lawmummy

Last night, I was over at dinner and the inevitable conversation started about my hair.  I dyed it on Friday.  Clairol Herbal Essences Molten Lava, #35.  Sounds extremely dramatic but isn’t, really.  It’s auburn.

My "normal" color is somewhere around auburn.  I say somewhere because I haven’t seen much of my real color since I was 14.  It has been many, many incarnations of brown, various shades of red, a little bit of blonde and purple.  The purple was following a particularly stressful job that went south and after I quit, I felt the need for a change.

Anyhow, I love the red.  It makes me feel spunky.  And it looks good with my skin, which is important because I don’t have the time anymore (or feel inspired) to put on makeup. 

Various members of my family hate the red, namely my mother and my husband’s aunt.  They both believe I should keep my hair the way God intended.  I believe that if God really thought that way, he wouldn’t have invented Clairol.

This is ironic that they believe that because you would think that they would be big fans of the natural look.  Not so.  They are both lovely women who get up every day and get "done up" to look nice.  On more than one occasion, each of them have asked me why I don’t do this.

Women have a way of doing this to each other.  It’s appalling. 

Men would never chastise each other’s tie choice, suggest that it’s time for a friend to get a haircut or wonder aloud how long will pass before a colleague goes on a diet.  Women will.  And worse.  And more than once.

I’ve been asked about my weight, my hair color, my hair cut and my wardrobe choices.  All of this, of course, was really to "help" me.

You’re probably thinking, based on this post, that I am something of a freak.  I must be 6000 pounds with multi-color hair down to my knees, dressed in burlap and own sweaters.

But I’m not.

I’m an average Jane with a decent haircut and red hair.  I could stand to go on a diet but the sidewalks don’t shake when I walk.  Today, I’m wearing a Gap black jersey dress with sandals.  Not freakish at all.

And that’s my point.

I’ve spent a lot of hours in my life worrying about how I look, like most women do.  And not because I think there’s something wrong, really, but because someone else has told me that something’s wrong.

One Christmas, a relative suggested that I needed to make more of an effort for my husband, that I didn’t "sparkle" enough for him.  Of course, the next time we visited, I was busily sprucing up in the bathroom when Chris came by to ask what I was doing and why.  He laughed at me when I told me.  We now have a running joke about my "sparkle" factor.

My mother told me that she didn’t like my hair long.  My husband’s aunt told me that my husband didn’t like women with short hair (actually, he doesn’t have a preference).  My aunt told me that my legs looked like chicken legs and that I should wear long skirts. My mother told me that I shouldn’t wear tee shirts because they made me look fat.  The image consultant at work suggested purple eye shadow and told me not to wear pants because I was too short.  My best friend in high school told me to never wear open-toed shoes because I had "Fred Flintstone feet."  And so it goes.

And these things always made me feel bad about myself.  I was so sure no boys would ever like me because of all of these terrible things.

And what terrible things have boys said?  That I am charming, adorable, cute, smart, funny…  Okay, there’s been the occasional jerk that has said some pretty mean stuff but for the most part, the men have been far kinder than the women.  And I don’t get it.  Why do we feel the need to tear each other down?

There was an article in Parents magazine this month warning against telling your daughter that she is beautiful because it will give her the wrong message.  What message is that?  How is it any worse than any other message we tell each other all day long?  I tell my daughters that they’re beautiful (and smart and funny and strong and brave) because I want them to hear as much positive reinforcement as I can give them.  I want to do it so much that the day someone tells either of them that they should do something differently, they just smile and say "No, I’m okay."

Hey girls, let’s stop beating each other up.

My three year old daughter is currently obsessed with Dora the Explorer. For those of you who have been living under a rock and have somehow missed the show’s promotion (and boy, are those marketers good), it’s a show that appears on Nick Jr., PBS Kids and on Noggin. We watch almost all of them. All of the time. (The image as it appears above can be found on the Nick Jr. site)

Actually, I don’t mind Dora so very much. She’s a smart girl, so she’s a good cartoon role model. She’s tough. She wears all of her clothes - no midriffs or other such foolishness. Her sidekick is a monkey, not a love interest. And the other “humans” on the show are family, there’s no boyfriend (I never get the 5 year old cartoon characters with dates).

The show is fairly educational. Dora is bilingual, so Katie is being exposed to Spanish. They count a lot, and problem solve. Katie isn’t really into the interactive stuff, she’s like her father in that respect. Amy and I are a little different. When Dora says, “Say Backpack”, we do. I am a marketer’s dream.

But the best part about Dora is the Mariachi Band. Try as I might, I couldn’t find an image of these guys. I don’t think that they even have names. Their sole purpose on Dora is to come out whenever Dora or Boots does something spectacular and play a little tune. It’s the same tune over and over. It sticks in your head.

So, I’m thinking, where is my mariachi band? As adults, we should have the equivalent of a Dora the Explorer mariachi band whenever we do something great.

Okay, I’m joking. A little.

I do think as children, we are constantly encouraged because we get positive reinforcement: “You’re standing! Great!” “What a terrific sharer!” “That’s a beautiful picture.”

As adults, we just move around from home to work to errands and do our thing. We rarely get kudos. And that’s depressing.

I think it would make us a more pleasant grown up society if we received a little more encouragement, the occasional pat on the back.

A few weeks ago, I got an attorney to agree to a settlement for an estate that had drawn out for way too long. Around that same time, I did a pretty good job in a hearing - and I hate litigation (I only do it as it relates to tax or estates). And, I got nothin.

At home, I cleaned the whole house in record time last week. I did a billion loads of laundry. I cooked some pretty decent meals - only worth mentioning because we had some chicken and about a cup of rice and not much else in the house (note to self: must do food shopping). Again, nothin.

I want my own mariachi band. I want to hear kudos whenever I do a super job. If it’s good enough for Dora…

Summer is officially here. Ick.

I have never been a big fan of summer - even as a kid. I was that geeky kid that hated to miss any school. I loved class and I loved my friends and summer just seemed to take all of that away for far too long.

I grew up at the coast of North Carolina. It was always hot. “Africa hot” as Eugene said in Biloxi Blues.

When I moved up north, I was under the impression that it would be cooler. In fact, my relatives constantly worried that I’d freeze to death. All of them knew some blizzard horror story from somebody up north. Some part of some person’s body inevitably got so cold that it fell off and wolves ate it - you know, that kind of drama.

I forgot to get the skinny on the summer horror stories.

So, now I live more than 500 miles north of where I used to. And it is two degrees warmer here than there.

Blech.

The heat just makes everybody crabby. No one sleeps well. You start sweating as you leave the house. Cooking is a chore. Even the dog is unhappy.

I have been desperately trying to think of things to like about summer. I’ve stopped at water ice.

My one solace? Just 85 days until fall.

Most parents will tell you that when your child becomes mobile, it’s one of the most exciting moments of your life. What they mean by that, really, is that it’s terrifying.

Suddenly, you’re not needed nearly as much anymore. And boy, do these kids have places to go these days.

Katie did not want to crawl. As much as we wheedled, coaxed, begged and bribed, she had no interest in crawling. Mom said not to worry, that I was like that, too, and that she would probably advance straight to walking - and more or less, she did. She went to a two year old’s birthday party just a week before her own first birthday. She didn’t play with the other kids, but rather watched intently from the sidelines (a very Katie trait - she’s a studier). Later that day (it was a Sunday), Chris and I were watching TV on the couch. Katie walked by. No hoopla, no nothing, just waltzed right by us. I said to Chris, “Was that Katie?” And it was. And that was that.

So when it came to Amy, we were prepared for anything. Or maybe not. She’s been crawling for a bit now, mostly like a crab. She’s been on the move, her right leg extended straight pushing her whole self into the air with each “step”. It’s awkward to watch, but she’s pretty good at it - and fast. At the Dora exhibit at CMOM in New York City (where we were this weekend), she was experimenting with going up and down a small set of three steps. She seemed pretty hesitant, but clearly that was all an act. Last night, while I was doing laundry, she made it up the whole way to the top of the stairs of our house without supervision (and without falling, thank goodness). I left her downstairs in the living room with her toys and I heard Chris saying “Amy?” and there she was, at the top of the steps. She had to have been quick. Greased lightning quick.

It’s a pretty cool thing when your children start moving. But, then they’re moving. Everywhere. And fast. Your whole world speeds up. You have to start thinking a few steps ahead. And sometimes you just can’t anticipate.

I couldn’t have anticipated that Katie would make a beeline for the stuffed tiger at FAO Schwarz yesterday, nearly running right into George Hamilton. Neither one of them was aware of the other either before or after the near disaster. George was looking around - but not down - so he didn’t see the little girl nearly take him out at the knees. Katie only had eyes for her tiger.

And so every day has become. I can only imagine how things will change when Amy starts walking.

Okay, since I saw my high school friends this weekend, I’ll bite on the high school meme…

High School Days: The Meme.What year was it? 1985-1989

What were your three favorite bands/performers?
Madonna, Guns ‘n’ Roses, Def Leppard

What was your favorite outfit?
Black leggings and a green slouchy shaker knit sweater over a white tee shirt. Keds, of course.

What was up with your hair?
Teased (it was all about the big hair then) and auburn.

What did you do after school?
The school day never officially ended - I was at a residential high school. But there were malls involved.

Where did you work?
I didn’t work during school, we weren’t allowed, other than work study. > I just had a flashback to Lori, our cafeteria supervisor, and the red dye in the fruit punch that wouldn’t come off of the tables no matter how hard we scrubbed…

Did you take the bus?
No. We all lived on campus.

Who did you have a crush on?
Same guy as everybody else - and he turned out to be a jerk.

Did you fight with your parents?
Didn’t see them enough to fight with them during the school year. I fought with Mom in junior high (length of skirts, that sort of thing).

Who did you have a celebrity crush on?
Tom Cruise (Top Gun, not Risky Business) and Jon Cryer (I carried the memory of Ducky from “Pretty in Pink” with me for a longggg time).

Did you smoke cigarettes?
No.

Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?
The advantage of a residential high school is no lockers - we had rooms!

Did you have a “clique”?
Not really. I had close friends, but we all mixed with each other at my high school.

Did you have “The Max,” like Zach, Kelly and Slater?
??

Admit it, were you popular?
At my first high school, I would say definitely. Everybody knew who I was. I wasn’t the girl that everyone wanted to date, but I was the girl that the guys talked to because they didn’t feel threatened and the girls talked to because I was entertaining. At my second high school, I was fairly popular amongst the girls - winning dorm council, that kind of thing - but increasingly intimidated by guys. It wasn’t until college that I realized that all of the guys were bluffing.

Who did you want to be just like?
Madonna.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
Actress. Just like Molly Ringwald.

Where did you think you’d be at the age you are now?
Gosh. Over 30 was unthinkable then.

My trip to NYC was awesome (in fact, I’m still here!).

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to be away from my real girls and hang out with “the girls”. As in my old friends from high school. It had been a long time since we could hang out without husbands or kids or not at somebody’s shower for something. It was really nice.

We started out at MOMA. Halfway through the photography exhibit, we started discussing our families, our jobs, our cities, our lives. It dawned on me that, of the four of us (including Ginny, who wasn’t there in person but in spirit), I think I turned out the most different from how we imagined we would be. I was supposed to be the married for years by now schoolteacher living on a farm in North Carolina, cooking big dinners for my million kids and leading church functions. No one - even me - could have pictured me on a laptop from my hotel room in Manhattan blogging about being a Philadelphia lawyer married to a Philadelphia lawyer and raising two beautiful girls (and thinking I’m done and fine with that) in the City.

A little later, I was listening to my friends talk and listening to me talk out loud and I had one of those moments of clarity. Yes, there was a martini involved, but just one, and there was still clarity…

There were moments in my life, mostly in high school, when I was constantly worried about who I was and I feared what the future held. A lot of people who knew me didn’t understand how completely insecure I was because I have always presented this very Pollyana front. But those who did know me - my friends that I saw yesterday - they knew. I carried those insecurities with me for a really long time. I spent - no, I wasted - a lot of time worrying that I wasn’t good enough for my parents, for my friends. I binged and purged my way through high school and college hoping to lose those extra pounds that I was sure were holding me back from the perfect life. I hated being the poor girl and wanted so badly to be able to buy the things that my friends had. I was sure that I wasn’t smart enough - what if they found me out and kicked me out of my residential school?

I know that insecurity is a rite of passage in the teen years. I also know that family, friends and practical strangers both enabled and encouraged my fears.

I held onto thought for a really long time. Much longer than I needed to.

And I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but, years later, I can honestly say that I am comfortable in my own skin. And I had this revelation somewhere between East Village and Soho.

And as I sat talking about my family and what I’m up to (I just got an award on Friday night for being a pretty good person), I didn’t feel the need to make it better or even wish it were better. It’s pretty damn good.

I know my girls will go down the same road at some point as I did. It’s part of growing up. I just hope that they understand - much, much earlier than I did - that life is precious and wonderful and not worth wasting wishing that things are different than they are.

The three missing boys were found dead. My thoughts and prayers are with the families.

Okay, talk about weird.

I had no sooner published my post this morning when my own words came back to bite me on the ass. Hard.

If you’ve been reading, you know I take my two girls to work with me during the summer (I promise, some day I’ll explain how that happened). Today was no exception.

I was desperately trying to get something - anything - done before I had to leave for the day. Fridays during summer are short for the office anyway (we close at 2:30pm) and today, I was actually going to make a point of leaving somewhat on time. I have a reception for Philadelphia Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts this evening at the Samuel Fleischer Art Memorial and I was hoping to be somewhat on time. So, anyway, I was working - making phone calls, writing letters, answering questions - and not paying loads of attention to my three year old who is both independent and very comfortable in our office (she has her own toys and her own space).

My one year old needed a diaper change, so I got to it and realized that I had no wipes. As I got up to find some (they had been moved), I heard Katie chatting away with herself. She was in the bathroom. I went to tell her that I didn’t want her playing in the bathroom (yesterday’s struggle - see quote #2 on my post from yesterday) and that she needed to come out. I couldn’t get in the door. Yep, she had locked the door.

I tried in vain to get her to unlock the door from the other side. It didn’t happen. Then, I tried picking the lock. Nothing.

It’s a small bathroom. And the light wasn’t on. And she’s not tall enough to turn on the light. And there’s no window. It was pitch black.

I would interject here to say that I would have been absolutely FREAKING out if it were me in the bathroom. I’m claustrophobic and not real keen on the dark. I’ve been stuck in elevators before and it’s not pretty. Once, I almost hyperventilated in a public restroom when the stall door got stuck. I am not good with being trapped in small spaces.

Katie, however, was being remarkably good. I tried being cheerful through the door, all the time while my mind was racing.

I called two locksmiths. Neither could help me for at least an hour. An hour? The hardware store told me that they didn’t have “lock picking kits” (their words, not mine). I was trying hard not to panic.

The maintenance crew at our building suggested removing the doorknob. Brilliant! And so I unscrewed it, the knob came off… and the lock stayed in! It was stuck. Hard.

So, now I am thinking that I am going to have to break down the door. And logistically, I’m really worried. It’s so small in the bathroom that I worry that kicking or axing the door will hurt Katie.

I called hubby, told him to start calling locksmiths until he could find one that will come out immediately.

I went back to the door to talk to Katie.

The maintenance crew call in additional help. There are now three attorneys, a teenager and a maintenance crew trying to get this door open. At least now, there’s a little bit of light through the hole where the knob used to be.

“Ma-leen” says Katie to one of the attorneys in the office. “I want the door open.”

Me too.

Finally - after what seemed like an eternity but was really more like 15 minutes, the maintenance guy got the door open. Katie rushed out, holding the half of the doorknob that had fallen in her hand. She had a big smile on her face. I gave her a hug and she just hugged and hugged back. She insisted that I hold her for awhile. Of course, I didn’t mind at all.

She was a brave girl. I was proud of her. I would have been climbing the walls. Not her. She listened and did everything we said (she tried to unlock the door several times but the lock was old and it stuck). She’s a really good girl.

And me? A basket case for the next hour. It was just really terrible.

Many thanks to the folks that helped us out this afternoon. I tried to buy the crew lunch and they said no.

There really are good, unselfish people in the world.

So, this morning, I am still thinking about the lies that we tell as parents. Only, it’s taken a sad turn.

Three little boys have gone missing in Camden. A 5 year old, a 6 year old and an 11 year old. I hope that they are found. I can’t imagine the terror that you feel when your child goes missing. The closest call that I ever had was when I couldn’t find Katie for about 10 minutes in Target and they had to announce a “Code Yellow.” Associates found her wandering around by the baby bottles aisle. She had been hiding under the clothes racks and got disoriented.

The mother, when questioned, said that she had only turned her back for a “few seconds.” Later, the story was changed to a “few minutes” - more likely. And the toddlers who wandered into that pond a few weeks back? Same thing. The mom said that she had only turned her back for a few moments. It was probably longer.

I do not say this to criticize. Rather, the opposite.

I will admit that I leave my girls alone for more than a “few seconds” (please, no calls to CPS, I’ll explain). Katie plays nicely by herself with her crayons and Legos - I’ve left her in her room, in the living room, in the family room by herself. Just the other day, I was having coffee with a friend on the front porch. Chris was watching the girls - they were all playing in the family room. Chris had to take a call and came out to tell me that he was going into the back yard. I asked if I should get the girls and he said that he thought that they would be fine. And it wasn’t the first time.

My girls are not left in dangerous situations. I don’t leave them in the kitchen with a hot oven and knives, nor in the bathroom with a tub or toilet full of water. But they are left by themselves for more than a “few seconds.”

I don’t leave them alone in the house. I don’t leave them alone in the car. But, I definitely give them more space than the public perception seems to be is “appropriate.” I am confident that, when they are left alone (usually as I run into another room), they’re fine. I don’t believe that my constant hovering over the both of them will keep them safe or me sane, two personal goals.

We did have one “incident” when I was brushing my teeth and Katie fell down the stairs. I felt terrible but you know what? Accidents happen. And she was totally okay. And she’s had a bazillion accidents when I was hovering, too. It’s the nature of growing up. My mom said my pediatrician told her that he could always tell the age of a kid by the location of their bruises.

But rather than accept that accidents happen, that mothers can’t be everywhere every minute of the day, we demonize moms who admit this out loud. We gasp in horror to hear that a child was left to play on his or her own for a few minutes. “WHERE WAS THE MOTHER?” we all demand when we hear of a child’s tragedy.

But maybe we should be a little more forgiving. Maybe we should allow parents to be truthful without fear that they’ll be labeled bad parents.

And this is why. If I left my child alone for 10 minutes and she disappeared, I would look in different places than I would if I left my child alone for 1 minute. This is significant. But we don’t do this. We force moms to lie about where they were and what they were doing. This doesn’t help the search efforts at all. In fact, it wastes time.

My heart goes out to the families of these little boys. I hope that they are found, safe and sound.

And I hope we all learn to be a little more tolerant as a society. People aren’t perfect and that includes moms.

My parents were up for a visit this weekend. It was actually really lovely. Mom and Dad always stay in a hotel; it’s how we stay friends.

Anyhow, Dad and I had a chat about some things that were going on. Dad wanted to do it out of earshot of everything else, so we went outside. Dad is a gardener. I am a wanna be. So, he was helping me out - I think he was concerned about the chaotic way I planted my beans. But, that’s for another time…

He decided to help out, which I appreciated because I have been having an unsuccessful battle with the poison ivy in the backyard. So, Dad attacked the weeds with vigor. Unfortunately, in a pile of weeds on our back wall was a little bird. Dad didn’t see it (neither of us did) and he got it with the rake. It limped into the neighbor’s yard. I came running to see if it was okay (I can’t stand the site of a wounded animal). Dad said it was fine. He asked if my neighbor had cats. I said no. We didn’t speak about it again.

I knew it was a lie. The bird is going to die. But that’s kind of the relationship that I have with my parents. They lie to me when they think it’s in my best interest.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. It’s been going on for awhile. I just thought it would end when I was an adult. It hasn’t. I guess my father still feels the need to protect me.

The lies aren’t actually the worst part. It’s finding out the lies that’s the hard part.

When I was in college, I remember getting a phone call that my Aunt Debbie was pregnant. I was ecstatic because, as I reminded my father, Aunt Debbie couldn’t have children because she had cancer when she was younger. Dad paused. I knew what was coming. That had been a lie. The day that everyone came over crying? When everyone acted as though Aunt Debbie was dying? It wasn’t cancer. She had an abortion. Cancer was the lie that they used to make it all better. Only, as a kid, I really believed it - for more than 10 years. In college, I felt relief (that she didn’t have cancer) and betrayal.

But I was used to it.

My parents have lied about a number of things throughout my life to protect me from the truth. Is the truth really that bad?

I find myself doing it a little bit with my own girls. I have told Katie that we don’t know where the Madeline CD was (we just don’t want to hear it again - please!), that Clifford has gone to bed, that there isn’t any more playdough, that her sister doesn’t want candy… Just little white lies. Is that how it starts?

Chris believes that it’s part of the Southern culture, this stretching the truth. I’ll buy that - a little. The art of storytelling is definitely a part of our culture. It makes sense that could easily evolve into little white lies. And, protecting our “womenfolk” is likewise a part of our culture. I don’t doubt that my father changes the truth in order not to upset or alarm me.

So, does that mean it’s contagious? Will I come clean with my daughters about my life, or will I make up stories to make it seem better? And if I do lie, is that such a bad thing?

Maybe our lives really are better when screened. Maybe we don’t want to know the whole truth.