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.