Lawyer Mama

In the Name of God

I don't believe in God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cross-posted at D.C. Metro Moms.

Blog Me, Lawyer Mama, Blog Me

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

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

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

Then we can talk politics.

I am incredibly EXCITED! Can you tell?

Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nebraska sucked.

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

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

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

At first I heard nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The road ahead.

Are They Trying To Kill Me?

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

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

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

Have I mentioned that our offices are being renovated?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I took some video to share:




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

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

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

Does anyone have a bucket I can borrow?

The BlogRhet Meme

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

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

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

The Questions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A - Attached or Single?

Good Lawyer Mama: Married

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

B - Best Friend?

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

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

C - Cake or Pie?

Good LM: Neither.

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

D - Drink of Choice?

Good LM: Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper or water

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

E - Essential Items?

Good LM: My PDA, microwave, and OxiClean

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

F - Favorite Color?

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

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

G - Gummie Bears or Worms?

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

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

H - Hometown?

Good LM: A mid-sized town in Louisiana.

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

I - Indulgence?

Good LM: SLEEP!

Bad LM: SLEEP!

J - January or February?

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

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

K - Kids?

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

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

L - Life is incomplete without?

Good LM: My family

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

M - Marriage Date? July 8, 1995

N - Number of Siblings?

Good LM: 1 younger brother.

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

O - Oranges or Apples?

Good LM: Oranges

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

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

Q - Favorite Quote?

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

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

R - Reason to smile?

Good LM: My children

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

S - Seasons?

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

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

T - Tags?

Good LM: Anyone who would like to share!

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

U - Unknown Fact About Me?

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

Good LM: I love the smell of chlorine.

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

V - Vegetarian or oppressor of animals?

Good LM: I eat meat, but not veal.

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

W - Worst Habit?

Good LM: Procrastination.

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

X - X-rays or ultrasounds?

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

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

Y - Your favorite food?

Good LM: Cucumbers

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

Z - Zodiac? Libra


* Quote shamelessly stolen from a friend.

Do You See Me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letting Go of the Past

After my recent Mother's Day post about my mom, I had a short email from the gumbo maker herself:

I was embarrassed by your blog because you left out all the negatives, but I am very pleased by the bottom line.
Wish I could go back and do it better.
We all just do the best we can.
Bottom line, kiddo, is you turned out great.

It's not the first time my mom has made a comment to me about how I ignore the negatives in my upbringing here on my blog. So, of course, I thought I'd drag it all out into the Blogosphere. Because who doesn't want to read about my dysfunctional life?

Lest you all think that my relationship with my mom has been all music, light, and harmony, let me assure you that it has not. My mother and I are more alike than I would ever admit while growing up, and that caused some problems. We're both stubborn, opinionated, aggressive when we feel we've been wronged, and did I mention stubborn? I should probably emphasize the stubborn part.

In fact, my mom and I stopped speaking for months at a time on more than one occasion. In fact, between the Summer of 2002 and the Summer of 2004, we hardly spoke at all. That particular fight began over some political joke that I made, which my mom took personally. I, of course, thought that she was completely overreacting. My family is full of drama queens. Except, of course, me. I am always completely rational. Completely. I have my INTJ badge to prove it. Yep. Totally rational here.

I didn't realize until recently that the fight my mom and I had in 2002 wasn't really about politics at all. It was about my mother feeling that she wasn't important to me anymore. That her feelings weren't important to me anymore. And I stubbornly asserted my independence, not really understanding what or why I was pushing away.

We were drawn back together when I finally let my family know what was going on in our attempts to start a family. I was in pain and I needed family to listen. And then with the happy news of Hollis, our relationship began to mend. My mom and I still regularly butt heads, and we probably always will. But it's different now.

I've been in that dark place that motherhood can take you to. I've felt the wonderful, sleep deprived adrenalin highs. And I've watched my own heart smile at me, sweetly sigh in sleep on my husband's chest, roll over, take those first wobbly drunken steps, and say "mama." Twice.

What I've tried to tell my mom in response to her comments is that the mistakes she made just don't seem all that important anymore.

I understand in a way I couldn't while growing up. I understand why sometimes she was depressed or short with us. I understand why we didn't always have an immaculately clean house like some of the Stepfords did. (OK, now I can see my mom wincing and thinking, "Did you have to tell them that? Did you?") I understand why she pushed me so hard. I understand why she was so protective.

My mother loved me. She loved me and my brother more than anything in the world. She did the best she could.

You're right, Mom. We all just do the best we can.

And you did a pretty damn good job.

Interview 3.0 - Gunfighter

I apologize for the posting drought lately. My kids were home sick half of last week and half of this week. So that of course means I've had tons of free time to blog. Baaaaahaaaaa! Seriously though, regular posting will resume as soon as everyone is healthy again and I've regained my sanity.

In the meantime, Gunfighter of The View From Here recently offered to interview people. I interviewed him awhile back and decided some table turning was in order. Gunfighter's blog is always insightful and thought provoking so I thought he would come up with some good questions. He didn't disappoint:

You live in southeastern Virginia, yet you used to live in the Washington, DC area... why did you leave Washington?, and what made you settle in the Tidewater?

I really did love D.C. I loved the restaurants and the museums and the politics and the sports and the bars and, did I mention the restaurants? But...I was working insane hours for a boutique law firm, T was traveling constantly and we had a baby with some health problems. I think the realization that we needed to move hit us when Hollis was 4 months old and he was hospitalized for a week. I just couldn't keep up the pace at work that I'd been running before I'd had a baby, at least not with T doing the same thing. We decided one of us needed a new job.

Now, the easy answer would have been for me to move to an in-house corporate counsel position or to a government job, but T really wasn't happy in D.C. He's a farm boy. He grew up in SW Nebraska in a very small town with lots of wide open spaces. He felt very penned in in the D.C. area. He probably would have stayed there to make me happy, but we thought moving out of the D.C. area would help us find a little more balance in our lives. T's company was opening an office in Virginia Beach so T began a systematic campaign to woo me to SE Virginia. After a few weekends on the beach and some time looking at the housing prices here, I was sold. We unloaded our house in Falls Church for an insane amount of money and moved.

The Tidewater area was really the only viable option for us, aside from maybe Richmond. I didn't want to take the bar in another state, I didn't want to change my area of specialty, and T didn't want to look for another job. He loves what he does. Basically, T had been following me around for my career for the last 10 years, so it was time for me to make a sacrifice. We do like it here. It's different, but in a good way. And, of course, a beach is always a good thing!

Do your relatives that are in the military share your views concerning the war in Iraq? If so, are any of them considering leaving military service because of it? Are your views at odds with said family members, and has it caused any familial strife?

This is complicated. The short answers are yes and no; yes; yes and no; and yes. I'll have to break this one up into categories of relatives!

B: My brother (who is going to Iraq later this year) does share my views. It's funny, because he was much more conservative when he was in the Army on active duty. After a few years and some distance, he's been becoming increasingly more liberal! B's views on the war don't have much to do with being a Republican or a Democrat though. It's that B has served two tours of duty in Bosnia, he's had friends die, he knows what war really means in a way that many of us simply can't. Sometimes I wonder if the fact that I have loved ones who could very well die in battle colors my views, if I opposed the war from the beginning because of that danger. But that's definitely not the case with B. He's one of the bravest people I know.

Last year, B had actually decided to get out of the National Guard. He knew it was only a matter of time before he ended up in Iraq and his active duty friends who had served in Iraq were telling him to get the hell out (including the wife of a good friend of my brother's who died last year). My brother reads this blog, so I don't want to speculate too much, but I think that he stayed in, knowing he would be sent to Iraq, because he feels guilty about surviving. Maybe I'll get B to do a guest blog on the topic. I know I'd love to see him write about it.

Mom & Dad: I have to admit that I'm not entirely sure what my parents' views are on the subject. My dad has been retired from the Air Force for quite some time and both my parents tend to be pretty conservative. It may seem odd that we don't talk about it, but I don't want to cause any hurt feelings. My mom tends to think that I look down upon her because of her political views. That's not the case, but she takes my disagreement with her views rather personally. That being said, I'm almost positive that she is against the war. And she's freaking out right now. I can't even imagine preparing to send one of my little boys off to war.

T: Some of T's friends and co-workers read this blog, so I'm not sure what he would want me to reveal. I know that he isn't always candid about his views because he works in the defense industry. So, I'll just say that I'm married to a Republican. It is probably *the* most significant source of strife in our marriage, but we don't often argue about Iraq. There's no need. I'll leave it at that. He has considered leaving the Navy reserves. He was activated once after September 11th and it's only a matter of time before it happens again. T would be absolutely devastated if he had to leave the boys for any lengthy period of time, but he'll have been in for 20 years and can retire with benefits next year, so we're playing a numbers game right now.

Other relatives: I have a lot of very conservative relatives who have never been in the military and have no idea what it means but still feel free to espouse their views about what a great thing we're doing in Iraq. I just don't go there with them. When one of them packs a child, a brother, or a parent off to war, then we can discuss it. Until then, I don't consider their views significant or relevant. It may sound harsh, but that's what I truly feel.

What kind of law do you practice? Do you practice privately or in a large (or small) firm? Do you know Denny Crane?

Ooooh! If I were anonymous, I'd have to refrain from answering this because it would then only take about 5 minutes to find me on Google. But since that genie's out of the bottle anyway, I'll answer.

I'm a civil litigator. I do mostly government contracts and construction litigation, with a tiny bit of commercial litigation and maritime law thrown in for good measure. Most of the cases I handle are fairly complex and involve reams and reams of paper. It's exciting stuff. Really. I really do like it. Plus, construction litigation is a male dominated field and I have to admit that I *love* being underestimated by opposing counsel or an opposing expert because I'm a woman. That's part of the thrill!

I practice at one of the largest firms in my area, but it would be considered mid-sized in D.C. I think we have 75-80 lawyers.

One of the partners here has a great William Shatner story!

Your children's names both start with H... what's up with that? Is that a family thing? or do you just like H's?

Happy accident. T actually chose Hollis after he'd shot down every one of the 2000 names that I'd proffered. We weren't planning to do the matchy match thing with the names. Although Holden was on our final list of 10 names or so, T had already shot it down when we were naming Hollis. But when he was born he just looked like a Holden to us and "H&H" was born. (They'll probably hate us for that when they're older.) Holden is a family name (on T's side) and Hollis is not but people always ask us if Hollis is a family name. Or they tell us about the girl they know named Hollis. T hates that.

Oh, and one of our cats is named Hilly. So it's really funny to watch us run through the names when we're trying to yell at someone. "Hill- Hold-Hollis! Stop hitting Hilly-no, I mean Hollis - Oh for God's sake, you know what I mean! STOP HITTING YOUR BROTHER!"

If you could, with a wave of your hand, accomplish one thing, no matter how trivial or profound, what would it be?

Organize my life? No, actually I think I would end poverty. I think most of the world's evils can be traced back to poverty and elimination of that would be a good start to a just world. It wouldn't be the end, but it would be a good beginning.
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Of course, if anyone would like to be interviewed by me, send me an email or leave me a comment and I'll get right on it!

Dark and Stormy Seas

When I was 13, we went for a family vacation in Denmark. We stayed in an adorable little beach cottage with a thatched roof not far from the North Sea. We could walk to the water every day. B., my 10 year old brother, and I spent hours each day bobbing around in the water, dunking one another, splashing our father, and trying to coax our mother out from under her jacket, long pants and blanket. Summer on the North Sea is not an exceptionally warm affair, and not many people would venture into the frigid water for long. We, however, didn't care if our lips turned blue while swimming. Aside from my mother's death threats when Dad used our camera's telephoto lens on the topless sun bathers, most of our stay was fairly uneventful. One day it stormed. I don't recall what we did the day of the storm but I do know that the next day, my brother and I were clamoring to go back to the beach, despite the choppy waves.

The water was dark that day. There was no cheerful foam dancing across the water. The surf was grey and solemn and cold. Still, B. and I were determined to enjoy the water while our parents sat on the beach soaking up what little warmth the sun could give. We splashed and swam around, slowly working our way out further and further into the storm tossed sea. I swam out far into the waves and B. followed. As always, he was tailing after the big sister he adored. I was a strong swimmer. At that point, I had been swimming competitively for about 5 years, but even I was having a bit of trouble with the undertow. I decided to swim back and when I turned around, I saw my brother to the side of me about 15 feet away and far too close to the rocks jutting out into the water. I could see B.'s mouth gulping and then moving as if to call for me, but I don't remember hearing him. He was struggling to tread water and to keep from moving closer to the rocks. I don't remember how I got to him. But when I did, he threw his arms around my neck and I could feel his panic through my arms. I started to swim and yelled at B. to kick as hard as he could. My arms were straining through the water and my legs were frantic as they scissored away. But we weren't moving. I was swimming as hard as I could just to stay in place, to keep us from being smashed against the rocks.

I was terrified.

I somehow finally felt the water catch and move through my cupped hands and bent legs. We slowly, struggled forward, inch by inch, to the safety of the shore. Our parents never noticed that we were in trouble. I'm sure they thought we were playing and we never told them anything. B. and I have talked about that day on the beach in Denmark many times. Each time it's been clear to me that B. never doubted that I would save him. He put his arms around me and put his faith in me. I don't think he's ever realized just how scared I was and just how close we both came to drowning. I've never told him.

That's me. The protector, the rock, the peacemaker, the balance in everyone's life. I have a role to play and I do it well. I never let anyone know when I'm in trouble or floundering. Very, very few people ever get inside. I am closer to my brother than anyone in the world, aside from my husband, and even he doesn't know. I can't let anyone see my weaknesses. It's not some flaw in my family, my brother, my friends. It's just the way I am. The only one who ever sees my tossed and turbulent waters is T. And even he has to fight to get a glimpse.

Since my second little boy was born, I've struggled with this whole motherhood thing. I love my children with an ache I didn't know I could have, but sometimes I feel as if they are devouring me. Their wet sloppy toddler kisses are so sweet and uplifting, but they suck my energy dry. I'm always tired. I'm always frustrated. I'm always angry. I play with my beautiful boys and I know how lucky I am. But this feeling is always there lurking. This feeling that I'm swimming and swimming as hard as I can away from the rocks. And I'm not moving. I'm not moving! If I stop swimming for even a moment, if I let my guard down, the undertow will pull me out to sea or the waves will dash me against the rocks.

I know that I can't make it to the shore by myself. I need help. I need to put my arms around T. and kick for all it's worth. But for some twisted reason it's easier for me to keep frantically treading water than to open my mouth and scream.



Edited to add - It was very hard for me to hit the publish button on this post. This blog is not anonymous. My family, a few friends, and some co-workers read this. If you Google my real name, you'll find my blog. But I need to write this somewhere. I need to write the words. But just because I do, does not mean that I want to talk about it. Does that make sense? I'd like to pretend for this post that I really am anonymous, so I ask that people who know me in real life please respect that.