The Cone of Semi-Silence

Ah, how fondly I recall the days when I would glare at the adult(s) who in vain attempted (and failed) to quiet a group of young children.  When it came to airplanes, I would have been the first to sign up for "child-free" flights.  At the grocery store I would time it so as to meet up with the fewest possible screaming younglings (ever been to a Jewel at midnight?  It's a good time).  And without a doubt if I saw a large mass of them heading toward me on the street, I would snort and quickly change my route.  Screaming kids suck.  Or so I used to believe.

Oh, no--I'm not saying that I now approve of disputes held at the hightest possible decible range with tiny people who have as much logic as Joan Rivers.  I'm saying that I simply no longer notice it most of the time.  I'm serious.  It's like a large cone of silence has cut me off from all forms of voiciferous children.  I rarely even notice it.  On the few occasions when I do happen to tune in to a tantrum of epic proportions, I feel a massive amount of pity (usually for the child) and simply go on about my business.  But quite seriously, 9 out of 10 times, I really no longer notice.  It's like the powers that Be handed me and many other parents a lovely pair of earmuffs at the birth of our children.

These particular earmuffs are selective, however.  While taking away the ability to notice a plea being made by a child (because Timmy REALLY needs that knife you have in your hand), the earmuffs amplify other noises.  For example, I can hear ambulances from approximately 22.5 blocks away.  The reasoning behind this superhearing is to be able to hold one's breath and begin to pray that the baby doesn't wake.  I can also, by further example, hear judgmental comments regarding my parenting made anywhere within a 5 state area.  I think this one is a result of my own doubts, as opposed to actually serving any purpose other than increasing my blood pressure.  Regardless, the parental earmuffs are magical things of wonder.

And so, the next time you are sitting in a Starbucks and you see a man frantically pulling a screaming toddler out the door as he looks around with embarrassment, assume that he is either kidnapping the child or is divorced with visitation rights.  And when you see a mother looking slightly resigned while her Katie throws herself with grandeur to the floor at the dry cleaners', instead of thinking "why doesn't she do something," cut her some slack and chalk it up to the earmuffs.  And be wary of commenting about her under your breath.  Even if you are blocks away.  She'll hear you.  It's the earmuffs.

Them's Fighting Words

From the website
http://www.smartwomenown.com/

One of the things I fret about as a parent is how and what to teach my child about fighting.  I am personally a strange mixture of pacifist and pain-in-the-behind.  My job requires me to put up with, and sometimes pick, fights on a daily basis.  But I also hate conflict (in my own life, at least) and am a huge proponent of playing by the rules.  I guess you could say I'm of the "only if they deserve it" mentality when it comes to fighting with others.

After over a decade in the business, though, I certainly understand that others don't share this approach to fighting.  Case in point: this week I had a hearing before a judge for whom I have a lot of respect.  Sadly it appears that my opposing counsel does not share this respect and s/he proceeded to, well...lie...to the Court.  It wasn't anything huge, but it was deliberate and constant and enough that it was a slight both on the rules carefully set out to guide and restrain lawyers and on the Judge herself.  Fortunately the Judge saw through the lawyer and no real harm was done.  But I was enraged.  How dare this attorney fail to follow the rules.  The lawyer wasn't fighting fair.  But s/he got away with it.

So what do I tell my child?  Certainly, the issue is even more complicated by the fact that he is a boy.  I get that boys need to assert themselves in much the same fashion as girls need to figure out how to pluck eyebrows--it's just one of those stupid things that comes with a gender.  But the idea of this kid for even one second feeling emotional or physical harm absolutely kills me.  I would do anything for him to never feel an ounce of pain.  And at the same time, if he doesn't know how to defend himself (and probably others), I'm sure the pain will be tenfold.  It's such a gross conundrum.  I have a relative who for a period of his life went by "One Punch"--a fact that is now funny but, on behalf of his mother, what the heck???  And so the question is, what do we tell our kids about fighting?  It's bad but necessary sometimes?  What are those sometimes?  It's always wrong?  But how do they defend themselves? 

I guess it's an issue that will resolve itself whether I come up with a solution or not (as many tend to do).  And I guess the most we can do is teach by example.  And if that is the case, please forgive me World for the yelling, swearing child I have undoubtedly created.

Daddyhood

Clearly, there are many aspects of parenthood that have thrown me for a loop.  One such shocker is that I have seen a number of really great guys become absolutely incredible dads.  Don't get me wrong--my girl friends are some of the best parents in the world.  And my own Dad is (in my and many others' humble opinion) hands-down the best.  But there is something about seeing my guy pals take on this new role that has me in awe.

Take, for example, my friend "Seamus."  He's an awesome lawyer and an even more awesome guy.  He has two little kids, both of whom are adorable and smart and sweet.  I adore his wife and am in no way surprised that the kids are fantastic.  What I am surprised at, though, is how being a dad has affected him to his core.  I'm not surprised he's a good dad; I am surprised at what a natural he is.  A mutual friend once commented that he and Seamus went to dinner one night and were seated next to a family.  The baby in the group was perched precariously in a booster and our friend noted that Seamus had, throughout their entire meal, one eye on the baby and was ready to spring into action should the kid tumble.  Likewise, every time I talk with Seamus about our kids I'm blown away by how wholly immersed he is in their existence.  I'm not talking about overprotective parenting or just liking the kids--I mean that he just gets being a parent.  He's truly a role model and I just shake my head in awe at the dad he has become.

My point, dear readers, is that people can surprise you.  Hell, we can surprise ourselves.  While none of us (despite his protests) would ever in a million years have contested that Seamus would have rocked the dad thing, seeing it in action is beautiful.  Likewise, a number of my guy friends have found a whole new sense of self through dad-hood.  And recognizing what these guys are capable of is so incredible, and gives me so much hope for the world, I'm grateful for what they have taught me.  So here's to the awesome dads of the world.  May you never lose faith in your abilities.  I know the rest of us won't.

Rewriting History

I have been extremely blessed to have had the world's most incredible friends enter and (thank Goodness) stay in my life.  Through thick and thin we have all been through quite a bit and it seems that these days are as turbulent as ever.  But I am grateful for each of them and always will be.

Originally posted on
heyguys.co.uk
Aug. 12, 2010

One group of such friends are the tight-knit clan from our college days.  Primarily consisting of the coolest geeks around, we were inseparable and I have remained close to them in the years that followed.  Much to my delight, I have seen a good number of them having kids recently--the delight stems from a daydream that involves our kids going to college together and repeating our glory days.  And last night while washing dishes I found myself once again thinking about how great that would be.  They could room together, as we did.  They could study together.  They could ski together.  They could...OH MY GOD.  Suddenly it hit me.  These tiny, precious little things would some day grow up to be the complete morons that we were.  I almost dropped the glass I had in my hand.  How is that possible?  Could it be that this sweet boy who delicately pats his Grandma's head when she has a headache and is lying on the couch could one day grow up to have the life goal of a 3 story beer bong?  The thought makes me as ill as I was upon fulfilling that particular goal.

The funnier part of the equation is what do I tell my friends' kids?  Case in point: one particular friend is a guy who is hands-down one of the kindest human beings I have ever met.  He would lay his life down for his friends and in college his dream was to do just that for his country.  He grew up, appropriately married one of the coolest chicks around, and recently they had a gorgeous little boy.  The problem?  I very clearly recall a time when this little angel's daddy was lying in his underwear, drunk out of his gourd (to use one of his phrases) in a pool of blood because he thought it would be more prudent to break and climb through his window than call a locksmith.  And trust me folks, this is the milder of the stories I recall.  So what the heck do I tell this kid when he asks about the good old days?  Or my kid for that matter? 

I guess I am hoping that the old memory is fading significantly by the time those questions are uttered.  If not, I suppose I tell them the truth:  mommy and daddy were just the angels you are now.  Because even they don't want to know the real story.  And it's good for kids to have goals.  Maybe this generation will even live up to them.

Suggestion Sunday

Happy Suggestion Sunday, folks!  Please be sure to get me your tips on upcoming events in your area.  We are focusing on family-friendly, but "I'm still a cool adult" activities that will help everyone maintain the balance that is the topic of this blog!

So today's Suggestion Sunday focuses on San Fransisco.  Here is a terrific site I found offering "250 Things to Do With Your Baby."  http://abclocal.go.com/kgo/story?section=view_from_the_bay/parenting_babies&id=6199501  The site is from a few years ago, but a lot of the suggestions are still true today, from what I can see.  And our non-California friends can even get a few great suggestions from the list.  On a list of 250, there has to be something of interest for everyone.  Well, most anyway.  Well, maybe at least one of you....

Also, courtesy of the site Our Big Earth, we have early spring gardening fun for kids.  http://www.ourbigearth.com/2009/03/06/sprouts-early-spring-kid-gardening-fun/  I thought these ideas were fantastic and fun for all.  In fact, if you don't have any kids, you'll likely enjoy the easy and fun spring planting ideas, yourself! 

Enjoy your Sunday and on to another week.  Take care whether you are a Fast Laner or a Carpooler.  Or both!

A Toy Story

In case you cannot tell, in the past I rarely denied myself any tangible good that I wanted.  It was a rare occasion when I went "oooh, I want that!" and didn't (even if it took a few paychecks later) buy "that."  Ah, those were the days.  As a result, I have a LOT of crap littering my house.  But it was an impulse that made me happy and I indulged.

So...fast-forward.  I now have an adorable little kid for whom I would do absolutely anything.  You see where I am going with this?  I have the most insane urges to buy him EVERYTHING.  He couldn't care less.  Seriously, the kid is happier playing with boxes and water jugs than with the toys that I get him.  But I can't stop myself!  Even if it's something that makes him go "ooh!" just once, it's completely worth the $30 here and there.  And I can't stop.  Despite a significant cut-back in funds, what I do have I end up spending on toys.

The bigger issue?  His birthday is near.  It's a big birthday and I am quite certain that I am going to end up going completely insane.  I even thought about imposing on friends and family a "no gift zone."  The amount of "stuff" in my house is overwhelming.  I have bills piling up.  And he doesn't care what he's playing with, as long as he can drive it around the house going "vrooooommmmm."  And so, dear readers, HOW DO I STOP?  Does it require an intervention of sorts?  Do I need meds?  How do I keep myself (and others) from going nuts and bombarding this kid with unnecessary toys and things?

Letting Go

I have, unfortunately, decided to cut a trusted friend from my life.  I have relied upon this "shoulder" for the past several months and quitting cold-turkey is going to be a difficult task.  But I've been betrayed one too many times.  This must be done.

Yes, folks, I will no longer be relying fully upon books, articles and...gasp...blogs for my parenting how-to.  I may look at an article or two and I won't be canceling all of my magazine subscriptions.  But I've had enough.  I'm quite certain that the advice dispensed by these media is often sound and valuable for some, but I think for a while I am going to go it solo.

So what caused this about-face in parenting styles?  I guess it's just plain-old experience.  I'm not a complete idiot--I do get that I don't begin to know everything (anything?) about parenting.  But I guess I've just read one too many "cautionary" articles that have driven me insane.  The other night I was perusing a nameless magazine (primarily nameless because they're all named basically the same thing) and I saw an article about how germ-laden kids' "lovies" are.  For those blissfully unaware of such terms, a "lovie" is an object over which your child has a sincere attachment.  For example, blankies, teddys, or even clothing may be a "lovie."  Anyway, the article was going on and on about how you must immediately confiscate and banish the lovie from your kid's life because there are likely germs on it.  Well aren't you freaking brilliant.  OF COURSE there are germs on it.  Lovies are hugged and slobbered on, dragged all over the floor, stomped on, dropped in odd places and otherwise are allowed to collect all manner of matter.  They get gross.  And they remain gross no matter how many times you wash them.  But why, in the name of Zeus, would I ever for a second consider taking away from my child his number one source of happiness and comfort?  I understand that this is a good idea for some parents--not such a good idea for me. 

But it's not the lovie story, really, that turned me off to advice media.  It's the realization that I don't HAVE to follow it.  It's very freeing, actually.  I can choose to make decisions for my kid that may or may not be AMA, APA, ASPCA, or AAA recommended.  And that's pretty cool.  I guess my time with my own lovie is done.  And I'm sort of proud of myself.  Guess I'm a big girl now.

Baby in a Bar?

Ok, I am the first to admit, when it comes to...well, everything...Montana just has different rules.  When I was a kid, I grew up playing pool with the other kids in the back room of Buck's Bar.  It was just what you did.  After Dad was done with his basketball games, we would all get a pizza and hang out.  At a bar.  There was nothing weird about it and it was perfectly socially (and legally) acceptable.

Originally (brilliantly) posted on the
blog "Laughter Minute"
February 2009

Well, I'm seeing that things are a bit different in Chicago.  Or maybe times are different.  Regardless, the whole "baby in a bar" issue is not only highly scrutinized (from my experience) it is also hotly debated.  Who knew.  Case in point:  last weekend my mom and I were hungry after a rousing Gymboree class and some shopping.  So, naturally (to us), we stopped into the bar across the street from my house.  It's a nice, classy place with dark wood, great food, and TVs.  It just so happens that the NCAA Men's Tournament is going on, so there were a handful of people in there watching the early games.  We excitedly sat down at the remaining booth, plopped the kid on the table so he could watch the games and eat tots (the tater kind, of course--not pushing canibalism), and excitedly ordered two beers.  And then we noticed the stares from the table of 30-something (and I'm being generous) guys next to us.  They were appalled.  At first I assumed I was being paranoid, but then we heard the barely-masked comments.  "Really?  A baby?  This is a bar...."  Oh, crap, I had thought it was a car dealership.  It was NOON.  And he was quiet and very content with his first bite of taters that were cooked in delicious grease (my poor parenting when it comes to food is a topic for another day).  But these guys weren't alone.  We were pariahs.  So we quickly finished our beers and ran from the joint.

I was mortified.  WAS I a horrible parent for taking a child into a bar on a Saturday afternoon?  It was something I hadn't even considered as taboo.  Was it my own upbringing?  Or is it something more than public opinion on propriety?  I suddenly remembered an article I had read a while back on CNN.  There has been a big uproar in New York regarding this very topic. And I admit, the article makes me see (1) that it's not a merely puritanical view of how best to raise a kid that gives rise to objections, and (2) I may see the point of those opposed to the idea.  http://articles.cnn.com/2010-03-02/living/brooklyn.babies.in.bars_1_bars-stroller-babies?_s=PM:LIVING.  Our bars are our refuge.  They are a place to quintessentially "be" an "adult."  By definition.  So I do understand the uproar.  I guess I'll just chalk it up to yet another thing that didn't cross my mind as a parent.  And I'll just teach the baby to go get me a beer at home.  No worries.

These Aren't the Droids You're Looking For

I will be the first to admit it--I am a huge geek.  I love the cliched sci-fi movies that immediately put one into a class of total dork without even checking ID.  In turn, I love technology.  Don't get me wrong--my kid is better at finding the right button on the TiVo remote than I am.  But I have a "relationship" with my BlackBerry and I think that the ability to replay insane comments by news announcers is pure heaven.

But I'm starting to wonder whether technology isn't the root of many of our troubles today.  I'm not talking about those ridiculous body scanners at the airport, though I could talk your ear off for weeks about those.  I mean, have we become so used to instant gratification that we no longer know how to function in daily life?

Let me explain my theory.  Today we have total access to the "outside" world, 24/7.  If we want to, we can skip commercials, talk to long-lost cousins, stalk the chick who's traveling for work with our significant others (hypothetically), and tell telemarketers to buzz off.  And the best part?  We can do all of this simultaneously!  We don't have to wait for anything.  Ask yourself--when was the last time your barrista took longer than a minute and a half for your non-fat white chocolate mocha, and you freaked?  And were you checking your texts or emails while you waited?  We get information that we want, when we want it.  Perfect, right?

Here's the problem.  There is certain information we don't get instantly.  There are no apps for finding out whether you should leave your husband.  Or what job you should take.  Or whether you are ready to have kids.  There is no website for checking to see whether your boss really is trying to push you out.  And barring the Psychic Network, there is no person who can tell you what you need to be doing next in your life.  And I think this scares the hell out of most of us.  I can't begin to tell you the number of stories I have heard lately from friends who are struggling.  It's heartbreaking.  And, yes, some of it is the economy.  And some of it is just plain "life."  And some of it is circumstance.  But I'm starting to wonder whether it's also the fact that we are so used to being able to control our world, we freak that there are things one just can't Google.

I'm not saying we should start a Wisconsin-level protest against technology--it does good things too.  Technology helps us share our issues with friends living across the country and they in turn can help.  It allows grandparents to see their grandchildren over the Internet in photos and on camera.  It connects people with those who we thought were lost.  So I guess these may not be the droids we're looking for.  And my point is that technology isn't all bad, but maybe it's not the world's greatest gift.  And seeing one possible reason why things are so frustrating, maybe we should take a deep breath and ease up on ourselves a bit.  Maybe...just maybe...it's ok not to know what we're doing.

My Fan-tabulous Diet Tips

I have to admit, for about 8 months I was a very smug pregnant woman.  Because I am rather Amazonian (a/k/a "tall"), most of the poundage I put on went into very odd places such as my ankles.  For a while.  But toward the end there, there was no place left for the weight to go but EVERYWHERE.  It may have something to do with the fact that I toted around a bag of those mini powdered donuts in my purse.  (Though I swear now that it's the donuts that gave me the cool kid I now have).  I'm actually not kidding--I have friends who will tell the story of a girls' afternoon at the spa during which one of our more hungover members lamented that she had no sustenance to carry her through the day.  Ever being the Girl Scout, I whipped out my bag-o-donuts and saved the day.  And was mocked for...well, I'm still being mocked.  Anyway, it's safe to say that I put on a pound or two.

Yeah, I look nothing like this.

What is very strange is that it sort of came off relatively quickly.  Don't get me wrong--I'm no miracle of science.  I still have a stomach that resembles a balloon filled with cookie dough.  And I don't want to get into the state of my thighs.  And my butt...well, you get the picture.  But overall I was surprised that the weight sort of came off quickly.  And then I realized why.  I would now like to introduce you to the "Fabulous Easy Anyone Can Do It" diet.  It is mainly comprised of...not eating.  At all.  Ta-daaah! 

For the first 4 or so months of my child's life, I simply didn't eat unless reminded to do so.  Between the sleep deprivation and the lack of energy, I just didn't care.  Then I got so used to it, I didn't see the point.  And now?  I get home from work, feed the baby, put him to bed, and fall asleep on the couch.  Eating has no place in my world.  So, see, ladies (and you very sympathetic men)?  It's EASY!  Just never eat again, and all will be well.

And on that note, I would like to sincerely apologize to all of the people who, in my fits of food-less anger, I yelled at, kicked, cussed at, and/or gave a particularly nasty look.  Ok, there may be a side effect or two in this diet thing....  But, man, you'll look good.  Provided, of course you're still wearing maternity clothes.  Yeah, nevermind.

Your Audience is Watching

I have recently been thinking about an unexpected phenomenon of modern life:  the fact that everything you do is being watched, scrutinized, digested and commented upon.  Clearly, parenthood is a veritable breeding ground (pun intended) for others' comments.  When did you have children?  With whom did you have children?  Are you going to have children?  What are you going to name your children?  Why didn't you choose "Isabella" as the name?  Are you going to feed him that?  I could go on and on, of course.

But I'm finding that this issue is steeped far deeper in our society--and every day lives--than I had previously thought.  For example, my immediate thought when it came to my child's first birthday party was "Big Chicago Funfest."  I was checking out pocketbook-breaking venues and bartenders and pony rides and so on.  What was the ultimate plan?  Homemade cupcakes and maybe a friend or two.  And I had come to terms that this was ok.  Until the other day when I was talking to a woman who works in my office.  Her daughter is a few months older than my son, and they were in the middle of celebrating.  They had just returned from Disneyland and were preparing for a banquet hall festival in the coming weeks.  For 150 people.  She asked what I was doing for his birthday and I gulped.  I even thought about lying.  But I confessed that we weren't doing much at all.  She gave me some half-assurances that mine was a good plan, and walked away to discuss the poor child of the single mom too lazy to plan a party.

By way of further example, I recently read the article at the following link, posted on one of our favorite blogs, Corporette.  http://corporette.com/2011/03/17/diamond-rings-and-the-working-girl/  The article focuses on an interesting question from one of Corporette's readers--what size engagement/ wedding ring is appropriate for a professional woman?  This seems like a silly question--who cares what size your ring is, except you and the people you are desperate to make jealous.  But the problem is that EVERYONE cares, and I really have seen it affect the workplace.  As the article notes, if your ring is too big, the assumption by your co-workers (and likely your bosses) is that you are on the "future soccer mom" path.  If it's too small, your fiance can't afford to support you.  And on and on and on.  The chatter is endless.

So I guess the question is, how much do you play into the everyday contests?  Some are insane--you're not going to change your child's name because your mother-in-law hates it.  But some are serious--are you putting your career at risk with a shiny flashlight on your hand?  Where do we draw the line when it comes to caring what the world thinks?

Suggestion Sunday

Hi folks!  Happy Sunday.  Today's feature is called Suggestion Sunday and it contains a few fun tips on things to do with your kids this week.  We try to put in suggestions for kids of all ages, in all areas of the world, so if you have any suggestions for upcoming events, please be sure to let us know!

Today's first suggestion involves a new exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago.  The exhibit is actually similar to a prior exhibit that was wildly popular, and involves the rather gross (but awesomely so) activity of looking at the real insides of bodies.  It's the "Body Worlds" exhibit and features more than 200 "plastinates"--real body parts that have been preserved.  It's very cool.  The museum is located at 57th Street and Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, IL 60637 and is open daily from 9:30 to 4.  Here is the museum's website for more information:  http://www.msichicago.org/.

Our second suggestion involves activities closer to home and better aimed at smaller children.  I thought the activities suggested at the blog Mommy Relief were cute, non-exhaustive ideas.  http://www.mommy-relief.com/spring-activities-for-baby/.  Channeling your inner construction paper God or Goddess sounds like a perfect way to pass an early spring day.

Those are our Sunday Suggestions for the week.  Please be sure to send us your ideas--all suggestions welcome!

To Drink or Not to Drink...

Please let me start by saying that I wholly recognize that this post will make me sound like the biggest lush in the world.  Ok, glad we got that out there.

For the past several years, I have enjoyed the occasional glass of wine.  When I worked at a large firm, I enjoyed bonding with my colleagues over said occasional glass of wine.  Or two.  At lunch.  Every day.  (Man, those were good times).  My point is--I am a fan of alcohol.  I love red wine or the occasional scotch on the rocks.  Beer is good as well, particularly if you are in a pub of some sort.  Or in front of the TV.  Or at your kid's soccer game.  But again I digress.  In sum:  Booze is Good.

Example of said Good Booze.

So, you may ask, what is my point?  My point is that I have been missing my formerly favorite activity, drinking.  For about 2 years now.  For obvious reasons, I abstained from anything but the occasional nip of red wine during the entirety of my pregnancy.  But much to my surprise, I have also basically gone full-wagon since he has been born.  It's crazy.  I can't even have a glass of wine these days without descending into a blubbering mess of tears and self-loathing.  Yes, even more than before (to those of you who knew me "when").  At first, it was concern over how to take care of the baby properly.  If I were passed out through the entire night, how would I hear him when he awoke hungry?  What if something happened--how would I be able to react?  So I see how for the first few months it was a matter of self-imposed necessity that I abstain.  But recently, despite the occasional effort, I still cannot drink.  It kicks my behind for days, if I even attempt it.  Case-in-point, the other night my mom and I went to dinner and had a bottle of wine.  The next day all I wanted to play with my kid was "find mommy under the blanket."  He won.  Repeatedly.  I simply am incapable of holding even the tiniest amounts of liquor.  Sad.

Truly, though, this isn't a bad thing.  Think of all the "energy" I now have (ha).  And the money I will save on headache remedies.  Folks, you are looking at a reformed, non-drinker.  I mean, a former drinker who is reformed.  Or something.  Aw, heck...can someone please get me a beer?

Tough Questions

When I started this blog, I intended to ask (myself and you) some tough questions.  I have sort of strayed from that idea because the questions are...you know...tough.  Well, today I have a doozy.

Phil.  But not really my friend Phil.

A few days ago I was talking with a friend (we'll call him "Phil") about the choices we make as parents.  Every day each of us is forced to make hundreds of them.  Sometimes these are choices that are exceptionally tough, particularly if you are a control freak and worry constantly about screwing up your kid in some unfathomable, horrific, society-altering way like Mr. and Mrs. Hitler or whomever gave birth to the woman at Starbucks who tells me to "smile" each morning.  Hypothetically, of course.  The point is--decisions are tougher when they affect other people.  I would imagine that such is also true when you get married.  Suddenly you are making decisions that, if you eff up, may potentially harm someone you love.  And that can make you very, very cautious about how you live your life.

But our discussion went further into after the decision is made.  You've done what you think is best for your child and it's done.  Now what?  My fear, as I voiced to Phil, is that I'm a horrible person at heart and that a small part of me then resents my child.  Not because of anything he did or didn't do--as I may have mentioned, I truly believe that my kid is perfect.  But I fear that in making decisions that I would not have made 2 years ago, I could get all huffy that it's the polar opposite of the single-self me.  For once I am not doing what I want, when I want, and I worry that I'm not a strong enough person to say "cool."  Phil's reaction?  All parents resent their kids.

This sounds exceedingly harsh, but I see his point.  We have kids, each of us for our own reasons.  But certainly (as I have mentioned) I don't believe these reasons are unselfish.  We want unconditional love from our little "mini-mes" and we want to subject the world to another 100 years of us.  But we often don't recognize the price for that (completely worth it) love.  And it's possible a part of us (hopefully a very small part of us) competes for the "whiniest toddler" award, and thinks that's not fair.

And so my question:  do you agree with Phil?  Put another way, do you think that it's impossible to be truly, 100% unselfish and not even a bit feel that your decisions are unaltered by the presence of this gift in your life?

Happy St. Paddy's Day

I, and by extension my son, are Irish (as many in Chicago claim to be).  Like many, I can trace my lineage fairly easily--my Grandmother's mother and father were Scottish and Irish respectively.  On a side-note, my friend Jacque (who was born and raised in Ireland) calls the Scots "the Irish who couldn't swim."  Love that expression.  Anyway, the point is that my kid and I only look half-ridiculous when celebrating this fine day by wearing the obligatory green and the not-so-obligatory green flashing bunny ears.  Yes, I said "bunny"--just go with it.

It's funny, though, how little most of us know about our heritage.  I didn't really think much of it until my son was in the picture.  In some places (shockingly, Chicago being one of them) your genetic make-up is a topic of great interest.  I had employers, friends and people I just met all ask me some variation of "where is your family from?" starting the minute I stepped off the "boat" in Chicago.  I was shocked.  And, apart from a Grandmother who was herself "off the boat," I really didn't know much about my ancestors at all.  I knew bits and pieces (particularly the juicier ones) about ancient relatives and their westward progression, but if you ask me about my national heritage, there is relatively little I could tell you.

This makes me feel bad for my kid.  I can't tell him much of anything about his relatives.  And, worse in my mind, I can tell him even less about an entire half of his family.  I know relatively little about his dad's side.  It's a pity, really.  Perhaps what we need are more nation-based holidays so that we can figure out whether we are each allowed to properly celebrate.  Of course, a requirement for green beer would be helpful as well.  But my question to the universe is, how important is it to understand our pasts?

Too big a question to answer here, certainly.  So whether you are Irish or "Irish," celebrate this year by asking relatives what they know about your history.  And whether or not there are any from the Emerald Isle in your past, call yourself a leprechaun and celebrate.  Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone!

Are Moms Girls?

Recently, my friend Rebecca stated that she doesn't often do things that are considered "girley."  In making her point, she listed off things that were examples of traditionally "girl" things that she did not do, such as going to prom, picking up random frat boys in bars, getting her nails done, and having a kid.  I nodded as she walked through her list, until she got to the last one.  Really?  Is having kids "girley"?  Because, God, I have never felt less like a girl in my entire life.

I can see how "mother" gets an association with "girl."  As far as I know, apart from the former governor of California (transgendered people aside), no men have given birth.  Mom = female.  I get that.  But what, may I ask, does walking around with your hair in a half-beehive, half-skater 'doo, have to do with feeling feminine?  Sure I wear more dresses.  But this is because NOTHING ELSE FITS MY BUTT.  My nails haven't been done in years.  Hell, they haven't been long enough to bite, in years, because I am terrified of accidentally stabbing my kid in the arm.  A few months ago I tried to seduce my boyfriend by getting him drunk.  We each had a margarita and passed out on the couch while watching Cash Cab.  When I go into Victoria's Secret, I lust after the cotton pajama bottoms and sweatshirts and wonder whether I can wear them to work.  In short, there is NOTHING "girley" about me at the moment.

Okay, okay, maybe I am being dramatic.  Maybe, regardless of the fact that I feel like a giant-though-slightly-better-dressed Oompa-Loompa, I guess I do get the "girley" thing.  Maybe it's not just a perception from those who still own non-roomy clothing, either.  Not to get too "earthy," but I do feel like I have done something so intimately "woman," it can't be described.  I feel a connection to other moms.  Being a mom is about as basic in terms of "female gender" that you can possibly get.  It's not biology's fault that I'm currently wearing watered-down Peeps sugar as lipstick.  I am all girl.  Just need to work on looking like a woman.

Hidden Pitfalls

For me the most fascinating parts of being a parent (apart from how truly cool a kid is) are the unexpected  issues that constantly arise.  These are the things that zing you, seemingly out of the blue.  They are issues that it never crossed your mind as issues with which you would have to deal.  You knew going in that there would be some sort of sleep deprivation (though you mistakenly believed this would last a few months, tops).  You knew that there would be icky things like diapers and food throwing (though your child would undoubtedly not do such disgusting things--little Frank will be perfect and poop-less).  And you knew that there would be headaches such as what color to paint the nursery (no, green does not mean you don't know the baby's gender).  But it's the hidden issues that continue to beat you up on a daily basis.

For example, it had never crossed my mind prior to having a child that something as fun-filled an innocuous as spring break can be a nightmare.  There was an article on CNN recently in which this difficult situation was chronicled.  See http://www.cnn.com/2011/LIVING/03/14/cb.working.moms.spring.break/index.html?hpt=Sbin.   Clearly, my eleven-month-old does not do much spring breaking as of yet.  But reading the article, I was suddenly hit with a migraine.  They're right.  What the heck does a working parent do with school "holidays" during which the parent does not get to "holiday"?  Chances are, the sitter is an evening or weekend solution (see Nanny Heaven, below).  So chances are also good that one or more parent takes the day or week off of work.  Wow.  Not a problem if you are lucky enough to work where they do not meticulously mark you "in" and "out."  Big issue if you have a limited number of personal days.

Being a parent really keeps you on your toes.  It's like a giant crossword puzzle.  And if you are like me, you love the crossword puzzles, but rarely get them right.  I guess the most you can hope for is the People Magazine crossword instead of the New York Times.

Nanny Heaven

Hi folks!  First, my apologies to those of you who contacted me about missing Sound-Off Sunday.  We were having technical difficulties...

Second, today's post is about the amazing, wonderful revelation I found this weekend.  I found the world's most perfect nanny.  She's smart, she's fun, and my son adores her.  She's terrific at putting up with me and my disaster of a house, and is all-around adored by all who have met her.  Seriously, the woman is Nanny McFabulous.  The problem?  Her "day" job is being a lawyer. 

Sad.  What is it with people not following their true calling?  In short, I asked this friend as a huge favor to babysit this weekend.  And needless to say, it went well.  My kid was over the moon.  I was almost jealous as he gazed lovingly at her and showed her all of his fun toys that they could play with.  He was in heaven.  Me?  I only called once and didn't worry the entire evening.  I knew that they were having a blast.  And they did.  He has some fantastic babysitters, but sadly they are in the same category--sitter by night, something "professional" by day.

I, of course, will not be overtly encouraging her to leave her lucrative (relatively) job that she studied years for, merely to come and make my life easier.  Ok, I actually am--I happen to know she reads this.  But all joking aside, what is with all the good ones being gone?  It's like high-school all over again and the perfect sitter or nanny is the quarterback who happens to be hot and not a jerk.  AND of course is taken.  Are we doomed to relive the "search" over and over again?  We found the mate.  We found the house.  We found the kid.  And still we get teased.  Sad.  Nanny, wherever you are, know that you have "backup" should the legal field ever suck.  More than it does.  We'll wait for you.

The Learning Curve

As I have mentioned a number of times, the past year has been a learning experience for me.  There have been so many lessons, I couldn't possibly keep track of them all.  But there are some that definitely stick with you.  Many are big ones.  For example, there's the "Basics on How to Keep Your Infant Alive" lesson.  This one you figure out fairly quickly.  That, or you end up on TMZ.  Either way--lesson learned.  Likewise, there's the "Patience" lesson--also a big one.  Because let me tell you, no matter how desperately you may need to pee, your child doesn't care.  At all.  Under any circumstances.  Similarly, he or she doesn't care that you just cleaned the floor (hypothetically, of course; God knows I don't believe in the act) and will find it to be a lovely canvas for pudding art work.  So patience is another biggie.

But then there are the more picky lessons that, no matter how often you are taught them, you won't get them.  While I have frequently questioned the fact, I don't think I'm a total idiot.  But some lessons are just...hard for me.  The hardest, by far, is understanding that I am not in charge.  This one even hurts for me to say--I refuse to believe it.  That's not true, actually.  I believe it, but I just don't think that it should apply to me.  Every day, being a parent demonstrates to me that I have absolutely no control over my life any longer.  Want to go for a drink?  Um, I'll have to check with the sitter.  Want to get your child through cold season, disease-free?  Yeah, let me direct you to the section of Walgreens for infant cold "remedies."  Want to pretend that you know what you're doing?  Let's just leave that one at: welcome to parenthood.  And I'm not going to lie--it FREAKING SUCKS.  Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore being a parent and cannot describe the love I have for my child.  But the lack of control is killing me.  And I just don't seem to understand that there are no books that I can read, no classes I can take, and no advice I can heed to change that. 

So what's a parent to do?  For my two cents, I vote "be delusional."  Pretend you have complete control.  Don't actually try--that one will knock you out.  But pretend you are June or Ward Cleaver, smile at the children, and dream of a world in which you are anything other than completely insane.

Originally uploaded at
http://dyingbraincells.wordpress.com/2010/09/24/political-stage-mother/

I frequently wish I knew what was going on inside my child's head.  Typically this is for entertainment value.  For example, when he is standing in the middle of the room, looking at the ceiling, and laughs hysterically before running away, I would love to know what was so funny.  Don't get me wrong--I typically think things are wholly amusing that aren't (such as this blog).  But I would love to get in on the baby's joke once in a while.

There are other reasons, however, for which I would love to know what he's thinking.  In particular, it would really be fantastic to know whether I have already scarred him for life.  This is only a half-joke.  I, as you know, am a working parent.  In addition to being gone for a significant part of the weekday, I sometimes enjoy doing grown-up things such as attending a Janet Jackson concert (oh, how I wish I were kidding).  These days when I walk out the door, he runs to the door and throws a fit.  This typiaclly results in me feeling horribly guilty and strangely thrilled at the same time.  I hate that he's sad and love that he actually likes me!  The "thrilled" lasts approximately 1 minute, however, and the guilt becomes unbearable.  The books and magazines all say that kids need space from their parents, and that it's good for them to see you out and that it's good for you before you go insane, blah, blah, blah.  But I would absolutely love to know that they're not making this s*&t up just to make parents feel better.

Could someone please invent a way for this to happen?  Does anyone else think the guilt is going to consume you on a daily basis?

Seriously?

There are many cliches that surround parenthood.  Very few, however, are as frequently cited--nor as frequently dead-on--as the cliche that time flies when it comes to your kid growing up.

In less than a month, my son will be one year old.  One year.  That's insane.  Don't get me wrong, I have had time flying past my head for decades now.  That one particular semester in college, for example, is a total blur (likely because of the Keystone Light involved).  But this past year really takes the cake, for a number of reasons.  First, there are so many changes that take place.  Each day, the baby does something new or looks new or your life involves something new.  All of this frantic change really starts to give you a dizzy, wow-I-shouldn't-have-had-that-last-martini feeling.  It's not shocking that the days fly by in a blur.  Second, there is so much going on at once.  Your life of "yeah, I have a Cubs game this week" is suddenly changed to "I need to try 5 babysitters before I go to the Cubs game, then need to make certain he's back from his playdate before the sitter arrives, then need to reschedule his doctor's appointment, then need to eat something, and oh, God, what is on my jeans and if I just wear them will anyone notice."  And that's just Tuesday.  So, again, I get why it's insane how fast things fly.

But at the same time, how the HOLY HECK did this happen?  I had an infant; a tiny, little, adorable, wholly dependent creature.  And suddenly, he's a little boy.  He walks and says "yumm" (and means it) and looks at me like I'm crazy--just like adults.  And I have no idea when he appeared.  And soon he's officially a little kid.  I'm beside myself.  So, I suppose my point is this:  patronize those who comment on how fast time flies where kids are concerned.  Because it does.  And it's bewildering.  And irritating.  And completely awesome.  And, so, so quickly, it's gone.

Score One for Nature

I think it's safe to say that I have always come in somewhere in the middle when it comes to the "nature vs. nurture" subject.  A scientist by training, there is a strong part of me that says things are programmed from the beginning; that a person's genetic code dictates a large part of his or her life.  But as a certified control-freak, I also believe that nothing is 100% set in stone and things (good and bad) can be overcome with circumstance.

Well, these days I am a bit more of a believer in nature.  I have seen some of the strangest, most cliched "boy" things occur with my son, and there is no possible way he learned them.  For example, for Christmas his Grandpa gave him a truck.  Ok, I figured he's a bit young but would eventually grow into it.  Cool.  It's a neat truck.  In the meantime, I will play with it.  Yeah, well, within hours, my kid was driving the thing around the living room, growling "roooooooommmmmmm."  I kid you not.  I almost fell over.  I'm fairly certain his Grandmother and I had never "driven" his stuffed animals around.  He wasn't in Gymboree yet.  And he certainly hadn't caught it from the Sopranos (my child's interest in that particular TV show is a topic for another day).  He just...knew...that trucks roam around going "vroom."  Crazy.

And actually, my observations aren't entirely out in left field.  Recent studies show that boy rhesus monkeys prefer more traditionally "masculine" toys.  (See http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn13596-male-monkeys-prefer-boys-toys.html).  Does this mean that I'm sold 100% that boys will be boys?  No, not entirely.  As the article shows, scientists believe that this is good evidence of nature, but that nurture still plays a role.  That said, it looks like sometimes it is (yikes) out of our control.  Fine.  Score one nature.

What Comes First...

...the parent or the b*&ch?

As many of you may be able to personally attest, I have always been a bit...prickly...when warranted.  But while I admit this, it is my position that I wasn't in full-fledged crabb mode until I had a family to protect.  And, I will argue that it is still only when warranted.  My colleagues, however, disagree.

What did you just say?

My profession requires a certain amount of spiciness.  I get paid, in essence, to fight with people.  It is frequently within my clients' best interests for me to be formidable.  It has always been my goal (sadly, in stark contrast to the goals of many lawyers), however, to also be reasonable.  A b*&ch only when warranted, essentially.  I have noticed a recent, slight up-turn in my desire to take on those around me, but typically this is a primitive urge--one that frequently makes me laugh after.  Case-in-point: when my kid was only a few weeks old, a gentleman disagreed with how I parked in front of a high rise while waiting for my mom.  We exchanged pleasantries through the most well-used form of communication in Chicago: pantomime.  Through his front windshield he expressed his displeasure, and through my rear mirror I expressed mine.  It was all very civilized.  Until he got out of the car and started to approach the side of my car in which my child was located.  Um...no.  I went ballistic.  And I must have expressed the deep sincerity of my feelings (perhaps it was my head spinning around), because he backed away and got back into his car.  I wish I could explain the feeling that came over me--it was animal-like.  I suddenly understood nature TV.  It was both terrifying and thrilling.  But the point is, I had learned to really be a b*&ch.  And I was fine with that.

It is my understanding, however, that others disagree--they think this chick was in existence long before the egg.  In particular, my office thinks I'm evil.  Most don't think so in a bad way--it seems they are somewhat proud of my reputation (a reputation that I think exists only among them).  I overheard part of a conversation the other day.  Someone had received a letter that deserved a strongly-worded response.  The natural conclusion was "Oh, have Fast Lane write it."  Not nearly as amusing as this response was the general nodding and murmuring of consent among the group.  Need a nasty zinger?  Fast Lane's your gal.  In fairness, what I do is very different from what they do--their practices involve very little conflict and mine revolves around it.  But STILL!  Have I always been a tyrant?  Or did they just not know me pre-Animal Channel star?  Have I always been crazy?  (Don't answer that).  My central question is this: does parenthood bring out the protective beast in us, or does it merely give us an excuse?

Sound-On Sunday?

Today's Sound-Off Sunday takes on a new spin.  Instead of listening to "sound off," I'm hoping to get your thoughts as to new "sounds."  You see, dear readers, I am in a bit of a musical...rut...of sorts.  For the past several months, my music repertoire has consisted almost entirely of Muppets.  And the sounds must end.

First, allow me to make excuses.  As many of you can attest, the world of children's music is not just something that parents must endure--it's a necessity.  If anyone has been stuck in 5:00 traffic with a 6 month old who is screaming, you know exactly what I mean.  Sure, you can choose to listen to the new Mumford and Sons single.  But you do so just as you choose to slowly lose your mind and contemplate running the Ford Taurus next to you off the road because its 95 year old driver "just looked at me funny."  The far better option, sadly, is to put on track 10 of the most offensive children's music you can possibly find.  Because, like an angel coming to you in the twilight, it brings you total bliss (in the form of a peaceful child).  And so you replay the gruesome tune over and over and over again.  Because listening to Fozzy explain that he and Kermit just left Rhode Island cannot possibly be worse than the hours and hours of wailing of your own little angel.

So you see my issue.  I have lost touch with the musical world.  Many of you who know me would argue that I was never particularly in touch with the musical world, but instead a sort of spectator.  And you are not wrong.  Regardless, I need your help.  So for today's Sound-Off Sunday, bring me your suggestions for tried and true staples of audio art.  Please.  I'm dying here.  If someone doesn't give me musical selections to sample (in the non-legal sense, of course), I'm going to hunt down the Wiggles (the actual pros and cons of which we can debate another day).  So, folks--what have you to say on this fine Sunday?

Adulthood is a Shamrock Shake

I have come to the conclusion that adulthood is like a McDonald's Shamrock Shake.

Before you balk--hear me out.  Both are highly anticipated, long-awaited events in one's life.  You wait and you wait and you wait, and finally it's time.  Both bring the promise of a bright, sunny future.  You have made it through the bleak days of the new year and are finally rounding a corner to things really beginning.  You've seen the advertisments coming for months and finally the time for indulging arrives.

Overcome with excitement, you take your first sip.  It's everything you anticipated and more.  A rich, heavenly gulp of minty goodness.  (Ok, I'm not certain where the mint comes in on adulthood, but work with me here).  Maybe you eat the cherry first, maybe you squish it to the bottom of the cup, to be savored later.  But you certainly know it's there and it's yours.  You sigh with contentment.  This.  Is.  It.  You have arrived.  Spring has arrived.  Eagerly you take another sip.  Hmm...not quite as refreshing as the first.  But certainly better than being shake-less.  You take a pause to allow the flavor to really echo in your mouth.  Time for another sip.  Wow, now it's getting really sweet.  Well, certainly it's the fault of your taste buds, not the creamy goodness of the shake.  You drink and you drink.  And as you do, as you progress through the shake of adulthood, you get more and more...nauseous.  That's right--the tasty heaven that you craved for what seemed like years has turned on you.  You continue drinking because, hell, you paid for the stupid thing.  But as you continue, you know it's not going to get any better.  Instead, you find a way to fight through it.  You have to continue on.  You have to survive.  Finally, you reach the bottom.  And with a grateful slllllluuuuuurrrrrrppppp, you finish it off.  And you weep with joy that you're done....

....until it is time, once again, to convince yourself that it is spring.  Finding new hope, you get yourself excited all over again for the promise of heaven.  You forget the torment you endured last time, and you try once again to look forward to the spring.  And you find yourself excited.  And so, my dear readers, my advice to you is this:  no matter how sickening your adulthood may be at any given moment, there will be another March 1 and you will find another cherry on top of your Shamrock Shake.  Hold on for that day.  It will come soon.

My Son is a Genius

Without a doubt, we are each our children's biggest fans.  From the moment little Fred is born, we are convinced that he is the most brilliant, accomplished, and overall naturally gifted child in the universe.  "Freddy took his first steps today!"  "Awww, Fred said 'Mommy' this morning.  In French."  And, of course, "I was approached today by Steven Spielberg who says that Fred has the most natural talent for acting that he has ever in his lifetime seen."

The unfortunate part is these...we'll call them "beliefs" because "delusions" is harsh...are very real.  We are 100% convinced that our kid has a special gift that will make him or her fabulously famous, wealthy and, by extension, happy.  And most of the time we are right to believe that our kid is special--he is!  But it's the direct line to glory and fame that makes us a bit, well, insane.

My point is that my kid is a genius.  Actually, I truly believe he is.  But one particular talent has set me off today.  He is a born artist.  No, really.  He's awesome.  His innate gift recalls the likes of the true "Greats."  Proof is to the left.  This is his very first piece.  I call it "mom finally figured out what I want and I am blissful."  Yesterday I read an article about kids his age like to color with crayons.  I hadn't even considered it, really--generally he eats anything that small.  But I had noticed that he is constantly grabbing for my pens and paper, so I figured I would give it a try.  As I was too lazy to actually hunt down the crayons, I decided a dry erase board would do.  So I pulled out the board, set it on the floor, took the cap off of the pen, and handed it to him.  I wish I could describe the look on his face.  It was of such excitement, I felt guilty that I hadn't thought of this sooner.  He was elated.  He grabbed the pen, flipped it to the wrong side, and began to pound on the board.  Ok, well, his artistic tendencies make him eccentric.  No worries.  I flipped the pen to the right side, and he tried again.  Well, the results you can see for yourself .  Brilliant.  The kid is an artistic savant.  Does anyone disagree (with the understanding, of course, that if you disagree your comment will never be posted)?

All agents out there, please feel free to contact us.  We will be working on his next piece--an interpretive sculpture made of bologna.  Checks can be made to me.  Thanks.

What Defines You?

As you can without a doubt tell, the past year has thrown the entirety of my life into an uproar.  An uproar that centers around a beautiful, smiling, incredible little boy, but an uproar nonetheless.  Yet I still find myself surprised at the intangible changes that hit me every single day.

The latest example I find particularly interesting because it goes to the heart of how I view myself.  Last weekend I attended a charity event, as I may have mentioned.  It was a lovely event and was attended by lovely people.  There was a dinner involved and the dinner included the usual round of "how-do-you-do" banter.  My name is....  I am involved in this organization because....  I would like Thousand Island dressing for the following reasons....  All very standard chit-chat.  But today I find myself fascinated by the topics that drove me.  Because they weren't the same topics of my focus for the past several years.  I didn't want to talk about my job or my involvement in the community.  I couldn't care less where the people at the table could take me in the world.  All I wanted to discuss was my son.

This may sound natural enough to most of you.  But for someone whose entire focus for the past decade has been how to climb her way to the top of the legal profession, it's strange.  Virtually all activities of most lawyers (particularly these days) involve intense focus on how to get clients, or jobs, or connections.  You join groups in order to meet people who may help you.  You have lunches in order to become better acquainted with these people.  You send them holiday cards and drink invitations and seminar schedules--all designed to make them, and subsequently you, happy.  And it's exhausting.  But it's also extremely necessary.  And worth it.

So why is someone who has foght for so long to get somewhere suddenly apathetic to the angles?  Is it a change in priorities?  Or is the kid just so darn awesome, you can't help yourself?  These questions are far bigger than I, that is for certain.  But it's something to ponder.  How deep is the change that comes with parenthood.  Does it affect our schedules or our souls?  And do we have any control over it?

The Mom Bag

I'm not a very good "girl."  I am not crazy about shoes, it takes a major life event for me to experiment with my makeup, and I have never in my life seen an episode of The Bachelor.  But my one "girlie" vice is handbags.  I love them. 

So it is ironic that I am, at the moment, carrying a special bag to work every day.  And by "special," I mean breast pump bag.  That's right--every day I carry a bag intended for an activity that could not possibly be more "mom."  And the worst part?  I didn't think anything of it until lately.  All I considered was that it is handy.  You can spill things on it and said things come right off.  It's durable.  I'm pretty rough on my bags and this one is virtually indestructable.  And it's practical.  It's black.  Sounds perfect, right?  Yeah, well, yesterday I was called out on it by another mom.

Sitting in the coffee shop, waiting for my morning coffee with room, a woman approached me.  She was toting TWO baby carriers (gotta love a woman who needs coffee that badly).  I was focused on the adorable kids and asked the usual questions: How old?  Are they sleeping? Blah, blah.  Suddenly her eyes lit up.  "You have the hands-free pump!  Don't you just love it?"  I looked at her, both confused and appalled.  Though it took a bit longer due to the lack of coffee (I hate you, slow barrista), eventually it dawned on me: she was pointing to my "briefcase."  Not wanting to admit that I had never actually used the contraption that the bag was meant to house, I weakly smiled and nodded.  "Love it," I said as I ran from the shop, ignoring her offended look and my prior debate over whether to have a cinnamon roll.  I had never felt more "mom" in my life.  And had never been more embarrassed.  This morning I ordered the new Coach Kristin bag.  While it is awesome to be a mom, I am most certainly not going to out myself as one in public.  Yeckh.

The Obligatory Mom Wardrobe

I am thoroughly embarrassed.  I recently overheard my mom commenting on how surprised she is that Chicago lawyers don't...well...dress better.  She wasn't criticizing, really, just commenting on how those of us who modeled our lives after L.A. Law dress more as though we are on Real Housewives of __[insert city here]__.  And we're not talking about their Jimmy Choos.  The embarrassing part, I realized, is that she's right and wrong.  She's mistaken that it's all lawyers.  She's dead-on that it's me.

Perhaps I am using it as an excuse, but my once-decent wardrobe has sadly descended into an array of same-looking momwear.  And not "hot mom with knee-high boots and 4 nannies per child" momwear.  We're talking "sweats every single day or as close to it as possible" momwear.  Which is fully acceptable in the comfort and security of one's own home.  Not so much in a Federal courthouse.

The "acceptable" mom "suit."
Originally published http://www.people.com/, August 6, 2008

What happened to me, dear readers?  Case-in-point:  The other day I got off of work and had on pants and a silk top.  What's the problem, you may ask?  The pants are barely disguised yoga pants and the silk top is a maternity tank that I borrowed from a friend and haven't yet returned because I love it.  I also had on a giant cardigan of a completely unacceptable fabric and color.  While we may debate the propriety of the content of work dress, it's not particularly the clothes that disturb me.  It's my lack of regard for what I have on.  I am ashamed to say that my clothes sit in unwashed piles on my floor, largely because when I do have 5 spare moments to lug them up to the washer, I'd rather stare into the abyss than put effort into one additional thing.  In short, I have given up.



But never fear--there are people in the great abyss of the Internet who can help me and those of us who have given up.  Like you.  Well, and you.  And definitely you--what is that sweater?  Kat and our friends at Corporette (check out http://www.corporette.com/ ), and others like them, can be a source of refuge.  We don't have to make an overhaul--I recommend starting small.  Perhaps exchanging the too-tight suit from 1997 for a nice blazer and skirt?  My point is that we can overcome the stigma together.  It's time to rise up, fellow moms and look-like-a-moms!  There is hope.  At least I hope there's hope.  There's hope, right?

Selective Memory

First of all, my apologies for the inconsistencies of the past week or so.  As you can see from my posts, life can get a bit crazy around here.  Nonetheless, I will strive to prevent missing days without warning. 

Upon bringing a child into your life, I am 100% convinced that your brain immediately secretes a hormone that erases memory over time.  This hormone is triggered by new baby smell and smiles, and therefore is found in all parents, whether or not you are the one who actually physically gave birth.  This hormone is called, among those in the science community, memoryeraseate.  Sure, this chemical composition affects the daily workings of the brain--your ability to have conversations without referring to The Wiggles, to remember the name of your client, to recall that you haven't put pants on that day--all such thoughts are gone forever.  However, more than that, the composition slowly dissolves the parts of your brain that digest exactly how hard it is to keep these little creatures alive at first.  Otherwise, I am convinced, there would be a world of "only" children.

Having a kid is hard.  From what I have seen, it is hard if you are part of a loving, two-person relationship that is stable, if you are physically and emotionally in a good place, if you are financially secure and if you are surrounded by loving friends and family.  Take away one or more of these things, and you deserve an award every single day (read: your awesome kid is totally a gift).  But over a shockingly quick period of time, you will forget this fact (the crummy part).  You won't recall the sucky few hours (fine, minutes) before the epidural.  You won't recall the feeling of complete sleep deprivation.  You won't recall the panic the first time you leave the baby alone or leave the house with her.  All of that is lost in a cloud of "I am the greatest parent ever--I survived the first year!!"  And you are, because you did.  But selective memory will prevent you from remembering exactly why you are so cool.

Looking back on the past ten plus months, I am shocked at how any of us survives.  They have hands-down been the best months of my life.  And, admittedly, the hardest.  But I don't remember the most hard parts, really.  So I guess my point is to go easy on those who are going through it.  Cut them some slack on a daily basis and offer the best (and only welcome) advice you can give: it goes fast.  The good and the bad.  So enjoy every day and remember that it will pass.  I think.  Now, what was I saying?