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?