tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39171759866082227422024-03-08T14:53:16.679-05:00But I do have a law degree...A lawyer turned stay at home mom chronicles life after law firms.But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.comBlogger441125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-28389723724064295512020-09-18T12:34:00.000-04:002020-09-18T12:34:06.573-04:00A Relocation and a Reset<p>Holy shit, 2020. </p><p>My last<b> <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2020/04/the-things-i-miss.html#.X2NumbbMxyk" target="_blank">post</a> </b>was in April, and it was hopeful. I take that back - not hopeful, but bittersweet. Writing about the things that I miss and yearning for normalcy again. Dreaming about a return to my gym and throwing a massive party and going to concerts. At that point, in April, if you would have told me where I would be today, I never would have believed you. </p><p>I don't yearn for those things so much anymore, I guess because they feel so out of reach. Concerts? Large parties? Crowded indoor group fitness classes? I don't even consider it, perhaps because its too painful. I've learned in the past few months not to think too much beyond the short term, and those things are so far off that it seems futile to consider them. So I don't. </p><p>Instead, over the past months, I've been surviving on a week to week basis. And in retrospect, my time in quarantine wasn't half bad. In April, I formed a "quaranteam" with two other families, and we all saw each other multiple times a week. We had a lot of fun, actually. We played trivial pursuit and made cocktails and ended the night with dance fests. In May, we rented a house on the Eastern Shore of Maryland and had what felt like a legitimate vacation. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnAypczlVZCIteSNItkNwX8xEWBLVobflf_Eaj1FucsQhf6hOqkLsjN39F96w8yu6E6TLtHCiC6HjXCRA2vjE0doHtZ6uYs68aLCIv8ctsgRbpTosX8j4L_1hFjcoKPUNZnhkFLtaAz94/s2048/IMG_6753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnAypczlVZCIteSNItkNwX8xEWBLVobflf_Eaj1FucsQhf6hOqkLsjN39F96w8yu6E6TLtHCiC6HjXCRA2vjE0doHtZ6uYs68aLCIv8ctsgRbpTosX8j4L_1hFjcoKPUNZnhkFLtaAz94/w640-h480/IMG_6753.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p>At the end of June, we relocated to our home in Wellfleet, Massachusetts, and it was a godsend. The air was clean, the vistas were beautiful, and it felt as close to normal as possible for these times. Absent constant mask wearing, the summer felt like many other summers - we had visitors and ate oysters and went to the beach and dined outdoors. The covid numbers remained extreme low (there have only been 7 cases of covid in Wellfleet since the pandemic began). It was a perfect escape, and escape it was. Because looming in my mind all summer was a return to what - normal? Who knew what we would be returning to? I started the summer hopeful that the fall would look similar to our regular routine, with some adjustments of course. Kids in school, with masks. Zoom gym classes. Socially distant get togethers. Something, anything, better than the spring. Because as much "fun" as I've managed to have since March, it wasn't all butterflies and rainbows. </p><p>Home schooling could not have been worse. I decided to retire my youngest from kindergarten in April, and he spent much of the rest of the school year on screens while I tended to my older ones. My middle child ghosted school for a week, unbeknownst to me until I received an email from the teacher. My oldest one had a series of meltdowns and panic attacks, and what was I to tell him? Sitting on a computer for 6+ hours a day alone in your room in 5th grade is not okay. And when he would demand to know when things would be normal again, I had no answer for him. </p><p>In April, our dog <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2011/10/forgotten-one.html#.X2NzHrbMxyk" target="_blank"><b>Cous</b></a> died. Those that know me know that she was a constant thorn in my side, but I loved her all the same. She had been declining for months, but it was still a shock when it became apparent that we had to put her down. Because of covid, only one person could accompany her to the vet, and that person was me. It was a surreal, spiritual, eye opening, devastating experience watching her die in my arms. To be alive one second and dead the next - how does that happen? I had a brief existential crisis, which was only partially saved by getting a<b> <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2020/03/two-rash-decisions.html#.X2TWnbbMxyk" target="_blank">puppy</a></b> 10 days later, that we had reserved at the beginning of quarantine before Cous's health had declined.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLxnr0UPufYmpOKuNeYKJaHBjJ21ZyRpybyHLGD_N8i5LnYHquOl22bQOWqWmrtpTia6obkTMWCBGBMIcUC58Tyy0Ll3BnijCcQl0lzXUgQbuaD7wuZfdQal4emPN-AB7BClWx3oa0IjG/s2048/IMG_0343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLxnr0UPufYmpOKuNeYKJaHBjJ21ZyRpybyHLGD_N8i5LnYHquOl22bQOWqWmrtpTia6obkTMWCBGBMIcUC58Tyy0Ll3BnijCcQl0lzXUgQbuaD7wuZfdQal4emPN-AB7BClWx3oa0IjG/w480-h640/IMG_0343.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last picture together - April 26, 2020. (And yes I had pink hair)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>In June, before we left for Cape Cod, the world started opening up a bit more. And with that came some crippling anxiety. What's okay to do? What's not? Where is the fine line between paranoia and appropriate caution? I really grappled with how to live, and sometimes, my choices left me with regret and anxiety and the feeling that my throat was scratchy and I must have contracted covid. My parents canceled their trips to the Cape, and still remain in isolation - we haven't seen them since December. My best friend aborted her trip to visit us after her entire family actually contracted covid (they are all fine). I broke my big toe mid-summer and stopped working out. And then, in mid- August, our school made the announcement that they would not be going back for in person instruction in September. </p><p>This was a gut punch, and a reminder that the world was still turned upside down, even if I was living in denial in the impervious enclave of Wellfleet. And even though I had thought about it several times during the summer, that day I first said it out loud to my husband - that maybe we should relocate here, where the elementary school is going back full time in person - it seemed surreal. For how long? For the fall? For the year? Who knows. Like I said, I think in short terms now. </p><p>It seemed like a crazy proposal. Because for a long time, my husband and I have been on a pretty predictable course of life. He works, I pick the kids up from school, we take scheduled vacations according to the school calendar, we have a regular Saturday night babysitter - rinse and repeat. A couple of years ago, if you would have asked me where I would be in a year, I could have told you with certainty, and I would have been right. So to do something new again - enter an unknown, uncomfortable, uncertain scenario? I haven't done that in a long, long time. </p><p>But here we are. In Wellfleet. Two of my kids started at the local elementary school two days ago. My older one is in the room next to me as I type, doing distance learning. And I'm still in a bit of shock. </p><p>I tried to frame coming here as being an adventure, and in a way, it is. Relocating to a small town where we know no one? I mean, it's definitely different! The Wellfleet off season is not the Wellfleet I know from the summer. The K-5 elementary school has 86 students (and only one class per grade). The restaurants are starting to close down. The local population in the winter is approximately 3000 people. It's going to get cold. And dark. And we are here alone - no family, no friends (as of yet). </p><p>But I think I need this. We need this. </p><p>Over the past six months, even though we've been having our fair share of fun, it was mostly out of the need to distract from reality. There was a lot of self medicating going on, and I will fully admit I've been drinking and eating way too much. My kids have been on screens more hours than I'm willing to share, and we've eaten take out for almost every meal. Bed times became non-existent. My husband and I lost each other a bit. My life became a series of diversions. What can I do to forget what is really going on? I became quite good at this, if I do say so myself.</p><p>But here in Wellfleet, in the off season, there are much fewer distractions. No friends, no trips, very few take out options (and soon to be none). I'm on day 5 of a <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/09/the-healthiest-18-days-of-my-life.html#.X2N7Y7bMxyk" target="_blank"><b>Whole 30</b></a> and have cut out alcohol. I'm back to exercising. I've started cooking. Here I am writing another blog post! And for the first time since March 13, we are getting into a routine. I get to drop two of my kids off at school, and pick them up. My older son follows a similar schedule, and around 3pm, when we all regroup, the kids get one hour to be on a screen and that's it. We eat at home. We go to bed. And every night, I'm filled with gratitude that we are all healthy, that we are all together, and that we are so fortunate to have the options we have. </p><p>I'm thankful for this reset.</p><p>When will we go back "home"? When will things be "normal"? I don't know. Nobody does. I've tried to embrace and lean into the uncertainty, because that's what 2020 is about. Uncertainty, anxiety, angst, dread, and above all, perserverance. Here's to rolling with the punches and facing it head on, for who knows how long.</p>But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-33950407128177165202020-04-14T13:14:00.001-04:002020-04-14T13:14:07.078-04:00The Things I MissI miss the gym, especially the camaraderie of doing the group fitness classes. Of sweating and seeing other people sweat and feeling like a rockstar for a brief moment when the class is done. I miss running on a treadmill and people watching and seeing my "gym" friends - people that hadn't necessarily crossed over into social friends. When this all ends, I'm going to make that happen. <br />
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I miss driving. Obviously I can still drive, but there isn't really anywhere to go except the grocery store. I miss driving downtown to do my mediations - with traffic, it was usually a 45 minute drive. I would listen to music the whole time and sing loudly and zone out and think about things. I miss waiting in the carpool line at school - that 25 minute forced solo time where I would play on my phone or call a friend or listen to more music. If I got there early enough, I could position myself at the front of the line and spy on the kids playing on the playground, occasionally finding one of my own children. I loved getting that brief secret view into their lives, when they didn't know I was watching. <br />
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I miss concerts. A few weeks before lockdown, I went to a <a href="http://www.whitefordbronco.com/"><b>White Ford Bronco</b></a> show - it's a DC based band that plays 90's music. I went with a group of 6 or so, three of my best friends and two of my oldest friends and my sister. I knew every single word to every song. When they played <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otXGqU4LBEI">"I Would Walk 500 Miles"</a> </b>by the Proclaimers, I jumped up and down and legit peed my pants. It was a result of too much to drink and a lack of bladder control after birthing three children. The next day we all laughed about it on a group text chain and made plans to go to another show in April, that wasn't to be. <br />
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I miss shuffling my kids to all of their various activities. I would often complain about our Saturdays, how my husband and I would have to divide and conquer and even at times get a babysitter to get the kids to where they needed to be - band performances and basketball games and soccer games and rock climbing. The truth is though, I liked being busy. I liked watching my kids have fun with their friends. I liked catching up with the other parents. I liked feeling like part of a community.<br />
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I miss childcare. Specifically, I miss Michele - I call her a babysitter, but really she's a member of our family. She has been watching my kids since Colin was born, six and a half years ago, and my kids ask for her daily. I joke at times that they like her better than me, and perhaps they do - she engages with them in a way that I don't often do myself- playing board games with them, getting on the floor with them, really being present. Way back when I started this blog, I wrote about <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2011/05/betty.html#.XpXob7bMxyk"><b>Betty</b></a>, my childhood nanny who I still love and adore. I always wanted to find a "Betty" for my kids, and somehow, by some miracle, I did. I know Michele will be in our lives for the long haul. But in the meantime, the kids miss her desperately. So do I. <br />
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I miss plans. People that know me often joke that I'm always over scheduled - I have weekend plans filled up for months out. But that's just how I roll - I love having things to look forward to and having game nights and making hard to get dinner reservations and planning trips. Oh, how I love planning trips. We were supposed to be in Japan at the end of March - a trip that had been in the works for years. We were supposed to go to Cape Cod for the summer. We were supposed to go to Spain (sans kids) in October. Maybe some of these trips will happen? I don't know. I'm not counting on it. <br />
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I miss my innocence. On March 11, three friends and I took an Amtrak up to Manhattan to see the taping of a podcast with <a href="http://thetownhall.org/event/alec-baldwins-heres-the-thing-live-with-andy-borowitz"><b>Andy Borowitz and Alec Baldwin</b></a>. About two hours into the trip, the show was cancelled. We were annoyed, but still determined to have a fun night, and we did. We went to dinner and a piano bar and stayed up way too late, making for a painful early morning train back to DC the next day. On the morning of March 13, I went to yoga. A few hours later, I got an email that my kids' school would be closed the following two weeks. The shit storm had begun. <br />
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I miss my kids' innocence. For the first couple of weeks, I think the kids looked at this as spring break. They sat on their iPads and watched a bunch of TV and seemed to be oblivious to the world collapsing outside of our house. But then distance learning started, and they realized something was different. And wrong. And the tears started. The questions. The anxiety. There is no doubt that this global event will have an impact on their lives, and there's not much I can do about that. And I hate that. I hate it so much. <br />
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I miss my friends. I miss them so much it hurts. I know how lucky I am to be with my family right now, to have them here and healthy and be safe. But it's not enough. I never realized how much I rely on my friends for happiness until now. And maybe that's not healthy? Who knows. But I want to see my friends and embrace them so tight and run away somewhere for a weekend. I want to get drunk and reminisce and cry happy tears that this is all over. I've been a zoom slut as of late, jumping from zoom to zoom (and once again, over scheduling myself), and that helps. But it's not enough. There's something about physical presence - some energy that you get from others - that just doesn't translate through a computer screen.<br />
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When this is over, I want to throw a party. A huge party. In our backyard. With a DJ and catering and the whole bit. I want all of my favorite people to be there. I want to fly people in. I want to celebrate freedom of movement and people being together in the same space. I want to grab everyone and hug them a little longer than would otherwise be socially acceptable.<br />
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I want to dance and pee my pants. <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-814521077299687682020-03-31T14:45:00.000-04:002020-03-31T14:45:50.585-04:00Two Rash Decisions When this all went down a few weeks ago, there was only one thing I was looking forward to, and that was relocating to our home in Wellfleet, Cape Cod to ride this thing out. If the kids didn't have school, and my husband and I didn't have to go into an office, why the hell not? Sure, it's cold up there now, and pretty much everything is closed, but it's just so beautiful there that none of that would have mattered. There are hikes to be had and beaches to walk and bike trails aplenty. I have gone there my whole life, and as I <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/07/my-happy-place.html"><b>wrote about</b></a> four or so years ago, it truly is my "happy place." Buying a home there a couple of years ago was a dream come true, and here we are, in this crazy, scary time, and we could make use of it. <br />
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But it wasn't to be. As the news came flooding in each day, it became clear that relocating to a small town with limited resources two hours away from a major hospital might not be the best thing. And, I also didn't want to be met with neighbors carrying pitchforks. <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/25/nyregion/coronavirus-leaving-nyc-vacation-homes.html"><b>For good reason</b>,</a> local residents in beach towns are urging second home owners, as well as tourists, to stay away. <br />
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This realization hit me Saturday morning, and a cloud of depression overtook me. If we couldn't go to Cape Cod, what was there to look forward to? <br />
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<u><b>Rash Decision #1- Get a Puppy</b></u><br />
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I know, I know. Getting a new dog should not be a rash decision. There should be extensive research on breed and breeders, and you should give it some time to really think it over. You should have family meetings about it and perhaps even seek out some expert advice on how it would affect your existing dog. (Yes, <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2011/10/forgotten-one.html"><b>Cous Cous</b></a> is still alive. Can you believe it???)<br />
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Around 10am on Saturday morning I began researching dogs, and by 1pm that day we had sent in a deposit. Our male labradoodle puppy, whom we hope to name Tater Tot (subject to the kids' approval), will come home with us on May 9 at the age of 8 weeks old. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEwTeG28cuhrRMT0bqD_O6y3FgeK3xWMuJmFDPTVCyDhJ98aDKlTdvOdYnuJrrcij5zBnr_e8kSIdyw9dw8UB-GKexnl2QVLpyCxy4qu7qYlmbT8Jg-3wuPGtHdXWtjKyelUT1um-aHTE/s1600/IMG_5416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHEwTeG28cuhrRMT0bqD_O6y3FgeK3xWMuJmFDPTVCyDhJ98aDKlTdvOdYnuJrrcij5zBnr_e8kSIdyw9dw8UB-GKexnl2QVLpyCxy4qu7qYlmbT8Jg-3wuPGtHdXWtjKyelUT1um-aHTE/s640/IMG_5416.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I actually don't even know which one is ours.</td></tr>
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My husband was somewhat onboard. My kids were overall indifferent. After I pled with all of them that I needed this for my sanity, they acquiesced. And yes, I know how much work a puppy is, and yes I know he will be waking me up at night, and yes I know that this will just complicate my already (normally) hectic, chaotic life, BUT JUST LET ME MAKE A RASH DECISION AND BE EXCITED ABOUT IT. <br />
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I am so excited for this puppy. And having something to be excited for in the short term is huge right now. HUGE. I've been in a better mood ever since. <br />
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<b><u>Rash Decision #2 - Order an Inflatable Hot Tub</u></b><br />
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The excitement about the puppy definitely brought some joy, but I still have to wait a whole 40 days for him. So yesterday, after receiving a picture from a college friend of mine of a similar purchase, I threw some money at the problem and ordered an inflatable hot tub. It's going to look like this: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfmXK_IsuLapgX1tuPBKKOtkJY3NA4kelJmWhLreGgN0cmATPntsq7QrbJr_Of9fwQLNoTna_zjGq4KwAwIymod7-DWwY0U4MxlWQo-Q9dnqhh8NbyFK17okfgHNEyEgQDlupotJH4OE8/s1600/Unknown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfmXK_IsuLapgX1tuPBKKOtkJY3NA4kelJmWhLreGgN0cmATPntsq7QrbJr_Of9fwQLNoTna_zjGq4KwAwIymod7-DWwY0U4MxlWQo-Q9dnqhh8NbyFK17okfgHNEyEgQDlupotJH4OE8/s1600/Unknown.jpg" /></a></div>
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It's ugly. SO SO ugly. And God knows how it works and how many rashes or infections we will acquire from it. BUT I DON'T CARE. I actually really want to put it in the front yard. Because how funny would that be? With all these people taking walks every night, and they walk past our house and there is this trashy inflatable hot tub in the front? And we can sit in it with cocktails and wave at the passerby and know that while they are quietly judging us, they are secretly jealous. Wouldn't you be? <br />
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Then my sister in law reminded me that it would probably be a liability in that someone could fall in and drown, with it not being fenced in and all. Damn. It will go in our fenced in backyard.<br />
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I'm not sure this will bring as much joy as the puppy, but it will be lower maintenance and arrives much sooner - this Thursday. <br />
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In these trying times, I'm a firm believer in relaxing your internal rules and expectations. Buy something ridiculous. Drink what you want. Eat all the brownies. Watch all the screens. Someday things will get back to normal. Until then, I'll have my new puppy and unsightly hot tub to get me through. <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-20959564715242796022020-03-25T15:44:00.001-04:002020-03-25T15:44:33.060-04:00It's Not a Silver Lining - It's a RevolutionI have an acupuncturist that doubles as a therapist. Let me explain. <div>
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Her appointments are approximately 90 minutes. For the first 45 minutes, you talk to her. Like a therapist. For the second 45 minutes, you lie on a bed with needles all over your body, the location of which I presume is based on your conversation with her. I'm not sure, because I've never asked. </div>
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One of my closest friends had been seeing her for years, and had been trying to convince me to go, but I was hesitant. I've done therapy, and I wasn't particularly in need of more at the time (little did I know). And I'd much rather get a massage than lie on a bed with needles in me for 45+ minutes. To me, that just sounded boring. </div>
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But it was one of my 2020 resolutions to try new things, and so I made an appointment. The appointments take place in her home, in one of two rooms she has set up with two chairs, and then the bed for the acupuncture. The first session was standard and not particularly noteworthy. The first 45 minute "talk" session was slightly awkward, and I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to talk to her about. I gave her a general overview of my life history, and when she asked why I was there, I was stumped. I actually wasn't sure why I was there, or what it is I wanted to get out the whole thing. I think I muttered something unauthentic and generic like "anxiety" and "trouble sleeping." Which doesn't make me all that different than the rest of the population. </div>
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She put the needles in and I laid there for 45 minutes and that was it. I went on with my day. And then something weird happened. </div>
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I started getting anxious. Super anxious. And I hadn't even been anxious prior to the appointment! I had just said "anxiety" as a BS answer that seemed explanatory enough for why I showed up at this woman's home for therapy and acupuncture. And over the next few days, it got worse. This general feeling of unease and disorientation as to what the fuck was happening to me. I would start crying at odd times. My heart would start racing which was only exacerbated by the heart monitor on my Apple watch, which would actually provide evidence that it was doing just that. And in a cruel twist of fate, I started having trouble sleeping. Go figure.</div>
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By the time I ended up back in her home the following week for my second treatment, I was a blubbering mess. A crying, blubbering mess. The kind of cry where you are crying so hard you have to cover up your face with your hands because you're embarrassed about the ugly contortions your face is making. </div>
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She didn't seem surprised. Instead, she seemed pleased, and said something like: <i>This means the treatments are working. Your heart is starting to open. This is part of the process. </i></div>
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I didn't take solace in that, and I couldn't even pinpoint what it was I was sobbing hysterically about. But in retrospect, I think I was just really scared. Because something was shifting, or at least beginning to shift. </div>
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She gave me a tissue to hold while I went through the second part of the session, the lying with the needles. And I needed the tissue. I cried for 45 minutes straight, by myself, on the heated table on the second floor of this stranger's home. It sounds strange, but it was this weird, poignant moment. And it felt good. Being in a room, by myself, lying down, and just letting the tears fall. Even if I didn't know what they were about. </div>
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After that I felt lighter. Better. Hopeful. The anxiety symptoms went away abruptly (though they would eventually return, intermittently). I just felt at peace. </div>
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This was in January, and I have gone back every week since. </div>
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I don't know what it is this woman does, but it's something that taps into something deep. I've had various groundbreaking revelations in my talks with her - more so than I've ever had with any therapist. I'm not going to go into detail about those revelations at the moment, because I'm still processing them myself. But suffice it to say that I always feel good after my appointments with her - ALWAYS. </div>
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I think she came into my life at the exact perfect time. I was ready. </div>
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She isn't doing sessions at her house anymore, for obvious reasons coronavirus related. And when the world basically shut down, not being able to see her was one of my biggest sources of sadness and disappointment. I mean, how can you do acupuncture virtually? </div>
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<br /></div>
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You can't, but you can talk virtually. And since that was half of our time together anyway, I jumped at the chance to continue working with her doing phone appointments. My first one was today. </div>
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Suffice it to say, I feel lighter. Better. Hopeful. </div>
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I was discussing with her some of the silver linings of this whole mess. The fact that I'm spending more time outside. That we are doing more family dinners together. That I'm face timing people I haven't spoken to in years. That I'm texting less and talking on the phone more. That I'm feeling gratitude for small things - for pizza delivery and outdoor workouts and good music and the fact that my kids still like to cuddle with me. That yesterday, while driving home from an outdoor workout, I had an overwhelming urge to write on this blog again and did just that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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She listened to me for a while, and then she said: <i>It's not a silver lining - it's a revolution. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
What an absolutely perfect thing to say. And how true. </div>
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I truly believe that the ramifications of this weird world we are living in - this scary reality - will be long lasting. And maybe they will be good ones. Having your world turned upside down, and having everyone you know have a similar experience, changes you, and will change the way we operate. Why do I text friends instead of talking on the phone? Why don't I always schedule a couple of hours a day to enjoy the fresh air? Why am I so afraid to reach out to people I haven't talked to in a while? Why don't we do more family movie nights? Why didn't I ever hike the Billy Goat trail, when it's only a couple of miles from my house? Why don't we always eat dinner on our back deck, just the five of us, when it's nice out? Why did I find the idea of spending just one entire day at home, without leaving, such an awful prospect? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I, like many of us, have largely been "fed from the outside" (her words) in order to find contentment and satisfaction. I thrived on being busy. On going out. On being out. On consuming. What do we do when that outside has been taken away? </div>
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That is all of our challenge, I think. And it truly is a revolution. </div>
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But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-40064877249837456482020-03-24T12:21:00.000-04:002020-03-24T12:58:04.825-04:00I Used to Write a BlogFor six years or so, I wrote a blog, on a pretty regular basis. Over the years more and more people started reading it, and on occasion I would get recognized when I was out which was surreal and awesome. I LOVED that people read it, not because I wanted to be famous or well known (I mean, not that many people read it), but because it made me feel connected to something at a time when I was feeling really alone - stuck at home, changing diapers, dealing with postpartum anxiety, raising three children, trying to find my identity. Writing into the internet void, and knowing someone out there was reading what I wrote, and maybe related in some way, made me feel part of something bigger than myself. I needed that then, so much. It saved me really. <br />
<br />
Then the children got older. And Donald Trump was elected. I'm not sure why these two scenarios resulted in my abandoning my blog altogether, but a day came when I was just done with it. Where it felt like a duty and not a joy, and just another thing on my plate. I felt somewhat empowered by my choice to stop writing, like I was really taking charge of my life and doing what it is I needed, as opposed to what others wanted from me. I never wrote a "goodbye" post, because I wanted to keep the option open to return, once I had the urge to write again. And then a couple years passed by, and I never had the urge. <br />
<br />
For me, my desire to write goes in cycles, which tend to last a few years. I've heard a lot of writers say this (and no, I don't consider myself a real "writer," yet). When its there its strong and I can bang something out without even editing it. It comes from somewhere deep and vulnerable and honest. <br />
<br />
But the last couple years of this blog I wasn't really being honest anymore. I was trying to be funny and witty and write about things I thought people wanted me to write about. As my kids got older, I stopped being as vulnerable, worried that they would someday actually read the things I wrote. And with the election, and the general state of the world, I didn't want to go deep anymore. I just wanted to keep things surface level. Maybe it was a survival tactic, or maybe it's just what I needed at that time in my life. <br />
<br />
I have been skating along the past couple of years, and I've actually been really happy. Having come up for air from the baby stages, I made a lot of friends and have had a really active social life. I turned 40. I traveled a lot - to London, Italy, India, Costa Rica, and almost to Japan (where I am supposed to be right now - a topic for another post). We built a house in Cape Cod and spend our summers there now. I spent two years serving on the Executive Committee of our school's Parent Association. Marijuana was legalized and I took full advantage. I got in the best shape of my life and continue to go to the gym daily. I recently completed training in child custody mediation, and I've been working for the DC courts doing just that. <br />
<br />
It's been all good. But it's been surface. <br />
<br />
Then, in 2020, things got deep. <br />
<br />
Way before this global pandemic, by the way. It got deep early in January. I can't pinpoint why, and the term "midlife crisis" is so cliche, but I think that's what it was. My anxiety came back. I bought a pack of cigarettes (just one. I promise). I began questioning my place in the world and what my purpose was and what the hell I was going to do with my life. I signed up for a novel writing class (which I quit, when I realized my novel sucked. Absolutely sucked). I started getting acupuncture and found a new therapist who I was seeing two times a week. I started meditating daily (way harder than it sounds). 2020 was already a really weird year. <br />
<br />
And now.... It's crazy fucked up. For everyone. <br />
<br />
Ironically, I find myself in similar situation to when I started this blog nine long years ago. Lonely, stuck at home, dealing with anxiety, trying to find my identity, writing into the internet void searching for some kind of connection. The things I have used to distract myself these past few years - friends, the gym, volunteering, work - those have all been taken away from me in the midst of this coronavirus pandemic. Quarantines and social distancing and the dread of waking up in the morning to read the news. It's a crazy time to be alive. <br />
<br />
For better or worse, I'm ready to go deep again. I'm ready to start writing again. So if anyone out there is still reading, Hello! It's been a while. <br />
<br />
<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-44163134873229511562017-02-03T11:00:00.001-05:002018-09-06T21:41:39.758-04:00A 72 Hour Case Study of How Bizarre it is to Live in DC These Days<u><b><br /></b></u>
<u><b>Day 1 - Sunday, 1/29</b></u><br />
<u><br /></u>
It started last Saturday night. The Muslim ban. Or whatever you want to call it. Unless your head has been completely buried in the sand (in which case, I wouldn't completely blame you), you know about it. And if you agree with it, then you can stop reading. Because I am not going to attempt to change your mind, and honestly, if that's where you're at, you probably shouldn't be reading my blog. We probably wouldn't be friends in real life. <br />
<br />
Five year olds <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/white-house-five-year-old-boy-detained-dulles-international-airport-hours-sean-spicer-pose-security-a7554521.html"><b>in handcuffs</b></a>? Green card holders <a href="http://www.latimes.com/politics/washington/la-na-trailguide-updates-unknown-number-of-u-s-permanent-1485627539-htmlstory.html"><b>stuck overseas</b></a>? Mothers separated from their <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/immigration-ban-separates-breastfeeding-11-month-old-from-mother-for-hours-at-airport/"><b>nursing infants</b></a>? And an American immigration policy based completely<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/02/opinion/an-apology-to-muslims-for-president-trump.html"> <b>on prejudice</b></a>?<br />
<br />
There really should be no debate here. <br />
<br />
In any event, I was a tad distraught over this. Freaked out. Twilight zone kind of stuff. When I woke up on Sunday morning, I wanted to do something. So I went to the second march of my life (the first one being <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2017/01/i-mourned-and-then-i-marched.html" style="font-weight: bold;">one week prior</a>), organized on a day's notice in direct response to the Muslim Ban. And this time, I brought the whole family. <br />
<br />
I didn't bring my family to the women's march, and I'm glad I didn't. It was crowded and hectic and I didn't want to have to worry about all of the things that young kids require - bathroom breaks, snacks, general entertainment. But this march was more about solidarity than a day downtown. I told my hesitant husband that it didn't matter how long we stayed - I just wanted the kids to go. To see it. And to understand what is happening, and why it is important that we take a stand. <br />
<br />
And so the kids made signs. I told them they could write whatever they wanted. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZnZ3i3XhepUVjs-5sPDuoJ_VZSuJQ_cbsY7qAiqgZbBQHOqj6tca4YrJkYRmeZCSDYUvo3gN3ZKyFyLF6qhCRmbfpr18Yo0-nT45Xep5viZvGH-f6npaV3Cfdab9pNGdZeZ9WtvwrR43/s1600/IMG_8237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZnZ3i3XhepUVjs-5sPDuoJ_VZSuJQ_cbsY7qAiqgZbBQHOqj6tca4YrJkYRmeZCSDYUvo3gN3ZKyFyLF6qhCRmbfpr18Yo0-nT45Xep5viZvGH-f6npaV3Cfdab9pNGdZeZ9WtvwrR43/s640/IMG_8237.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I couldn't have said it better myself. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-xD_bxNzOetslu1frykyyNscSdd5PAnRQ8LRVu9HpNwM_Rqnwm2ixaA9lcIEmqAgVe-dTLqMmZOT1NsBacOUPUknLhrpWkviOcHerKhTTTHqVlxiBb1DqiBVxCNk3pxZYWvTX56c9qit/s1600/IMG_8317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-xD_bxNzOetslu1frykyyNscSdd5PAnRQ8LRVu9HpNwM_Rqnwm2ixaA9lcIEmqAgVe-dTLqMmZOT1NsBacOUPUknLhrpWkviOcHerKhTTTHqVlxiBb1DqiBVxCNk3pxZYWvTX56c9qit/s640/IMG_8317.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most poignant sign of the day.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zMumUBYaPCggabQ4Zm5mfUu_FxLFYmKfr7gutNaVi5RyCVqr7a005JjrlnhF524Yuxz3RIx30qVELHkqA677OQlAv0XJ1eaE3nCbfvh_eSYNpoc-um6uhawZHMB7_G4nL0EeFoxXs2RX/s1600/IMG_8318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zMumUBYaPCggabQ4Zm5mfUu_FxLFYmKfr7gutNaVi5RyCVqr7a005JjrlnhF524Yuxz3RIx30qVELHkqA677OQlAv0XJ1eaE3nCbfvh_eSYNpoc-um6uhawZHMB7_G4nL0EeFoxXs2RX/s640/IMG_8318.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A proud mom. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNB4aAKNQ9MZVtGru69CCzhMMGPtZmQHJXrWf5_lHuhsNjhCAijlYWV_nrAj7uUOazszuGIU-36ZU3QeoWLqw97TWNnKk4l2Me9KkS9qaPKeOSVbuVCT1JVpIiFNe2dvadkM7zBTsD5dNr/s1600/IMG_8257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNB4aAKNQ9MZVtGru69CCzhMMGPtZmQHJXrWf5_lHuhsNjhCAijlYWV_nrAj7uUOazszuGIU-36ZU3QeoWLqw97TWNnKk4l2Me9KkS9qaPKeOSVbuVCT1JVpIiFNe2dvadkM7zBTsD5dNr/s640/IMG_8257.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casey on the shoulders of our dear friend - who happens to be an immigrant from Iran.</td></tr>
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We made it about a half an hour before the kids started to get restless and ask to leave. And so we did. But for the half hour we were there, I never once felt unsafe or nervous for the safety of my children. As with the women's march, the crowd was peaceful, kind, and supportive. We chanted in solidarity and I left feeling a bit better than I had when I woke up that morning. <br />
<br />
And then we returned to the Bethesda suburbs and continued on with our privileged Sunday evening, of swim meets and meals out and watching Homeland, while the world around us continued to unravel.<br />
<br />
<u><b>Day 2 - Monday, 1/30</b></u><br />
<u><br /></u>
I was still reeling from the day before, but I was very much looking forward to my Monday evening plans. As part of the perks of being a blogger, I was invited to a screening of <b><a href="http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/gender-revolution-a-journey-with-katie-couric/">Gender Revolution</a>:</b> A Journey with Katie Couric, at the National Geographic Headquarters in DC. The documentary looks at the complexities of gender, transgender issues, and gender identity. It was to be followed by a Q&A panel with documentary participants, including Katie Couric herself. I invited my dear friend, Valerie, who is a policy wonk when it comes to public policy and gender. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkD4gyJkfbYxz8HHyyqHNi6Kfz_bqQRNsza6Cuw0OZgJlBRI8PhHnAMwtGaD5fG-Pie4Sp9mkeFTvhrZct74u50xZ3Loe27457ve4bRIeTWtyZHLgtJaQ4fTdQ2azr3TQgBag3KGQ-6Pa/s1600/IMG_8267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkD4gyJkfbYxz8HHyyqHNi6Kfz_bqQRNsza6Cuw0OZgJlBRI8PhHnAMwtGaD5fG-Pie4Sp9mkeFTvhrZct74u50xZ3Loe27457ve4bRIeTWtyZHLgtJaQ4fTdQ2azr3TQgBag3KGQ-6Pa/s640/IMG_8267.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We clean up well. </td></tr>
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In an effort to <strike>escape the witching hour with my children</strike> get downtown with ample time, I met my friend Valerie beforehand at a fancy shmancy hotel bar at the Jefferson. I had just ordered my first glass of bubbly, when I glanced over at the table next to me, and who was it? None other than Katie Couric herself. <br />
<br />
Us native Washingtonians know better than to approach a "celebrity" in public places, as politicians and the like are a dime a dozen in these parts. So I played it cool and pretended I had way better things to do than try to eavesdrop or catch an extra glimpse. But by the time I got to the reception at National Geographic and had <strike>gotten a little tipsy</strike> gained some confidence, I asked her for a selfie, and she obliged. <br />
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<br />
As cool as it was to meet Katie Couric, that was the superficial part of the evening. The real depth came from the documentary itself, which explored the lives of transgendered individuals, and what they face. I was inspired by stories of parents of transgendered children, who have embraced them wholeheartedly, of transgendered youth speaking out for their rights, and of the bravery exhibited by this marginalized and misunderstood segment of society. The evening was about acceptance and love and having an open mind, and I think pretty much everyone in the audience was moved to tears at some point in the evening. <br />
<br />
With the depression of the days that had passed since January 20th, it was refreshing. If you need your faith in humanity restored a bit, I highly recommend watching it when it premieres on February 6, on NatGeo. <br />
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<u><b>Day 3 - Tuesday, 1/31</b></u><br />
<br />
My husband and I are notorious for going to random concerts. Richard Marx, Lionel Ritchie, and Neil Diamond, are a few of the gems that <strike>my husband has dragged me to</strike> we have attended recently. But we were both on board when we bought tickets to see Five For Fighting at the <a href="http://www.birchmere.com/"><b>Birchmere</b></a>, a small concert venue in Alexandria, VA, with no assigned seats and table service. Five For Fighting sings one of my favorite songs of all time - World. <br />
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<br />
<br />
It was supposed to be a random, fun night, for my husband and I to drink wine and eat some nachos. Then, two things happened:<br />
<br />
1) In September of 2015, when I was just coming off of my<b> </b><a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/09/the-healthiest-18-days-of-my-life.html" style="font-weight: bold;">this crazy, Whole 30 diet</a>, I broke my sobriety with another Five For Fighting concert at the Birchmere. And unfortunately, in my tipsy state at the end of the night, my arm knocked a glass of water and it spilled all over the lap of the woman sitting across from me. It was one of those shameful, shameful moments that an apology would never suffice to fix, and you live with it and cringe at the memory, but are thankful for the anonymity of the world. <br />
<br />
I shit you not. THIS SAME COUPLE WAS THERE ON TUESDAY. SITTING AT THE TABLE NEXT TO US. <br />
<br />
I locked eyes with the woman. And just like that. She remembered. I remembered. And the shame flushed over me again, 18 months later. <br />
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In addition to shame, I also found this to be absolutely hysterical. I mean, who spills water over a random woman, and then sees them at the same place again, over a year later? I proceeded to text all of my friends all over the world the story, thinking it was going to be the big story of the evening. <br />
<br />
BUT I WAS WRONG. <br />
<br />
2) About 5 minutes before the concert started, a party of 6 sat at the table behind us that had been marked "Reserved." I took a quick glance and then a double take, grabbed my husband's leg, and proclaimed: <br />
<br />
<i>That's Betsy DeVos at the table behind us. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My husband smirked, assuming that it was yet another instance of false identification, which I am known for. He took an unassuming glance. <br />
<br />
<i>Holy shit. That is Betsy DeVos. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
BETSY DEVOS WAS SITTING AT THE TABLE NEXT TO US. <br />
<br />
I'm not going to go all crazy political on here. But suffice it to say that I loathe Betsy DeVos. LOATHE. I think she is the most unqualified person to ever be nominated for a cabinet position and would absolutely ruin the public school system in our country. I feel so strongly about it that I had spent the bulk of my afternoon reading about her and getting all fired up about it. <br />
<br />
And what are the odds, there she was.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apologies for picture quality. I was trying to be conspicuous.</td></tr>
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I don't mean to be melodramatic, but this woman literally ruined my night. <br />
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I could <i>feel </i>her behind me. And since I could feel her, I couldn't escape the nightmare that is reality right now. Five For Fighting was singing about oceans and love and riddles and all I could think about was Donald Trump and the Muslim Ban and the transgender community from the documentary the night prior that he is going to screw over. And I periodically would look back at her, wondering - <i>Does she actually think this is normal? Is this really what she wants? Is she a rational human being? </i><br />
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I was waiting for the band to play my favorite song, and they saved it for last. I was looking forward to being lost in the music, and then it came. <br />
<br />
John Ondrasik, the singer, dedicated the song - MY FAVORITE SONG OF ALL TIME - to his old friends "Betsy and Dick," and thanked them for their service.<br />
<br />
The audience applauded. I booed. <br />
<br />
And then he sang the song. <br />
<br />
Look, everyone is entitled to their opinion. I have since found out that John Ondrasik is a die hard Republican, and that's cool and all. <br />
<br />
But now my favorite song is tainted. Forever. I will never again hear the song "World" without thinking of Betsy DeVos. And that just sucks. <br />
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CASE STUDY OVER. <br />
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<u><br /></u>But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-195374481151704552017-01-23T10:37:00.000-05:002018-09-06T21:41:39.211-04:00I Mourned, and Then I MarchedThe last time I wrote a post on my blog it was three days after the election. I was depressed and angry and in a general funk and it was rainy all damn week. I stopped watching the news. I drank too much wine. And I broke down crying in a Whole Foods parking lot for no apparent reason other than the depressing state of the world. <br />
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And then life returned to normal, with school pick ups and swim practices and the holidays. I subscribed to all sorts of Facebook pages that gave me numbers to call, movements to join, and checklists to go through to take a stand, send a message, and affect some kind of change. And I did do some of those things, which made me feel better. My depression lifted and turned to a solemn acceptance. I still refused to watch the news, but would click on the occasional news clip on my Facebook feed, in between reading narratives from Pantsuit Nation. Watching Saturday Night Live each week became a religious, cathartic experience (and it still is - did you see <b><a href="https://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/aziz-ansari-standup-monologue/3457923?snl=1">Aziz Ansari's monologue</a> </b>this week?).<br />
<br />
I had heard about the Women's March from its inception, and I always had plans to attend. It seemed like a simple thing to do to get more involved, and it happens to be in the city I call home. But as the march approached, and I started thinking about logistics, I have to say I had some second thoughts. I worried about the crowds. I worried about how I would get downtown, and how I would get home. I worried about terrorism. I wondered if it was worth any kind of risk to go, because after all, I am only one person. What difference would it make if I went or not? <br />
<br />
Ultimately I put those fears aside and on Saturday morning, I dressed up in my gear. Maybe it was because of peer pressure, or of shame of not going. Maybe it was because my father still glows with pride <a href="http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/NC/20130827/News/605044359/WM/"><b>when he recalls when he participated in the March on Washington</b></a> in 1963. But mostly, it's because I wanted my children to know that I went. That there are things bigger than us, and that there are times in life where we have to take a stand. They don't yet understand what is going on in our country right now, but when they do, I want them to remember that their mother knew that is was <i>not</i> okay.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9e8WZxP-IwMDaTdcR57H3GaS5mY7LFm9QDaO7dfmaF5nRWWqnQJ4i2mlGYyfabiy_2nYST74gYJgL567d0Yy5N9u0QzfHTTNnIYl14CGEsqEYeH_rdehj0NyesgD0XhDpwDKK2YbJPgw/s1600/IMG_8161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9e8WZxP-IwMDaTdcR57H3GaS5mY7LFm9QDaO7dfmaF5nRWWqnQJ4i2mlGYyfabiy_2nYST74gYJgL567d0Yy5N9u0QzfHTTNnIYl14CGEsqEYeH_rdehj0NyesgD0XhDpwDKK2YbJPgw/s640/IMG_8161.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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I had made plans to meet up with a few friends as part of the <a href="https://momsdemandaction.org/"><b>Moms Demand Action</b></a> Group, a group that advocates for gun sense and gun control. We met at the Woodley Park Metro at 8:30 am, and I could tell already that this was going to be a big day. There was a buzz, a sense of excitement, and I even got a cool hat that made me look a bit like Waldo. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86oYP-0XrTsVe_K8v78lJQA49LSpJtyjK1DCziqquNqX2naSSVzF3pHuOfkyqH09nl8WzZ5LEw9JBE2HYE4yU_zig99YWffk0n4AtObUQ60vxBzDADpPQh85hmG_RUG2XyRMqWHzrqsmO/s1600/IMG_8164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86oYP-0XrTsVe_K8v78lJQA49LSpJtyjK1DCziqquNqX2naSSVzF3pHuOfkyqH09nl8WzZ5LEw9JBE2HYE4yU_zig99YWffk0n4AtObUQ60vxBzDADpPQh85hmG_RUG2XyRMqWHzrqsmO/s640/IMG_8164.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<br />
There was also a crowd. A huge crowd. So huge, that by the time we got downstairs to get on the metro, it was closed. It was at full capacity. At that point, we started weighing our options. Bus? Uber? Walk? We did a combination, and ultimately made it downtown by around 10am when the speakers were scheduled to start. <br />
<br />
I don't know what I expected. I truly don't. I guess I thought it would be similar to an outdoor concert venue? <br />
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It wasn't. <br />
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It. Was. Jam. Packed.<br />
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This was my view when we first joined the crowd, and it doesn't do it justice: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMRGYRRvwdFtgHUXI-jtkaAqaHcIAFPHwXMclcfYzI7Y-ObRl6O9M2ghXqaeoeLSWsS_2Qkxbpo9IqgCi6ZGk1OOOuynu_RkoajIblDb67ujJTvhHYNyn5Q7kvhPKN8c0Jw-vb9fcdfuaV/s1600/IMG_8176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMRGYRRvwdFtgHUXI-jtkaAqaHcIAFPHwXMclcfYzI7Y-ObRl6O9M2ghXqaeoeLSWsS_2Qkxbpo9IqgCi6ZGk1OOOuynu_RkoajIblDb67ujJTvhHYNyn5Q7kvhPKN8c0Jw-vb9fcdfuaV/s640/IMG_8176.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<br />
So let me poach from CNN for a much better photo:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEges24bVhs_Uy_JhZ6WQSBTaXIB3652U7oRCb1DTdth3StR_WqQ8aOBi0agMhDdHdGm-usN6RQX4MAf4IlmyVZvIsKEqM61g36IovqDY1sqtXTa9pb5H4ZCdG12GglWwRqRCkKrpI1JMoLL/s1600/aerial+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEges24bVhs_Uy_JhZ6WQSBTaXIB3652U7oRCb1DTdth3StR_WqQ8aOBi0agMhDdHdGm-usN6RQX4MAf4IlmyVZvIsKEqM61g36IovqDY1sqtXTa9pb5H4ZCdG12GglWwRqRCkKrpI1JMoLL/s640/aerial+view.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It was so crowded it was hard to orient myself. What street was I on (still not sure)? Where was the stage (I never saw it)? Where was the screen (I managed to see the smallest slice of one eventually, obstructed by a tree)? Where were the porta potties (I never used one)? Where was the exit, should I want to get out (good luck with that)? <br />
<br />
I'm not going to lie - I had an internal fight with my mild claustrophobia for a few minutes there. <br />
<br />
But then I relaxed into it, and took it all in. And I started to get intermittent chills - not from the cold, but from the energy, the love, and the power of it all. <br />
<br />
One thing that struck me almost immediately was how nice everyone was. <i>Everyone was so nice. </i>If this was a concert or sports event or any other crowd, and people were trying to weave in and out, stepping on toes and rubbing elbows, you can bet that there would be curse words flying around. Or at least some dirty looks. But not so - people were kind, helpful, and friendly. We struck up conversations with people around us in each corner we ended up in, and learned that most people came from far away. We met people that flew in from California, from Ohio, from New York, from Florida. <br />
<br />
There were old people and young people. There were women <i>and</i> men. There were black people and transgendered people and Muslims and people in wheelchairs and privileged white women like myself and we all just hung there together. We all applauded for the same things - for acceptance, for Planned Parenthood, for immigrants, for our environment, for black lives, for health care, for religious freedom, for free speech, and for each other. <br />
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There was such a camaraderie, and it wasn't about anger. Sure, there were some boo's when our current President, and his policy agenda, were mentioned. But it was more about love. About cheering. About a movement of people who are going to look out for each other. About peaceful protest - I never once felt unsafe, not once. And how incredible that with all of those people - estimates are at over 500,000 people at the DC march- not a single person was arrested. <br />
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Saying that this is what democracy is all about is a cliche, but I felt it, especially at the most surreal moment of the day. After not eating or drinking for about 6 hours (note to self, pack lunch next time), my friends and I stopped in the Willard Hotel hoping to get something to eat and a glass of bubbly. Unfortunately it was packed to capacity and they weren't allowing anyone into the restaurant, so my friends and I found a couch to sit on in the lobby to rest for a brief moment. Sitting with us on the couch was an older man with a "Make America Great Again" hat. <br />
<br />
Until that moment, I had forgotten that there had actually been an inauguration the day before, and that many people staying at the Willard Hotel were there for the event. This particular man was waiting for a car to arrive to take him to the airport to go home. We exchanged some niceties ("Do you mind if we sit here?" "How is it outside?"), and then we were on our way. <br />
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I didn't feel any hostility towards that man, and I didn't feel any coming from him, notwithstanding how differently we felt about the state of our country. He cared enough to fly into town for the inauguration. And I cared enough to spend my day in a massive crowd on the National Mall. <br />
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But at the end of the day, don't we have more in common than not? Don't we all just want to be happy, to be healthy, to be respected, to protect our families, and to live in peace? We disagree on how to get there. But I have to believe that if we can come together with an open mind, we can all march together with a unified goal. <br />
<br />
One of best speakers of the day was Van Jones (can someone please convince him to run for office?). When talking about reconciling our differences, he said: <br />
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When it gets harder to love, let's love harder. <br />
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And that's what the march left me with - a whole lot of love. And hope. I watched the news yesterday, albeit briefly. And I didn't get angry. I looked at the aerial views of the hundreds of cities around the world participating in the march, and I felt a solidarity with strangers, which is a pretty awesome feeling. <br />
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In the meantime, I return to my normal suburban life, but I'm spicing it up a bit and getting more involved. The People's Climate March is on April 29th here in DC. Who's with me? <br />
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***************************************************************************<br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-45341383176898161952016-11-11T11:32:00.003-05:002018-09-06T21:41:39.833-04:00My Bubble Has BurstIt was going to be a magical night - literally, and figuratively. Our last night in Disney World, we had plans to go to the "Very Merry Christmas Party" at the Magic Kingdom. The lines were short and the mood was festive and we even caught the end of the Christmas parade. <br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
A bottle of bubbly was chilling back in our hotel refrigerator, waiting to be uncorked when it was announced at some point that evening that Hillary Clinton would be the first female President of the United States. It would be a historic event that I would share with my family, and with dear friends who were also on the trip with us. </div>
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I was on the boat back to our hotel when I got the text from my best friend asking if I had seen the news. <i>What news? </i>I responded. <i>That Trump may take Michigan and Wisconsin. </i>It was then that I knew something was going very wrong. I was educated during this election cycle, and I knew the swing states and what that meant. If he had Michigan and Wisconsin, then there was a good chance he would take Pennsylvania and Ohio. And a few others. And I was right. </div>
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<div>
The whole thing happened so fast. I broke out the bubbly, but only because I needed a drink to watch the news unfold. Hours earlier, the news media was so sure of her win. By the time I turned on the TV back in my hotel room, you could see the writing on the wall from the way John King was talking. And when Vance Jones gave him impassioned, impromptu speech about what he termed the "Whitelash," I shed my first tear of the evening. It wouldn't be my last. </div>
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I'm the first to admit that I have a love affair with the Clintons. It began back in 1992, when for the first time in my life, I become fascinated by politics. I was from a liberal, Democrat family in the heart of suburban Cincinnati, and the majority of my friends' parents were voting Republican. I was 13 and awkward and not the most popular girl in school, and in some ways it filled a void for me. I recorded the debates, and the inauguration, and I vowed to be President someday. Or at least work in politics, for someone like Bill Clinton. <br />
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Seven years later I would follow that path straight to the White House as a summer intern, but by that point, it wasn't Bill Clinton that I wanted to work for. It was his wife. When I filled out my assignment preferences, my first pick was "Office of the First Lady." I can't pinpoint why, but over the years, the subject of my admiration had moved from the President to her. I respected her intellect, her passion, her tenacity, and the fact that she had withstood more public criticism and shame than any other public figure I had seen in my lifetime. There was talk that she would run for Senate, and if she did, I wanted on the bandwagon.<br />
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I had hoped that my White House internship would be a life changing experience, but admittedly, it wasn't. I felt like a fish out of water in Washington. I didn't know anybody, and I didn't know how to respond to the namedropping and ladder climbing and manipulation that went on, even amongst the interns. It scared me, frankly, and instead of rising to the occasion and getting back in there after my college graduation, I cowered. I moved to England for two years. And then I went to law school. And the rest is history. <br />
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During my days in law school, and even more so when I started my first big law job at Skadden Arps, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't constantly questioning my direction. Why had I abandoned my political aspirations? Why wasn't I in DC, working for something I felt passionately about? Working for Senator Clinton? Or at least trying to? I don't know the answer. Perhaps it was fear, risk aversion, a sense that that ship had sailed on without me, and that I was in too deep to a different career. I felt lost. In any event, once I had my children the decision was easy - I would be a stay at home mom and leave a job I was never passionate about in the first place. <br />
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<br />
In the aftermath of the election, there's been a lot of talk about bubbles. And my God, do I live in one. Half of the American people voted for Donald Trump, and I can honestly say that I only know two of them. I live in Bethesda, Maryland, right on the outskirts of DC. In DC proper, Hillary Clinton received 93% of the vote. In my county in Maryland, she received 76% of the vote. I don't know a single person in the DC or Maryland area that voted for Trump - at least, they wouldn't admit it if they did. And I suppose I don't blame them - in my community, admitting such a fact would be shameful. Myself, and those around me, viewed Trump as racist, sexist, ignorant, and dangerous. If people disagreed, they didn't make it known. <br />
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In Bethesda I live amongst the 1%, and I am one of them myself. I live in a new construction home in a nice neighborhood. We send our three kids to private schools, and have access to excellent healthcare. I was in the incredible position to be able to quit my job and stay at home with my kids when they were young. Someone comes and cleans our house once a week. There is an expectation that my kids will go to good colleges and get good jobs. <br />
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It's hard to remind myself of how lucky we are at times, because where I live, this is all normal. Our friends are doctors and lawyers and government employees and professionals. They are African American, gay, Muslim, and hail from various different countries. We aren't extravagant, no one owns their own jet, and no one really views themselves as "rich," even though I am sure were are considered so by objective standards. I drive a Honda minivan, will only buy retail if something is on sale, and have never owned a designer bag. But we don't stress about money. And I know that if a crisis occurred, whatever that would be, financially we could weather it. <br />
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I know this isn't the normal America. <br />
<br />
I have read about the depressed parts of the country - where there are no jobs and factories are closing and heroin addiction is rampant. I drive through these communities on occasion, when I drive through Pennsylvania or Ohio on the way to visit friends. I shudder and think about how fortunate I am when all I have to do is pass through. And I have to admit, I don't feel all that comfortable there. A month ago, when en route to my 20th high school reunion in Ohio, I was aghast at the number of Trump signs in the yards. <i>Who are these people? </i> I thought to myself. <br />
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<br />
In the days since the election, I have been reading voraciously. And a few articles have answered that question I posed back in October - who are these people? <br />
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I've been comforted to realize that most of the people who voted for Trump aren't the racist, sexist, bigoted people that you see on the news at Trump rallies. Instead, they are economically depressed, left behind, and desperate. <br />
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Today, in an <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/i-said-clinton-was-in-trouble-with-the-voters-i-represent-democrats-didnt-listen/2016/11/10/0e9521a6-a796-11e6-ba59-a7d93165c6d4_story.html?tid=sm_fb"><b>Op-Ed</b></a> for the Washington Post, Debbie Dingell, the House Representative for Michigan's 12th Congressional District, wrote the following:<br />
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<i>The ordinary working man or woman in this country isn't asking for a lot. They want to make a decent living. They want to be able to provide for their family, buy a home in a safe neighborhood, put food on the table, go to the doctor when they need to, afford their medicines and educate their children. What many don't understand is how these things are in danger of becoming unattainable for too many Americans. </i><br />
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Reading this jogged my memory of something I read back in June by Michael Moore, about the Rust Belt and the <b><a href="http://michaelmoore.com/trumpwillwin/">"5 Reasons Why Trump Will Win"</a>:</b><br />
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<i>From Green Bay to Pittsburgh, this, my friends, is the middle of England - broken, depressed, struggling, the smokestacks strewn across the countryside with the carcass of what we used to call the Middle Class. Angry, embittered working (and nonworking) people who were lied to by the trickle-down of Reagan and abandoned by Democrats who still try to talk a good line but are really just looking forward to rub one out with a lobbyist from Goldman Sachs who'll write them [a] nice big check before leaving the room. What happened in the UK with Brexit is going to happen here. </i><br />
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It's easy for me to feel self righteous when I have the ability to. When it comes to political issues, I focus on what I feel are social ones. These are deal breakers for me. Racism? Sexism? LGBTQ rights? Restricting access to abortion? Restricting access to healthcare? Gun control? These are important to me, and I vote accordingly. The fact that a Democrat in office may mean that we pay more taxes is irrelevant to me. I feel that the amount of money we would lose out on is worth it for the greater good. Economic considerations are the last on my list when it comes to politics.<br />
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I have the luxury of feeling this way. <br />
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But what I have realized in the past few days is that most people don't. <br />
<br />
David Wong, in his article entitled <a href="http://www.cracked.com/blog/dont-panic/"><b>Don't Panic</b></a>, said it best:<br />
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<i>That sick feeling some of you have right now? [Trump supporters] had that for the last eight years. Call them racists if you want - some of them definitely are - but mostly they're regular people who want jobs, security, and safety. Part of [the] bubble effect is that we're often shielded from "the other side" just enough that only the loudest, craziest assholes leak through. Some of you never had a single polite conversation with a Trump supporter, but did hear about hate crimes and the baffling Reddit spammers and Breitbart bigots. You didn't think Trump could win because you didn't think half the country could be crazy assholes. Well I've got good news: You were right. If you focus on the racism and ignore the economic anxiety, your intentionally blinding yourself to much of the problem. It doesn't matter how much you hate them; their concerns must be heard and addressed or else this will happen again. </i><br />
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I have to believe that most people who voted for Donald Trump are decent people. I don't understand how they could support such a candidate, but I want to. I want to learn and listen. <br />
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As a woman, I never experienced blatant workplace discrimination. Law firms do a pretty good job of recruiting women, at least at the junior levels (becoming partner is a different story), and they walk the PC walk. But they don't always talk the talk. And when it came time for me to have children, and ask for a flexible work schedule, I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. I felt that asking for more of a balance was an admission of a lack of loyalty and passion for my job. That I wasn't being a "team player." Men didn't do that, that's for sure, and I didn't have any women mentors to look to who had paved the way. Though my request for part time was eventually approved, it was met with resistance. And in some ways, I never fully recovered from that. It was easy to eventually quit. <br />
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Since leaving my job, I have become much more aware of struggles women face in the workplace, in raising their children, and in ultimately re-entering the workplace. It's tough out there, and we women get little support. Little support from employers, from fellow women, and from the government - the United States is the only developed country not to offer paid maternity leave, and the options for affordable childcare are deplorable. <br />
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And as a mother, I also started noticing some other things. <br />
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I started noticing that there were "girl" sections and "boy" sections in the toy store, and what was marketed to each. Girls are mothers, caregivers, and beauticians. Boys are train engineers, builders, and mechanics. <br />
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I started noticing that in Disney movies, the women are always scantily dressed and pining after "Prince Charming." I mean, have you really taken a look at Ariel lately? <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulg0TSXVAS2HZnGlW2D_cAH2FCcNkXT9ez9su8ILMFA0YhSOFw5hpwJ74EZ9zyN_Un4LSPxnqbOmi100d5pF3W_08RdmrG9gi3vV2J_QwlEOqD1-A1SpEw45pEXEA05zV_NH6p8qD30oS/s1600/ariel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulg0TSXVAS2HZnGlW2D_cAH2FCcNkXT9ez9su8ILMFA0YhSOFw5hpwJ74EZ9zyN_Un4LSPxnqbOmi100d5pF3W_08RdmrG9gi3vV2J_QwlEOqD1-A1SpEw45pEXEA05zV_NH6p8qD30oS/s320/ariel.jpg" width="183" /></a></div>
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I started noticing that terms like "throw like a girl" and "cry like a girl" are derogatory by their very nature. I was shocked and appalled to realize that at a young age, my boys would balk at the color pink because it was a "girl color." <br />
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When I breastfed my three babies, I started noticing that there really wasn't a convenient place to do so in public. I endured nasty stares from random strangers, and the insinuation that I was doing something vulgar or wrong. I started noticing that I was the one that always had to change the baby's diapers when we were outside of the home, because men's public restrooms never have changing tables. <br />
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And as I started thinking about re-entering the workforce, I realized that this "break" of motherhood I had taken was really frowned upon. I started thinking about "resume gaps" and salary reductions and a general notion that I had jumped ship and no one wanted me back on. <br />
<br />
I started realizing that patriarchy is alive in well, in subtle and not so subtle ways.<br />
<br />
When I initially started admiring Hillary Clinton back in the 90s, it wasn't because she was a woman. But when she received the Democratic nomination for President, the fact that she was a woman was especially thrilling. <br />
<br />
I watched most of her speeches and every debate. I watched her outfits get analyzed and her rare demonstrations of emotions be judged. I watched her be criticized for the infidelities of her husband. I watched her get threatened with imprisonment, be faced with her husband's mistresses at a live debate, and be called a "nasty woman" to her face, and her not even flinch. She stuck to message, stuck to the issues, and handled it with grace and dignity in a way that I never could. And what choice did she have? Could she vehemently defend herself? Get angry? No, a woman can't do that. A woman who did that would be a "bitch." She would be "unstable." Or, I suppose, a nasty woman. <br />
<br />
Throughout the campaign, there was constant talk of how hated Hillary Clinton was by a large portion of Americans. For the life of me, I don't understand why. Because of emails? Because of an attitude problem? Because of allegations of corruption for which she has been cleared? Because she was stoic and strong and rehearsed? Because she's changed positions on issues, like every politician to ever run for office? I'm not saying she doesn't have her flaws, but there is a hatred towards her that eclipses hatred for any other politician in our modern time. Is her biggest flaw that she is a strong, independent woman? Is that too hard to handle for men and women alike? <br />
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Here's how I view Hillary - This is a woman that has devoted her life to public service and endured scrutiny, abuse, and humiliation, and she kept on going. She is smart, she is strong, she is experienced, and she is inspiring. <br />
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Hillary Clinton is a hero and I will make sure that my kids know it. <br />
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She would have made a great President. <br />
<br />
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On election day I woke up in a sleep deprived, hungover haze, and gathered the kids and luggage and went to the Orlando airport, to take our flight back to DC, and back to reality. Once we had made it through baggage claim, my father called. We spoke briefly, but it was enough. <br />
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The tears flowed, and I had to sit down and have a big, ugly cry. And I couldn't stop them. Walking to the gate, running to the bathroom, boarding the plane. I looked around at everyone else and everyone seemed to be carrying on as normal. Checking their phones, buying a coffee, pulling their luggage. I wanted to scream out - <i>DON'T YOU ALL REALIZE WHAT HAS HAPPENED? DON'T YOU REALIZE THE WORLD HAS CHANGED? HOW CAN YOU ALL BE ACTING SO NORMAL WHEN THE WORLD HAS BEEN TURNED UPSIDE DOWN? </i><br />
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This isn't to say that people weren't reeling inside. I'm sure many were. But I was desperate to find someone else who looked distressed, who looked shell shocked. I wanted to hug a stranger more than I ever have in my life. <br />
<br />
Instead, I took out my phone and scrolled through my Facebook feed. I found solidarity there. I joined every Pantsuit Nation Facebook group I could find. But there is something to be said for personal contact. For not hiding behind our phones and computers. For getting out there and comforting each other. And so yesterday, I went out sporting my Hillary T-shirt, which had ironically arrived the day after the election. Just in case someone else needed to know that they weren't alone. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3BdqzvAE0O_aCyH2vqvuUOBZBjgsIt1lbXWoKOEQOYDXTpu5kcwSFo6Q_EVrpE0wT5iHmDe6wm4t-bo8dZMHSZKjtJh4JaPrY5J2N9aQeY-OIKVumgCMwTaJ7nnfBIXfF6Xj0R5TLB_fv/s1600/IMG_7079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3BdqzvAE0O_aCyH2vqvuUOBZBjgsIt1lbXWoKOEQOYDXTpu5kcwSFo6Q_EVrpE0wT5iHmDe6wm4t-bo8dZMHSZKjtJh4JaPrY5J2N9aQeY-OIKVumgCMwTaJ7nnfBIXfF6Xj0R5TLB_fv/s400/IMG_7079.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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In dealing with my sadness the past couple of days, my first reaction was to hide my tears from my children, who are too young to really understand the ramifications of the election. I didn't want to scare them, and I didn't want them to see me being "weak." But eventually, I changed my mind. I <i>want</i> them to see this. I <i>want </i>them to remember this. I want them to say, when they are older, that they remember the day Donald Trump was elected president. And that they remember their mother crying. <br />
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I come from a long line of political activists. My paternal grandparents were both communists in the 1940s, and loved to brag that each of them had their own FBI file. My <a href="http://www.starnewsonline.com/news/20130827/2-from-wilmington-recall-march-on-washington"><b>Dad</b></a> participated in the March on Washington when he was 19 years old, and went on to protest the Vietnam War and join the Peace Corps. My great aunt and uncle were marching in protests until they got too old to march anymore.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_kIvxSLwL7AqRj-vvJdPer866JAPCkm_O3WCp8-f9Kyk7TWKfChDmQUsXugWUhx6AA0t4OGF8PgirnRcBqdrUvb9jYS-iF3cyeoTRoUexJZo87EXRgYcyx8N8paplPPPAJYbm4rX6Yr7/s1600/Aunt+Evelyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_kIvxSLwL7AqRj-vvJdPer866JAPCkm_O3WCp8-f9Kyk7TWKfChDmQUsXugWUhx6AA0t4OGF8PgirnRcBqdrUvb9jYS-iF3cyeoTRoUexJZo87EXRgYcyx8N8paplPPPAJYbm4rX6Yr7/s640/Aunt+Evelyn.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Great Aunt Evelyn</td></tr>
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I've always felt strongly about political issues, but I've never taken it to that next step. I've thought about it, and I've planned on it, but it just hasn't happened. Part of it is the fact that I didn't feel there was a need to. Civil rights, women's rights - that was already taken care of, right? Gay marriage? Check. Gun control? I can't make a difference anyway. <br />
<br />
I'm not proud of my complacency and my willingness to live happily ever after in the little bubble I've been residing in. <br />
<br />
This week, my bubble has burst. <br />
<br />
I don't wish failure upon Donald Trump's presidency. I hope that he renounces the bigotry and racism some of his supporters have shown. I hope he backs off on the various threats he has made during his candidacy, like banning Muslims, building a wall, punishing women for having an abortion, and prosecuting Hillary Clinton. <br />
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But if he doesn't, I am going to do what I can to fight. I'm not sure what form that will take, but I vow to do it to the best of my ability, even if it involves time, money, and sacrifice. I alone cannot change the world, but I can, as Gandhi so eloquently put it, be the change I wish to see in the world. <br />
<br />
I start with this post. Numerous times times during the past few months I considered writing about the election, but I hesitated because I didn't want to delve into politics on this forum, and didn't want anyone to feel ostracized. Fuck that. This is just a small blog with a small readership, but it's my space, and shame on me for being silent. <br />
<br />
None of us can afford to be silent anymore. Particularly in the next four years, we must make it our mission to understand each other, to speak up and defend those who are vulnerable, and to make personal sacrifices to fight for what is right. <br />
<br />
To those who aren't in a bubble, and who have never been in one - I promise you that I will stand with you for the next four years, and as long as it takes. You are not alone.<br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-37295294593630041002016-10-24T12:26:00.001-04:002018-09-06T21:41:39.649-04:00KidsultsIn my 8 years of being a parent, I have endured my fair share of verbal abuse from my children. Most of it is generic - <i>You're the worst mom ever; You're so mean; I'm never talking to you again; I hate you, etc. </i>Blah blah blah, been there done that; it's all white noise to me.<br />
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But some of it, particularly from my 8 year old, has been truly amazing. I'm talking evil, well thought out, deep, authentic insults. A few years ago, I started writing them down, and today, I am officially launching my new website <a href="http://www.kidsults.com/"><b>Kidsults</b></a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">™</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">, w</span>here you can purchase said insults on t-shirts, onesies, and coffee mugs.</div>
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Here are a sampling of some of the invectives that appear on the products: </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.kidsults.com/"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mYfOBd0YNJy2p7uyC8vYf337THkg7-PU9tM1r0AKFck3rudCIeHHhgF_6j9JRgPoCznEm8GAohA-shQSOVBBFF9nYUwnRoIvqyTaePjn2mFgenul9BiHlTN2tVNihy0AcENxuZQy_M8l/s320/hugsyellow.png" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kidsults.com/"><br /></a></td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.kidsults.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8Y-_54yRKYC3MGxfmy56_eiRDnxU5W6g0ZSqwCi9b97a30TB369TR2gh0kPk2ck-stdy9nHkw7Y-2XjVVrpJH1BEbEu_rkM_EmxYMPHlFFjiQHWvQbevJ90JiBuUvJvpsk0HPViH9L4H/s320/forgivemug.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.kidsults.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig7ZA-DHG1MNeIPVEs9n1BA3a3-K-PRkiwYfZqvZ3w9PyX81-IQOAAVkSte0X9RZa-wB5kB4wWPOI65y9pSUOpUy5S3UjVum27Xcx4E-SzVy_M8p7_Tc-od0pzwdsUlwxLB3XrJNqlg2E2/s320/babytankpink.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.kidsults.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ME5meI86KRI15Juh9Uh7-zlc7y7HSsZelEJZ2yGleDFm13ArYhAGLXTTxC24LpOi1QTUQRdYsJ4JCkUfboS85itlK6T5aSemomNQ-WaRW5VXUotea0p8AvaroOPuc67ctQ9KVNm1B-jO/s320/dontliketodayblue.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Are these not the most fabulous insults ever? </div>
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For years now, my husband and I have been saying we need to make a business out of this. It started out as a joke, and then two weeks ago, I started playing on the internet and here we are. This is a fun whim, and if it turns out to amount to something, I'll have my kids to thank. And you. Because the only real marketing I'm doing is on this blog. So share, share, share, if you are so inclined. :)</div>
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You can find the official website <b><a href="http://www.kidsults.com/">here (www.kidsults.com)</a>.</b></div>
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You can like the Facebook page <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kidsults/"><b>here.</b></a></div>
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You can follow us on Twitter <b><a href="https://twitter.com/kidsultstweets">here</a>.</b></div>
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And on Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/kidsults/">here</a>.</b></div>
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Thanks for any and all of your support! And if you do purchase something, send me a picture of you or your child sporting the kidsult (you can email me at kidsultsemail@gmail.com or butidohaveawaadegree@gmail.com).</div>
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But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-59350905727434968102016-09-28T13:09:00.001-04:002018-09-06T21:41:40.408-04:00One Foot in Front of the OtherAdulthood throws curveballs, that much I've learned. <br />
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In my twenties I was naive enough to think that I had it all planned out, how our life would go. And why wouldn't I? I was doing everything right, checking the boxes. Kids and job and health and suburbs and nice vacations - smooth sailing. <br />
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At first, blips in my steady line would literally sweep me off my feet. Family turmoil, peanut allergies, post partum depression, sudden deaths in relatively young relatives - it would all become overwhelming in a way that I could barely cope, for the short term. The loss of control over my life trajectory, and the reminder that I really had no control, would send me into a tailspin, complete with insomnia, anxiety attacks, and a general malaise. I like to think, thanks to therapy, medication, and just the wisdom of getting older, that I can now handle these blips better - that I am more accepting, more in the present moment, more at peace. <br />
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My husband had a <b><a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/10/in-instant.html">seizure last October</a> </b>while he was on a jogging trail, and it came out of nowhere. He was discovered by fellow joggers and taken away on a stretcher, when he called me from the ambulance. My first view of him at the hospital was jarring - he was out of it, bloody, and bruised. <i>No, no, no</i>, I remember thinking, <i>This is not our life. This is not how it goes. </i> MRI's, CT scans, and EEGs followed, all coming out normal. I impressed myself with my sense of calm throughout the whole ordeal, and had an odd sense of confidence that everything would be fine. And it was. After six months, we exhaled. He started driving again. Onward and upward. <br />
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My husband was drowsy and a bit detached on Sunday night, but after some marathon conference calls, I couldn't blame him. He was stressed, and hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, thanks to a law firm cocktail party, where both of us had indulged in one too many. <br />
<br />
<i>Was that what did it? The alcohol? The lack of sleep? The stress? </i><br />
<br />
We both got into bed at 9pm, and engaged in the bad habit of scrolling through our phones, eyes scanning the electronics. The TV was also on - lights flashing, noises coming from all sides. <br />
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<i>The flashes? The sound? </i><br />
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I showed him a political quote someone posted about Donald Trump - "<i>If you ever wonder what you would have done in 1930s Germany well then my friend here is your fucking chance to find out.</i>" <br />
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<i>I don't get it. </i>He said. <br />
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Annoyed, and convinced he just wasn't really paying attention to me, I tersely responded, <i>What don't you get about it? </i><br />
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And that's when he left. <br />
<br />
He let out a loud groan and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. His muscles tightened and he rolled into the fetal position, then quickly straightened out, and started shaking. <br />
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I think I called out for him. I think I put my hands on him to try to rouse him. I'm not sure. <br />
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But I know what I did next. I ran out of the room. It was a pure fight or flight response. <br />
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I wanted out. I wanted to disappear, I wanted him to disappear. I didn't want this to be happening. <br />
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I stood outside the room for 5 seconds, came to my senses, and ran back in. There he was, still convulsing on the bed. His face was beginning to turn white. I picked up the phone and called 911, and clearly remember saying: <i>My husband is having a seizure. Send someone. Please. </i><br />
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Later, numerous doctors would ask me how long the seizure lasted. I can honestly say I don't know. Two minutes? Ten minutes? Time stopped and then moved slowly and then quickly again. I know I turned him on his side. I know I went downstairs to unlock the door for the paramedics, put the dog in a closet so she wouldn't run out, and closed the children's bedroom doors so God willing, they wouldn't wake up when the ambulance got there. I remember continually asking the 911 operator, <i>Where are they? </i>and then apologizing for my hysteria. I remember crying. I remember my heart racing out of my chest. I remember feeling faint and willing myself to remain calm. I remember the immense feeling of relief I felt when the paramedics arrived. By then, he was starting to rouse.<br />
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<i>What is your name? What day of the week is it ? Who is President of the United States? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
He could not answer any of their questions. <br />
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They carried him downstairs on a stretcher. I had the wherewithal to give one of the paramedics my husband's phone, knowing that when he came to he would want it, and it would be a way to communicate with him. I closed the door, texted our babysitter, and then waited, in a quiet house, for her to arrive so I could go to the hospital. <br />
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I called my sister in law. I paced. I dry heaved in the bathroom. I gathered some clothes for my husband to bring to the hospital, since he was carried out in his underwear. I ordered an uber, because I didn't trust myself to drive, and thanked God that my children slept through the whole incident, and would be none the wiser in the morning. <br />
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When I arrived at the ER, I was directed to his room, and realized it was the same room he had been in 11 months prior, when he experienced his first seizure. <br />
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I was blissfully ignorant that first time around. Convinced that this was a freak accident, a blip, something to get through and deal with and then put behind us. I was stoic and calm then, having had the benefit of my own ignorance of what it exactly was that my husband had just gone through. <br />
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This time, I had seen it with my own eyes. He was there, talking to me. Then he wasn't. His mind - the essence of who he is - was taken over by electrical impulses in his brain that went haywire, taking him away from consciousness, from reality, from me. The fact that he came back from that, from the involuntary writhing body I saw lying on our bed, is a miracle in and of itself. <br />
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I wrote a <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/10/in-instant.html"><b>pos</b>t</a> last year about my husband's first seizure, and in it, I quoted a non-fiction book I had just recently read, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Do-No-Harm-Stories-Surgery/dp/125006581X"><b>Do No Harm - Stories of Life, Death, and Brain Surgery</b></a>, authored by a neurosurgeon. Having witnessed my husband literally lose his mind, it now takes on new meaning: <br />
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<i>"In neuroscience it is called the 'binding problem' - the extraordinary fact, which nobody can even begin to explain, that mere brute matter can give rise to consciousness and sensation." </i><br />
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As I sat in an uber on my way to the hospital, I couldn't get that sentiment out of my head. All we are are our brains - and those brains are so vulnerable. In an instant, it can be lost. No matter how much we kid ourselves, we are not in the driver's seat. <br />
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I've been on zoloft for three years now, but there's no anti-anxiety medication that could have quelled my nerves that night. And as I walked through the ER hallways and passed elderly people groaning, patients hooked up to machines, and heard the sirens wailing as another emergency patient was brought in on a stretcher, I don't think I had ever felt so unsafe in my own skin. <br />
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<i>We're all going to die. Someday. When? How will it happen? Will these people die tonight? Will I? Will my husband? What's to stop that from happening? What's to stop anything bad from happening? Pain and death are inevitable, and I go through life pretending I'm invincible. What a fool I have been. Where can I go? Where can I hide? How dare I bring my children into such a scary, ruthless, painful world? </i><br />
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I've been through enough therapy to know that these thoughts were irrational, if not expected. But as I watched my husband doze, passed out from the Ativan they had given him, my mind and heart raced in a well synchronized dance. I willed myself to cry, knowing that crying helps release the anxiety, the pain, the fear. I did a little. Just a little. <br />
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The doctor put my husband on anti-seizure medication, and sent us home that night. My sleep that night was fitful to say the least, and I was haunted by visions from the evening. One vision in particular has been replaying through my head constantly - my husband looking at the computer. His blank stare. His eyes rolling back into his head. My slow motion realization that holy shit, I think he's having a seizure. His muscles tensing up. The moment I lost him. <br />
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I never, ever want he or I to go through this again. But I am working on summoning the bravery to face the reality that more likely than not it will - statistics say that if someone has two seizures, they have an 80% chance of having another one. <br />
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This reality has left my husband and I reeling over the past couple of days. There are the practical implications - no more driving, and no more drinking. But then there are the questions of how one lives a normal, predictable life, when in a moment's notice, it all can change. My husband is at the whim of the electrical currents in his brain, threatening to go haywire and taking away his mind. And so am I.<br />
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And so we embark on the quest of learning to live with uncertainty, knowing full well that in reality, life has never held any guarantees. Coming to peace with that will be my work, and as a recovering control freak, it's work I need. I know this. <br />
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But I'm not too proud to admit that I'm dejected. I'm sad. And I'm so, so scared. <br />
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For now, it's one foot in front of the other. And finding grace, and peace, in each step.<br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-41812142811902518662016-09-15T16:02:00.001-04:002018-09-06T21:41:39.722-04:00The Last Birthday SleepoverFor each of my sons, starting on their third birthdays, one of the "gifts" I give them is a sleepover in their bed. Sleepovers in my bed don't happen all that often, but me sleeping in <i>their</i> bed is a true treat. And as much as I complain the next day (about being kicked in the stomach, sleeping on a six inch stretch of bed, and being awoken at 5:30am), I really love it too. When I awake during the night, during one of the many nudges and jabs, I take the time to stare at their sleeping faces and just admire it - remembering the baby that it once was, and the little boy that it has become. <br />
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Braden turned 8 last week. Sleepovers are still something he desires, but this year he opted to sleep in our bed, with both my husband and I. I have to admit I was a bit slighted at first, and reluctant to share him, but happy to be in a king sized bed. That night, before I fell asleep, I went through the ritual of staring at his face, and for the first year it was nearly impossible to recognize the baby in him. That infant face of my firstborn, the way he cried and pursed his lips and fell asleep on my chest. The notion was almost impossible to reconcile - who was that and who is this and how can it possibly be the same person? <br />
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Braden is no longer an infant, a toddler, or even a little boy. He's a kid with long lanky legs that hang to my shins if I ever happen to pick him up (which is getting nearly impossible these days). He is complicated and philosophical and creative and stubborn and completely his own person. I've learned in my 8 years of motherhood that I can't take credit for who he is - his intricacies and achievements and failures are solely his own. He is at times a reflection of myself, with his deep thoughts and anxieties, and at other times a stranger to me, who I get to rediscover each day as he evolves into the person that he is meant to be. <br />
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I still lay with Braden each night before bed and we talk about his day, and he professes his love for me. He always has been one with words.<br />
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Gradually these words have taken on a more mature form. They are no longer gibberish (<i>Me love mommy)</i>; instead they are thought out and eloquent. <i>I am so lucky to have you as a mommy. I never want to leave you. I love you more than anything in the world. </i>He writes these words too, but his handwriting isn't so wobbly anymore when he writes me love notes or makes me cards at school. And now, with his 8th birthday, his words have taken electronic form - it took him about 2 hours to get accustomed to his new iPod Touch that he got for his birthday, and his first text message to me read: "Can you take me to school today because I love you so much so so much mom." <br />
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(His words of aggression can be just as poignant, but I'll save those for another post.)<br />
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That boy is the love of my life (along with his two brothers), but I am fully cognizant of the fact that I won't always be his. Someday the whispers of sweet nothings will stop, as will the love notes, and the love texts, and the birthday sleepovers.<br />
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This year I had to share him, and one year, maybe next, he'll decide he doesn't want to sleep next to his mother anymore at all.<br />
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I'll understand his decision, but oh how I'll miss it. <br />
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Happy 8th birthday to my baby boy, Braden. What a beautiful ride it's been so far. <br />
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But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-32165524986362399992016-07-14T14:01:00.001-04:002018-09-06T21:41:39.541-04:00When a Childless Gay Man from England Visits an American Suburban Housewife for 9 Days, Fun Things Happen<br />
First, you immediately abandon your healthy eating/alcohol abstinence plan for the first couple of weeks in July. You plan to pretend you <i>aren't</i> an American suburban housewife with three kids for those 9 days, to the extent possible. <br />
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The next thing to go is sleep, which became apparent on <b>Day 1 </b>of the visit. You set a self imposed curfew of midnight, then you extend it by 30 minutes. And then another. And another. Then you lose track of time and say fuck it and stay up into the wee hours talking and laughing about anything and everything. You realize how much you have missed your friend, who after 16 years, is more like family.<br />
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You wake up completely hungover on <b>Day 2</b>, the 4th of July, but resolve to do something fun, because you can't have a British visitor come to Washington, DC for the 4th and not see fireworks or do something American-y. You look outside and see pouring rain. So you spend the day at the <a href="http://www.wineryatbullrun.com/"><b>Winery at Bull Run</b></a> instead, with kids in tow and a husband willing to be the designated driver. <br />
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<span id="goog_1502701057"></span>When your kids start to get restless, your friend introduces them and you to snapchat and you all become obsessed with the pictures feature where you can do weird things to your face. Much laughter ensures, the loudest by the adults. Hours of enjoyment were had.<br />
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That evening, you set a bedtime again, and once again abandon it. You realize that this is just how it's going to go for 9 days, and it's entirely worth it to spend time with a best friend you rarely see. You cancel your reservation to go to a Precision Running class on the morning of <b>Day 3</b>. <br />
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After two days of drinking, you vow to have a chill day. You bring your English friend along to preschool pick ups and drop offs, and he even agrees to babysit for a brief stint, after you promise him that the 2 year old will sleep the whole time anyway, and even if he wakes up, he wouldn't have pooped. (You lie about both, and your friend changes his first ever diaper). <br />
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Around 5pm, you decide that going out to dinner can still constitute a chill night. You walk into Bethesda and go to <a href="http://www.passionfishbethesda.com/passionfish.html"><b>Passion Fish</b></a> and upon arriving see camera men and lights and HOLY CRAP THEY ARE FILMING THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF POTOMAC AND YOU AND YOUR FRIEND MAY BE THE ONLY TWO PEOPLE IN THE WORLD THAT ACTUALLY WATCHED EVERY EPISODE. Excitement ensues and must be quelled in order to enter a sophisticated, quiet restaurant. You discourage your friend from "accidentally" tripping on the floor near the filming and proclaiming his love of the show in an exaggerated English accent. The fact that you didn't take a picture is criminal, but this was the housewife that was there (with an unknown friend - perhaps a new cast member for the second season?):<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLIeVeq9QlegLbtZSW6nVTJI6WAo8I7C2NIFQksY3ZIpaxiPddHBRE50LOp7MNZtMeovvjttuzOADtQVkQMR6a0mPzSNYeQEHea_eJ0d_iDxzMiIXX8qHyBbiqdDlBMyYHRKkX5SKQYWQ/s1600/housewife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLIeVeq9QlegLbtZSW6nVTJI6WAo8I7C2NIFQksY3ZIpaxiPddHBRE50LOp7MNZtMeovvjttuzOADtQVkQMR6a0mPzSNYeQEHea_eJ0d_iDxzMiIXX8qHyBbiqdDlBMyYHRKkX5SKQYWQ/s640/housewife.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robyn Dixon - she looked absolutely fabulous in person.</td></tr>
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You decide cocktails are in order for the occasion, and the night follows the pattern of the previous ones.<br />
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By <b>Day 4</b>, you are exhausted, but you power through. You've endured childbirth, newborn induced insomnia, and working at a law firm. Sleep is for the weak, and you have big plans for Wednesday night - tickets to see the 90s cover band, <b><a href="http://www.whitefordbronco.com/">White Ford Bronco</a> </b>at the National Building Museum. Your friend is excited that he will be able to say he did one cultural thing during his visit, and to prove it you take fun pictures within the Iceberg exhibit...<br />
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You watch with disgust, horror, and mild interest as a random couple make out....<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bYHawMY06MAZmIQ4oFJ_9kCI5kuWkKl31YcKd1iPdGhwzk0w6oinDEv0mlUjvuabMo69s6eVIR8PkcC1DMGS-kVvjfb0QLPT46Au8I-lnFRF-Zz0S2XCp1djwiwf1k24l-JYr9exf4RU/s1600/IMG_6104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bYHawMY06MAZmIQ4oFJ_9kCI5kuWkKl31YcKd1iPdGhwzk0w6oinDEv0mlUjvuabMo69s6eVIR8PkcC1DMGS-kVvjfb0QLPT46Au8I-lnFRF-Zz0S2XCp1djwiwf1k24l-JYr9exf4RU/s640/IMG_6104.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See back right. </td></tr>
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And you dance like crazy to 90s hits that shockingly your British friend has never heard before. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghx6jrYMaSZ7GzipxUIBGQxboOvXo4Y14VDznh_A53mo8sXPLBg8aqVGNFdCIM8c1KL_K80xMlfxoqxZeWVwKWo2j83bZWRO2gXE8rWs_WX0PeJUoG-61x9OhW31S1rwDA1oTBLNR8HNmQ/s1600/IMG_6108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghx6jrYMaSZ7GzipxUIBGQxboOvXo4Y14VDznh_A53mo8sXPLBg8aqVGNFdCIM8c1KL_K80xMlfxoqxZeWVwKWo2j83bZWRO2gXE8rWs_WX0PeJUoG-61x9OhW31S1rwDA1oTBLNR8HNmQ/s640/IMG_6108.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corrina and I breaking it down to a Blink 182 cover. <br />
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By <b>Day 5</b>, your friend has fully embraced the suburban lifestyle and has accepted the disgusting mess of crumbs and wet towels that fills your minivan. The two year old now believes he has joined the family, and asks for him immediately at camp pick-up. His babysitting duties are once again employed when you take your older two to swim practice, and you soon realize that he and your toddler in love. It's fitting, given that said toddler was named after him, and the whole thing melts your heart a bit. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRdZbNcm-hTX_Kio2KBILlaHrtesIU7SaJGy1RYBdzTobajHL560GbVzoR-BkJwU8GxfjO-n3LNj7CEVPQpeGBVPJkU7rJq4eUIYfuvMYgiyNvRmRuP7MCU7RyIutUwk9bikaEVLGGdWw3/s1600/IMG_6117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRdZbNcm-hTX_Kio2KBILlaHrtesIU7SaJGy1RYBdzTobajHL560GbVzoR-BkJwU8GxfjO-n3LNj7CEVPQpeGBVPJkU7rJq4eUIYfuvMYgiyNvRmRuP7MCU7RyIutUwk9bikaEVLGGdWw3/s640/IMG_6117.JPG" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colin Samuel with his friend Sam.</td></tr>
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Another attempt at a chill evening - a dinner date and a movie - ended in more Snapchat fun :<br />
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On <b>Day 6</b>, you give your British friend the quintessential Friday night suburban housewife experience. First stop, a home in Chevy Chase, DC for Friday movie night with the kids, and second stop, cocktails on the patio at a friend's house in Potomac (sans kids). You put on makeup for the occasion (and explain that this is basically the only time you do that), and your friend is extremely patient with you and your mom friends as you gossip about schools and paint colors and when you will once again start the Whole 30, if ever. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with a little bit of make-up. </td></tr>
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Your friend meshes with everyone (as he always does) and you start to wonder how you ever will get on without him. You attempt to convince him to leave London and move into your basement. He considers.<br />
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On <b>Day 7</b> your friend joins you on an overnight trip to the Eastern shore and stands in as husband and father for you and your two older children (as the actual husband and father stayed back with the toddler). He manages to wake up before 8am and not kill your kids on the two hour drive to a beautiful house your friends have rented right outside of St. Michael's. He meets 4 of your best friends and a couple of their husbands upon arrival and everyone loves him immediately. One thing you've always loved about him - you truly can take him anywhere.<br />
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You take nice photos on the dock. <br />
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You nearly die together when you allow your 7 year old to drive a golf cart (this may very well be the funniest video ever taken - watch until the end):<br />
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You partake in plank competitions (all groups of friends do this, right?). Out of 6 participants, your friend wins (you come in third at an impressive 3 minutes). <br />
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Your group plays a riveting game of Cards Against Humanity, which your friend also wins. No pictures were taken (which was probably for the best). But, it must be recorded for posterity that the best card played during the two hour session was "Dick Fingers." You finally go to bed around 1:30am only to realize that the king sized bed you and your friend are sharing is miniature in length and your legs hang off at the shins. The involuntary laughter that ensues keeps you both up for even longer.<br />
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On <b>Day 8</b>, you wake up in pain. You realize that the reason your friend has been able to keep going so well all week is that he gets to sleep in as late as he wants. As you get out of bed at 7am to make breakfast for your kids, you hate him and love him at the same time. <br />
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You pack up, you rally, you drive home (your friend is lucky enough not to have a driver's license), and you manage not to have a panic attack navigating the Bay Bridge. Your passengers are irritatingly chipper, but you realize it's because they've finally bonded. <br />
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You know it's your friend's last night in town, and you vow to go to bed at a reasonable hour, as surely you cannot go on. But somehow, after all the kids go to bed and your husband has passed out, you push back your bedtime in 30 minute increments once again. And before you know it, both you and your friend are crying because it will all be over soon.<br />
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You would think that <b>Day 9</b> would be a mundane, standard day since your friend has to leave for the airport at 4pm, but you would be wrong. Unfortunately, there are some stories from that day that cannot be shared, including a video of the craziest uber driver ever. Your friend is holding that video close so that he can start a website about crazy taxi/uber drivers and earn enough money to fly back to the U.S. whenever he wants. <br />
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That evening, with life back to normal and the opportunity to get a restful, full night's sleep, you are depressed. <br />
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You are depressed because once again, you are alone. Having a co-stay at home parent for 9 days has been wonderful, and the solitude of making the kids dinner and putting them to bed by yourself, with your husband working late, is stark. <br />
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You are depressed because as exhausting as the past 9 days were, they were fun. More fun than you have had in any consecutive 9 day period since God knows when. Your friend brings you back to who you were before having kids - before settling down, and being responsible, and worrying about getting enough sleep. To the time when you were free and young and energetic, and you miss that person. Sometimes it's hard to fathom that that person could have ever been you.<br />
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You are depressed because you have gained 5 pounds in 9 days.<br />
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But you are also happy. You are happy because you had 9 days with a lifelong friend, filled with laughter, deep talks, and memories you'll reminisce about for years come. You are happy to have a husband that pitched in to allow you to do all of that. You are happy that you have three amazing kids kids that truly love your friend, and that the feeling is mutual. <br />
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You are also happy because you realize that soul mates don't only exist in romantic relationships, they come in many different shapes and forms, and that your friend is the yin to your yang. You realize how lucky you are to have found that person, and that friends never lose their importance in your life, no matter how old you get, and no matter how entrenched in motherhood you become.<br />
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You are just happy.<br />
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And then, you sleep for 10 hours straight. <br />
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We love you, Sam!<br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-45231163354990724722016-06-30T10:45:00.000-04:002018-09-06T21:41:39.797-04:00Hello Out ThereYou know how when a friend calls you, and you keep meaning to call them back, but then the longer it gets you almost get too embarrassed to call them back because so much time has passed, and then you are filled with shame and question whether to just end the friendship because you've left it too long and you're just a shitty person?<br />
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That's how I've been with this blog. <br />
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It's been over two months since I have written, which is stark given that I used to write every day. <br />
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Here's the honest truth - over the past year, this blog has felt more like a chore than a joy. I've been feeling so much pressure to deliver unique posts, with good writing and deep thoughts and wry humor. I'll start writing and then realize that it's crap and then not want to open my computer again, because it's just another thing on my list to do. <br />
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Then, this morning, sitting in a coffee shop listening to my "writing music" list on Spotify and finishing up a freelance project, I got the urge to write. Even though I don't really have anything to write and I only have 28 minutes to do it, here I am. This won't be an insightful, witty post you forward around to your friends. But, I'm writing it anyway. <br />
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The truth is, life has been overwhelmingly busy lately. Having three kids has caught up with me. There's always a swim practice to attend, a camp pick up, an illness, a deadline, a house to clean, a barbecue to buy food for, 3 pounds to lose, gym classes to go to in order to lose said 3 pounds, three meals to prepare, numerous trips to Johns Hopkins with two kids now in peanut allergy trials, essays to write for writing classes I'm taking, mammograms to schedule, books I keep meaning to read, friends to call back (see above), assignments to grade for online classes I teach, school PA meetings, skin care regimes to stick to, sunscreen to apply (on 4 bodies), and a thousand other things including daily bathing and sleeping. <br />
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I'm not complaining, really. These things are necessary, and some I've brought on myself. And in fact, I've been happier in the past 6 months than I have been in a long time. I've been going out a lot with friends (stay tuned for a post on the best night ever at a bar with a <b><a href="http://www.whitefordbronco.com/">90's cover band</a>) </b>- more than I ever have since having children. I suppose in some ways, after 8 years I am coming up for air a bit and rediscovering a semblance of a social life. I've also taken two writing classes now, where I've met some of the most incredible people, and I've actually published <a href="http://www.foliateoak.com/shannon-forchheimer.html"><b>one piece</b></a>, inspired by a blog I wrote on here in what seems like forever ago. I've planned a bunch of vacations and trips (look out Napa Valley, my husband and I will take you by storm in September). I've had a ton of visitors to our Bethesda abode, including my childhood <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2012/07/in-honor-of-best-friends.html"><b>best friend</b></a> last month, and my best friend from London arrives on Sunday. I've gone to Philadelphia to see the Zack Brown Band with my best friend from college, and my husband and I saw Richard Marx at the Birchmere last month (you read that right). In between all of this, I've managed to get pretty good at yoga. I can do a headstand and the crow pose and I am so freaking proud of myself. <br />
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But I also struggle... daily. Parenting has gotten harder and harder, and the physical challenges of toddlerhood have turned into emotional ones as my kids enter grade school. Two nights ago, after losing my shit on multiple occasions, I went to bed telling myself what a horrible mother I was, and envisioning what my kids will say about me in therapy someday. It was a low point, with an internal voice saying - <i>You're fucking your kids up. You're failing. You aren't cut out for this. You suck.</i><br />
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The next morning, I took a deep breath and forgave myself and started a new day. <br />
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But shit, this is hard. In between all of the sun and fun and good stuff, it's still really hard. <br />
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I worry. I cry. I try to stay in the present and get angry at myself when my mind wanders to those places that are painful and don't do anyone any good.<br />
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I'm not ready to stop writing this blog. I've got so much more to say. I'm going to try to say it more often. <br />
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Thanks for sticking with me. <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-56978514935677410012016-04-27T14:06:00.003-04:002018-09-06T21:41:40.371-04:00Coming Full CircleWhen I was in 5th grade, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I was obsessed with Judy Blume and became equally obsessed in writing my own young adult novel. I began writing first drafts of first chapters of various books, never progressing beyond that. After a couple of years, I gave up and moved onto poetry, mainly focusing on my junior high crush at the time who wanted nothing to do with me. <br />
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By 9th grade, it was clear none of my books were ever going to be completed, and my poetry wasn't all that great (and by then, my crush was over). I moved onto politics, became obsessed with the 1992 presidential elections, and ultimately convinced myself that I should go into the legal field. <br />
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Yada yada yada, now I'm in my late 30's, a retired lawyer at home with three kids, contemplating what I eventually want to do with my life. Continue staying home full time? Focus on volunteering? Go back to a full time job? Do something completely different? What I do know, that I didn't back in the 90's, is that I don't want to go back to the legal field.<br />
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So far, 2016 has been a year of introspection - of soul searching and reinvention and reaching out for help and a whole lot of yoga. Pursuant to that, I've made some changes. I started seeing a parent coach. I <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2016/02/stay-at-home-mom-burnout.html#.VyD7SatFfFI"><b>got a babysitter on Wednesday mornings</b></a> so I could be completely indulgent and do whatever I wanted. And I decided to take a writing class.<br />
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I had thought of taking a writing class for a long time, but, like many new things in life, I was intimidated. What if I was the least experienced writer there? What if I was the worst writer there? Who was I to take such a class? For some reason, signing up seemed like a vote of confidence in an ability I wasn't quite sure I had. But, in the spirit of new beginnings, I decided what the hell. <br />
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I did some google searching and realized that I was lucky enough to live close to <a href="https://www.writer.org/"><b>The Writer's Center</b></a>, right here in Bethesda, which offered a wide range of classes. I applied for a course entitled "The Personal Essay," and did a little happy dance when I was accepted. There would be eight classes, on Saturday mornings from 10-12:30. <br />
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I was extremely nervous for my first class. I even showered and wore contacts, for no real reason other than maybe if I could at least look presentable it would make up for my lack of experience. When I entered the room, I met my 10 classmates. Brief conversations before class revealed that almost everyone had taken a writing class before, many had been published, and some even worked as reporters or producers. We went around the room introducing ourselves, and I think I nervously said something like "I have a blog. And I am a mother of three boys. And I really don't want to write about motherhood." <br />
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Because surely, there is more to me than just motherhood, right? <br />
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The first class consisted of short discussions, and a sign up for weeks to come - each week, we would discuss three essays submitted by people in the class (which we would get the week prior to review). I signed up for two dates a few weeks away, not knowing what I would submit or what I would write about. Plus, I wanted a couple of weeks to see what other people's writing looked like. That first day, three people had already brought in essays, for us to take home and review. That evening, I poured myself a glass of wine, sat on my couch, and started reading. <br />
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A half an hour later, I was in tears. <br />
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These essays were not just beautifully written. They were heartfelt. They were deep. There were authentic. They were <i>sincere.</i> The teacher had told us to write about what "haunts us." And that's what these people did, in such a vulnerable way. And isn't that why we like to read essays, or blogs, or any kind of testimonial? To relate to someone else's vulnerability? To let us know that although it may feel like it, we're not alone? <br />
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From that evening on, my writing class became the highlight of my week. <br />
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I continued to read amazing essays. In class, we would critique them, discuss them, and through it all, I felt intimately connected with the authors. They were more than classmates. It was like a fellowship of confidants - a continuous exchange of deep, dark secrets, that we all desperately wanted to write about and share. <br />
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I decided I wanted to write my first essay to bring to the workshop from scratch. I knew what I was going to write about - it was, indeed, something that has always haunted me, and a story I knew I had to tell. I took one of my Wednesday mornings to myself, took my computer to Barnes and Noble, and shed many tears right there in the cafe area as the essay just poured out of me. <br />
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I'm not going to share that essay. Here or anywhere. It's way too personal. But I did share it with my classmates. And they were so helpful with their constructive criticism, so encouraging with their reaction, and so open to my story. When it was finally my turn to talk, after everyone had had their turn to critique, I laughed that it felt like a therapy session. And though there are things I need to edit, I have to say, it's a damn good essay. <br />
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After I wrote that essay, something clicked. I wanted to write more. I started outlining ideas for that weird science fiction novel I've always wanted to write. I started a document called "ideas" where I jot down random things that come to mind for personal essays, flash fiction, or poetry. And I started submitting my work. The second essay I wrote for class, which, notwithstanding my proclamation on the first day, is about motherhood, is going to be published in an online literary magazine next month. The fact that a third party is willing to publish something I wrote is both shocking and gratifying. <br />
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You may have noticed that my writing on this blog has been dwindling. There was a time when I wrote every day, and over time it decreased to twice a month, if I'm lucky. But really, it's because I'm writing elsewhere. And while I love the blog post genre, I'm ready to start experimenting with some other forms. In two weeks, I'm taking my second writing course at the Writer's Center, called "Creative Nonfiction." And my former classmates and I have started our own writing group, meeting for the first time at my house in two weeks.<br />
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I have no idea if anything will come of this. Or if I even want something to - this certainly is not a lucrative past time, and perhaps I will be satisfied writing just for the sake of it. What I do know is that I am enjoying it, and it's something I'm really passionate about. And in my 37 years of being on this earth, I am wise enough to know that discovering a passion is a gift. <br />
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And so I write. Just like I always wanted to. <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-32125390326787983242016-04-06T13:56:00.001-04:002016-04-06T16:01:19.215-04:00When the World Becomes ScaryI was living in London on April 20, 1999 when the Columbine shooting happened. It was all over the London tabloids. And I remember it not primarily for the horror of it all, though that's of course its legacy. I remember it because it's the first time that a world event scared me. <br />
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Perhaps I was more naive than most, but at age 20, I was impervious to the news. It flowed off of me. Back then, I was young and indestructible and everything in the news happened to "other" people. I had come from a protected midwest city and gone to a protected college town and finally to London, a place, notwithstanding its peppered history, that was a safe haven among the plethora of other places to study abroad as a college student. <br />
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And maybe it's because I had been living for a few months in a place where guns were actually illegal, but Columbine scared me. I actually had nightmares about returning to the United States and being gunned down. It wasn't the first of my irrational fears, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but it left a mark on me. These innocent suburban American high school students weren't immune to harm, and neither was I. <br />
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Two years later I was living in London again on 9/11. I was at the LSE library, searching for jobs, when I came across a curious news story on the internet. The World Trade Centers were on fire. I turned to the person sitting at the computer next to me, a stranger, and told him that planes were crashing into buildings in New York. He thought I was crazy and changed seats. That night, scared as to what was going on in the world and at my mother's recommendation, I avoided the tube and took the bus home, adding 45 minutes to my journey. <br />
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That night I was harassed by friends and family urging me to come home. <i>Come home to what? </i>I thought. How do you know home is safe? How do you know London is not safe? Where <i>is</i> safe? The whole world seemed like a scary place that day. <br />
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I made the decision that night that I was going to stay in London. And in doing so, I would have to set my fear aside and just come what may. It was a release of control uncharacteristic of me at the time, but one of emotional survival. I needed to live my life, and so I did. I rode the tube, I frequented tourist destinations, and when I went to Egypt that spring, against the urging of loved ones, I did so with the same attitude. It's not that I was oblivious to risk, it's just that I weighed it and then moved on. That old adage of the most dangerous part of your travels is your drive to the airport? It became my mantra. I felt fear, but did it anyway, and it paid out in spades. My years in London were some of the best of my life, and my trip to Egypt was fantastic. I went home to live in Manhattan, work in Times Square, and ultimately move to Washington, DC. Not exactly a path of the terrorist risk-averse, but it's where life has taken me. When I hear of a terrorist attack, I take a minute to feel the fear go through me, to reason with myself, to mourn, and to move on. Life is scary, the world is scary, and we can either live our life constantly aware of that fact, or we can just live. I try my hardest to do the latter. <br />
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But my resolve was put to the test on March 22 - the day of the Brussels bombings. <br />
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My husband, myself, and my three sons were packing up our bags in our London rental flat. We had spent five fabulous days there, and were headed to Paris, via Eurostar. As we were headed out, I got a news alert on my phone that there had been an explosion at the Brussels airport - there were no further details. We headed to Kings Cross, went through security, and as we were waiting to board our train, I noticed a larger police presence than normal. It was then that my husband whispered to me,<i> </i>so the children could not hear: <i>Did you see what happened in Brussels? </i>I conspicuously opened my phone and read the headlines, which confirmed a terrorist bomb both in the Brussels airport, and at a metro station. As I put the phone back in my purse, the announcement over the loud speaker came: <i>Due to the recent events in Brussels, all trains to Brussels have been suspended indefinitely. </i><br />
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We boarded our train five minutes later. Like I often do on a plane during turbulence, I scanned the faces of my fellow passengers. No one else seemed to be nervous. Everyone went on as if nothing was wrong, as if it was just an ordinary day. And so would I, I decided. <br />
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When we were half an hour outside of Paris, the train came to an abrupt stop. The conductor made an announcement in French, after which there was a uniform chorus of "Ugh." As the conductor started speaking in English Braden, my 7 year old, asked me what was going on. I shushed him emphatically so I could hear the announcement, which I think alarmed him a little. I managed to hear the crux of the conductor's announcement: <i>Our train is being held due to a security situation at Gare du Nord. </i><br />
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At that moment I started to doubt myself. What was I doing, on a train headed to France with three children 7 and under when Europe was in the midst of a terrorist attack? What was the security situation? How long would we be held here? What if we couldn't get to France? Where would we go? What was going on? And who was on this train? I am ashamed to say that I glanced around, profiling my fellow passengers. Does anyone look nervous? Does anyone have a suspicious looking backpack?<br />
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Braden noticed me getting nervous. <i>What's wrong, Mommy? </i><br />
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I took a deep breath. It dawned on me immediately that for him, the world was not yet scary. We were just on vacation, on a train to Paris, where he would climb the Eiffel Tower and eat baguettes. No way should he know what was going on. No way is he ready to learn how terrifying the world can be.<br />
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<i>These trains are always running late</i>, I told him through a smile. <i>Construction, I think. We should be in Paris in no time.</i> <br />
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I'm not a religious person at all. But in that moment, I prayed to anyone who would listen that I was right. <i>Just get us off this train, </i>I prayed. <i>Get us to our hotel. </i><br />
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Two minutes later, the train started moving. We showed up to Gare du Nord, overrun with police, and got a taxi to our hotel. Numerous security guards stood at our hotel's entrance.<br />
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I had a moment with myself when we got settled. I thought back to Columbine. To 9/11. To other world events that, as an adult, can paralyze you if you let it. I had a choice. Did I want to enjoy my vacation in Paris? Or did I want to be fearful - at every landmark, every crowded area, every tourist destination? And if I had that fear, what would it accomplish? <br />
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The way I saw it, we either should leave, or we should enjoy every moment we had there. We did the latter. And we had an amazing time. <br />
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We went to the Eiffel Tower. <br />
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To the Louvre. <br />
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To Notre Dame.<br />
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And of course, to Disneyland. <br />
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We ate, we drank, we played, we rode ponies. (Well, one of us did). <br />
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We made memories. <br />
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At each destination, there was a small piece of me that thought about <i>that</i>. About men strapped with bombs willing to take out themselves and everyone around them. But when I looked at my kids, and the delight and excitement on their faces as their world expanded right before their eyes, I squashed those fears. Because for them, the world is not yet scary. The world is all about fun and warmth and adventure. How dare I deny them that?<br />
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Of course, as a mother it's my job to protect my children. But I can only do so to an extent. We still drive, we still eat junk food, we still take public transportation. And we will still travel the world, to the extent we can. <br />
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I have to think they will thank me for it eventually. <br />
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I'm not sure when, but eventually, they will find out that the world is a very scary place. It will be a shock, and they will come to terms with it in their own way. But by that time, I hope they will have really lived enough to know that it's worth it to continue to do so. <br />
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Because while scary, the world is also pretty awesome. It's worth exploring. <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-4980169315200072582016-03-11T08:52:00.001-05:002016-03-11T08:52:27.456-05:00European AdventuresOnce upon a time, a long, long time ago, I was a world traveler. <br />
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Nothing extreme, mind you - I wasn't a solo backpacker criss-crossing the globe and becoming a bartender at random cities that struck my fancy (though I did fantasize about it). Instead, I was a more intense version of a college student with a Eurail pass. I lived in England in my early 20's and I explored all of Europe, many times over, and then I added in a bit of Egypt, Southeast Asia, and Australia. When I wasn't traveling, I was researching and planning my next trip. It was my passion, my hobby, my avocation, and seeing the world - at least part of it - made me feel humble and free. </div>
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Slowly but surely, adulthood crept in, and instead of traveling internationally for months at a time, my trips took the form of week long beach vacations, visits to family, and Disney World expeditions. It's not that I don't appreciate or enjoy these holidays, but they are for relaxation and fun, instead of discovery. At times, when I would really think about it, my lack of ability to travel the way I used to would depress me, or leave me feeling trapped. But I would quickly remind myself that <i>those days are over.</i> My life, now, is my kids, and that's okay and wonderful and someday I will travel again, if I even want to by the point I am able. </div>
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Then last year, I <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/03/to-london-and-back.html#more"><b>went to London</b></a> for a long weekend without the kids. It was my first time abroad in nearly five years, and it absolutely invigorated me. Being there - in my old stomping ground, so far away from home - reminded me of who I had been before motherhood had taken over me. It was like a breath of fresh air, and I returned home determined to not let it go so long ever again. It was a first step in a journey of reclaiming <i>me</i> again, and one that is <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2016/02/stay-at-home-mom-burnout.html"><b>ongoing</b></a>.</div>
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But what about the kids? Though London for a weekend was wonderful, I yearned to do a longer trip where I could actually get over the jet lag. And who is going to watch my three kids for 10+ days? And could I really be without them that long anyway? </div>
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There's only one solution - take them with us. </div>
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And so, next week, my husband and I are taking our three children - ages 2, 5, and 7 - for a 10 day trip to London and Paris. </div>
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Many have said we are crazy, and perhaps we are. It is a 7 hour plane ride over, after all, and the kids will be hit with crazy jet lag. Once we are there, it's not like the kids are going to be super into the cultural aspects of each respective city. They are picky eaters and they hate to walk anywhere and they have trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places. </div>
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We're going anyway. And I'm super excited anyway. </div>
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For one, I'm thinking of it as an adventure. We are taking the kids on their first international trip, and there will be ups, downs, and hiccups, but we will ultimately prevail! The key is to be laid back and keep expectations low. I'm not expecting long attention spans or an abundance of patience or even an appreciation for where they are. I just want them to come along for the ride, enjoy themselves as much as possible, and to have a bit of mercy on their mother and father. </div>
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I also think this trip will be good for them - for the 7 and 5 year old, anyway. When I was 4 and 7, I traveled with my family to India, and even though I've never been back, the experience had a profound effect on me. We forget how naive and ignorant children are - the idea of a different country, of a different language, of people living differently, is so foreign (no pun intended) to them. They don't understand the concept of a completely different culture. To be sure, I understand that London and Paris won't provide the culture shock that India will, but it is something. It's a lesson that the world is a big place, and that it's worth exploring. </div>
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Beyond anything philosophical, I think they will actually have a lot of fun! Who knew, there are tons of kids activities in both London and Paris? Internet research has revealed a plethora of parks, museums, and other kid-centric attractions. And of course, we are going to Disneyland Paris for a day. <b><a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/11/lawyers-are-best-disney-world-planners.html">How could we not?</a> </b> Additionally, I plan on bringing various forms of electronic media to keep them entertained whilst their parents sip beer at a pub in London, or wine at a cafe in Paris. (This is vacation after all). <br />
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The fact is, I want to become a traveling family. I want my kids to experience the fascination of seeing the world. The world is a scary place right now, no doubt, and it's easy to be safe and stay home and do what's easy. But that's not how I want to be, and it's not what I want for my kids either. May I raise three wanderlusts in training, and may this trip be the first of many. </div>
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Wish us luck!</div>
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[And by the way, if anyone has any tips for kid friendly activities or restaurants in London and/or Paris, please send them my way!]</div>
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But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-24346008018765450812016-02-19T09:01:00.001-05:002018-09-06T21:41:39.248-04:00Stay at Home Mom Burnout<div>
Burnout is a thing. </div>
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People talk a lot about career burn out - about losing enthusiasm, drive, and motivation. What people don't talk about a lot is mom burn out. And I think I have it. </div>
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I've been a stay at home mom for nearly 5 years now. For those five years, I have devoted pretty much my everything to my kids. All my time, my energy, my body. And really, isn't that what a mother is supposed to do? Particularly when a mother's <i>job, </i>on a daily basis, is to be a stay at home mother? I mean, what else is it that I'm supposed to do? </div>
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Sure, I have done some work on the side. I do see friends regularly. A year or so ago I started exercising regularly and it's now become a part of my daily routine. But for the most part, I am all mom, all the time - I eat, sleep, and breathe motherhood. </div>
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I'm burnt out. </div>
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It was brought to my attention the other day that I have lost the joy in parenting. What a sad, horrible, pathetic acknowledgement, but it's true. I wake up tired. I loathe the morning routine of getting the kids up and packed for school, battling through teeth brushing, hair brushing, and wardrobe conflicts. I go through the motions of taking my youngest to playgroup or to the gym daycare and feed him lunch and put him down for a nap, which he only sometimes takes. And then around 3:30, I pick my two older kids up from school with a sigh and a hint of dread, knowing that shortly I'll be making dinner, dealing with combat of getting them to eat dinner, cleaning up after dinner, and then starting on the bedtime routine that is not quite, but almost, as tedious as the morning routine. And then I will do whatever work I need to do, fold laundry, watch junk television, and pray I can sleep through the night without interruption to start the whole thing over the next day. <br />
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I hate admitting this apathy, because the truth is, I LOVE my kids. I love them more than anything. I am in awe of them and proud of them and think they are pretty much the most awesome human beings on the planet. So reconciling these two conflicting emotions - burnout, and love, is a weird thing. And I'm not quite sure what to do about it. </div>
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To be sure, parenthood is never easy - whether one works or stays at home. I'm sure every parent feels burnt out sometimes. But lately, I can't help but think that my kids deserve better. They deserve a mom that is positive, creative, fun loving, and energetic - not one that is sighing in exhaustion, annoyance, and dread.</div>
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The fact is, I have nothing that is truly for <i>me</i>. I have help with the kids in the form of an amazing babysitter that comes two or three times a week for a few hours. But when she comes, I use that time to work, to go to a doctor's appointment, or to pick up my other kids from school. Besides exercise, which I do enjoy but is hardly a respite indulgence, I don't have any hobbies, any interests, any <i>career. </i>I just don't have time for it. And the big question is, if I did have the time, what would I do with it? </div>
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These are big questions. Existential questions. Questions like - what do I want to be and how do I want to spend my time and who am I in this world besides a mother? Questions that I have conveniently put off answering while I devote my life to parenting.</div>
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These questions are too big to deal with all at once. </div>
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But I am starting the process of answering them, on Wednesday mornings. </div>
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Our wonderful babysitter is now coming every Wednesday morning, so that I can do something for myself. No errands or doctor's appointments or otherwise useful activities are allowed. I am going to take my Wednesday mornings and indulge. </div>
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I've had three so far. </div>
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The first one, I took a Red Door gift card I was given two years ago and used it for a massage. </div>
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The second one, I took my computer to Barnes & Noble and took an online <a href="https://www.masterclass.com/"><b>Masterclass</b></a> course (James Patterson Teaches Writing - I'm only halfway through and I highly recommend). </div>
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This past Wednesday, I went to yoga and met a friend for lunch. <br />
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The hope is that these Wednesday mornings will break my burn out, and will fill me up enough so that on Wednesday afternoon, and throughout the week, when I pick my kids up from school, I can do so with an authentic smile. </div>
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I'm not expecting any overnight miracles, but I can sense the start of a shift in me. Almost like I've regained hope. Writing that sounds so melodramatic, because for God's sake, I have a pretty amazing life. But it's like I had given up hope on being part of something bigger, on extraordinary experiences, on intrinsic curiosity. After my last solo Wednesday morning, I signed up for another writing class, which I'll be going to for two hours every Saturday. I have an excitement about it that I haven't felt in a long time. </div>
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In taking these Wednesday mornings for myself, I have to fight back that little voice in my head called guilt. It says things to me like: <i>How dare you pay for a babysitter to watch your children so you can be indulgent? Aren't you a stay at home mom? Isn't this your JOB? Who do you think you are? Suck it up. You have three beautiful children. You have a "perfect" life. You shouldn't have to take a Wednesday morning off to be happy. You are selfish, selfish, selfish, and spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. </i></div>
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Sigh. <br />
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There's a fine line between overwhelming gratitude and martyring oneself. I know how lucky I am to be able to stay at home, let alone pay for a babysitter to come on Wednesday mornings so that I can do things just for myself. It doesn't seem fair, when one looks at what is going on in the world. And at the risk of being overly dramatic and philosophical, I have often wondered how it is that I have my life, and children are dying on beaches in a flight from Syria. If I'm going to be doing something "extra" with my time, shouldn't it be in the form of giving back? <br />
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The answer is yes. But, I'm allowing myself baby steps. Baby steps to rediscover myself, my place in this crazy world, and how it is I can face dinnertime each night with some actual joy (if such thing is possible). For now, it starts with Wednesday mornings. <br />
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But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-24965201237343043112016-01-29T07:50:00.002-05:002018-09-06T21:41:39.322-04:00When It Comes to Shoveling or Childcare, Shoveling Wins.We had been homebound for over 48 hours. The snow had come down for a full 24, leaving 30+ inches in its wake. We had tried to keep up with the shoveling - going out every few inches to clear, but it got ahead of us before long. So on Sunday afternoon, when the time came to shovel, it was daunting. <br />
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I like to think that my husband and I have an "equal" marriage, in that we share household duties. But when it comes to shoveling, we've always been old fashioned. He does the manual labor. I do the childcare. And the children and I watch from the window cheering Daddy on. <br />
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But not this time. <br />
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This time was different. <br />
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It didn't start off different, mind you. When the snow started falling on Friday, we were actually all kind of excited about it. The boys and I bundled up and went outside as soon as the snow started coming down. I mean, just look how happy everyone is in the cute little two inch accumulation. I couldn't stop snapping photos of all the joy. <br />
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But then.... the whining started. In fact, it started before our bliss in the snow. Much like a trip to the <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2013/06/pool-days.html"><b>neighborhood pool</b></a> in the summer, the prep for going outside lasted twice as long as the actual excursion itself. I was channeling A Christmas Story as I bundled the kids up, and they screamed in horror as they had to wear (gasp) snow pants! And boots! And something that's not a t-shirt! Once they got outside, they enjoyed the snow for a few brief minutes until their litany of complaints were revealed - their hands were cold. There was snow touching their pants. The snow angel was being covered by falling snow. One kid hit another with a snowball. Crying ensued. Retaliation took place. More crying ensures. And it was in that moment, on hour 1 of Snowzilla, that I made a conscious decision to abandon my January diet and bring back the alcohol. <br />
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I remember being snowbound during "Snowmageddon" back in 2010. We had one child at that time - Braden was about 15 months old. Sure, we were bored. We were restless. But we were calm. We were at peace. <br />
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Such was not the case this past weekend. <br />
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The kids woke at 5:30 am on Saturday. (Colin decided that would be the morning he would crawl out of his crib for the first time, by the way.). I had a mild headache from the reintroduction of alcohol, and yet I had grand plans for the day. We would break the day up into segments! Karaoke hour! Snow play hour! Baking hour! Art project hour! Reading hour! I'm not going to lie, I had anxiety about how we would pass the day, or most likely, days of being stuck in the house. <br />
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It was as if the kids could smell my fear. Or perhaps the snow was giving off some weird energy - you know the kind that makes animals act all crazy when a weather front moves in? Whatever it was, the kids were off the rails. And while it isn't that rare that our house is engulfed by chaos, it isn't so often that we are homebound and jailed within its four walls. With no possible escape. For God knows how long. <br />
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Activity plans were abandoned, and the electronics were brought out. Oh, and so were these, at <strike>10 am</strike> <strike>11am</strike>, ahem, noon:<br />
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Last Saturday was a long, long day. <br />
<br />
But then, when Sunday came, it became clear that that would be another long day. And the next day too. And the next. Because the DC area pretty much SUCKS at clearing snow in the easiest of circumstances. And with 30 inches of snow? We were looking at a string of days to be homebound. <br />
<br />
So when the time came to shovel, I was the first to volunteer. I wouldn't even call it volunteering. I would call it insisting. <br />
<br />
I suited up. I booted up. I listened to my running mix and got myself pumped. I brought with me a dirty martini, in a coffee thermos. And I shoveled the shit out of that driveway. <br />
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It took me about 2 and a half hours. During that time, my husband cooked dinner, fed the kids, and prepared them for bed. I, on the other hand, finished said dirty martini, listened to awesome music, got in a great work out, and was one with nature. The whole thing was incredibly relaxing. Especially given the alternative. <br />
<br />
The Sunday night shoveling gave me a re-boot, and it's a good thing, because I needed it. We were eventually freed from our home on Monday nights, but now, five days later, the roads are still horrific. The public schools in our area have been closed all week. And there is SO MUCH SNOW EVERYWHERE. <br />
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We are all looking forward to a weekend with no accumulation. But if and when it comes again, I'll be ready with my shovel. And my dirty martini in a thermos. <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-78301017632834714072016-01-07T08:45:00.002-05:002018-09-06T21:41:40.698-04:00Schooling a "Seasoned" MomThere was a week this past October that was particularly shitty for me. First, my husband <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/10/in-instant.html#.Voq04kv4vwI"><b>had a seizure</b></a> while jogging. A few days later, my grandmother died. Notwithstanding these events, I was holding it together surprisingly well.<br />
<br />
Then, two days later, I got a call from my kids' school. Casey, my 5 year old, had bitten a classmate. And with that, I went over the edge. The tears, the exhaustion, it all caught up with me. <br />
<br />
I picked Casey and his big brother Braden up from school that afternoon and I was forcing myself to be calm. Casey happily skipped into the car, finding it shockingly easy to forget the day's events, which included a talking to in the principal's office. <br />
<br />
Once the boys had secured their seat belts, I pulled over in the school parking lot. <i>Casey, </i>I said, <i>Do you have something to tell me? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Casey lowered his head and confessed. I proceeded to calmly spell out his consequences - how he would be getting no dessert, no iPad privileges, no TV shows, and how he could never, ever, ever do this again, and how he needs to use his words, and blah blah blah, and all of a sudden I hear crying coming from the backseat and I look back, and it's not Casey. It's Braden. The 7 year old. Who has nothing to do with this incident. <br />
<br />
<i>Stop being mean to Casey! </i>Braden yelled. <i>You're such a mean mommy. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Yeah, you are a mean mommy! </i>Casey echoed. <br />
<br />
The insults were flung at me like a chorus - loud and with resolve. I can't exactly recall what was said, because at a point I stopped listening. I was about to defend myself - to put my kids back in their place, to yell at them at the preposterousness of the fact that <i>I </i>was the one who was the bad guy in this scenario, but I couldn't summon the energy. I was done. Done. Done. Done with my week. Done with my kids. Done with managing the day to day. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>When I arrived home I did the bare minimum to ensure the children survived, and I called and informed my husband that he needed to come home early, because I was hanging on by a thin thread. I took an uber to my friend's house and we sat around in pajamas drinking martinis. And I felt a bit better. But that night, I decided to throw my hands in the air and admit that I was not handling everything so well. There was just too much, so much. And I needed help.<br />
<br />
Because really, this wasn't the first time I'd kind of lost my shit. It's happening more and more. With multiple school pick ups and vomiting kids and medical scares and car malfunctions and random deadlines and meltdowns all the crap that happens when your a mom with young kids. Life happens. And I can't just be <i>done</i> (and escape to a friend's house to drink martinis - as nice as that was) every time it does. <br />
<br />
So I threw out the rope and I hired a parent coach. <br />
<br />
When I say parent coach, perhaps you are thinking of <a href="http://www.tv.com/shows/supernanny/"><b>Supernanny</b></a> - you know, that woman with the English accent that goes into the homes of wretched children and brings order and calm to them and their clueless parents. <br />
<br />
Not judging, just not for me. <br />
<br />
Instead, <a href="http://www.mlparentcoach.com/"><b>Meghan</b></a>, my parent coach, does Skype sessions. With just me - she never meets the children. She listens. She thinks. She doesn't pass judgment. And she gives frank advice. In fact, one of the best pieces of advice that she has given to me with regard to my oldest child is to just "shut up." Without getting into the details, she was exactly right. I do need to shut up. And do a bunch of other things the opposite of which I have been doing.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I am a seasoned parent of three kids. I look the part and I host playdates and volunteer at the school and I try to make sure my kids' hair is brushed. Maybe you would look at me and think I have my shit together. But in all honesty, I have no idea what I am doing. I am at my best completely overwhelmed, and at my worst completely exasperated. I spend most of the time stabbing in the dark, trying to parent the best I can and hoping that the fact that I love my kids more than anything will be enough.<br />
<br />
But the fact is, it isn't enough. I can love them with every ounce of my being, but it doesn't give me the expertise on how to discipline my kids in effective ways. On how to stop yelling. On how to actually enforce the loose rules on screen time. On what to say when they tell me that someone has been mean to them at school. On how much space to give them to allow them to grow, but also how to stay close without smothering them. On how to best meet their vastly differing needs. On how to still take care of myself.<br />
<br />
When I was a lawyer, I would never have gone into a case cold. I would have researched. I would have sought advice. Retained experts. Done my due diligence. <br />
<br />
In parenting there aren't any concrete answers like there are in the legal profession. But there is guidance. And there is expertise. And help. And if there's one thing I've learned in my 7 years as a parent, it's to be humble, and ask for help when I need it. The saying "it takes a village" really is true. Because if we're honest, none of us know what we are doing. And there is definitely strength in numbers.<br />
<br />
For 2016, I'm going to work a bit harder on becoming a better parent, and it goes beyond just hiring a parent coach. I want to be cognizant of the fact that I need to work on my parenting - every day, in small steps. I'm going to humbly reach out to the experts, to friends, to anyone that will listen with an open mind. I'm going to try to breathe a bit more and stress a bit less. And I'm going to try really hard to be a bit more forgiving, both to my kids and to myself.<br />
<br />
Because this parenting thing is hard, yo.<br />
<br />
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Like this post? Like me on Facebook by clicking <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/But-I-Do-Have-a-Law-Degree/110057672515493"><b>here</b></a>!But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-1797068985473908472015-12-11T09:10:00.001-05:002018-09-06T21:41:39.175-04:00A Recurring Dream and a Plea for SupportThroughout my life, I've had several recurring dreams, most of which are pathetically typical. The loose tooth dream, the I am enrolled in a college course I forgot to attend dream, the plane crashing dream (in which I never die). But I've also had another recurring dream for the past two or so decades that is unique to me - it's one where I have a conversation with Elliott. <br />
<br />
Elliott is my first cousin - my dad's sister's son. We have always been very close with my aunt and her family, and have spent summers in Cape Cod with her since before I can remember. She had kids later in life, so when she had her first adopted son, I was ten years old. In an irony that is not all too rare, when she adopted her first son, she was actually pregnant with her second. And approximately six months later, her second son, Elliott, came.<br />
<br />
I was in love with both boys. I was at the age where I was just beginning to feel maternal, and confident and cocky enough to "take care of them." I changed diapers, I gave bottles, and I held them. I remember my sister and I fighting vigorously over who got to hold the "bubba" first.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWnC0LcO8Kfe1qqBQ9RHTm9em4pQFk_78tbTW06CrvMi78BIZut4omR-E4rAi3eadS1tOCnAtdXuuVOPD8UDl3beR1T-nDaq5POgz21CS01dvek8DJjea2Cqle0LUM7BiU8xHS9Bc7b_WN/s1600/IMG_5116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWnC0LcO8Kfe1qqBQ9RHTm9em4pQFk_78tbTW06CrvMi78BIZut4omR-E4rAi3eadS1tOCnAtdXuuVOPD8UDl3beR1T-nDaq5POgz21CS01dvek8DJjea2Cqle0LUM7BiU8xHS9Bc7b_WN/s640/IMG_5116.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister and I with Bubba #1, David. Check out those glasses!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Thankfully, there were two, so my sister and I could hand off. I have vivid, clear memories of holding my cousin Elliott, the younger one. He was so smiley, so happy, and made such good eye contact. He was such a joyful baby. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrxwxTPwokkoh7dTPsRlrNucgh2L8IW3ot3rFnWm_g6S2KZgBcoP9H_6ni-OFLEwAv8yG4wC3fjQ4Nv1K1b6w2CHSEgFtzdTO_DE7KL5E8efZV-KdaVBsunx9Tt5H1aAsZFgTN5oelu4i/s1600/IMG_5117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrxwxTPwokkoh7dTPsRlrNucgh2L8IW3ot3rFnWm_g6S2KZgBcoP9H_6ni-OFLEwAv8yG4wC3fjQ4Nv1K1b6w2CHSEgFtzdTO_DE7KL5E8efZV-KdaVBsunx9Tt5H1aAsZFgTN5oelu4i/s640/IMG_5117.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elliott at 6 months - happy, smiling, and looking right at me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Thirty years later, I am haunted by these memories. Because in a mere few years from the above photo being taken, Elliott wouldn't make eye contact anymore. At age 3, he was diagnosed as autistic. <br />
<br />
I was young, so I don't remember the details, but I do remember my dad telling me that they thought Elliott might be deaf, because he wasn't talking. They were going to do some testing, and take him to doctors. And some time after that, he received the devastating diagnosis. I didn't really understand what that meant - back then, autism wasn't a mainstream diagnosis that one encountered, or worried about. And really, if you have never seen an autistic person, how can you really know what it means? For me, I learned about autism by being with Elliott, year after year. <br />
<br />
At first it wasn't completely obvious. Lots of kids don't talk, and lots of kids have tantrums. But as Elliott got older, the diagnosis of autism began to take form. He learned to talk, but would not engage in conversation. He would not look anyone in the eye. He would have complete meltdowns over the most random of things - bananas, cold water, loud noises. As he grew taller and got acne and his voice grew deeper, his mental state lagged. While his contemporaries were moving on to girls and friends and sports, Elliott still loved playing with toys and watching Barney. And in any event, he had no interest in friends or girls. As Elliott likes to say, he prefers a "party of one." And now - at the age of 25 - he hasn't changed much. The toys, the shows, the tantrums - the epic tantrums - they've all remained. <br />
<br />
I can't even begin to imagine the struggles my aunt has gone through to raise Elliott and give him all of the care that he needs. There are no breaks, no respites and no end ever in sight. Elliott requires constant care and supervision, and my aunt has devoted her life to making sure he receives only the best. She has endured a divorce, a lawsuit against the state to get Elliott the care he is entitled to, and countless aides/teachers/therapists in and out of her home on a constant basis for the last quarter of a century; not to mention the hundreds of thousands she has spent on his therapy and care. Her life revolves around Elliott - plain and simple.<br />
<br />
But through it all, she loves him more than life itself. And so does our family. Some of our favorite all time stories are ones we call "Elliotisms." Ones where he would pick food off a stranger's plate at a restaurant, where he would walk past kids on the dock in the pond and push them off (!), where he would blow out other people's birthday candles (including mine!), and where he would eat 10 Dunkin Donuts in one sitting. We've all learned the lesson that if you don't laugh, you'll cry. And Elliott can be pretty hysterical and charming.<br />
<br />
The amazing thing about Elliott is that there is more to him than meets the eye. He is smart - crazy smart, in that weird savant kind of way (give him a date, he'll give you a day of the week). He is emotional - he used to be obsessed with weddings, and took home a copy of my wedding video and watched it over and over again. And whenever I see him, he hugs me. Mostly out of obligation - he has been taught how to be polite and how to mimic social customs, but I also know he cares about me and feels comfortable in my presence. For Elliott, that's a small circle, and I feel privileged to be a part of it.<br />
<br />
And then there's the recurring dream... The one where Elliott and I have a conversation. I never can recollect what the conversation is about, so I don't think it's ever been something super deep. But that feeling of able to connect with him - to talk to him, to make eye contact him, to understand him... I do yearn for that. So I suppose that's why I have dreamed about him so often, for so long. <br />
<br />
As my aunt gets older, the inevitable questions arise. What will become of Elliott when my aunt is gone? I won't even get into detail about the pathetic state of services for adults with autism, but suffice it to say they don't exist. And so, as my aunt has done for all of Elliott's life, she is taking things into her own hands. <br />
<br />
A couple of years ago, my aunt founded the <a href="http://www.greengardcenter.org/"><b>Greengard Center for Autism</b></a>, in an effort to address the needs of autistic adults. Located in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the center offers a day program (and soon to be residential program) for young adults with autism to receive ongoing education, access to recreation, a social community, and opportunities to find meaningful work. <br />
<br />
My aunt has recently leased a property for the center, but it is in desperate need of renovations. She has started a <a href="https://www.gofundme.com/greengardcenter"><b>Go Fund Me</b></a> campaign to help cover some of the costs. <br />
<br />
I've always made it a point not to use my blogs as a means to plea for solicitations, for whatever cause, but for this I need to make an exception. This may be a small center, in Portsmouth New Hampshire, for a handful of autistic adults. But what it stands for is so much more - autistic adults need services, assistance, and support. And now, the autism epidemic is coming to a head. All of those children diagnosed in the past 25 years - 1 in 68 (1 in every 42 boys) - they will all become adults. As a community, and as a society, it's our job to ensure they are taken care of - because their parents will not be here forever to take care of them. My aunt's hope and dream is that this center will serve as a model for other communities across the country (and world). <br />
<br />
Look, the world is crap these days. ISIS and guns and a fascist Republican presidential hopeful. But if you are willing, a donation to this campaign - no matter how small- will make a real difference. <br />
<br />
Elliott, my aunt, and my whole family thank you!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lP5_lj9SsS7K-a0DmT5cKeiMY5b1yF3nMdOMqZdFFCiIXQu2F8VTccPEZloPrJjBK1tlnCdpu-h0itUotAFKlgW5-omvR7SpIa_eaoadxKUa3HLQL-e5PHJnEvnVnnDCECCuuiAMCjSP/s1600/IMG_1853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lP5_lj9SsS7K-a0DmT5cKeiMY5b1yF3nMdOMqZdFFCiIXQu2F8VTccPEZloPrJjBK1tlnCdpu-h0itUotAFKlgW5-omvR7SpIa_eaoadxKUa3HLQL-e5PHJnEvnVnnDCECCuuiAMCjSP/s640/IMG_1853.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My aunt and Elliott, at our house this past Thanksgiving.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Here's the link to the Go Fund Me Page - <b><a href="https://www.gofundme.com/greengardcenter">https://www.gofundme.com/greengardcenter</a></b><br />
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Update: Thank you so much for your generous donations! My family and I are truly humbled. In an effort to ramp things up, the person in the DC area who donates the most gets a night out for cocktails with me (drinks on me!). You can email me at butidohavealawdegree@gmail.com with your donation amount and email address. AND THANK YOU!!!<br />
<br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-88532450961685129052015-12-04T09:13:00.001-05:002018-09-06T21:41:40.954-04:00My Greatest Indulgence<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWQulq_VF19umrgbaIqzVt0d8gMVtUB172NS1HO410-3Qm_Kr1v6BBiDWdV-Our0416-e485hx1iNk6is5GsUf01ZGqdMLfvEYvEEP3asB4I3IhMsheRnawsH78yKzSvt55LlIxbCIWX3/s1600/IMG_4989.JPG" imageanchor="1"></a>When I was considering whether or not to have a third child, I viewed it as a bit presumptuous. Like asking for too much. I already had two amazing, healthy children that I loved more than anything - was it too bold to ask for one more? Was I being too indulgent? <br />
<br />
I didn't think that way when considering my first two kids. I supposed that's because I always knew I would have two children - for no real reason, really, other than the fact that that is what I just always viewed as "normal." Considering a third seemed like a grand deviation - a rejection of the nuclear 2 sibling family with which I was brought up in, and with what I had always envisioned for myself. <br />
<br />
But then there's that saying that every woman knows when her quiver is full, and part of me knew that mine just wasn't. Ultimately there came a time, when my second was around 2 years old, that I felt ready. I knew someone was missing. I just didn't know that that person would be a blonde haired, blue eyed boy named Colin. Who just turned 2 years old. <br />
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From the moment I set my eyes on him, I knew that I had not in fact been presumptuous. This baby was not asking for too much. He was not just a bonus. He was his own person, meant to be my child. I knew upon meeting him that my life would never again be complete without him, and that he filled a huge gaping hole that I never even knew existed. <br />
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Hanging out with him these past two years has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. <br />
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It's been an experience distinct from my years as a mother prior to him arriving. The fact is, I'm a different mom to Colin than I was to his older brothers - in good and bad ways. Like the quintessential third child, I don't take as many pictures, I have yet to complete his baby book, and I really couldn't tell you when he got his first tooth or took his first step. But in a weird way, this is refreshing - I don't do these things because I've learned the important lesson that memorializing a moment isn't as important as experiencing it. And so instead of documenting his days, I enjoy his days - present in each one, having also learned the lesson that time goes by painfully fast. <br />
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I am incredibly laid back, sometimes to a fault. I don't sweat it if Colin doesn't eat his vegetables or misses a nap, and when he takes a tumble I don't gasp in panic. He can eat dirt or sand or paper products without me being overly concerned. When I picked him up from the gym childcare last week, I didn't lose my shit when I realized he was drinking a bottle of someone else's breast milk. And if he wakes up in the middle of the night, I don't freak out about bringing him to our bed and creating bad habits. I relish the time I get to rock him to sleep, for I know our time for this is short.<br />
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Colin doesn't get as much attention as his older brothers did at his age, but as a result he is incredibly independent. He roams freely throughout the house, and at times I actually can't find him (something that would have made me pass out with my first child). Generally I find him playing with trains in the basement, trying on his brothers' clothing, or in his room, reading a book.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of<b> </b><b><a href="http://www.darcytroutmanphotography.com/">Darcy Troutman Photography</a></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of<b> </b><b><a href="http://www.darcytroutmanphotography.com/">Darcy Troutman Photography</a></b></td></tr>
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Of course, I do harbor some third child guilt. When we have mornings free, I tend to go to the gym and put him in the childcare, rather than take him to the park. His life revolves around our lives - hanging out during the older boys' activities, or tagging along with me on errands - rather than the reverse, as it had been particularly with my first born. The fact that his birthday blog post is three weeks late is indicative of how his needs tend to take the backseat to the demands of his grade school brothers, and my hectic life.<br />
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For his birthday a few weeks ago, I decided to make the day all about him. After we dropped his brothers off at school, we went to Turtle Park - a park I used to take my oldest to almost daily when he was a toddler. I don't think Colin had ever been there before. <br />
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We had a wonderful day- just him and I. <br />
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A few days later, we had a birthday party. It was smaller than the 2nd birthday parties we had for his two older brothers - by this time, we had learned our lesson regarding 2 year old birthday parties (because what 2 year old has friends and what 2 year old is ever going to remember?). But in many ways, it was more special. We celebrated with cousins and aunts and uncles and close friends. We celebrated Colin. <br />
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As a parent I still haven't figured out how much of my kids' personalities are nature or nurture, but all I can say is that this boy is the happiest kid I have ever met. He is always smiling, always giggling, always enjoying life. I mean, the kid cracks up laughing every time he sees a bird. Every. single. time. <br />
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The notion that we might have stopped at 2 seems inconceivable, and would have been tragic. Because this boy brings joy to anyone and everyone around him. Especially me. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of<b> </b><a href="http://www.darcytroutmanphotography.com/"><b>Darcy Troutman Photography</b></a></td></tr>
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I am head over heels in love with this third baby of mine - this baby we never thought we would have, but were destined to. I can't wait to see who he's going to be.<br />
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Happy 2nd birthday, my baby boy. <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-16545885528532115812015-11-19T13:53:00.000-05:002018-09-06T21:41:39.102-04:00To RunThis past weekend I ran a half marathon. <br />
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It isn't so odd to hear that these days. It seems anyone and everyone has hopped on the marathon band wagon. Young people, old people, skinny people, heavy people.... everyone and their mother has run a marathon (sometimes together). <br />
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But for me, this was a really, really big deal. <br />
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Running a marathon (or a half of one) used to be something I joked about whilst tipsy over cocktails. <i>Yeah, lets run a marathon! </i>I would proclaim, full well knowing it wasn't true and finding the whole thing a bit humorous. Running a long distance was not something I was interested in doing, and certainly not something I would enjoy. Besides, isn't it arbitrary? 13.1 miles, 26.2 miles - why? Why not just run a mile or two and call it a day? It seemed cultish almost - why engage in an activity that hurts your joints and your knees and makes you exhausted? Surely there are better ways to spend one's time.<br />
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But then something weird happened last spring. I was starting to get into shape, while at the same time going through an existential crisis of sorts. We had moved into a new house. My baby wasn't so much a baby anymore, and we knew there were no more kids to come. For the first time in a long time, I started to think about myself again and who I was and what I wanted to do when I grow up. I also was not getting any younger, and for the first time in my life I was starting to see it - in gray hairs, in fine lines, in sheer exhaustion. <br />
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I needed to shake things up. <br />
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But it is hard to shake things up when one has three kids aged 6 and under. So as each day started to flow into the next, I started to think about running. When one of my friends told me she had signed up for a half marathon, I figured why not do something completely out of character? If I wasn't going reinvent myself or start a new career or get started on that novel I've always wanted to write, I may as well run. <br />
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I didn't start training until this summer. I started off at 2 miles and ran each in about 12 minutes. Notwithstanding the fact that I was in decent shape, I nearly died. I rethought my commitment to this half marathon thing, but at that point, there was no looking back. I had a goal, and I would meet it.<br />
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So I ran 3 miles. Then 4. Then 5. And then, this past weekend, 13.1. And along the way, I started to love to run. <br />
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You know that feeling when you're running and you are so exhausted and you just want to stop? Someone once told me that once you get into running shape, that goes away. I never believed them, but they were right. After a while, the running stops hurting. And instead, you just run. And keep running. And it starts to feel amazing. <br />
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I would always do my long runs outside. I made a <a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/1214988790/playlist/6p8aN9jrev1WOYkzyy4N1P"><b>running playlist</b> </a>on Spotify and set out solo. This time was solely mine. I didn't have to watch children or talk to anyone or check my email. I ran, I listened to music, and I appreciated the clouds and sun and fall leaves. As much as I could, I tried to run on scenic trails. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken during my 9 mile run on the Potomac Tow Path - 10/8/15 at 9:15am</td></tr>
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Running almost became meditative - the one time where my mind was clear and at peace. My weekly long runs became the high point of my week. <br />
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The training was not without mishaps, and my body wasn't always willing to keep up with my will. I hurt my foot in September and had an MRI to confirm it wasn't a stress fracture. In October, I developed runner's knee and had to take two weeks out of training. I also developed some neuromas in my feet, and still have numbness in a few toes and on my heel. And lest we forget my husband's <a href="http://www.butidohavealawdegree.com/2015/10/in-instant.html"><b>running accident</b></a> - a seizure that sidelined him from the half marathon and turned our family upside down. <br />
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But, against all rationality, I still wanted to run. I yearned to run. I suppose part of it was that I couldn't bear failing. It had been so long since I had really set a goal for myself. If I couldn't do this - something as simple as getting out there and putting one foot in front of the other - then what could I do? <br />
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But I had another reason, too. I wanted to show my kids that their mother is strong - physically and mentally. That I can do things other than just be their mother. Every day they see their father go off to work in a button down shirt and dress pants, going off the conquer the world. That's not something I do anymore. I get down and dirty and handle the minutiae of every day - the cooking, the cleaning, the bathing, the yelling, the wondering if I can handle another day of it all without losing my shit. This is my element, and it's the one they see me in every day. There's not much room for anything else. <br />
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Except running. And the nice thing about running is that there's a tangible goal. A race - one where my kids could come and watch and cheer me on. My race was this past Sunday, on the Potomac Tow Path.<br />
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I woke up on Sunday morning with anxious anticipation. But mostly, I was excited. I couldn't wait to get out there and run. The weather was absolutely perfect. <br />
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My goal was to run an average 10 minute mile. Ultimately, I finished the 13.1 miles in 2 hours and 11 minutes. My average pace per mile was 9 minutes, 45 seconds (the excess total time was due to water breaks, stretching breaks, etc.). <br />
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My husband, mom, and kids were all waiting for me at the finish line. And one of my dearest friend's surprised me at mile 12, and ran the last mile along with me. I was so touched I nearly cried. But I didn't - I was too exhausted to do anything but run. <br />
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My kids first question to me was: <i>Did you win? </i><br />
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<i>No, I didn't win.</i> I said. <i>But I finished. And that's the most important thing.</i><br />
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Seeing me there sweaty and panting and gratified, I think they were proud of their mom. They fought over who got to wear my medal the whole way home.<br />
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I'm not going to lie and say I felt absolutely amazing after the run - I didn't. My legs felt like they each weighed a ton, and all I wanted to do was get in bed and go to sleep (which I did). Four days later, my body is still sore and my knees are aching. <br />
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But damn, I'm glad I did it. Yes, it was an arbitrary goal, and there are much easier ways to get in shape. But I don't really care. It made me feel good, it made me feel strong, it made me feel free. It opened my mind to taking chances and taking risks and doing things completely out of my comfort zone. Maybe I'll take guitar lessons. Or a stand up comedy class. Or learn to speak French. Not for some ultimate goal of securing a degree or advancing my career or making money - just to challenge myself, to evolve, to do something different, to become a better me.<br />
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In the meantime, I want to run the Cherry Blossom 10 miler in April. Who's coming with me? <br />
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<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-60974953021347688252015-11-11T13:52:00.002-05:002015-11-11T13:52:50.702-05:00Lawyers are the Best Disney World PlannersLast month we took yet another trip to Disney World. We are <i>those </i>people. We go to far too often, and yes, we even went prior to having children. It's fake and commercial and overpriced and lacking in culture and we all absolutely love it.<br />
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I've been going to Disney World every year or two for my whole life, so I know how it all works. We used to book our flights and hotels with short notice and do little to no planning (my mom was known to book a Disney trip the day before - literally). But in recent years, due in large part to the expansion of the hotels and the advent of the the smart phone and the internet and all that other stuff they call "technology," it isn't so easy to just hope on a plane, go to Disney World, and actually have a good time. </div>
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Now, months of planning are involved. People book their dining reservations 180 days in advance. Really. They do. I know this because I have waited until 9am 180 days in advance (instead of staying up until midnight), and I still was not able to book dinner at <b><a href="https://disneyworld.disney.go.com/dining/magic-kingdom/be-our-guest-restaurant/">Be Our Guest restaurant.</a> </b>People also book up to 3 rides per day up to 60 days in advance - this is called a fast pass where you get a certain time slot to go on a ride of your choosing. This means that two months before your vacation, you have to decide what park you want to go to, and where exactly you want to be at a given time, on a certain day. The popular rides are booked up immediately. And if you don't have a fast pass, by noon the ride lines are exorbitant - at the time I am writing this (at 1:30pm on Thursday), the line for the Toy Story Ride at Hollywood Studios is 105 minutes (the Disney app updates wait times every minute or so). And the hotels are a whole other story - if you want to stay onsite (especially on the monorail), good luck booking last minute during a popular time.</div>
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If you don't pre-plan, and you just show up at Disney World with no game plan or strategy, your time there will suck. You will wait in line for food, for rides, and sweat in 90+ degree heat and high humidity. You will be trapped by a parade coming down Main Street as you are trying to leave, you will walk needless miles from ride to ride, you will wait for what seems like an eternity for the transportation buses, and you will judge people like me that say it's the happiest place on earth. </div>
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I am not one to brag, but here it is - I rock at planning Disney vacations. And though part of it stems from my many trips there over the years, the other part comes from an unlikely source - my law degree. </div>
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People often ask if I "use" my law degree at all in my non-practicing life. To debate with people, to analyze scholarly articles, to negotiate with service providers. The answer is no. I hate talking politics, I prefer reading People magazine, and I tend to avoid confrontation. But for Disney planning? Hell yeah, I use the skills I learned from being a lawyer. This is discussed in sections 1, 2, and 3, <i>infra.</i></div>
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<b>1) Research</b><br />
When I was a practicing litigator, a huge portion of my time was spent researching. I would take an issue I knew absolutely nothing about, and I would research the hell out of it until I could speak on it as an expert (or at least appear to when a partner asked probing questions). It took a lot of time, patience, and expense on Westlaw, but I was generally pretty good at exhausting all resources. </div>
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One must do the same when planning a Disney vacation. It's not enough to simply book a hotel, book your fast passes, book your restaurants, and show up. No - this is the amateur route. </div>
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Instead, one must do research on rides and wait times. A couple months before my trip, I go on the Disney app daily to analyze line times, and how they change throughout the day. This enables me to decide which rides we should hit first, and when we should plan our fast passes for. (Hint - always book your fast passes for later in the afternoon, when lines are longest. Spend the morning going on rides with shorter lines). </div>
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One must also do research on geography. You don't want to be running from one end of the park to another over and over again. Notwithstanding the fact that you will be sweaty and exhausted, you will be losing precious time! And time wasted at Disney World involves a huge opportunity cost - lost rides, longer lines, and emotional meltdowns (usually by the children). </div>
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There are other details to research prior to your trip that should not be overlooked. How will you get to the parks in the morning, and how do you ensure you are there for park opening? What are the height requirements for certain rides? Will you get wet (if so, do those in the morning when lines are the shortest)? Where are the closest restrooms? </div>
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A lapse or deficiency in any of this research could have disastrous consequences. Once you have exhausted this research, you can move on to the planning phase. </div>
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<b>2) Planning</b></div>
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As an attorney, there was an immense amount of planning that went into every aspect of trial preparation - discovery, depositions, and ultimately, the trial itself. Where and how would documents be reviewed and compiled? How would those documents be introduced and utilized in depositions? There were discovery plans, deposition outlines, and trial prep binders. I have always been a planner by nature, but being an attorney honed this skill even further. </div>
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You've done the research for your Disney trip, now make a plan. And by plan, I mean a detailed itinerary. What rides will you hit first? What are the contingencies that would make you deviate from your plan? If a ride is down for maintenance, what will you do and where will you go? How will you maximize your fast passes? What are your priorities, and what is the maximum amount of time you are willing to wait in line for a ride? Do all members of your party want to ride the same rides? How will you fit in your dining reservations, and where are they in proximity to your rides of choice?</div>
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For my trip, I had two very professional planning documents. The first one looked like this: </div>
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This document is the initial document you should draft, consisting of your restaurant reservations and fast pass times. You'll note that I had multiple reservations for the same meal - this was to allow maximum flexibility up until the cancellation window (24 hours in advance). This also allowed me to continue to explore my options should any other desired restaurants or fast pass times open up. This document should be prepared months in advance. </div>
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The second document should be drafted approximately a week before your trip. It should be drafted with all of the research you have conducted in mind - how to minimize wait times and maximize the number of rides experienced. You can deviate from this plan at the last minute, but have contingencies in mind. In the final planning stages of a day in Magic Kingdom, this was my work product:<br />
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I will have you know that this particular day in the Magic Kingdom was a huge success - we hit every single ride on the list above, and never waited for longer than 10 minutes. How did I come up with this list, and execute it so successfully? Read on. <br />
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<b>3) Logical Reasoning</b><br />
If you are a lawyer, you will remember with fondness (if you are my husband) or disdain (if you are me) the logic games section of the LSAT. You know, those questions that go something like: Eight people sit at a table. A cannot sit next to B. C sits two seats away from E. E and G cannot sit across from each other, and one must sit next to D. Now draw the table configuration, assuming 4 people on each side. (This is entirely made up by the way - please don't try to solve). <br />
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I hated those damn logic games, and I wasn't that good at them. (My husband still does them for fun. No wonder he made it in big law and I didn't. But I digress). But, they surprisingly tested logical skills that I actually did use in law school (future interests, anyone?), and even in practice when I would research complicated cases/precedent, etc. <br />
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So here's a real life, Disney World planning logic game for you. Successfully completing it will ensure the most efficient use of time, maximizing the number of rides you ride, minimizing your wait time, and ensuring that you too will love Disney World. Here are the rules: <br />
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- Each party (above age 2) is entitled to 3 fast passes.<br />
- Once all fast passes are used, you can choose up to three more fast passes at a kiosk. (assume options will be limited).<br />
- Each fast pass must be scheduled for a different hour window - no overlap.<br />
- All members of a party do not have to choose the same fast passes.<br />
- Some parks have limitations on fast passes - aka, you cannot choose two of the same (must choose either Rock'n Roller Coaster or Tower of Terror, but not both). <br />
- Kids under 40 inches cannot ride some thrill rides (Thunder Mountain, Splash Mountain, Space Mountain, etc.). Keep in mind that these are generally the rides with the longest lines. <br />
- If a child cannot ride a ride due to height, one parent can stay back with them and receive a Rider Swap. Rider Swaps entitle any 3 people in your party to skip to the front of the line, and are good for up to a week. <br />
- If one uses a fast pass, and also asks for a rider swap, the 3 people using the rider swap do not need to present a fast pass when they subsequently ride. (Thus, a fast pass for 2 people actually entitles 3 people to ride the ride later, and skip to the front of the line without the fast pass). <br />
- Lines for rides are shortest in the morning and peak around 1pm.<br />
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Some of these concepts may seem confusing. They are. But failure to understand their implications can have dire consequences. And thus, the better your logical reasoning, the better your Disney planning. <br />
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Lets look at how this works in practice: At EPCOT, you cannot simultaneously select fast passes for both Test Track and Soarin' (both of which have huge lines). So what did we do? We split the fast passes - Husband and Braden got fast passes for Test Track, Casey and I got fast passes for Soarin'. We scheduled the same hour long window (which we could do because we split our reservations up). First, Braden and Husband go on Test Track. Because we have a 2 year old who cannot ride the ride, we get a Rider Swap. Once they are done, Braden, Casey and I ride, using the Rider Swap, and are able to skip the line. Then we moved onto Soarin' where we did the same thing. First Casey and I, with Husband getting a rider swap, and then Husband rides immediately after with Braden and Casey. <br />
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Ultimately, we were all able to ride both rides (twice), and walk to the front of the line. The wait for the stand by, non-fast pass, line at that point, which we avoided entirely, was 100 minutes and 90 minutes, respectively.<br />
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This made for a very happy evening.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colin is pissed because he was too short to go on the rides.</td></tr>
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In conclusion, there are three skills, discussed <i>supra,</i> that must be utilized when planning a successful and enjoyable Disney vacation; namely research, planning, and logical reasoning. If you yourself do not possess such skills, the hiring of an attorney should be considered.<br />
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Who says that I'm not using my law degree for the greater good?<br />
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But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-32568008990136798042015-10-29T14:08:00.004-04:002018-09-06T21:41:39.577-04:00In an InstantA few years ago I read Joan Didion's memoir, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Year-Magical-Thinking-Joan-Didion/dp/1400078431"><i><b>The Year of Magical Thinking</b></i></a><i>, </i>which chronicles her struggles the year after the sudden death of her husband. In it, she details how her husband collapsed and had a massive heart attack right before her eyes, while they were sitting at the kitchen table having dinner. <br />
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<i>"Life changes fast. Life changes in an instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends," </i>she wrote. <i> </i><br />
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That quote struck me enough to stick with me, some three years later. And this past weekend, it was one of the things I first thought of when in a mere instant, my life changed as well. <br />
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One minute my husband was running on the Canal tow path, getting in an 11 mile run before our half marathon in a few weeks. The next minute, he was flat on the pavement, being awoken by an EMT asking him if he could remember his name or address. <br />
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Who knows how long he had been lying there? Assuming someone found him instantly, called 911, and then another ten or fifteen minutes for the ambulance to get there - 20 minutes? Twenty minutes of him seizing, and then lying lifeless on the pavement, bloodied and bruised. Fast asleep. <br />
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When I received the call from the ambulance I was lying in bed with my five year old - encouraging him to leave me alone and watch his movie so I could nap. I was looking forward to a lazy afternoon and an evening of entertaining friends at our house. And with that call - in that instant, it all changed. <br />
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Unbeknownst to me, while I was lying in bed with my son with Aladdin playing in the background, my husband was lying alone, having a grand mal seizure on a gravel path, and a stranger was summoning help. <br />
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How could that be? How could I not know?<br />
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I in turn summoned my village. I texted my close friends and asked whoever received it to call immediately. Two minutes later I had arranged to drop off my kids, and a few minutes after that my sister had arranged to pick them up later and bring them back to my house, should I be at the hospital overnight. I arrived at the hospital shortly after that, with my husband conscious, but confused, and so began the medical jargon. CT scans and EKGs and blood sugar levels and anything and everything and it all came out normal. <br />
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My husband had never had a seizure before, so this was all new to both of us. And in yet another circumstance, I was reminded that although modern medicine is incredible, in other aspects doctors don't know anything, and can't answer the most important of questions.<br />
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<i>Why did this happen? </i><i>Will it happen again? </i><br />
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Don't know, don't know.<br />
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There are practical implications. For one, my husband can no longer drive, at least for the time being. This is a huge inconvenience, but not insurmountable, and we will make due. We are lucky that we live in an area with a vast network of public transportation, and that someone invented uber. <br />
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There are the big questions. Seeing Daddy walk in the house bloodied and bruised after a visit to the hospital was unnerving for my two older kids. We have reassured them that Daddy is fine, but my seven year old seems anxious and knows something larger is amiss. <br />
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There's the fear of the unknown. Of why and how and what the future holds and what we should do about it.<br />
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There's the introspection. This incident has reminded me that life is short, life is unpredictable, and life <i>can</i> change in an instant. It's made me ponder life and death and how we're all just our bodies and our brains, and how weird and bizarre is that? It reminded me of a quote from a book I, coincidentally, just read: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Do-No-Harm-Stories-Surgery/dp/125006581X"><i style="font-weight: bold;">"Do No Harm: Stories of Life, Death, and Brain Surgery,</i>"</a> a memoir of the career of a neurosurgeon. He writes:<br />
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<i>"In neuroscience it is called 'the binding problem' - the extraordinary fact, which nobody can even begin to explain, that mere brute matter can give rise to consciousness and sensation." </i><br />
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That brute matter - our consciousness - our brain- how can it just turn off? Or fire uncontrollably? How can it make a 34 year old man who is jogging fall flat on his face, to the ground, unconscious, in an instant, and jerk uncontrollably? There's a scientific explanation that my rational mind can understand. But yet, deep down it's mystifying and unreal and not something I can grasp.<br />
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Lastly, there's the gratitude. That he's okay and home and well and that things could be much, much worse. There's an indebtedness I feel to the random strangers who found him on the ground, who stopped, who called 911, and who stayed there until the paramedics arrived. <br />
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Who are these people? My husband has a vague recollection of people looking on as he was carried off by a stretcher, but no memory of who they were or what they looked like. How odd that complete strangers can play such a large role in a pivotal moment of your life, and then you never see them again? <br />
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Both my husband and I would like to find these people to thank them. So, for people in the Maryland/DC/Virginia area, if you wouldn't mind forwarding this post around, we would greatly appreciate it. The incident happened on Saturday, October 24th around 1pm on the Canal Tow Path, near Carderock. <br />
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Overall, my husband is fine, I am fine, we are fine. We are happy. We are normal. We are going forward. It's just another one of life's many twists and turns, and there's nothing to do but go with it with a smile.<br />
<br />But I Do Have a Law Degreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06362410549493994038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917175986608222742.post-17113597500882936122015-10-22T14:17:00.000-04:002018-09-06T21:41:39.138-04:00Where He Comes FromFrom the time he was born - five years ago, my baby boy Casey has been unique. <br />
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For the first few weeks of his life, his left ear would droop - the cartilage hadn't hardened yet. He looked a little like an elf. A cute, adorable elf. <br />
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His ear eventually became normal, save for a little indentation, that almost looks like a nibble on the side. I like to think that it's from me kissing his ears so much. <br />
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Casey, unlike his older brother, was a skinny baby. Long and skinny, with little frog legs. <br />
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As opposed to this: <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casey's <strike>chubby</strike> healthy older brother. </td></tr>
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Given the contrast with his brother, and his little elf ear, when Casey arrived, many would comment, "Where did this baby come from?"<br />
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To this day, five years later, we still get that comment often, and I have to say, I love it - I love it because it means Casey is different; Casey is unique; Casey is extraordinary. And that he is. <br />
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We get that comment in response to his appearance. His older and younger brother look nearly identical to each other. Casey, the middle child, is his own version. He is nearly as tall as his 7 year old brother, and has petite facial features, unlike his round cheeked baby brother. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZBRLthvSceqAWfrN-DQSlNsHb8te9Mqa6HtThJ6NZJ8R7X-ykYRlYxCH3gVmYRSIvXj181b2tAXPuWFWLHniAwcmYGFdRyHazLmrxh4okOXzerTYRI1OzVJObBdY0wT2JwqwUiFqXXj_/s1600/PhotoPass_Visiting_Mickeys_Not_So_Scary_Halloween_Party_7486504606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZBRLthvSceqAWfrN-DQSlNsHb8te9Mqa6HtThJ6NZJ8R7X-ykYRlYxCH3gVmYRSIvXj181b2tAXPuWFWLHniAwcmYGFdRyHazLmrxh4okOXzerTYRI1OzVJObBdY0wT2JwqwUiFqXXj_/s640/PhotoPass_Visiting_Mickeys_Not_So_Scary_Halloween_Party_7486504606.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casey as Batman.</td></tr>
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His personality is also in stark contrast to his brothers'. His older and younger brothers both love to be the center of attention - they love to yell, to be heard, to flirt with that coy little boy smile. Casey, on the other hand, is quiet. More often than not, he'll have his thumb in his mouth and simply nod in response to a question. When he does talk, it is often as soft as a whisper, and you have to ask him to speak up. People that don't know him tend to pass over him, which is their loss. Because Casey is the funniest, wittiest, smartest, quirkiest kid that ever was. I mean, just check out his artwork from school: <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcN6Ghg9aay1SSePIjBXBqd56AuEzbWfogXS98pwIkVymbROTOOplytVfRPWckziAJx4UbYJvZi2Dhg0GIyz1rtqYIeL6uZYh6Cp58pUI5rKbdIyTVe32yLijhULue0BQtdkMZcChue1p/s1600/IMG_4888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcN6Ghg9aay1SSePIjBXBqd56AuEzbWfogXS98pwIkVymbROTOOplytVfRPWckziAJx4UbYJvZi2Dhg0GIyz1rtqYIeL6uZYh6Cp58pUI5rKbdIyTVe32yLijhULue0BQtdkMZcChue1p/s640/IMG_4888.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duh.</td></tr>
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He may not be verbose, but from the time Casey was a baby, he was physically adept. He talked late, but walked early, and he hasn't stopped moving ever since. When watching TV, you can usually find him hanging upside down, jumping from couch cushion to coffee table, or some permutation of the two. He's had more injuries and ER visits than my other two kids combined. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCH8MWWb4UMNVsc22v1GaNeUTXthUYSvxHBwyTww_b2Ll-HcAetLGYK8ZM8TyRahfauBr2TNgaQkaaUBvcih7JSOiZY81LItlJJWH6Sq1tD2KLcc9tSc624YBCTbrLaqqSWgpszbOqxic/s1600/Casey+hospital+pic1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCH8MWWb4UMNVsc22v1GaNeUTXthUYSvxHBwyTww_b2Ll-HcAetLGYK8ZM8TyRahfauBr2TNgaQkaaUBvcih7JSOiZY81LItlJJWH6Sq1tD2KLcc9tSc624YBCTbrLaqqSWgpszbOqxic/s640/Casey+hospital+pic1.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 2013- ER visit who knows what for stitches</td></tr>
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His physical feats have translated into a real athleticism which is a huge shocker. There is no one in our immediate, or extended family for that matter, who is athletic. We just didn't give our kids good genes in the coordination department. As a result, we also aren't really sports fans. So the fact that Casey is a soccer star and obsessed with basketball and football and anything with some sort of ball or scoreboard or timer is beyond me. My husband and I even find ourselves asking, Where did this kid come from? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzIELo_0X951AvLu8i6V_I0X_DBH02w2lWXpNeiMHxV11PAMHsH50Um1K4uFNTwi-CzO6jYbhR1v2GO5D_9UfMJeF-JXNnNN7ymHq5X2fgF80sOGtIJIzAFEmUGVlR0Gu55HG-Tk2nMTdg/s1600/IMG_4900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzIELo_0X951AvLu8i6V_I0X_DBH02w2lWXpNeiMHxV11PAMHsH50Um1K4uFNTwi-CzO6jYbhR1v2GO5D_9UfMJeF-JXNnNN7ymHq5X2fgF80sOGtIJIzAFEmUGVlR0Gu55HG-Tk2nMTdg/s640/IMG_4900.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He got this for his birthday and refused to take it off. </td></tr>
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We ask that question existentially, because in fact, I do know where he came from. He came directly from me. Exactly five years ago. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFQ0U3Zs-jgCWIZ88QFQ-Gc8US-pGnsGSFmFSBuJlGGSFT-a_vGaUsrwLgxHf3bABWdOUMK1ccgOMuwaOd60-D6DGhFtLg4UxpYvF9on8MiEqW8SPxPxI8wCKbTkP0-rBj5n2bjbyxCGC/s1600/_169_of_527_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFQ0U3Zs-jgCWIZ88QFQ-Gc8US-pGnsGSFmFSBuJlGGSFT-a_vGaUsrwLgxHf3bABWdOUMK1ccgOMuwaOd60-D6DGhFtLg4UxpYvF9on8MiEqW8SPxPxI8wCKbTkP0-rBj5n2bjbyxCGC/s640/_169_of_527_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I fell in love with him five years ago and the more I discover who he is, the deeper I fall.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNjVcuCHj4bqTRAHEoMcrQRK3vbn7squ6Xy-v5ZqH5QUkt5P3WLfXtCWvJUA1EhcxHtIwJ1VKC07VJbNZvu9fbbIx9HBNTtWR2w-qnV4sPVmU54qDLKdLuhlG_mJQRzTjZ4hBVAjfYbS2/s1600/PhotoPass_Visiting_Magic_Kingdom_Park_7486135843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNjVcuCHj4bqTRAHEoMcrQRK3vbn7squ6Xy-v5ZqH5QUkt5P3WLfXtCWvJUA1EhcxHtIwJ1VKC07VJbNZvu9fbbIx9HBNTtWR2w-qnV4sPVmU54qDLKdLuhlG_mJQRzTjZ4hBVAjfYbS2/s640/PhotoPass_Visiting_Magic_Kingdom_Park_7486135843.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I love that he is different. I love that he is his own person. I love that he is quirky and funny and reserved and loud and confident and the best cuddler in the world. I love that he surprises us everyday with who he is, and I can't wait to see who he becomes. Because it's sure to be awesome.<br />
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Happy 5th birthday to my baby boy, Casey. I couldn't be prouder.<br />
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