my son out in my head. APPROACH #3 FAIL.

Approach #4 - Hit Back
No, you do not need to call child services on me. I didn't hit hard. I gently pat - but with enough force to get his attention and let him know that no, you can't hit people, or they will gently pat you back and maybe you won't like it. (And I have to admit, after enduring Approach #3, this Approach was a bit satisfying). Guess what - this actually worked - Braden stopped hitting me! But sadly, he just transferred his aggression to someone who wouldn't hit back - Casey. So if I told Braden - "No, you can't have a cookie until you finish your dinner" he would promptly run over to Casey and smack him on the head. And then I had to revert to Approaches 1 and 2. So, APPROACH #4 FAIL.

And today? Today I have no approach. I'm just spent. We had been having a good day, and then after an errand Braden decided he didn't want to get in his car seat. After some pleading and bribing and threatening, I had to resort to physically putting him in, which he did not like. He proceeded to knock my glasses off of my face, smack my forehead, and pull my hair in all kinds of directions. Some security guard at CVS was watching in horror, and I just kind of waved and smiled through a flailing mess of fists and hair and flying spectacles. "Nothing to worry about here, Sir. All perfectly normal!"

Today, I give up. He wins. I am approach-less.

The other day, as I was leaving a playdate, Braden pulled his antics. Because he didn't want to leave and he wanted to play and oh, you're making me leave, then I will throw my shoes at you and smack your head! As my glasses went flying once again, the other mother jokingly and sympathetically said to me: "Don't these days make you wish you were working and you just had a nanny to deal with them?"

In a word? Yes.

(And by the way, I'm open to any suggestions, as I clearly am not doing something right. But please don't leave me a comment telling me of your darling angel child, who come on, is probably a girl, who has never done such a thing because right now I just don't want to hear it.)