Joining The Ranks Of The Saps: Elf On The Shelf and The Wonder Of Childhood

Short version of long story: I gave in and bought a damn Elf on the Shelf.

When I first heard about Elf on the Shelf, I was adamant that I would never own one. The thing is creepy as hell. And when Elf on the Shelf ideas started to flood my Pinterest page, I only hated it even more. I didn't want to be subjected to millions of photos of creepy smiling elf dolls doing ridiculous things. I swore Elf on the Shelf was a big conspiracy established by toy corporations to drive up holiday sales. And, I must admit, I thought all the parents who were going along on this ridiculous game were just a bunch of saps. Big, old saps.

Then...it happened. My first parental encounter with Keeping Up. Keeping Up is a phenomenon whereby your children, who are otherwise perfectly content and happy to play with cardboard boxes, are suddenly placed in dangerously close contact with a foreign object (usually a toy) and instantly infected by the must-haves. Your child did not even know this thing existed yesterday. And now it consumes his every thought.

I'm not a fan of Keeping Up. I couldn't give a crap that my children don't have the latest in technological toys, the most advanced educational tools, or the latest fashions. I'm proud to buy my sons' pants at Goodwill (and every time a hole magically appears in the knee, I feel righteously vindicated in doing so). Jacob's favorite toy is a $3 used transformer that he stumbled upon at Goodwill. I don't want my children to instantly have everything they ever happen to want. Just because Tommy has it, doesn't mean they need to have it.

I felt that my parental ethics in this regard were strong. That I could withstand hurricanes of 1,000 pathetic whines for days on end without budging.....But I forgot one little thing. When it comes to the task of keeping the wonder of childhood fantasies alive, I'm a big fat dum-dum sucker. I'd go miles in a snowstorm out of my way to keep Christmas magic alive for my children. Because childhood is a self-contained, fragile snow globe landscape perched on a ledge. Childhood is a wondrous land of innocence, naivete, imagination, suspended disbelief. It's a time when the whole world is a play land for discovery. Where evilness is incomprehensible. Where acceptance is unbounded. Where possibilities are free flowing. Adults look at the world and we see flaws. A snapshot of the world through a child's eyes is magnified, beautified, and brightened three-fold. But this world only stays alive so long as it is kept apart, untainted, untouched.

That is why the state of childhood is so fragile. External forces are always at play, trying to shatter this pure snowglobish world. And where these external forces do not succeed, internal ones eventually will. As the child grows and sees more of the world, new forces spring forth. Doubt. Skepticism. Disbelief. Scrutiny. The need for logic at any price. These things will eventually bring the whole globe down, shattered and broken.

The short, rare years of early childhood: I would preserve them for my children at all cost. Even if it means perpetuating a ridiculous ritual.

This week my son was introduced to Elf on the Shelf through his friend. My first reaction was to hold my ground and not give in to this newly fabricated "tradition." But as we drove away from the friend's house, my son recounted for me the tale of the Elf on the Shelf. As he did so, his voice carried the distinct and rare elements of amazement and belief. He told me all about his friend's Elf in the same tone and manner that I would use to tell the first person I saw about an incredible encounter with a purple genie riding a unicorn.

Despite his recountings, I was still unconvinced, until Jacob asked, in a sincere and sweet voice, "Mommy, why did Santa send an elf to Tommy's house and not to my house? Will he send one to me?"

And as much as the good parent in me so desperately wanted to quash any notion in my son's brain that the very fact that his friends have something is a perfectly justifiable reason for him to have one also, I just couldn't come out and say "no." "No, Santa will not send you an elf." I just couldn't do it. Instead, I reveled in the fact that he was so innocent and untainted by the reality of life that he actually had the ability to believe, and with so much passion. I wanted to encourage that. I wanted to keep that little piece of magic alive for him.

I realize that all these lies about Santa and the Easter Bunny and now the damn Elf on the Shelf are probably just contributing to the darkness of reality that a child faces when he leaves his childhood behind. I understand that we as parents may be adding to the harshness of adulthood by manipulating these gullible little minds and allowing them to think grandiose thoughts about reality that, in fact, are not true at all. But, looking back on my own childhood and the grandness of the snow globe world in which I lived, I truly believe that it is all worth it. While Santa and the Easter Bunny and magic may not be real, these happy myths leave little imprints on us that we carry well into adulthood. Even if we stop believing as adults, we hopefully carry with us an important lesson on the power of perspective and how perspective influences happiness.

Most people look fondly and happily on their childhoods. It often seems like childhood is a much simpler and happier time compared to the adult drudgery we live in today. And yet, even though WE have grown, the world is still the same. There is hope that if we can just change our adult perspective, the happiness of our childhood may return, if just in minute amounts. There is ever the possibility that if we can adopt a childlike perspective, the world could be a little brighter for us.

And THIS my friends, right or wrong, is why I gave in to a felt doll with a creepy, painted plastic face.

Elfy's grand entrance.

The Working Mommy's Lament

The moment I get off work, I experience a mini high. Stepping out of the office and breathing the crisp winter air is as good as any drug. But most of all, I am dying to see my kids.

Sometimes it's easy to be away from the boys 8 hours a day. I fill my mind with information, my time with adult-interaction, and occupy myself by thinking through some challenging legal issues. It's rewarding. It keeps my brain sharp. I feel useful.

Sometimes, it's a little bit harder. I sit in my lumpy desk-chair, which over the years has obviously transformed into a chair for the spinally challenged. I click through e-mails. And I let my mind wander. What are my boys doing right now? I bet they are running around the park playing tag. Or perhaps Ryan did something hilarious, causing Jacob (and thus Ryan) to erupt into a fit of giggles. Maybe they are having quiet time, leaning their heads against their grandma and listening intently to a story. Sometimes, I'd give anything to be there. I'd give anything to be the one to take them to the park, laugh at their antics, or read them that story.

Childhood is to be cherished. But it zips by so quickly. Too short. And I cannot be there for a big portion of it. Life is cruel like that.

So, the moment my time in the office is over, I leap out the door, eager to see the boys. I always imagine that I will arrive at my mom's house and my boys will run excitedly towards me, bowling me over with big hugs. I imagine that we will share  some good quality time before dinner and bed. Maybe we will have time to enjoy the last few moments of daylight at the park. Maybe we will lay on the living room rug, in the very heart of our home, and play a game of Uno or dinosaurs. Or maybe we will sit at the table together and finish a holiday craft. These possibilities all rush through my mind on the drive to pick up the kids. I get so excited that I rush through several stale-yellow lights.

But by the time I walk through my mom's door, I'm met with a much different scene. Ryan leaps for me (as anticipated) but he clings to my legs, whining and crying. He is over-tired. He is over-stimulated. Jacob, who is usually a good boy all day, starts to act-out the second he sees me. He crosses his arms, pouts his lips, and gives me the stare-down. He puts his shoes on, only after I beg him to do so ten times. He refuses to use the bathroom. He throws his brother's toys. He stomps his feet. He whines for a snack to take "for the road."

I lug the kids, their car seats, and all their crap to my station wagon (no minor task). Ten minutes into the drive home, things aren't going any better. Ryan is repeatedly asking for his "baba" and crying when I cannot conjure one out of thin air in the middle of Highway 3. Jacob declares that he is STARVING and wants MCDONALDS NOW OR ELSE HE WILL DIE. Why is he not consoled by my reassurances that there is a three-day-old piece of pizza waiting for him in the fridge? Spoiled kid.

My dream reunification has been shattered. Things are going downhill fast. I need to turn this frown-mobile around....quickly, before self-pity (mine) sets in. I turn off my favorite news radio station (I'm addicted) and start to sing Christmas songs. To my amazement, Ryan stops crying. Jacob stops whining. By the second round of Jingle Bells, Jacob is even singing a long. When the song ends, Ryan yells, "More! More!" So, it's on to Frosty the Snowman. Then Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Then Santa Baby. I'm clearly running out of songs.

When we get home, everyone is in a better mood. Except me. I'm exhausted. I haul the kids, their bags, my briefcase, and some groceries into the house. I want to curl up in a ball on the rug and pass out. But....damn it. Kids. Quality time. Etc. Etc.

Jacob = world's biggest ham

So I pull out an old craft project that I had put away for a rainy day. We paint. Drill holes (macho points for me!). And plug in. Jacob is amused. Ryan not so much. He does not like the lights. He says they are "hot" and keeps a three feet distance at all times.

Ryan is too close to the lights. He does not like it.

For some reason, I am the only one who thinks this craft is off-the-charts-amazing. Jacob tolerates it and fakes a smile for the camera.

Christmas trees or Mardi-Gras gnome hats?

I warm up the three-day-old pizza and we have dinner (my husband goes to the gym 2-3 times each week and doesn't get home until 8 pm on those nights, which is why he is glaringly absent from this post). Ryan decides to use a toy wrench as a fork. It makes total sense to him. I love this kid.

When dinner is over, I clean the table, do the dishes that have been piling up in the sink for the past couple days (no dishwasher!), and get the kids in their PJs. By this time, I'm running on fumes. My desire to be horizontal is as strong as my will to get the kids in bed. Or not. I fall onto the living room rug and allow myself a five minute power nap...with both eyes open because Ryan found a pair of scissors and I'm too tired to get up right that minute and take them away. Ryan puts the scissors down, comes over to me, straddles my torso, and sits on my back. He bounces a couple times yelling, "giddyup!" Nap time comes to a screeching halt.

Ryan with his most-prized possession.

Somehow. Someway. I manage to get the kids' teeth brushed. We read a story, I sing the world's shortest lullaby, and I tuck them into bed.

snuggles

As I exit their room and close the door, I have mixed feelings. Half of me is jumping up and down (hypothetically only--remember, I'm exhausted) and thrilled to finally collapse on the couch. The other half of me is reluctant and sad. My nightly 2.5 hours with the kids went by way too quickly. When I wake up, my husband and I will have an hour to hustle them back out the door. Then it's back to work to do it all over again.

The time is just too short. My energy levels are just too low. My plate is just too full. Am I giving them enough? This question will never have a satisfactory answer.

How The Mom Stole Christmas

Every boy in the house liked Christmas a lot

But pick up their things and behave, they DID NOT.

Their Mom hated toys and the whole commercial season

You want to know why? I'll give you the reason

It could be that Mommy stepped on legos each night

It could be that Mommy's budget was a little too tight

Which explains why she could not go to the mall

and replace her mom jeans that were three sizes too small.

But whatever the reason, the legos or jeans,

While she sat in the bathroom cleaning pee off the latrine

Staring down at the seat, she pulled her hair and she cried

She steamed from the ears as her face went cross-eyed

For she could hear the boys in the room just next door

Dumping all their toys out onto the floor

"And they're coloring on their walls" she snarled with a sob

"and leaving poop-stained underwear on the door knob!"

Then she growled with her fingers nervously drumming,

"I MUST find a way to keep Christmas from coming!"

For on Christmas, she knew the disobedient boys

would wake up bright and early to find piles of new toys

And then! Oh the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise!

Because Santa will come, rain or shine, Christmas night

Even if all the boys did all year was FIGHT! And FIGHT!

and FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Each boy would tackle the stockings and gifts under the tree

And toss wrapping paper pieces like a wild banshee

And then they'd do something she liked least of all!

Every boy in the house, the tall and the small

would clutch closely their toys, all glittering and shining

She'd ask them to share and they all would start whining!

They'd whine! And they'd wine! 

And they'd whine! Whine! Whine! Whine!

And the more the Mom thought of the whole crazy ordeal 

the more the Mom thought, "I must stop this for real!

"For too many years, I've put up with it now!

I MUST stop Christmas from coming!...But HOW?"

Then she got an idea!

An awful idea!
THE MOM GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
"I know just what to do!" She yowled through her yap
As she quickly made plans for a Santy Claus trap.
And she chuckled, and clucked, "What a great sneaky trick!
"With my grand, foolproof plan, I'll lock up that Saint Nick!"

"All I need is a chimney..." The Mom said as she guzzled some wine.
"A cardboard box, chicken wire, and some twine!
For when the kids see that St. Nick has forgotten

Maybe, just maybe, they will stop being so rotten!"

So the Mom plotted and planned all night and all day

She created a Pinterest board to help pave the way

And when it was time, the Mom's eyes glowed infrared

and she tucked her unsuspecting boys way deep in their bed

All the windows were dark. Quiet snow filled the air.
All the boys were all dreaming sweet dreams without care
The Mom gobbled Santa's cookies, washed down with some rum
She hiccuped and giggled and prepared for the fun

"This is step number one!" The elated Mom hissed

As she clutched her well-laid plans in her fist.

Then she picked up the scissors snipped away with rage 

And began the construction to make Santa's cage

And as she was snipping and snapping and snupping

She stopped what she was doing when she thought she heard something

From the dark boys' room, she heard a little boy's prayer

and his gentle, soft voice soon filled the air

"Dear Santa," the boy started to say

"I have not been a very good boy today.

In fact I have had a pretty bad year.

So I completely understand if you leave no presents here."

"But please Santa please, I was doing my best

to toughen up my younger brother by being a pest

And the messes I made were not messes at all

They were forts and castles and towers and walls."

"Mommy says I was bad, but I just don't understand

Everything seems different to me where I stand

And those time I don't listen, I don't mean to disobey

So please Santa please come to our house Christmas Day."

And the Mom, with her evil-grinch glow 

Stood puzzling and puzzling, "Could it really be so?"

That maybe my boys aren't naughty and bad

Maybe they just have selective hearing like their dad?

Maybe these kids are just doing what little kids do

Maybe they're supposed to act like they live in a zoo?

And what happened then...? Well...I'll tell you what they say

The elastic in the Mom's jeans Grew three sizes that day!
And the minute that happened, she became much less uptight

and her cold frigid heart warmed all through the night
She thought of the times that her kids were quite sweet
Playing games, goofy smiles, sticky hugs were a treat

Her anger escaped and suddenly it became very clear
She wouldn't stop Santa from coming, at least not this year

She put away the scissors and wire and twine

And generously left St. Nick what was left of her wine.

The Mom hopped under her covers, happy thoughts floating in her head 

Content not knowing her kids had just peed their bed.

Christmas Bitch

Everyone loves holiday traditions, me included. But I feel like Pinterest and Facebook have kind of taken the fun out of them. Now, EVERYTHING has to be a tradition. There's an ongoing and concerted effort to turn everything into a "tradition" and to make everything "special." Parents are in a race to see who can be the most obnoxiously "cute" (and by cute, I mean "I just swallowed some throw-up") during the holiday season. Everything is so barfing kitschy.

Sorry, I drank bitch juice earlier today.

Example 1: kids nowadays can't have just any kind of advent calendars, they have to have fancy ones. A tree made out of 25 boxes full of goodies. Elaborate garlands with pockets filled with treats for every day before Christmas. It only makes sense in American that you would get a new toy everyday to prepare for and celebrate the one day where you are showered with gifts. Cause, you know how it is. It's just so hard to be inundated with all the objects of our desire on Christmas morning that we need 25 days in advance to warm up and get used to the feeling of extreme material bliss overload. 

Oh and advent calendars are not enough anymore. If you're any kind of cool, you'll have a creepy looking elf friend that comes to visit. Every night while you are sleeping, he will come to life and manipulate all kinds of random items in your home. What the hell? The magic of a fat man in a red suit traveling all over the world in a single night in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer that stops at every single home so that said fat man can slide his huge belly down the chimney and leave a butt-load of presents for all the girls and boys ISN'T ENOUGH MAGIC FOR US? Also, how many times have I asked for a cleaning elf? If I don't get a cleaning elf, there is no way in hell my kids get a mess-making elf. 

And we can't just send regular Christmas cards anymore. If you send a regular ol' Christmas card without a cutesy and clever picture of your family being beautiful or amazing, then you can just expect right now that your plain ol' Christmas card will end up in the bottom of the Christmas card pile. Right behind the picture of Aunt May's dog Snuffy wearing a Santa hat and a perfectly poised, professional picture of the five Smith girls wearing matching Christmas dresses and smiling in unison (without any food on their clothes from the chocolate they DIDN'T eat, without shave marks in their hair from the time they DIDN'T give themselves haircuts, and without pants that are a half an inch too short because their mom actually is put-together enough to keep them properly clothed). 

The crazy thing is, Parents have ruined Christmas. RUINED. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day aren't special anymore. Why? Because every single day leading up to Christmas is a barfing holiday. We celebrate Thanksgiving by shopping for Christmas. Stores don't have sales anymore. They have "celebrations." We are in such a frenzy to do our long list of special "traditions," that Christmas is just way too much work. Every year we have to make Christmas even more mind-blowing than it was the year before. We have to celebrate everything, to the utmost fullest of our capabilities. 

Don't get me wrong. I LOVE Christmas. And the LEGITIMATE traditions that go along with it: Christmas trees, stockings, gingerbread houses, Christmas music (or whatever you grew up with in your family). I love them all. Every family (used to) have their own little ways to celebrate the holidays and make them special. There used to actually be MEANING behind these traditions. We did them because our parents did them. We did them because they were part of our culture or heritage. 

Now, we have commodified and commercialized the very concept of tradition. Parents are so quick to take up any tradition that they hear about, regardless of whether there is any meaning behind it. Adopting slews and slews of traditions purely for tradition-sake in an attempt to bring our children every possible ounce of hype totally strips away all the meaning. 

"Tradition" is now just an idea that corporations sell to susceptible parents who have embarked on the inevitable journey of keeping up with the Joneses. And the result of clamoring to be just as celebratory as our neighbors is that we all end up being exactly the same. We all do the same new commercialized traditions and buy all the same products necessary to carry out said traditions. If, in the unlikely chance that a person comes up with a clever and original idea, it is instantly commodified and marketed to all the other parents in a way that makes them feel inadequate if they do not follow suit. Everyone is out-celebrating everyone else. The result of all of this: Christmas has become so cluttered with hype that is has effectively been watered down. 

So what's a parent to do? I don't know. How about traditions that have a purpose? How about focusing on teaching our kids how to give rather than receive. Let's teach them to do things for other people rather than training them to expect more and more each year. In an effort to do this, I made a different kind of advent calendar this year. I took one of those garlands with 25 pockets and inside each one I put a slip of paper. Each slip has written on it an extra chore or task for my sons to do. Instead of getting new candies and toys each day before Christmas, they are going to do one thing extra. They are going to give. But not just things or objects. They are going to give their time, effort, and talent. That beats the barfing hell out of a stupid elf that does a different variation of meaningless crap every single night.

Maybe I'm being a little melodramatic. Maybe I've been sitting in the same room too long, inadvertently breathing my own recycled fumes and eating way too many processed, snowman shaped Ho-Hos. Or maybe I'm simply the Bitch Who Stole Christmas?

On "Fairness" In The Workplace

Many months ago, I was listening to the radio when there was a discussion on gender equality in the workplace. One of the guest speakers said something that stuck in my head. It has been bothering me ever since. The female speaker said something along the lines of, "Women who leave the workplace for a period of time to have and raise babies, should, upon their return, make the exact same amount as their male counterparts who stayed behind and continued to work. It's unfair that women are forced to bear the burden of reproduction while men are completely unaffected. This is why there is income inequality."

Allegedly, in this woman's mind, if a woman stepped out of her career for a couple years to have children, when she returned to work she should be given the same salary with raises and benefits as if she had never left work at all. Even though this woman had no extra job values or career skills to offer her employer (other than an incredible new perspective on life) than when she left. Apparently, women are "burdened" by reproduction. And apparently, it's up to employers and businesses to right this horrible, terrible "burden."

I'm sorry. That's not equality. That's the opposite of equality. I'm all for equality in the work place. Women should be paid the same as men of equal qualifications for doing the same quality of work. But they should not be paid the same for not working at all. Equality is not giving everyone the same thing. Equality is measuring everyone by the same objective performance standards. Fairness is not taking away our differences but offering reasonable accommodations (non-monetary) to allow individuals to participate in and get the most out of their careers despite lifestyle choices.

There is a part of me that understands the argument that this woman proposes. At first blush, it does seem unfair that half the population has to step back from their careers for even a short period of time (often 6 weeks) based solely upon their gender and their desire to bring forth the next generation. But when our society sees the wonderful gift of creating life as a "burden," ... boy do we have it all wrong.

You know what is really "unfair?" Men will never experience the movements of a child growing within. Men will never know what it feels like to nurture a child with their own bodies. Men, aside from the obvious contributions at the beginning of a pregnancy, will never be able to create life. The amazing, surreal, and mind blowing experience of creating a person can only be experienced by men on the periphery. This joy is reserved solely for those lucky enough to be women. That is what is really unfair.

I'm not saying all of pregnancy and childbirth is easy. I, as much as anyone, know how hard it can be. I absolutely hated being pregnant. But even despite abdomen muscle separation, kidney stones, stretch marks, back pain, and being unable to breathe for the last three months of pregnancy, even despite all of those things, the miracle of it all is hard to ignore and I would never give it all up for the alternative.

So when our society, and women in particular, complain about the "burden" of reproduction as if it is some black mark or disability that women need to be liberated from, I can't help but think that we have our priorities all wrong. We're buying into the male-centric view that the end-all, be-all of our worth as humans is our place in the workforce totem pole and the size of our paycheck. Under this male-dominated view of self-worth, being separated from your job, for even just a couple weeks, is the ultimate career death and, therefore, the cure is for women is to be treated as if they never left.

As a working mom, I know it is important for workplaces to support both women and men who enter the wonderful world of parenthood. Obviously, I think that women should not be punished for taking time off to have children. They should not have to worry about being fired for going on maternity leave or taking sick days related to pregnancy and childbirth. They should be given opportunities to excel and move up in their careers upon their return to work. But why are we being told to treat our unique physical capabilities (i.e. the ability to create life) as a handicap? Why do we think we should be given things we do not earn as a consolation prize for having to bear the "burden" of enduring the great miracle of life?

It's not "fair" that women have to bear the majority of pregnancy and childbirth. Just as it is not fair that people with no kids have more disposable income. Just as it is not fair that some people are unable to have children. Just as it is not fair that some people are born with disabilities. Just as it is not fair that we do not get to choose our gender at conception. But giving women more pay for less work when they take time off to have children is as absurd as establishing someone's pay based upon how many children they have. Mothers above all else, who repeatedly have to introduce the concept of life as unfair to their children should understand the application of this very concept!

We all make choices in life. We all have different values. We all have different physical and mental capabilities. Some of us are men. Some of us our women. The only way to ensure "fairness" in the workplace is not by taking away our differences so that we are all the same but to reasonably accommodate our differences so that, no matter what those differences are, we have the opportunity to contribute to and participate in our professions and careers.

I find it highly offensive that society views our differences as "disabilities" as if we all should want the exact same things out of life and any deviations or alterations from the "straight an narrow" career path, whether forced or chosen, render us inferior or someone to be pitied or liberated. I also find it very unsettling that women view the natural ability to create life as an intolerable and insufferable burden that must be alleviated. We should celebrate the fact that we are fortunate enough to be born women and that we have the amazing ability to make an entirely new person with nothing more than our bodies (and, of course, some male contribution at the very beginning).

At Peace With It All

The other day I was talking to my mom and she mentioned that one of my cousins who had a baby six months ago has returned to work full time. To that, she added, "You're not the bad guy anymore!"

"Huh? What do you mean I'm not the bad guy anymore?"

"You're not the only working mom in the family now."

When I went to work after graduating from law school and having a baby, I just assumed working was expected of me. Ever since I can remember, my entire family has encouraged all of us to obtain the best education possible. Education became not just the top priority, it was the ONLY priority. My parents. My grandparents. My teachers. My adult role models. The same chant rang through my ear, "All that matters is getting a good education."

Well. I did. I did what everyone freaking told me. I tossed away my application to that film school in Montana (which was pretty much my dream and, in addition to my fondness for hot men in kilts, explains why I saw Gladiator seven times in the movie theater) and sent in applications to the highest ranking liberal arts schools that I thought I could get into.

And then guess what? I did pretty well. And I loved it. And I wasn't ready to be done when I graduated in three years. I spent a year interning for a local government agency and then I applied to law school. My parents LOVED to tell their friends that their daughter was in law school. I didn't know if I was on the right track, but I loved to be the source of their smiles.

"Cool," I thought. "I must be doing something right."

But then something strange happened. I had a baby in my last year of law school. Then I graduated. Then I got a job. Full time. As an attorney. "Hey proud family! You must be REALLY proud now!"

SILENCE.

What? Didn't you hear me? I'm finally USING that education you guys wanted me to get so badly. I'm finally working in the field that you all were so proud of me to study in. Isn't that fantastic?!

SILENCE.

One thing I didn't count on was a weird sort of mutated double standard. According to what my world was telling me, it seemed, women should be educated and smart. But how dare they want to use their education in a work environment once they became moms. Initially, most of the pressure I felt was from my own stay-at-home mom. She kept insisting that I didn't have to work. That I could find a way to stay home with my baby. Even though she was gracious enough to watch my baby while I was at work, she would very adamantly insist in overly-judgy gazes that my baby needed ME not her. When I would pick my son up from her house she would say, "I can't replace you. You're his mommy."

I can't tell you how many tears I cried over the immense guilt I felt that first year. It was nearly unbearable at times. The criticisms around me compounded with the own insecurities I felt. I loved being an attorney. But was I sacrificing my child's needs for my own career?

When my son was 3, I tried to wean him from his binky. But every time I tried, my mom would sabotage me. "He needs his binky. It's his security. Because you're not there." Ouch. It was a struggle. Those first couple years. There are a handful of very vivid memories I have of me staying late after work, trying to catch up on my billable hours, sitting in front of my computer, gazing at the picture of my baby, and letting fat, wet, warm tears spring from my eyes. I cried silently. Alone. In my office. Wondering if I wasn't making the biggest mistake of my life.

Then one day, I overheard my grandma and my mom talking. My grandma (also a stay-at-home mom) was giving my mom an earful about how horrible it was that I would leave my baby to work all day. How horrible it was that my mom was raising my son.

Listening to my grandma talk, I couldn't help but succumb to the wave of self-pity that washed over me. But at the same time, I started to understand a little bit of what my own mom was up against. When she was criticizing my choice to go to work, she was projecting a little bit of the harsh judgment of the world in which she, herself, was raised. She was reflecting on all the broken homes that my childhood friends grew up in, a cause of which she always attributed to the fact that there was not a parent at home. She was projecting the voice and concerns of her own mother (my grandmother). This was new territory for her. This was a world she did not understand.

As my mom was about to respond to my grandma's harsh criticism, I expected another heavy blow. But when she opened her mouth to the telephone, I didn't hear what I expected. She told my grandma how proud she was of me. How well I'm doing juggling everything. How much I love my baby. How hard I am working for my family. How well my husband and I work together. The breath that had been squeezed out of my body just moments before, returned and filled my lungs once again. I felt hopeful.

At first, my mom was my harshest critic. But over time, she became my biggest fan. Even though I lived a life very different from hers and was trying to survive in a world that she could not even imagine, she learned to support me. This year on my birthday, she stuck a handwritten letter in the diaper bag. I found it after I pulled up to the house and parked the car. I sat there and poured over every single word. It was so uplifting. As I read each sentiment, I felt, for the first time that she finally understood. She finally appreciated. It was incredible how accurately she described my personal challenges and worries and addressed them head on with encouragement and support.

The other day when my mom said, "You're not the bad guy anymore." My family's long-lasting criticism made sense. I've been fighting a lonely uphill battle. Until then I didn't realize that, out of a very large family with 50+ cousins on both sides, the majority of whom are married, that I was the ONLY full-time working mom. Up until this summer, when my cousin returned to work after having her baby girl, I was it. Taking the criticism on my own. (Some of my aunts were working moms but I don't remember my grandparents ever criticizing them- I haven't figured that one out yet).

All this time I was the only one trying to change my family's very traditional definition of the term "mom." I wish I had worried less about what they thought and focused more on being happy with my own decisions. It's easy to feel unsure about your mothering choices, to let the feelings of the outside world chip away at you, when you yourself won't come to peace with your own insecurities. Ultimately, for me, finding a job that was a good fit for my family and having my mom on my side was the key to feeling secure about my choices.

While I've slowly come to terms with my own insecurities and developed a small little support team (my mom and my husband), my jobs have played a very critical factor in how I feel about my choice to be a working mom. And yes, it is cliche, but everything really does come down to balance.

My first job offered a great career but was bad for family. The second job was great for family but boring and a waste of my lawyer skills. The third job was a part time (30 hours) version of my first job. That still didn't work. The private law firm atmosphere plus my commute was just not family friendly, even for part time (omg, the stress! the billable hours, the commute!). My new job, and where I hope to stay for quite some time, combines the best of all my prior jobs- interesting and challenging work, without the crazy private law firm environment. My commute is amazingly short and I have just the right amount of family time. For the first time since I have embarked on my law career, there is not the faintest hint of mommy guilt associated with working.

On top of all that, I feel like my own kids are showing me that having a working mom is not a black mark. It turns out that having a working mom is just one of a series of possible positive and healthy experiences. The way Jacob gregariously approaches new people in an effort to turn every stranger into a friend, the way he bravely tries new things, and showers us all with hugs, smiles, and his laughter; the way Ryan is a brave and tough little bulldozer who is selective about his "friends" but showers those select lucky souls with boundless cuddles and loves, the way Ryan wants to sit at the big boy table like his brother, carry the grocery basket at the store, and bravely climbs the big toys to frightening (for his mama) heights. My boys are like any other boys. They are smart, adjusted, secure, loved and loving. They, above all else, are proof that this whole thing is working. And they are the best reward after a long hard day at the office.

Missing: Two Babies And A Huge Chunk Of My Heart

We had a crazy busy weekend and, although my children seriously drive me insane sometimes, when I get to spend so much time with them, I realize all over again how much they are the center of my world. Right now I'm feeling the weight of transiency. A friend of mine came over on Saturday and I gave her a pair of Ryan's old shoes. I desperately wanted to keep those shoes. I wasn't ready to give them up and accept that my baby is not a baby. But I knew she could really use them and she was so thankful for them.

But, a part of me still died. That set the undertone for the rest of the weekend. I kept going back to the thought that my children are slipping away much too quickly. Photos of Jacob just one year ago reveal a totally different person. He does not have an ounce of baby to his face. He is saying "like" every other word, much to our dismay and frustration. He is using big words and is in the pre-reading phase. He is so independent and is developing an engineer's mind. Today he tried to invent a contraption that would pull his box of blocks across the floor. Who is this kid?!

One Year Ago Today:

One minutes he'll stomp his feet and shout at me (in true teenage fashion). The next minute he will grab my hand as we walk down the sidewalk and say, "I'm holding the hand of a beautiful lady. I love you mama." While it is sweet and adorable, it also makes me want to melt into a puddle of sadness on the floor. Stop talking! Stop having your own thoughts. Stop using science. Stop learning to read. You're MY BABY. Where is the boy who used to keep me up at night? Who could fit into a Baby Bjorn? Who used to line up my high heels and try each one on in turn. Where is the boy who used to crawl all over the floor with a baloon tied to his wrist? Where is the boy who spent hours playing with wooden trains on the kitchen floor? Because I really miss that guy sometimes.

And then, there is Ryan. He is my broken heart walking on two feet. He learns new words every day and mimics everything he sees. Thanks to his brother, he gets to do big boy things much earlier than I would like. His new favorite words are "me" and "mine." When I ask the boys, "who wants a sandwich (or any other item of food), Ryan will throw both hands in the air and yell, "ME!" Today I asked him, "Do you want some cheese?" and he replied, "ME!" in the same fashion.

Today I took the boys to the grocery store and Ryan insisted on carrying his own shopping basket. He kept trying to hold mine so I asked him, "Do you want a basket?" He enthusiastically replied, "bako!" I handed him his own basket, he beamed and shouted, "bako!" as he pointed to it. He put the handles in his hands and followed behind me importantly as we walked aisle by aisle. He loves to walk in the grocery store. This way he gets to explore, and see all the items on the shelf. He loves to point to new things so that I will tell him what they are.

As I witnessed Ryan learning his new word ("bako") in real time today, I was very proud of my big boy. But also devastated. Where is my second born baby? The one who is protected from the world by his bodyguard of a brother but not protected from tormented by that same bodyguard. Where is my baby who took his time learning to walk and used to scoot on one knee? The baby that had holes in the right knee of every pair of pants as a result? Where is my baby who used to scrunch up his forehead in a grumpy scowl but would gift us frequently with broad smiles? Where is the baby who simply wanted to be in my arms at all moments of the day? Where is the baby who would take my fingers and make wobbly steps across the room? Where is my baby.

WHERE ARE MY BABIES?!

I don't even know what to do with all this mommy emotion I feel right now. I'm so overwhelmed with the transient nature of babyhood that I have no idea where to put my emotions. Do I just cry all the tears out? Do I tuck the sadness into the back of my mind? How am I expected to function on a daily basis? How is it that when my boss comes into my office tomorrow to ask me a question about trial preparation, I'm not supposed to say, "Wait! Hold it! My babies are growing up this very second and you expect me to discuss trial strategy?! MY BABIES. This very moment they are one SECOND closer to leaving me. How am I supposed to think about this case?! How am I supposed to think about ANY case?! How am I supposed to function?!"

For some reason, I feel like that would not be a good idea.

So what am I supposed to do?

The magnitude of life makes me feel really small and helpless sometimes. This is why I bawl like a baby every time I hear John Mayer's song "Stop This Train."

Stop this train

I want to get off and go home again

I can't take the speed it's moving in

I know I can't but honestly won't someone stop this train

Heart Burn

My Jacob is five. He is gregarious. He is stubborn. He is enthusiastic. Everything he finds on the ground is considered a "treasure" and is immediately treated as the most fragile and precious artifact in human history. Today I was clearing out some old toys in preparation of Jacob's birthday party tomorrow. Jacob stomped towards me from the kitchen holding out an empty candy wrapper accusingly.

"MOMMY. You threw this in the trash?! THIS is not TRASH. It's TREASURE!" He resuscitated the candy wrapper's injured dignity and placed it gingerly in his "treasure jar." I was admonished at great lengths about the value of this dirty, ripped, empty wrapper and instructed to never throw it away again.

Great. My kid is a Category 3 Hoarder.

Jacob is also very sweet. He will come up to me at the most random times, throw his lanky arms around my body in a half-pint hug and tell me he loves me. I instantly melt. Unless I'm trying desperately to finish blow drying my hair so that I won't be late for work. Then I tell him to go watch cartoons.

He is easily upset but easy to calm down (with the right techniques and tricks). He is also sensitive and acutely aware when an injustice is being borne by anyone, especially himself. When he thinks I'm not looking he will grab toys away from his brother or be too rough. But if anyone else tries the same, he is right there to stand up for him (or, more frequently, to tattle). While he doesn't like to share his toys, he has a deep love for his brother and loves to make him laugh.

Jacob is very particular and methodical. Everything has to be done properly, by the correct process. If I interrupt his play or his work before the process is complete, there will be trouble. He gets this from his dad. But he has my sense of adventure and once he sees that there is a fun, new way to do things, he is very eager to try it out and experience it.

As Jacob turns five, I've been finding myself trying to remember what he was like when he was a baby. Before Ryan was born, Jacob was the center of our lives. Everything was about Jacob. Now Jacob shares us with his little brother and is independent enough to do many things alone. The stark contrast between my baby Jacob and my five year-old Jacob has me realizing how different they are. They are two different people.

My memory is very bad. I tend to live in the present and past events easily become abstract and elusive. I had a hard time remembering what baby Jacob was like until I sat down and scoured through his old baby pictures. With each picture, I was struck with a very clear memory of each particular moment. Baby Jacob started to come back to life. I began to remember him more clearly. The way he used to say "num" for water. The way he would tell us "back" as he put an item in its proper place. The way he used to look up at me so helpless and expectant, trusting in me so completely. How his tiny little hands used to fit in my palm. How he used to fall asleep on my lap and snore loudly.

These memories, that used to be so distant, rushed at me with so much force that I was overcome by grief. I suddenly missed that baby Jacob so terribly that I began to ache for him. "But," I reasoned, "he is gone." And it's the truth. Although five year-old Jacob is here for me to touch and feel and experience, baby Jacob is gone. He will never be here again.

I will never rock that sweet baby to sleep in my exhausted arms, waiting so patiently for his breathing to become regular. He now falls asleep on the top bunk of his big boy bed after I leave his room. I will never again admire his disproportionate, almost cartoonish, head. His body has finally caught up with his head size. I will never again be able to gaze at his bright blue eyes. Those eyes are now green.

My heart feels like it is burning from the inside out. I am helpless to the passage of time. With each year that passes and each birthday we celebrate, baby Jacob is left further behind. My greatest fear is that some day, I will forget him. That these memories will lose their power. That there will no longer be any recollection behind the pictures. That the heart and magic behind each photo will escape and leave behind only a hollow 2D outline of a sweet little baby that I once loved. A baby that was my whole entire world.

This feeling is a new one for me borne out of the perspective I've gained with the passage of time about the shortness of Jacob's year of baby hood. It makes me clutch Ryan so much tighter. And it makes me bawl thick, warm tears in the quiet of the evening.

Little Boy, Big Bed

Just like every typical evening, I snuggled with the boys on the bottom bed as we read our bedtime story. Jacob's long and lanky arm was wrapped around my abdomen and Ryan's chubby fingers pointed excitedly at the illustrations as I flipped the pages of our book. Tonight's book was an ABC book about construction vehicles. As usual, Ryan prematurely tried to turn every page before I had finished reading all the text. And, as usual, this infuriated Jacob who demanded that every single word be read aloud, even though he knows them all by heart.

As Ryan would try to skip ahead, Jacob would snap the page back down. This made Ryan giggle as Jacob's fury doubled. I started to read in double-time in an effort to appease both parties. Just TRY saying "articulated dump truck" three times fast.

After we read stories, Jacob snuck up to his top bunk. Ryan snuggled with his blanky and settled into the pillow on the bottom bunk. He looked so comfortable. "Ryan, time for night-night. Time to go in your crib."

"Naaaaw." ("No") Ryan whined as he slammed his head back onto the pillow in protest.

I picked Ryan up and started to carry him to his crib when he furiously began pointing back at the bottom bunk. And so Ryan graduated to a new phase in his life in typical growing-pain fashion: with me hesitantly agreeing to let him due Big Boy things as his stubbornness and his eagerness to embrace the life of the Big Boy prevailed.

I worried that he might tumble out of bed in the middle of the night so I put some large pillows down on the floor beside him. I wondered if he would abuse his new freedom and lack of jail bars by slipping from bed the moment I walked out the door. But, brushing these concerns aside, I reluctantly let them go and let Ryan lead me through this whole parenting thing.

There are probably a lot of good parenting books out there (I haven't read any so I don't know) but, you know what? I can't imagine that anyone could be a better teacher than my own children. Because each child is different and he or she gives us little cues about their readiness and ability to do new things and/or their needs for a little more comfort and guidance.

Maybe it's a second child syndrome but from birth Ryan has been pushing forward and leading the effort to help me "let go" of him a little bit at a time. I'd personally prefer that he stay my tiny, chubby, fat-footed munchkin his entire life. But he's telling me just the opposite. He's ready to be a big boy, dang it! and he won't have any of this mushy smothering stuff. He wants to experience the world and try new things and figure things out on his own, thank-you-very-much. So, I let him.

Yesterday he was eating a slice of pizza at the park. He dropped it into the bark. I was about to wipe the bark off when he took a bite of the bark-covered pizza and happily continued to play. He was happy because he was feeding himself. And that bark just added some extra texture, after all. Ryan is so happy-go-lucky (most of the time) and so content to do things on his own, that I let him. It doesn't mean that it is always EASY but luckily Ryan gives me the confidence to know that it is RIGHT.

So yeah. He might fall off out of bed in the middle of the night. If that happens, there will be pillows to catch him. But I have to let go and let my children grow at the pace that they are comfortable with. This doesn't mean I can't appease my broken-mommy heart by purchasing some used bedrails off of Craigslist. I mean, I'm still a MOM after all. And he's my BABY.

My tiny baby in a big boy bed.

 

Those stickers are Jacob's recent contribution to enhancing the décor of the room, much to my horror. My dad would have killed me if I put stickers on furniture, even if it was MY furniture. But Jacob was so proud of his artwork that I decided it could stay...for a little while...as proof that I let my children be children...and budding artists. 

Trying to "Make Time" Is Awfully Similar To A Ponzi Scheme

Lately my days have been going by so fast that I have absolutely no idea where my time goes. It's like my days have a gigantic hole in their pocket and time just mysteriously seeps out. This is true while I'm sitting in my desk at the office (What? It's three o'clock and I've spent all day at my desk, how come my to-do list is only 1/4 of the way done and I can only account for 3 billable hours...ok, who stole my billable hours?!). It is equally true on the days I work from my mom's basement.

I come by with the kids, sneak down to the basement to work, and before I know it, it's 5:30 p.m., time to whisk the kids home to prepare dinner. I always look forward to my days at home and imagine that I will have so much extra time (saved from not commuting as much) to spend with my two handsome boys. Lately, I've been feeling as if I don't see enough of them and it's starting to get me down. A lot. But somehow, by the time I pack them into the car, drive 40 minutes home, prepare dinner, and we finally eat together as a familt at 8 p.m., it's time for them to go to bed already and I've spent my entire evening doing chores, dinner, and catching up that I've hardly spent any time with them. Well, not quality time anyway.

I keep wringing my hands in frustration. This "working from home" business was supposed to give me more time with my kids. So far, it just gives me more time to do chores and run a household. But when I'm actually at home, as opposed to at the office all day, I can't escape the chores. I have no excuse for not doing them. Instead of making my kids pull the least dirty clothing from the dirty laundry basket as I might have done a time or two out of desperation before I worked from home, I now feel compelled to actually do the laundry so that my kids don't smell or look like that dirty kid from Peanuts.

Today, I let the kids stay up 30 minutes late so that we could read stories and play ball out in the yard. I enjoyed them so much! Jacob has become so great at inventing games and creating complex make-believe plots. He wore two gold stickers with the letter "J" on his forehead all day today, proclaiming that he was the newest Power Ranger.

I know for a fact that I put a lot of responsibility on Jacob, purely out of necessity due to my lack of time. We have such high expectations for him every morning and every night as we rely on him to help us get out the door or ready for the next day. Sometimes I feel bad about that and hope that I'm not forcing him to grow up too soon. He's only four but we expect him to help pack the diaper bag, help make his own breakfast, etc. He even washed all the silverware in the sink after dinner tonight (no dishwasher) AFTER clearing the table. I swear that kid is four going on seven. And then, just in time to remind me that he has no problem being a kid, he will do something like bend over, place his hand on each butt cheek, and pretend to talk out of his butt.

As we played ball outside, Ryan showed off his kicking skills and was content to run around the periphery of my ballgame with Jacob. As long as we included him occassionally by chasing and throwing the ball at him, he was a happy camper. He joined us in a game of catch, proving his hand-eye coordination to be far better than I could ever hope mine to be!

We also played with some toy animals. Ryan only knows two animal sounds: the panting that a dog makes and roaring. He thinks everything roars and it absolutely cracks me up, especially when he will pick up a giraffe or cat or horse and "RAAAAAAWR!" His roars aren't normal roars either, they are old smoker, hacking up a lung type of roars. Also, he just got into this lovely habit of giggling uncontrollably after he farts. When he sees that we are giggling back at him, he purposefully tries to fart some more. Unfortunately, this happens at the dinner table. Ahh... such a boy! I love that kid so incredibly much.

So, tonight, while BBQing a coconut spiced marinated pork loin (thanks Bobby Flay!), I "made" some special time with my two little men. That time, of course, had to be taken away from other necessary things. Poor sticky, smelly Ryan got a baby wipe "sponge" bath two minutes before bed. Jacob had to sleep on his mattress without bedsheet (but with the plastic protective sheet) because I never found the time to do laundry...yes, he peed the bed, again!

Someday, I will have all the time in the world to do laundry and make beds. If my kids ever look back on their childhood and wonder why they had to learn the laundry "smell" test at age four or wonder why they so frequently got to camp on the floor because mommy never had time to wash their pee-covered bedsheets, I'll just lay it out in black and white: "Kids, I had to chose which way I was going to permanently damage you which would necessitate your years and years of therapy. The choice was to ruin you from never giving you attention, or ruin you from forcing you to live unsanitary lives. Clearly, I chose the latter and, yes, you are welcome."

Maybe I should start setting up some funds now. You know, to pay for therapy for their future hoarding habits and sofa cushion eating disorders.

My Long, Lonely Tight Rope

I'm treading water while being spun in wild, erratic circles. At least that is how life feels right now. I'm trying to give 100% of myself to my job and 100% of myself to my kids and 30% of myself to my chores and then another 5% of myself to myself. That's 235%.*

Between juggling work and two kids and a disastrous commute and dinners and never-ending laundry, I often daydream about what life is like for other people. People without all these things. People who get to focus all their attention and energy on just work or just raising children. I gawk at the thought.

Lately we have been watching a series called House of Cards which features a childless couple in high-demanding jobs. In the show the characters get up early to go for runs or just to savor the early hours of the morning. They casually get ready for work each morning, enjoying their coffee and savoring a breakfast. They don't know what it is like to frantically drag children out of bed, beg those children multiple times to put on pants and shoes, convince those children to eat something other than fruit snacks, and whisk them out the door while racing against the clock only to discover just before the door closes that the youngest child shit his diaper, then rush to the office to START the day.

I don't ENVY them per se. The profound joy that my children bring can never be substituted for a limitless amount of free time. And envy is a slippery and dangerous slope. It breeds resentment and bitterness and other poisonous feelings. But I do, on occasion, try to fathom what life would be like if I weren't trying to give 235% of myself in different directions each day.

Months ago, I posted about how I had finally achieved peace and balance since taking my new job. But I've learned since then that balance isn't a destination. It's a tight rope. And, if you are a working mom, you walk that tight rope your entire career. One day you might walk several feet on the rope without feeling pulled too far in one direction. This doesn't mean that you will not plummet to the depths below on the very next day.

My satisfaction at work has been replaced with a teeter-tottering sensation. I love parts of my work and other parts are very hard. Some days I'm convinced that I should never do anything but litigation. But then something small will set me off and I'm ready to apply to ANY job that is not in the legal field. Lately I've been tempted to drop it all and find something completely unrelated to law. But what? I'm not qualified to do anything else. I'd be starting at some entry level job that, more likely than not, will be merely mind-numbing. I can't think of any other job, outside academia, that requires the same wonderful mixture of strategy and intellect that litigation offers.

No, I love litigation. Plain and simple. I just don't like anything else about the circumstances of my work. I hate my commute. I hate billable hours. I hate being tied to a desk. I hate working with crazy and unpredictable people. I hate office politics. I hate that the demands on my time will always outweigh what I am able to give. I hate that my office needs a really ambitious associate to take initiative on building the firm and I cannot be that person. I hate that I have this strong itch to devote my entire self to both my career and to my family yet cannot do this because....duh, 235% is not possible or sustainable.

What's the solution? Should I get off this fast moving train while my kids are still young. I'm so worried that their childhood is zipping by at an alarming rate and that I'm just letting it go. Should I just bail on this whole lawyer thing? (Very tempted somedays!) How will I pay back my loans? Or do I just continue to tread water, giving less than 100% of myself to everything, and just endure the guilt and regrets? This tight rope walking is seriously going to give me an ulcer. Do I just suck it up and be thankful (for a job and healthy, amazing children.)

There are no answers. Just the astounding realization that as soon as balance is achieved, the center of gravity shifts yet again.

To end on a happy note, I sure as heck love these guys and hope that I sufficiently show my love for them each day. That's all that matters, right?

Pointing at the camera lens.

 

It's amazing how much older he looks when he is actually on two feet.

*Forgive my absence on the internet lately. All my free time has been going to my summer reading list. I read blogs on the bus but rarely have time to comment.

Same Chores. Different Day.

As the kids pried us out of bed at 7 a.m., a part of me was thankful for our early risers. Yes, they force us out of our cozy beds much earlier than we would like. However, as a result, we get to enjoy so much more of the day. Our weekends grow by three hours per day when we have to wake up at 7 a.m. instead of 10 a.m. That's something right?

The kids and I lounged around and enjoyed a slow morning together while my husband began working outside in our yard. Many months ago we began the arduous task of leveling our bumpy and lumpy yard, which began with the help of a large bulldozer. My husband has been putting the finishing touches here and there whenever an opportunity arises. Now all we need is to hydro-seed the lawn and throw a party when the grass grows in! I'm so excited to have a level yard that is  functional without inducing symptoms of vertigo!

Playing a little ball

(thank goodness our tiny 7x7 foot front yard is still intact!)

Eating some rocks.

Being handsome

(love that goofy gap between his two front teeth).

Laughing at daddy.

 

Taking a nap

 

 

Or at least pretending to.

We finally snuck out of the house to run errands and I let the kids play in the indoor play park in the mall. It's fun to see how much more Ryan can enjoy the park every time we go. This trip he enjoyed chasing his big brother who was very protective and repeatedly announced to everyone, "That's my baby brother!" We discovered that Ryan can now climb up and go down the slide all by himself. He would climb up carefully and then sit on top of the slide where he would poise proudly and look around to make sure everyone was appreciating his newfound independence. Then he would rock his body back and forth until the force of his own weight pulled him down the slide. He'd grin from ear to ear as he slid right into my outstretched arms. After a good 20 minutes of this, I decided that a Little Tikes plastic slide will be the first addition to our new yard (Craigslist, here I come!).

After a handful of chores, the last thing on my to-do list was grocery shopping. The kids shared an Orange Julius smoothie while I power-walked down aisles throwing things into the court. Everything went smoothly until the end of the trip. Eventually, I pulled the sopping cart up to the pharmacy to refill Jacob's prescription for fluoride. As I gave the pharmacist our information I heard a shrill scream. "OUCH! HELP! OWWWWW!"

I turned my head and saw Jacob sitting at the blood pressure monitoring machine. His left arm stuck was into the arm cuff, his left hand was flailing desperately from the other end. "HELP! I'M STUCK! IT'S SQUISHING ME!" People walked by alarmed. Some just snickered. More than a little embarrassed, I pushed the "Stop" button on the macine and set him free just in time to look back at the cart and see Ryan throwing boxes of condoms off the pharmacy shelf.

Jacob and I rushed to the cart. As I began picking up the boxes, more condoms fell from the sky, landing on my head. Clearly, it was time to leave.

When we got home, I put the baby down for a nap and left Jacob to play with his trains as I began dinner. I attempted to recreate my favorite meal from a restaurant near my work (The Red Papaya in lower Queen Anne). My boss treats us to lunch often for what has affectionately been coined, by him, "micro-bonuses."My favorite dish at this restaurant is Vietnamese steak served atop julienned green papayas. With my julienne chopper, the meal was a cinch to make. And nearly as good as the original! (As close as I'll ever get anyway). It was fantastic. Even Ryan loved the steak!

Not the best picture.

Have you noticed that beef always looks like poop in amateur photography.

After dinner, I let Ryan play in his highchair while I did dishes. He sat in the highchair like it was a throne and proudly threw pear cubes and steak pieces across the floor like a generous king scattering bread loves among beggars. Then he lifted his filthy hands at me as if to say, "wipe me, my minion." I took a step toward him with a baby wipe. PLUNK. A wet pear chunk landed on my chest and slowly slid down my shirt. Ew.

He raised his hands at me once again. I wiped him clean and set him free. As I bent down and picked up the squishy, cat hair-covered leftovers, I had no idea that he was in the next room scattering books and playing cards across the floor. This exciting discovery prompted me to recite my new motto, "same chores, different day." I honestly feel like I clean the same messes, wash the same clothes, and do the same dishes every freaking day. It's like my life is stuck on repeat. The only thing that changes is the date on the calendar.

But as long as I get to relive this smile everyday, I'm totally happy being stuck in a repeating time wormhole.