Us

Color

Peacock on a Fence



There was a time in my life when I was almost afraid of color. I wore a lot of black. Or mostly black with a little red thrown in. Or mostly navy blue with a little red thrown in. Or mostly brown with a little red thrown in.

Are you sensing a pattern here?

As as adult, and with confidence in myself, I've learned to love color.

My house has every color of the rainbow on its walls. I like to tell people we got drunk and painted the house. My favorite color scheme in my home, the dining room, is orange and teal. I have almost a pumpkin orange on the walls, light teal window treatments and a teal, brown, and cream rug. It makes me happy every time I see it.

I wear color too. I'm not afraid of it any more. Well, maybe I'm afraid of yellow. It makes me look too sallow. But other than yellow, if I like it, I'll wear it. In fact, I'm toting around a patent leather kelly green purse right now. It's fabulous.

Today I wore a light orange sweater topped with a dark plum corduroy jacket and a black satin skirt with dark plum flowers sewn on and embroidered in orange thread. It sounds a bit out there, but trust me, I looked fierce. (As Christian would say.)

Color adds so much to my life. As much as I love the serene calm of white snow, all that white space calling out to me; I love the gorgeous fuchsia, celadon, kelly, violet, and all the blushing colors of Spring, more. Or the warm, rich colors of Fall deep with spices, the burnt red of crackling fires and falling leaves, and the deep shades of football jerseys.

I'm discovering that my personality and love of color is appearing in my photographs as well.

I'll always love the dark tones of a cool vintage photo,


or the peaceful feeling of a nice black and white conversion (or mocha and white),



but color is my forte.



Rich, saturated, glorious color.



Color just suits me.



And I still love to add a little of my red every now and then.




What's your signature color?

Originally posted on Lawyer Mama Dabbles.

Through the Leap Years

Today is Leap Day. I don't know why I'm so excited about February 29th. Something about the idea that this day only happens once every 4 years makes it special, different somehow. I feel like I should be out making something happen instead of sitting here in front of my computer. But since I am compelled to blog, I thought I'd remember life through the Leap Years.

February 29, 2004:

The 76th Academy Awards were on this day with The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King winning a record eleventy gazillion awards, including Best Picture and Best Director. There was that whole occupation of Iraq thing going on too. Sigh. And Jean-Bertrand Aristide resigned as president of Haiti.

I was living and working just outside of D.C. in 2004. Working my butt off in fact. I was about 6 weeks pregnant with Hollis after the Side Trip to Iceland and puking my guts out on a regular basis. I even fell asleep in a puddle of drool on my desk. Between the exhaustion, nausea, and absent mindedness it's a wonder I even showed up at the office. Ah, good times. If I could find my calendar, I could tell you exactly what I was doing on this day. But I can't remember where it is....

February 29, 2000:

According to Wikipedia, not much happened on this day. I like to think of it as the last year or so of our American innocence. These were the days before 9/11, when I was still idealistic and hopeful about changing the world as an international human rights lawyer. I was in my second year of law school at George Washington in D.C. About 3 months after this I realized that $100,000 in student loans pretty much dictated working for a law firm for the foreseeable future.

(Whoa! Did that sound cynical, or what?)

February 29, 1996:

On this day, a Peruvian 737 crashed into the Andes, killing 123 people. The siege in Sarajevo was lifted. Also, Joan Collins won $1.3 million in a breach of contract suit against Random House for a manuscript she wrote. She obviously had a good agent as the contract required them to pay her even if the book was never published. And it wasn't. Interesting. I wish I could see a copy of the contract.... (Sorry, I am a contract litigation geek. I got a little sidetracked there.)

Let's see, in 1996 I was still working as a claims analyst in the hellish world of individual health insurance claims for an insurance company often associated with a certain famous wildlife show. I loved that show as a kid, although I always wondered why Jim had to do all of the hard work.

Marlin Perkins: I'll stand here and watch, while Jim wrestles that alligator for us.
Jim: Damn you to hell, Marlin.

February 29, 1992:

The college years. It's all pretty much a blur.

February 29, 1988:

The apartheid years. On this day, South African archbishop Desmond Tutu was arrested along with 100 clergymen during a five-day anti-apartheid demonstration in Cape Town.

I, on the other hand, was involved in far more important things. Like figuring out the social hierarchy of my new high school. We had just moved from Germany to Bellevue, Nebraska. It was certainly a cultural shock because I listened to way cooler music and had way cooler clothes. I didn't understand why no one appreciated my red Coke bottle cap suspenders and blue Gatsby hat. I spent a lot of time watching MTV, having been deprived of it for 2 years during my prime music obsession years.

February 29, 1984:

Here's one for my friends North of the border. On this day, Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau announced he would retire as soon as the Liberals could elect another leader.

This was only tangentially relevant to me as I was living in Grand Forks, North Dakota, just a few hours South of Canada. I was 11 and spent most of my free time at swim practice. And ogling Jerry Hoffarth, a fellow swimmer and 13 year old boy who only knew I existed because of my kick ass breast stroke and my relentless stalking of him. Of course, every time he tried to talk to me, I started giggling and ran away. Boy, was I young.

Incidentally, I ran into Jerry at a wedding in Grand Forks when I was 21. Amazingly I was able to have a normal conversation with him and we spent most of the night reminiscing, dancing and chatting. For some reason he didn't actually remember me as all giggly and young but he was very aware of my crush on him. So much for my 11 year old subtlety.

February 29, 1980:

On this day, apparently somebody in the NHL made his 800th goal. But since I don't care about hockey, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I, on the other hand, was 7 years old and living in Louisiana. I had a nice tan year round and a cute little Southern accent. Which was soon to be relentlessly beaten out of me by the constant teasing from the kids in North Dakota. Yes, I come from a white trash, redneck family. But no one likes to be reminded of that when they're 9.

February 29, 1976:

Apparently nothing happened in 1976. Just that whole bicentennial thing. Oh, and I was about to get a baby brother in 5 days. The days of the solo Stephanie show were about to end. I also think this is about the time I landed on our coffee table chin first and had to get stitches. (I only remember because my mom still tells stories of having our neighbor take us to the emergency room and the doctors inquiring whether we were there for her - hugely pregnant - or me - bleeding everywhere.)

How did I mysteriously land on the coffee table? The next door neighbor and I were playing Superman and jumping off of the couch in an attempt to fly. It was his idea. I swear. Of course, I'm the one who still has the scar on my chin.

February 29, 1972:

I was a 5 week-ish old fetus. My parents have never made a secret of the fact that I was an accident, so I like to imagine that they were just figuring out I was on the way. I wonder if the words, "Oh, shit" were uttered!

The Electric Kool-Aid Effexor Trip

I've made no secret of the fact that I'm on anti-depressants. In fact, I probably tell too many people. Is it awkward when you meet someone at a cocktail party and you say, "Hi, I'm Stephanie. I'm on short term disability for depression and I'm taking Effexor. So nice to meet you. Oh, I think the bathroom is over there...."?

Oops. My bad.

So far the Effexor is working nicely. It's been gradual. It's not like I woke up overnight and started praying at the altar of the optimists and cheerful people, but I'm getting there. And the Effexor has been great. I've heard nightmares about side effects, so I was a bit worried going in. Especially since Lexapro, which is supposedly loved because almost no one experiences any side effects while taking it, did a number on me.

For the 5 or 6 months I was on Lexapro, I walked around like a zombie during the day. I felt drugged. Then I started having hair problems. My hair, oh people of the internets, is one of my best features. It's nice and wavy and a lovely dark blond color with honey highlights. Oh and it's really thick, but not coarse at all. My hair rocks.

When it started falling out I started freaking the F out. It may seem vain but there was no way in H E double hockey sticks that I was going to end up depressed and bald.

Not to mention, the Lexapro wasn't doing a whole lot for me anymore.

In came the Effexor.

Effexor is one of those anti-depressants that you can't just stop taking. You have to gradually build up to your therapeutic dose and then when you stop taking it, you have to step down gradually as well. A good friend of mine who recently weaned off of Effexor had to start and stop about 6 times. Her doctor finally had her doing something really complicated like cutting open the smallest pill dosage they make, mixing the powder in apple juice and drinking 3/4 of it, 1/2 of it, 1/4 of it, etc.... That finally worked. She tried to describe what it was like when she tried to stop taking it, but I, who had just fallen in love with Effexor, wasn't really listening.

Um, Tiff, what was it you were trying to tell me again?

Yesterday was a busy day. We got up, had breakfast, corralled two small people into clothing and jackets, loaded up the car and headed to the Norfolk Botanical Gardens to meet my friend Lauren and her son. The kids played for hours, and wore themselves out nicely. We headed home, did the lunch/nap thing and I blogged and edited photos. Somewhere in there I remembered to take my antibiotic and Flonase for the plague that I've had for a month now, otherwise known as the ear infection, sinus infection, bronchitis trifecta.

Last night I could not sleep at all. Finally at 1:30 am, T came downstairs, shut my laptop and asked me to come to bed. I flipped out on him. I had a little tantrum where I ranted about how he wasn't the boss of me and I just wasn't tired and I wasn't going to just sit in bed and stare at the ceiling. I threw myself down on the couch and pouted like a teenager for about 10 minutes. Then, when enough time had passed that I could pretend going to bed was my idea, I went upstairs.

That should have been my first clue.

Once in bed, I couldn't sleep for more than 30-40 minutes at a time and I had the most bizarre dreams ever. At about 4:30 in the morning, I realized that whenever I closed my eyes, I was seeing brightly colored lights. Not my dark eyelids, but a pattern of colored dots that swirled and turned into candy and spiders and giant polka dots and brightly colored lights and then multiplied on top of each other in undulating waves and then transformed again. Then it started happening while my eyes were open.

It was like watching a Fruitopia commercial on an endless loop in a 360 degree theater with my eyes propped open with toothpicks.*

Just when I was about to wake T and have him taking me to the emergency room for my psychiatric committal, or call the police to see who spiked my Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, I remembered that I forgot to take my drugs.

Oops.

I woke T up, took my pill, and then tried to explain what was happening to T. He talked me down from my little trip and I was finally able to get a few hours of sleep. When I woke this morning it was better, but when things moved they had little motion trails behind them, like those pictures of you see of subway trains with trails of light behind them. (Don't worry, I didn't drive.) My synapses finally started firing normally at about 12 today.

That was quite a trip and you can be sure that I will not be forgetting my pills again.

I already have a pill box, and T mercilessly makes funny of me for it. But my mommy brain can no longer remember if I've taken my Metformin and my vitamins. Well, the box doesn't work if I never even get it out of the cabinet. In my ditzy defense, this is the first time I've ever completely forgotten my medications. In any event, I've come up with a new system that should be foolproof as long as I go to the bathroom every morning. I don't foresee this being a problem, since I have the world's smallest bladder.

Nonetheless, I think I'll be traveling with an extra bottle of Effexor in my purse from now on. I mean you never know when you're going to be caught in a massive snow storm while you're driving a half mile to the 7-11. I don't want to have to figure out if those mounds of brightly colored candy are real, or just plastic orbs from Holden's ball pit.

* Am I the only one whose cat was transfixed by those commercials?

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I have pictures up on Lawyer Mama Dabbles if you'd like to see something that isn't reminiscent of an acid trip.

Better Living Through Pharmaceuticals

"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily.
"So it is."
"And freezing."
"Is it?"
"Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately."

-- A. A. Milne

OK, folks, brace yourselves. It's time for another Lawyer Mama "woe is me" post. But this time I decided to write about depression on a good day. On a day when I can stand back and look at the Big Monster with a bit more detachment. Hopefully I won't get any anonymous "suicide prevention" pamphlets left in my office by well meaning co-workers or frantic phone calls from family members checking to make sure I haven't driven myself and the boys into the Elizabeth River.*

Life is made up of hard days and good days. I know that. I've also been keenly aware since adolescence, that I seem to have more bad days than most people. But days that most people would consider bad, I just call, well...usual. I'm moody, contemplative, a little bitchy and extremely sarcastic. But that's me and I like it.

I think too much. This is the curse and blessing of being an introvert. Much of what is best in me is never seen by the outside world. Some of the best discussions I've had about life, love, history, politics, and the law have been internal. That's just how I process the world. Internally. But with this internal world comes a necessary detachment from the external world. Striking a balance between the two was difficult for me growing up, but it became easier with time and practice.

Then I had children and my internal world started spilling over into the external. I had all this love and all these thoughts I couldn't keep to myself. Or I would burst from the wonder of it all. I watched my Hollis with all the love in my soul shining right through my eyes. Emotions and thoughts I'd been protecting and bottling up and hoarding for my own private use came spilling right on out. Crawling there, across the floor, for all the world to see.

With this escape of my internal world also came an inability to escape into my internal world. Life became overwhelming in a way it never had before. I couldn't keep my internal world in, and I couldn't keep the external world out.

Life as a new parent is overwhelming for even the most balanced and emotionally healthy of people. I understand that. Everyone needs help coping at times, whether it be through a support system, some time away, or medical intervention. I know that too. But I denied that I had any problems. I denied that my life wasn't perfect. I denied that my life could be anything other than blissfully happy with my new baby and my great job. I don't ever admit that I need help. That's just the way I roll.

Eventually, something happened. I wish I could tell you what. It may be this blog. I started writing about things I normally keep hidden. It may be finally getting to know good friends in my area that I could talk to every day. It may be finally settling into a new routine in a new place with 2 new children. I don't know what it was. But I finally admitted that I needed help. And it took me a little while, but I finally got off my ass and got some help.

I saw a new doctor. After listening to my symptoms and, more importantly, listening to what I thought was wrong with me, she asked, "How do you feel about anti-depressants?" And giving me permission to admit that I wanted the help, she followed up with, "I'm a big believer."

So Lex@pro and I got to know each other. The first week or so, I thought I'd made a huge mistake. The drugs made me feel a bit foggy. Things didn't bother me the way they used to, but they didn't bother me at all. I felt as if I might not be bothered to say "ouch" if someone dropped an anvil on my foot. On the plus side, the kids could scream as much as they wanted and it didn't faze me a bit.

But I wasn't me. The contemplative, moody, complicated part of me that I love (and I like to think those who love me, love) wasn't there. She went to sleep for a few weeks. I worried that she would never be back. That simply wasn't an option for me. After talking to T about it, he also agreed that it shouldn't be an option for me. So we agreed I would give it a month. After that, I would ask my doctor to switch my medication.

She came back.

She's still here. She writes on this blog every now and then. Sometimes she gets nostalgic. Sometimes she thinks too damn much. But she's me. I like her.

I hope you do too.

* Sarcasm, people. I haven't actually had any pamphlets left for me. I have had phone calls and concerned emails. Yes, I appreciate those but I also promise you all, family members, friends, random passers by, regular readers, and total strangers I sent to my blog, that I know when and how to seek professional help. But thanks for your concern. "Mwah!" (That's a kiss in Holden-speak.)

I Just ... Can't.

I've been absent from the Blogosphere lately. I've been absent from a lot of things, including my life.

I'm living in my head and trying to figure out who I am and where I want to go. Who I want to be.

Life seems so overwhelming right now.

I'd like to write about it, to write through it.

But I just can't.

It's not that I don't have the words, I do. I have too many words actually. S0 many thoughts are jumbled in my head right now that I can't sleep.

I'm organizing my life in a futile attempt to organize my head. We'll see if it works, but I promise I'll be back as soon as I can. I mean really be back.

In the meantime, I may just post fluff and pictures of my kids.

Oy. I'm too young to be having a midlife crisis.

Happily Ever After

I'm about to turn 35. Maybe that's why I've been reflecting on my life so much lately. I'm not the only one. It seems that many people ask themselves, "how did I get here?" around the time of birthdays. Particularly after you have children and your old life becomes unrecognizable.

My youngest has been sick and cranky as hell for the last couple of weeks. As a result, I've found myself with more time for quite reflection than I normally have in a chaotic day. When Holden wakes at 1am and wants me to rock him back to sleep, a rare treat for me, I fight the exhaustion and hold my little boy. There is something meditative about rocking my Little H, not quite a toddler, no longer a baby. I smell his clean sweet smell and feel his chest rise and fall. I put my cheek on his soft curls and think about how I got here. To this moment in time, in a room with my two little boys, with more blessings than I could possible have imagined. But with more quiet discontent than I ever expected.

Even though I ask myself how I got here, I know. The path behind is quite clear and completely unremarkable. I got married. I have a career. I have children. I have a castle and a kingdom. My path has been surprising only in its predictability. I should now live happily ever after.

But what happens when you look back along that path and see that what you thought was there really wasn't? That something you thought was an important part of your life might have been an illusion?

When I was 15 I fell in love for the first time. Well, I thought it was love in the heady, romantic, hormonally driven way that many teenagers do. His name was Mark. He was 17 and about to start his senior year in high school. I was about to start my junior year. We were both swimmers. We were both honor students. He was handsome, I was strangely quiet and moody and therefore fascinating to him.

Mark had had a thing for another of our classmates, Kerry, before he met me. Kerry was a sweet, but uncomplicated girl. I don't remember much about her other than she had horribly feathered eighties hair (as we all did) and was very tall and a bit gangly. (I am short, so this was notable to me.) Before the Summer of 1988, I hadn't even known Mark existed. He ran cross country. I was a cheerleader. Our lives didn't intersect until he saw me swimming at the pool where he was a lifeguard and decided to meet me. And then to date me. We dated for more than 4 years.

I was 20 and he 22 when we broke up. To say that it had ended badly would be a gross understatement. He had cheated on me. I had flirted with cheating on him. He hated how stubborn and argumentative I was. I hated how traditional and boring he was. I didn't want to live a life of the usual. He wanted the white picket fence and a happy family. I didn't know if I wanted children or a predictable life. We were nothing alike.

I used to say that Mark went looking for something and someone easier than me. Less complicated. Less argumentative. Less moody. Less me. I liked to think that I was something special. But the thing is, I don't think that Mark knew I was all of those things. (Aside from the moody. That much was obvious.) I let him inside my head about as much as he let me in his, which is to say, not much at all.

But still, when I think of high school, I can't help but think of Mark. Most of my life in high school was spent with him by my side. My friends were his, his friends were mine. In a way, we grew up together. But in a way, we also prevented each other from growing up. We both feared discovering who we were or leaving the safe path and so we put a lot of effort into what should have been a simple high school romance. But, yes, he was my first love and I was his, I liked to think.

After we broke up, Mark became almost immediately engaged to another girl. The cheatee. They got married shortly after they graduated from college. Later, I met and married my T. I didn't hear much from Mark after that, aside from the occasional email. I knew that he was working on his doctorate in pharmacy and that he had had two hip replacements in his late twenties as a result of degenerative arthritis. Ironically, his wife and I graduated from law school the same year. (So much for hating my argumentative nature.)

A few years ago, I Googled Mark after not hearing from him for awhile. What I found shocked me. After his surgeries, his life took a dark turn. He got divorced, lost his pharmacy license, and ... other bad things happened.

Even thinking about this now, I'm disturbed. The Mark I knew is not the Mark I found in criminal and civil court records. In hindsight there were warnings. Alcohol abuse of the sort rampant in college, black outs, and some depression. What I thought was an unfortunate result of fraternal excess was apparently a sign of things to come. At the age of 20, Mark once asked me if I ever stared at the ceiling at night and wondered if this was all there was to life. That should have been a big red flag.

Upon reflection, I knew Mark about as well as he knew me.

I was incredibly saddened to hear about what had happened in Mark's life. I wanted him to be happy. Well, he had cheated on me. I didn't want him to be super happy, but I didn't want his life destroyed. I didn't want him to end up in jail, with no future and no family. I found it hard to believe that the Mark I once knew would be happy without children and a family. That much I knew for sure.

Over the last few years I've thought about Mark on and off. I've wondered how he's doing and if he's happier now. And so, this week, I Googled him again. I discovered that he remarried in October of 2005.

He married Kerry.

Yes, that Kerry. The girl he had admired before I came along. Sweet, uncomplicated, tall and gangly Kerry. Who was everything I was not.

I found myself inexplicably upset. Why should Mark marrying our classmate upset me so much?

Because I've always thought of Mark as my first love. Yes, I know now that it wasn't the love. It wasn't what I have with T.

My love for T is so much more than 4 years in high school and college. It's pounding hearts and calm peace, tears, smiles and slammed doors, wedding bands and bills, promotions and miscarriages, ultrasounds and celebrations. It's all those big swirling emotions and all the little nothings of life. What I have with T is everything.

But still, Mark was my first love and I was his. Or so I thought.

Now our history has been rewritten. I wasn't his first love. I was his second. And strangely, after 15 years, that still hurts.

I have my happily ever after, such as it is. Clearly I was meant to be where I am, who I am, with my beautiful boys and my T. Mark was a part of what brought me here. So why should I begrudge him his own happy ending?

I wish I knew why this bothers me so much.

This post is a part of Julie's weekly Hump Day Hmmm. I have two posts for this week's topic, a journey. My other is a post I wrote about a more literal journey I took with my family in July.



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If you'd like to read about something fun from my life, go here. I'm just bummed that Not Exactly a Princess and I forgot our cameras.
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I also have a new review up at Lawyer Mama Review. Are you interested in getting your kids to eat more healthy foods? Then Deceptively Delicious may be for you.

Random Stuff You Probably Didn't Want to Know About Me

Emily from the Wheels on the Bus offered to interview people a few days ago. Because I love to talk about myself, I asked her to interview me. I've done this before, but Emily is a fascinating person and an amazing writer and I was curious to see what she would ask:

1) On any given day, how do you feel about your choice to have two children?

I love it. Well, I have to back up a bit. It really wasn't a conscious "choice" to have two. T and I had quite a bit of difficulty having number one. You can read a bit about that here and here. We never in a million years thought we could have an "accident," but we did and his name is Holden. Our children are 15 months apart.

Hands down, the best part about having two children is watching them interact. When Hollis takes care of his little brother or when Holden comes to tell me that "Mommy, Hollis is crying," it melts my heart. I hope they'll be best friends some day.

Now we struggle with whether to try for number 3. I'd like another. My husband is not exactly enthusiastic about the idea of being outnumbered and we don't even know if I can have another. We don't have all that much time to decide. I'm not getting any younger. But in theory, I think I'd like 3. Now, if I had unlimited time, money and energy, I'd have 4 or 5. How's that for insanity?

2) In your experience, do most lawyers make good friends (for you, at least)?

Yes and no. Three of my best friends in the world are lawyers, including Not Exactly A Princess who works with me. I met the other two in law school. But honestly, they aren't my friends because they're lawyers. They're my friends because they get me and I get them. The law is irrelevant.

Generally, I find lawyers to be about the same as the rest of the population. Some are pompous asses, most are decent human beings. Many, many, many of them are total control freaks. Not me, of course. {/sarcasm} And I've never met a lawyer that could back down from a fight unless required to do so by court order.

Seriously.

That's why I'm married to a computer geek.

3) If you had two weeks off of work, relatives to stay with the kids, and $8,000 you had to spend, what would you do?

Sleep and invest? That sounds really lame, doesn't it? Actually, I'd probably do what T and I are planning to do next Fall. We're getting grandparents to stay with the kids and going to Europe. We've been before, of course, but never together. I want to spend most of our time in Italy, but I'm sure we'll be stopping by London too!

4) It has been said that the problem with being a working mother is that you never feel like you're giving anything your all. Yet, you seem to have it all in balance. Does it feel that way to you? And, if it does, what's your secret so the rest of us can try?!

Baaaaahaaaaa!

Snort.

I'm very good at faking it.

I'm not very good at asking for help either, here or in my real life. Occasionally that leads to nuclear melt downs, which is probably not a good thing, but people think I have it all together as a result. I don't. But I don't really struggle with work/life balance more than anyone else with children does. If you stay home, your kids still suck up all of your time. I think even moms who are at home every day feel like they aren't doing enough of something. Those kids are endless black holes for energy, love, and attention. So I think we're all just struggling to figure out who we are as women and mothers, regardless of where we spend our days.

I don't get enough sleep. I get depressed. In fact, I'm taking some very nice happy pills now to cope a bit. But most of the time I just say, "fuck it," rather than get worked up over the stuff that was so important to me before I had kids. You know, like having a house where everything was just so and time to get regular manicures.

5) What makes you giggle?

My kids do on a daily basis. When Hollis and Holden laugh, and frequently one of them gets the other going, they laugh with their whole bodies. It's infectious and it never fails to make me laugh too.

When an H&H giggle fit happens in public, sometimes people will just stare and not even crack a smile. I'm always bewildered by that. I don't know how anyone can watch a child giggle without smiling. It's pure joy.

Aside from that, I have to admit I'm a big fan of juvenile potty humor. I embrace my inner 14 year old.

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So how about it? Anyone want to be interviewed by me? Leave me a comment with your email or send me an email at lawyermama at gmail dot com and I'll send you some questions.

On Becoming A Lawyer

Thank you all for your comments on my rant post yesterday about breastfeeding. It's nice to know that there are friendly voices out in the crowd straining to be heard.

Today's post is one of Julie's Hump Day Hmmms. She asked us to write about what we do or have done to make a difference. I don't believe that she could have set a more difficult task for me. I'm not sure if this post is what she had in mind, but I certainly discovered a few things about myself while writing it. That alone makes this post worth something to me.

Please be gentle. I bare my soul in all its flawed glory.

When I was in high school I once read that people attracted to the field of psychology are frequently those who are themselves emotionally flawed in some way. Although I can't recall the source, this theory resonated with me. Studying psychology solely for the purpose of self-analysis or to develop an awareness of some flawed familial structure or unhealthy parental dynamic made perfect sense to me at the age of 17.

So, of course, I majored in psychology in college.

I had dreams of saving the world as a brilliant analyst or researcher, or at the very least using my copy of the DSM IV to diagnose the whacked out troubled members of my family. If my family wouldn't cooperate, perhaps I could use my empathy and superior intellect to bring peace to whackadoos troubled souls in the general public. Clearly, I did not have a self-confidence problem. Nor did I know much about the world.

Along the path to my brilliant career, however, I found real people.

In college, I began volunteering for the YWCA's Violence Against Women program. I answered phones for our local hot line for victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. The stories were heart breaking. I spent too much time on the phone with each caller. Unable to really help, only to give information, but wanting to just listen, to let each of them find a voice.

Discussing the most private details of people's lives over the phone can be both incredibly intimate and incredibly limiting. There is a distance to it, a removal. At least there was for me. It was as if I was playing the role of calm confidant and informant. When I hung up the phone, it was over for me.

Over time, I took on more responsibility as a volunteer. I began facilitating group sessions for victims of domestic violence and, as I was applying to PhD programs in clinical psychology, I began acting as an emergency room advocate for sexual assault and domestic violence victims.

As you can imagine, most of my calls came in the dead of the night. At 2am I would race to a local emergency room and wait. Wait to speak with the doctor. Wait to speak with the victim who had requested me. Wait to speak to the police. Wait for the rape kit to be completed. Wait for the broken bones to be set, the sister to arrive, the father to call. If there was no sister, no father, no family, I would work the phones until I found a shelter.

The hardest visits were the ones where I wasn't permitted to call a shelter. Where the woman, the young man, the middle aged wife insisted that she or he was going home. Insisted it was an accident. Insisted the police had misunderstood. Insisted that I wasn't needed. While their eyes screamed.

As a mandatory reporter, I was very careful to discuss my obligations to report suspected child abuse before beginning any discussion about domestic violence or sexual assault with a parent. This was part of my training. I understood. The Y did not want its advocates used as a weapon against a victim by an abuser. We wanted the women to understand that we were on their side, but that there was a line they shouldn't cross.

I spoke with many women, a few men, but mostly women, with children. Women who insisted their boyfriend/partner/husband would never harm the children. Had never harmed the children.

And then it happened.

The story on the nightly news. A woman's face I recognized and, after consulting my notes, a name that was unmistakable.

A child in the ICU.

Something in me broke.

I faced an identity crisis. At 22, my whole sense of right and wrong shifted. The sheltered bubble in which I'd floated along for most of my life popped. Everything felt raw and new to me. Sand abraded my feet and gritted in my eyes for the first time.

The path ahead of me was no longer clear and straight. I would not become a psychologist. I could not become a psychologist.

I realized that I could not be an impartial witness to suffering. The distance I felt on the phone and in small conference rooms full of battered women? I couldn't maintain it when dealing face to face with reality. I felt responsible for every woman and man that crossed my path beyond those steely white emergency room doors. And unlike Atlas, I could not bear the weight of the world. If I tried, I would break.

To save myself, to save the humanity I failed to discover until my third decade, I chose an easier path.

I do not save lives. I will not cure cancer. I will never fly to the moon.

If I have an Achilles heel, a tender spot in my self worth that can be breached, this is it. The feeling that I am not living a life of meaning. The fear that I won't leave this world a better place. The fear that I chose the path of least resistance. Perhaps this is my curse in life? Wanting to help, to cure the ills of the world, but unable to shoulder the responsibility or bear the weight on my all too narrow shoulders.

I don't know.

But I do know that in stumbling along this winding path to my current life, among those very real and imperfect people, I found my soul.

So maybe this is not a story about how I make a difference but about how all of us, even those who seem beyond hope themselves, make a difference.

For me, that's enough.

In the Name of God

I don't believe in God.

I'm an agnostic. This revelation, more than any other I've made on my blog, is the hardest to make.

I wasn't raised to be agnostic. My parents both grew up Catholic. While they were determined not to indoctrinate me and my brother into that particular faith, God was still present in our lives. We attended a Lutheran church when I was a child. I went to Sunday school, the preschool attached to the church, and bible camp. My brother believes in God. My disbelief is not the fault of my parents or any flaw in their parenting.

My brother and I were taught to live moral lives. Not because God wanted us to be good, but because it was the right thing to do. My parents wanted me to think for myself and not simply accept everything they, or my Sunday school teacher, said as gospel. I learned that lesson a little too well. I don't ever remember believing in God.

That isn't to say that I've never struggled with my beliefs. I have. I understand the purpose of religion. It can be a great comfort in times of need. A church community can be a thing of wonder when its members rally around a parishioner or a cause. Often I wish I could share in that comfort and community.

For most of my childhood I struggled with my beliefs, but junior high was the turning point. I was in an American school in Germany, where my father was stationed in the Air Force, when I became friends with an evangelical crowd. They attended youth group meetings every week and urged me to do so as well. I finally explained that I did not believe in God, but they didn't give up.

Mandy and Wendy, and a few others whose names I've forgotten, passed me notes in class about God and finding my faith. One letter I remember involved the story of a girl who asked a dead friend for some proof of God's existence and found it in a bird alighting on a nearby fence. I'm not sure why that story sticks with me, but I do remember sitting in my room after reading this particular letter for the 50th time, looking out my open skylight up into the blue sky and wishing fervently that I could just believe. That I could just be like everyone else.

If there was to be a moment of conversion in my life, that was it. But no bird landed on my window, no sudden belief filled my head, no warmth filled my heart. After that I accepted that this is who I am and that religion is not for me.

Although I've struggled with my problem of faith for much of my life, I'm no longer looking to be convinced or converted. In fact, when my beliefs or lack thereof are questioned now, I find it insulting. I am by nature an introspective person. Trust me when I say that no further look "within my heart" will find God, Jesus or Muhammad waiting for me. I simply don't believe.

As you may have guessed, I don't often discuss this. If asked directly, I will discuss it with anyone who asks. But I also don't volunteer that I am an agnostic if I believe the information will be met with hostility. Why? Here's an example from a post that Gwen recently wrote:

When I was in Mexico, I had a discussion with someone about the narrow mindedness I encountered in my childhood experiences with (modern, evangelical) Christians who seemed to derive unending joy from finding the dust motes in everyone's eyes. This person was reminding me of how impressed I had been, after two years of secular university, with the lack of judgment I felt from my new peers, especially in contrast to the habits of the Christianity I had grown up with.

Me: "That's still true today, by the way, or at least true of my friends, that refreshing absence of criticism disguised as morality."

Other Person: "Well, of course. It's easy not to be judgmental when you don't have any values."

Me: " ........ " (is that the universal symbol for gaping mouth? Because maybe it should be).

Apparently, you see, I have no values. I am, after all, not a Christian. So whatever it is I am attempting to do with my time here on Earth, it can't be informed by any value system. I don't have one.

In case Gwen's sarcasm sailed right over your head, let me be very clear. I am a moral person. I'll put my values up against any Christian any day. My failure to believe in God or to engrave the Ten Commandments on a tablet on my front lawn does not give me license to steal or to treat others badly. It does not absolve me of my responsibility to my children, my family, my country, or the human race.

Let me say it again. I am a moral person.

Despite my clarity regarding my own beliefs, I struggle with what to teach my children about God.

I don't want to deprive H&H of the comfort of religion. But I can't be the one to teach them something I don't believe. I can't be that hypocritical, although many would say I already am. Both of my children were baptized in a church in T's home town. We stood up before the congregation and stated our belief in God and Jesus Christ. I chose the easiest course, a lie, for my children and family. I did something similar when T and I were married. In a church. It was what T wanted and while I don't think my parents cared one way or another, it made our extended families happy. And, no, my particular value system did not forbid me from offering comfort to my family and my husband-to-be.

T and I want H&H to learn about God. Hollis is currently attending a pre-school attached to a Presbyterian church. He says a cute little chant every morning that ends in "God made the world and God made me." I think this is an easy way to break him into a topic he's heard nothing about at home. Eventually we will take H&H to church. Although, depending on the church, it may be just T attending with the boys.

I want my sons to have the community and the foundations for belief. I don't want to impose my beliefs (or lack thereof) upon my boys. I want them to choose for themselves. If I give them the tools to do that, then I think T and I will have fulfilled the spiritual portion of our role as parents.

I don't want to leave you all with the impression that I believe in nothing. I'm an agnostic, not an athiest. In the back reaches of my mind there still lurks the possibility that I am wrong. That there is something bigger than me, than all of us.

If there is a God, the proof is in the world around me, in the things I love: autumn leaves, my sons' laughter, warm sand, random acts of kindness and, oddly, the smell of chlorine. I prefer to find my miracles in the physical realm rather than the spiritual. I believe in people rather than a higher power. This is my religion.

Cross-posted at D.C. Metro Moms.

Blog Me, Lawyer Mama, Blog Me

Mocha Mom has asked all of us heading out to BlogHer in TWO DAYS (Woot!) to introduce ourselves in 10 seconds. Now, I don't think I've ever written anything you could read in 10 seconds or less but I'll try.

• My name is Stephanie. You can call me Steph, but not Stephie. Only my dad gets to call me that.
  
• I like dry, dirty martinis. I like them a lot. Only, I don't get to drink them so much anymore because: (a) I don't want to drop the baby; and (b) my employer frowns upon employees drunk at work. If I have more than one in a night at BlogHer, it won't be pretty.
• I love shoes. I have too many. But I can't figure out how to fit more than 2 pairs into my luggage because I don't want to check a bag. Somehow I think it would be overkill to FedEx my new green wedges to the hotel, don't you?
• If you're doing the BlogHer scavenger hunt, I wear a 6.5 but I sometimes buy a 7 because my feet are a little wide and nobody makes wide sizes for the really cute shoes. (I used to wear a 5.5, but pregnancy.... Sigh. Need I say more?) Anyone want to be my scavenger hunt partner? And a question: do I count as a blogger from Louisiana (worth some points) or just Virginia (apparently worthless)?
  
• I'm an introvert. I may talk a good game here, but I'm pretty uncomfortable in new social situations. So, please don't think I'm standoffish or snobbish if I don't run up to you with a big hug and start chatting as if we're best friends. We can be, but give me some time to get cozy. And if you're a talker, I'm a listener. Come sit by me! But if you're also a listener like me, I'll talk. I swear I will. I want to meet you anyway.
• Whatever we talk about, don't tell me the ending to the new Harry Potter book. I just started it and I doubt I'll have time to finish it before leaving on Thursday. If you spoil the end for me I may have a public hissy fit.
  
• I have magnets to give away at BlogHer. They're super cute (I think) but they have a picture of me on them. Is that narcissistic?
• I like to talk politics and I love to naval gaze, but I'm unlikely to bring up a controversial subject with someone I've just met. I'm far more likely to talk about these:

I could talk about the boys for hours, but please don't let me. I want to hear about you and your kiddos too.

Then we can talk politics.

I am incredibly EXCITED! Can you tell?

Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

I'm from Louisiana and proud of my heritage. My family has been in Louisiana about as long as Western Europeans have been in Louisiana. (Both sides. Remember, my family tree doesn't fork much.) I have ancestors who fought in the American Revolution and the Civil War, including a rather notorious and famous Civil War-era ancestor who will remain nameless here. (Hint: His initials are J.D. and he has buildings and schools named for him all over the South, including U.S. Route 1 in Virginia. Knock yourself out on Google.)

My ancestry also comes with plenty of negative baggage - slavery and hundreds of years of institutionalized and socially acceptable discrimination. But when I think of New Orleans, my family, and my Louisiana, I think of food: crab and crawfish boils, gumbo, and crusty french bread. I think of music, cemeteries, beautiful architecture, trees draped in Spanish moss, lazy wet heat, family parties, and belonging. There is always a sense of ownership and belonging. Those are my people.

Those people now belong to my sons and, although I no longer speak with a Southern accent, my sons will. Every time I hear Hollis drawling "yeeeaaaaahh" into a two syllable word, it makes me smile. It reminds me of who I am and who my sons will be.

For an Air Force brat, a sense of belonging is important. When I went off to college, I never knew how to answer that first and simplest of all questions: "Where are you from?" A truthful answer could take a half an hour of explanation. Sometimes I said "Louisiana," but that required its own detailed explanation. Sometimes I took the easy way out and said "Nebraska," where my parents still live and I went to high school. But to be honest, I hated to tell people I was from Nebraska. I still do.

When I left Nebraska for college in Miami, it was with the expectation that I would never really live there again. It wasn't my home. I didn't belong. And frankly, I thought it was pretty boring. When I thought of Nebraska I thought of long stretches of flat highway, corn and wheat fields, smelly cows, dust, and maybe, if I was feeling charitable, pioneer Nebraska with a whiff of Little House on the Prairie.

If you contrast the mystery and excitement of Louisiana in the 1600's and 1700's, with the dusty plains of Nebraska in the 1800's, I thought the choice was clear.

Nebraska sucked.

I did, however, end up back in Nebraska, where I met and married T, a born and bred Nebraska farm boy. T and his brother grew up helping his parents work their family farm in Southwest Nebraska. I'll admit that he does have some exciting ancestors sprinkled in there, including Christopher Wren, but I thought that his ancestry and background paled in comparison to my own.

I couldn't wait to leave Nebraska, to view it from my rear view mirror as I drove away for good.

I began to look at Nebraska differently only by seeing it through T's eyes. When we were dating, he took me out to his parents' farm. We tromped out into the middle of a field and T turned to me and told me to stand still and listen.

At first I heard nothing.

No cars, no phones, no planes in the distance, no mechanical buzz of any kind. I didn't hear any of the myriad of sounds we all hear every day and ignore in their constancy. It was a bit freaky, that silence.

Then I heard the wind in the grass, birds twittering, a faint mooing, and my own shallow breath. There was movement all around me, in the air, the trees, the field, the shifting light. But it was still. Suddenly I understood what my husband loved so about his corner of Nowhere. I began to understand the man who would be my husband.

Don't get me wrong, my T has no desire to lead the life of a farmer. It's hard work. Harder than anything I've ever done. And in many cases farming is a direct route to bankruptcy and heart break. Only those who farm bigger or, in some rare cases, smarter, survive. But T loves Nebraska. Much of his love is, of course, caught up in his love for his family, but it's also the love of a way of life and a certain type of person.

Farmers are entrepreneurs, only without the attitude of entitlement. They take risks as lofty as the Las Vegas high roller or the venture capitalist. But farmers don't keep planting or ranching for the love of money. They do it for love of the land and of family. They have a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility to the earth they keep and the people they feed. It took me a long time to understand that.

While we were in Nebraska last week, we helped my in-laws pack up their house. Several years ago they sold the family farm, although they retained ownership of the house and the land around it for a time as part of the sales contract. Two days ago they closed on the sale of T's boyhood home. I know that the sale was undoubtedly harder for T's parents than for T, but still it hurts him. He wants to show the boys his history and the loss of his home means a loss of some part of his childhood. A part he assumed would always be there waiting for him to visit.

But still, T's parents will be nearby in my mother-in-law's childhood home, a place that is still a part of T and the story of his life that he will share with our sons. So now, T is beginning to talk to the boys about farming and tractors, cows and chickens, pivots and irrigation. He is teaching them the language of his people. He is showing them a piece of their history.

H&H are thrilled with anything involving both animals and heavy machinery. In fact, Hollis was in tractor overload on our trip. He spent hours staring out the car window as the scenery passed us by - the scenery I thought of as a boring stretch of flat highway - watching the cows, asking about each piece of farm equipment and the "big sprinklers" (the pivot irrigators).

In knowing and loving my husband, I've grown to know and love his state. Watching my sons discover Nebraska is something else entirely. It's wonderful to watch Hollis's eyes light up when his daddy promises to let him ride a tractor, pet goats, or chase chickens. What boy wouldn't love that?

But I also hope that the boys will someday see Nebraska through their father's eyes. They won't just see chickens to chase and cows to harass. One day they'll look over the rolling hills from their great-grandparent's house in Southwest Nebraska and they'll feel that wonderful silence. They'll understand a piece of their father they could never know without standing there in that spot and listening to the sound of nothing.

One day Hollis and Holden will think of Nebraska and its heritage with a sense of wonder. They will see the floods and the drought, the feast and famine of farming, the flawed beauty of what was once the wild west.

They will belong to Nebraska as much as they belong to the South.

The road ahead.

Are They Trying To Kill Me?

For the love of God, I swear someone in my office is out to get me.

By now, you all know that I am a klutz. I am in fact so klutzy that I must warn all passers by with a hot pink sign and matching wristband. I am the woman who once fell down while standing still and talking to a co-worker. I have fallen down in half the bars of the District of Columbia while completely sober.

And I swear I don't have any sort of neurological disorder.

Have I mentioned that our offices are being renovated?

The new offices are starting to look great and I think it was time. The place hasn't been renovated since the late 70's and, hopefully, it will be a cold day in hell before that decor comes back into vogue. (And please, if it has, just don't tell me. I'd rather kill myself than decorate in early 80's.) So the partners sucked it up, busted out the check-book, and started renovating.

The office is also expanding from the West and middle sections of our building, into the recently vacated East wing on our floor. The building is one giant U, so it's now quite a hike from one side of the office to the other. During the various phases of the build out, the powers-that-be have been moving us around to temporary offices and housing all the secretaries in card board boxes out on the street.

During the second stage of the renovation, I moved into a windowless closet for three months. It wasn't too horrible. I still had a door I could close and, usually, electricity, although that was spotty at times. You think I'm joking about the closet thing, but I'm not. I could touch both sides of my office if I extended both of my arms at the same time.

Fast forward to the next, and THANK THE DEAR LORD, final, stage of the renovation. I am now in my permanent, nicely renovated office with a gorgeous view of the downtown area. And I usually have electricity. What more could a girl want? (Aside from a working bathroom on the same floor as my office? But that's a topic for another post!)

Because the office is being renovated in sections, the East and West wings are largely complete now and nicely appointed. The contractor is currently working on the middle section, which includes the reception area and most of the conference rooms. Oh, and the bathrooms, but again I digress. (A few UTI's are no big deal anyway. That's what antibiotics are for, right?)

Anyway, to cut down on dust and to semi-isolate the construction area, the contractor has erected a really long tunnel between the East and West wings of our office. It's a crime they weren't doing this over Halloween because it would make a fabulous haunted house. All joking aside though, Lawyer Mama, the woman who once practically broke an ankle while strapping a small child into a swing (it's a long story), now has to make several daily treks through the Chunnel or, what I like to call, The Lawsuit Waiting to Happen.

I took some video to share:




Alas, I didn't record any sound so you are missing the high pitched whine of power tools that rounds out the whole experience.

Our office administrator swears they're taking the tunnel down this weekend.

If I make it until Friday without killing myself and taking down half of the office in the process, it will be a miracle.

Does anyone have a bucket I can borrow?

The BlogRhet Meme

If you've been hip to the thinky blog world lately, then you've heard about BlogRhet. And if you haven't, you should check it out. BlogRhet is the brainchild of some wonderfully thinky, blogging women, with the goal of discussing blogging, community, identity, and all that wonderful stuff. Rhetorically, of course. BlogRhet. Get it? Love the name and I love big ideas. So I loooooove these women.

The fabulous women of BlogRhet have started a thinkfest known as the Blog on Blog Action Survey. The rules? Answer one or more of the questions below - I went with all of them because I'm an overachiever, link back to the original BlogRhet post, and tag 3 bloggers.

I must admit this is the first meme I've really been excited about answering, aside from the very first meme tag I received. I even commented yesterday that I couldn't wait to see where this meme goes and how it evolves. So, the wonderful Mary G of Them's My Sentiments was kind enough to tag me. Mary is a BlogRhet contributor and comes from a long line of thinky women. Her prose is amazing and she never fails to engross me. She claims to be new to this blogging thing, but she immediately fit right in with everyone and she's a wonderful writer. If you've never had a chance to check out her blog, please do. You won't regret it.

The Questions:

1. Go back to first or early post. How would you describe your voice back in those early days? Who were you writing to? What was your sense of audience (if any) back then?

I started my blog as kind of a journal. I didn't really have a clear view of exactly what I was going to do with it, but I knew that I wanted a place to write about myself, my kids, and whatever else I felt like ranting about occasionally. I was asking questions, but I wasn't really expecting anyone to answer. For the first couple of months, I was finding my voice and my audience. I ranted about a few things that annoyed or upset me, but the posts that I most enjoyed writing, and the posts that I most enjoy reading now, were about my family or me as a mom. My writing style hasn't changed much, perhaps because I write often professionally, albeit a bit more formally. I honestly think that within a month of beginning to blog, I had found the voice I have now. I didn't take many chances or really let it all hang out, but I can hear myself when I read my earliest posts.

2. Do you remember when you received your first comment? What was it like?

My first post was your basic, "Hey, I'm here," post with cavernous echos reverberating around my space. There's not much else to it but John Lennon lyrics. There's a comment on it now, but it's a recent comment by someone new to my blog, Stephanie of Missing Me. (I had to give her a shout out because of her awesome name.) My second post, a short paragraph about my never ending debate over whether to work part-time, contains my first comment from someone I don't know in real life. Yet. (I fully intend to hang out with Pundit Mom at BlogHer in July.) Joanne really gave me my first glimpse into the Blog community. Someone I didn't know was reading what I wrote, understood my struggle, and took the time to leave me a supportive comment. WOW! That's better than therapy! And it's addictive as hell. It really is.

3. Can you point to a stage where you began to feel that your blog might be part of a conversation? Where you might be part of a larger community of interacting writers?

There were a couple of moments that led up to a really big moment of clarity. At that point, I realized that blogging is now a really important part of my life because of the wonderful dialogue I have with all these people. The first "moment" was not a post for my blog. It was actually a guest blog that I wrote for the On Balance blog on the Washington Post. (Bear with me and click through the links to find it. And hint - this is how people who Google my real name can find my blog.) Go ahead and read the comments and you'll see why I took notice.

People who had seen me elsewhere in the Blogosphere and people who were already Lawyer Mama readers saw my On Balance post and came by to be part of the dialogue. There were even more comments that you don't see - from people who googled my name and emailed me. One woman from Tennessee even called me to tell me how much she appreciated what I had written. It was amazing. And it was really the first time I realized that what I wrote in my personal life, and not just my professional life, could really make a difference to anyone.

After that, honestly, I really felt like I was having a conversation through many of my favorite posts. Finally, all of these thoughts that had been building up inside of me about the blogging community, and "Mommy Bloggers" in particular, came pouring out in response to a troll at Pundit Mom's place. That was it. I had found my people.

4. Do you think that this sense of audience or community might have affected the way you began to write?

Yes, discovering my community has definitely changed how I write, but in a good way. When I was first finding my voice, I was very careful about revealing too much of Me. I mean, the gooey, snarky, messy Me. The Me that my family and close friends love. Now, I tend not to care too much because I know that any judgment I find in my community will be from random, anonymous trolls. Now I talk about my fears and I take some chances. But frankly, this is a recent occurrence for me. I've only been blogging since August of 2006, although it seems like much longer.

In fact, my favorite post was written just last month. It isn't my favorite because of the writing or anything. It's my favorite because it was the post that was hardest to publish and is still the most difficult for me to read. This blog didn't start out as a way to push myself emotionally or intellectually, but in a way that is what it has become. I feel like I'm growing as a person and a writer because of the conversations I have in the Blogosphere. It's a wonderful thing, this community and this audience.
-----------

Let's continue this conversation. I tag Jen of One Plus Two (when she is healthy again, of course), My Queen Ms. Miller of Queen of the Mayhem, and my first Bloggy friend, Joanne of Pundit Mom. Now, none of you can get indignant about being tagged for another meme (I'm talking to you, Queenie!) because this is a special meme. Get to it, ladies. I can't wait to hear what you have to say!

A, B, C or X, Y, Z?

Edited to add: Folks, I've finally succeeded in goading my brother into breaking in his blog. Stop on over and say "hi," won't you?

Momish tagged me with the A, B, C Meme recently. Because I'm swamped at work, I don't want to disappear from the Blogosphere this week, and I never turn down an invitation to talk about myself, I'm going to pass it on. But I changed it a bit. I'm bad that way.

A - Attached or Single?

Good Lawyer Mama: Married

Bad Lawyer Mama: Not for long if he doesn't start putting the damn toilet seat down!

B - Best Friend?

Good LM: I have several people I would call "best friends." I tend to collect one or two from each stage of my life that I stay in touch with and love dearly.

Bad LM: Only 4 or 5 people have put up with me for longer than a year and I reward them all by calling them best friends.

C - Cake or Pie?

Good LM: Neither.

Bad LM: Both. With whipped cream. And ice cream. And maybe some chocolate sauce. Would you like some too?

D - Drink of Choice?

Good LM: Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper or water

Bad LM: Vodka martini, a little dirty (like me), with 4 olives

E - Essential Items?

Good LM: My PDA, microwave, and OxiClean

Bad LM: Vodka martini, a little dirty, with 4 olives

F - Favorite Color?

Good LM: Red (Good girls can wear red.)

Bad LM: Red (Bad girls wear it better.)

G - Gummie Bears or Worms?

Good LM: Neither. High fructose corn syrup is the devil.*

Bad LM: Both. I like to take different colors and bite the heads and torsos off to create tricolored, mutant gummi animals.

H - Hometown?

Good LM: A mid-sized town in Louisiana.

Bad LM: You're killing me here. Would you like my SSN and my mother's maiden name too? I'm from Louisiana but Virginia is now my home.

I - Indulgence?

Good LM: SLEEP!

Bad LM: SLEEP!

J - January or February?

Good LM: I'm not a big fan of either month, but I'll go with January since Holden was born then.

Bad LM: January because I can always find a vodka martini at a New Years party.

K - Kids?

Good LM: Two of the most adorable little boys that ever lived.

Bad LM: Yes. Can I sell them on EBay?

L - Life is incomplete without?

Good LM: My family

Bad LM: Vodka martini, a little dirty, with 4 olives

M - Marriage Date? July 8, 1995

N - Number of Siblings?

Good LM: 1 younger brother.

Bad LM: 1 younger brother. And maybe if I harass him enough, he'll actually write something on his blog.

O - Oranges or Apples?

Good LM: Oranges

Bad LM: I didn't just compare apples and oranges, did I?

P - Phobias/Fears? Large swarms of ants. 1 ant doesn't bother me. 2 ants make me look again. 3 ants and I get a bit nervous. A trail of ants and I'm completely skeeved out. I have lots of other fears too, but do we really want to get into that?

Q - Favorite Quote?

Good LM: "Be the change you want to see in the world." Mahatma Ghandi

Bad LM: "Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven." John Milton

R - Reason to smile?

Good LM: My children

Bad LM: Vodka martini, a little dirty, with 4 olives

S - Seasons?

Good LM: Autumn, because the leaves are changing, the air is crisp and I can wear sweaters.

Bad LM: Autumn, because I have an excuse to buy chocolate (Halloween) and people give me things for my birthday.

T - Tags?

Good LM: Anyone who would like to share!

Bad LM: I tag Still Learning. Now you have to post something, B! (Insert evil laughter.)

U - Unknown Fact About Me?

Goodness, haven't I barfed enough personal details all over the Internet?

Good LM: I love the smell of chlorine.

Bad LM: I like vodka martinis, a little dirty, with 4 olives. And I'm not an alcoholic.

V - Vegetarian or oppressor of animals?

Good LM: I eat meat, but not veal.

Bad LM: I'm a founding member of People for the Eating of Tasty Animals.

W - Worst Habit?

Good LM: Procrastination.

Bad LM: I'm perfect, so bite me.

X - X-rays or ultrasounds?

Good LM: Ultrasounds because they make me think of pregnancy and birth.

Bad LM: This is an odd question. It's not like a choice between chocolate and vanilla. I'm going to refuse to answer.

Y - Your favorite food?

Good LM: Cucumbers

Bad LM: Gumbo. It's fattening, but heavenly.

Z - Zodiac? Libra


* Quote shamelessly stolen from a friend.

Do You See Me?

In a comment to my last post, Slouching Mom noted that my wedding photo and my avatar photo look nothing alike. Well, they actually do both look like me, but different Me's. And I realized that most of my readers wouldn't recognize me if they passed me on the street because I rarely post pictures of myself. I actually don't have all that many photos of me, aside from the obligatory studio family shots, because I'm always the one holding the camera.

I like to think that you all see me in a way. I know that when I read certain blogs, the narrator's voices helps me create my own internal picture of the blogger, accurate or not. And when I see pictures, it helps to round out the whole person. So without further delay, I give you Lawyer Mama in pictures. Well, at least as much of LM as I can give you without getting off of my butt and tracking down pictures on disk and in photo albums. Let's not forget that I'm lazy!

This is me with my kitty, Sir Hillary. I was in law school when this photo was taken.

This photo was taken in our old Falls Church home. Hollis was 3 months old and I don't think he's seen any serious snow since then!

This is the LAWYER side of Lawyer Mama. This photo is on my firm's web site. I was pregnant with Holden when it was taken.

Here, I'm about to leave the hospital with Holden. It's hard to believe he was ever that tiny.

Here we have me and Hollis on his 2nd birthday. Check out the cake! Did you know that bright blue icing makes bright blue poo? Enough said.

This was our Christmas photo for 2006. Trey and I look like hell, but the kids look cute and that seems to be what's important now! Hopefully the copyright Gods won't smite me for posting this photo.

And this is my attempt at a self-portrait with my camera phone this afternoon. Note the obligatory self-portrait double chin. I seem to be incapable of taking a photo of myself without it.

And then finally, we have my avatar photo. This picture was taken about 1 hour after I became a mother. Here you can see the beauty of a c-section with no labor - I'm still wearing lipstick for heaven's sake! I chose this as my Lawyer Mama avatar because it was one of the happiest moments of my life. When I look at this picture I see who I was, who I have become as a mother, and all the years to come. I see me at my best.