Getting Through The Witching Hours

By far, the hardest time of day for me is 5-7 pm.  This is when the kids start getting whiny, when dinner has to be made, when the kids refuse to eat dinner, when I fight with them over it, when I ultimately clean up the huge mess that was made by them not eating dinner, and when I have to face and deal with said whiny kids until the bedtime routine begins.

It's during this time where I call or email my husband begging him to come home to provide me some relief.   It's during this time that my patience gets worn thin.  It's during this time where I am simply beaten down.  I lose all capability to experience emotion - no happiness, no sadness, no anger, no impatience.  Just blank, spent, flat.  Kind of like Goldie Hawn in Overboard when all she does is say "Buh buh buh buh."  (Click here for the clip.  It's classic).  

I have found some ways to mitigate these difficult hours.  

A Thursday Night Out

Just a reminder for those locals reading this - tomorrow is the first DC area "Mommy Esquire" meet-up.  This group intends to promote fellowship, education, and networking for lawyers with young children.  

And it's a good excuse to get a drink.  

The event is downtown tomorrow night from 6:30-8:30pm, and appetizers will be provided courtesy of Montage Legal Group.  Email me at butidohavealawdegree@gmail.com if you are interested in coming and want details.  

Otherwise, happy Wednesday everyone!   

Self Portrait

Last week we had Braden's parent teacher conference.

We were excited - we love going to Braden's school.  Remember last year when I wrote that post about how I was all in a tizzy about Braden changing schools?  Well, turns out it was the best decision we ever made.  Seriously.  This new preschool is amazing and warm and nurturing and impressive and worth every ridiculously expensive penny.

So suffice it to say, we couldn't wait to go and pat ourselves on the back once again about making such a great decision for our child.  And of course, we couldn't wait to hear all wonderful things about our little angel.

Generally, it was all wonderful.  It's so great to talk to people who get your kid, who care about your kid, and who can give you insights that even you as a parent might not know.  They talked about Braden's strengths, weaknesses, interactions with other kids, and at the end, there was an elaborate display of his artwork.

Let me start by saying that neither my husband nor I are even the least bit artistic or crafty, so I was pretty impressed at the size of Braden's portfolio.  And I was equally impressed when I saw Braden's self portrait, which had legs, arms, a face, etc.  That is, until I caught the details, and the caption.

Here's Self Portrait #1:

Is The World Going to Shit?

Yesterday's tragedy in Boston was just another event in what seems to be a sequence of tragedies that makes me wonder, Is this world going to shit?  

I mean, it's hard not to think that way.  When children are being murdered in schools, when an 8 year old dies while waiting for his dad to cross a marathon finish line, when women in Syria are being systematically raped, when road side bombs in the Middle East are no longer a front page news story, when North Korea is about to unleash its terror, when U.S. Ambassadors are killed in their embassies, when there is still racism and sexism and homophobia and anti-semitism and global warming...

It makes you wonder what the hell is going on.  And if our world really is, indeed, going to shit.

I've thought on this for the past 24 hours.  And I think the answer is no.  I don't think our world is going to shit.  I think it's always been that way.

"You're Such a Mom"

Let me say this about myself:  I'm not really a shopper.  I'm not the type that goes on a buying binge and then comes home and models clothes for my husband, soliciting flattery.  When I do refresh my wardrobe, for a new season, for example, I generally do so out of sheer necessity and keep it at that.  I like to think when it comes to this department, I'm pretty low maintenance.

Let me say this about my husband.  He is really smart - probably one of the smartest people I have ever met.  He consistently outperformed me in law school and typically beats me in Words with Friends.  But... he is a man.  And, like all men, he can at times be a gargantuan idiot.  You know, saying stupid things without thinking.  Being well meaning, yet offensive.  Neanderthal-like, really.

It is upon this backdrop that I tell the tale of last night's incident.

Wednesdays are my only day with any time to myself, sans kids.  I have ninety whole minutes.  I decided to spend a portion of this ninety minutes yesterday at DSW Shoe Warehouse, since the unseasonably warm weather made me realize I was in desperate need of sandals.  I was in and out quickly, and made three purchases: a yellow purse, a pair of brown sandals, and a pair of black reefs - to replace the other black reefs I have been wearing for the past three summers.  Here is Exhibit A: Picture of Black Reefs:

Can't. Take. Much. More.

Since having children, we have had some notorious, unforgettable, nightmarish weeks where everything just seems to go wrong.  It always involves illness, and usually multiple parties.  Our infamous Thanksgiving comes to mind (where 7 out of 8 house residents were violently vomiting within a 24 hour period).  The Thanksgiving before, Braden got sick, then Casey, who was 5 weeks old at the time, and had to be hospitalized for three days to ensure he didn't have meningitis or some other awful thing infant malady (Casey getting a spinal tap ranks as one of the lower points of my life).  Then there was the hand foot and mouth, followed by strep, followed by the cold, followed by impetigo.  You get the drift.  

I'm in the midst of one of those times right now.

It all was precipitated by Casey's injury nearly two weeks ago.  So much so that I keep replaying that moment in my mind....  If only I hadn't put him in that chair...  If only I'd given him something else for breakfast....  If only SOMETHING HAD BEEN DIFFERENT AND HE HADN'T FALLEN DOWN AND WE'D GONE OUT WITH OUR DAY...

Because it all started with that.  

Casey falls.  Casey needs stitches.  Casey ends up in the ER for five plus hours, where undoubtedly, he picked up some wretched communicable disease.  

Why Are Lawyers So Miserable?

It seems to be common knowledge these days that being a lawyer isn't always the best job.  I remember Tom Hanks giving an interview once on Inside the Actor's Studio, when he was asked what the job is he would least want to do.  His answer?  A lawyer, because "it's like doing homework for a living."

How oddly true.

But now, it's official.

According to a recent Forbes article, the number one unhappiest job in America is..... (drum roll, please).

Associate Attorney

I can't say I'm entirely surprised.  But what is shocking is that not only are we an unhappy bunch, but we are also the most depressed.  According to The Dave Nee Foundation, lawyers are the most frequently depressed occupational group in the U.S., lawyers are 3.6 times more likely to suffer from depression than non-lawyers, and lawyers rank 5th in incidence of suicide by occupation.

What gives?

I don't really know.

Whether the law profession attracts people who are unhappy and have a proclivity for depression (or really like homework), or whether it makes people unhappy or depressed, I cannot answer.  But I do have a few observations:

Falling Down

Remember that Michael Douglas movie?




That's me today.  (Minus the gun and violence).

I have spent 1 hour and 45 minutes in the car today, just driving locally.

I've been to two doctor's appointments already.

And I've kind of had it.

A Not-So-Stoic ER Visit

When my oldest son was a baby, I was pretty trigger happy with the ER.  I remember taking him to the ER at six months old for a high fever.  And then once when he fell and busted his lip.  Both maladies have occurred another 100 times or so, and each time I laugh at my once naive first time momness.  I've gotten a much thicker skin now - with two boys, one has to.  Blood, bruises, and the biweekly fever and/or cold are all par for the course.

That being said, we are still ER frequenters.  Three months ago for a skin infection (on a holiday weekend).  Two months ago for a severe tongue laceration (aka, Braden bit through his entire tongue - gross).  One month ago for an x-ray for a sprained ankle.  I no longer approach the ER with anxiety; I do so rather with quiet resolution - Okay, here we go again.  Please let this be as painless as possible.  

But yesterday - yesterday rocked me a little.

We were visiting family in New York, and my husband and I were literally almost out the door (coats on, car packed) to have a night away in Manhattan, just the two of us.  We bid farewell to the kids, and just as we were headed towards the door, I looked back at Casey and watched as he fell backwards, slow motion, out of a barstool.  It was quite a bang and I knew right away it wasn't going to be good.  My husband ran towards him, and immediately we both saw blood.  A lot of it. Coming from a huge gash in his cheek.

Instead of heading to Manhattan, we headed to the local ER.

Crossing off the Days

I've always been a calendar person.  Even with outlook and i-phones and google apps and God knows what else is out there, I still have an old fashioned hard copy calendar.

For as long as I remember, I was a crosser offer of days.  With each day's end, I would proudly put a big fat "X" through the calendar box.  Typically I would do this because I was counting down to something.  In high school, it was usually a countdown to some school break.  In college, it was getting to the end of a semester, or taking a trip with friends.  When I lived in London, it was a countdown to get through the workweek so I could head out to whatever European destination it was I was traveling to that weekend.  For a long time, I was consistently looking forward, and I was anxious to get there.  An "X" on the calendar just meant I was one day closer.

As I got older, and progressed through my career, the X's took a slightly darker turn.  Instead of using them to mark the progress towards something exciting, they started representing the proximity of an escape from something I didn't necessarily like.  X number of days left in discovery hell, X number of weeks left until a filing deadline, X number of days until the end of a billable hours cycle, or X number of months until I could take a few days off.  I began wishing the days away towards a goal of something ending, rather than beginning.  I did this for years.

But the last time I really obsessed over the calendar was in 2008, when I was pregnant with Braden, my first son.  At 24 weeks, I was put on bed rest, which is its own form of subtle torture. Not only was I yearning to move around like a normal person, but I was also petrified about pregnancy complications.  I wanted to hibernate for 16 weeks and wake up, at 40 weeks pregnant, with a healthy baby.  During this time I obsessed over the calendar to an unhealthy degree, and put in each X carefully and boldly as the days passed.  In the end, I didn't hibernate, but I did end up with a perfect little boy.

It's the last time I have ever put X's on a calendar.