Beginning next Monday, I will not be spending 5 hours of my day just getting to work. In fact, it looks like my total commute (to and from work) should be under one hour. So I"ve been contemplating what I can do with all that time.
Five hours commuting becomes one hour commuting. So in truth, I'm gaining four hours.
Two hours will be those precious hours between 4:00 a.m. when my alarm currently goes off and 6:00 a.m. when my alarm will be going off. Those two hours will be spent sleeping. Ah, sleep. It feels so indulgent.
What to do with the next two hours:
Read to JR. (Well, we never gave that up. Right now we're in the middle of "Harriet the Spy").
Have JR read to me. Play the math games that the teacher sent home for the summer. Practice piano with JR. Teach him to ride his bike without training wheels. Take evening walks to get water ice. Chat with the neighbors while he runs around the bocce court with his buddies (okay, we are still doing that, but at least now I should be able to chat without the little voice chanting in the back of my mind "You need to go to bed. You're exhausted.") Have a catch.
Weed my garden. Harvest the kale. Plant some late summer beans. Weed my common area assignment. Have a beer in the garden with the neighbors.
Do the laundry. Fold the clothes. Catch up on my DVR'd programs while folding clothes. "Saving Grace" "The Closer" "Cold Case" Await the start of the next season of "Project Runway"
Cook dinner. Plan the week's menus. Shop the farmer's markets. Make ice cream.
Pay the bills. File away the papers. Get the tax stuff in order before April 10.
Clean out the closets. Get rid of the stuff Joseph and I have outgrown. Get rid of the stuff that no longer fits the newly skinny SuperDad. Flylady
Realize that even when one adds 4 hours into one's day, there is still just not enough time.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
In praise of 7 year olds
A few months back, before JR turned 7, I read a post on my friend Moxie's blog that had me quaking in my boots about the prospect of my son turning 7. Well the big day has come and gone and let me tell you, I love 7.
We spent the weekend at our first "travel" baseball tournament. Four games in two days. On Sunday the games were five hours apart, so we had a bit of time to kill. We spent that time with three of JR's teammates (and two of the dads). Immediately after the game, there was the trip to a local playground to let them continue their game of catch without smashing any of the car windows in the parking lot of the baseball field. Of course, their interest in playing catch faded quickly as soon as they realized there was playground equipment to climb and a surface made of ground up rubber that was ideal for throwing at each other. Our next stop was a diner for breakfast (did I mention that game one started at 8:00 and ended by 9:15 a.m.?) In between spilled water glasses and duels with knives, forks and spoons, we played Twenty Questions - which gave rise to the type of silliness that is endemic to 7 year olds. "Is it an animal or a thing?" "A thing" "Is it an elephant?" "No, an elephant isn't a thing." "It is if it's a soft gray toy elephant." And so it went.
The next stop was a local funplex where we parents had hoped to occupy the kids at the driving range and miniature golf. The boys had their own ideas. Their favorite activity was a spirited chasing, piling on, wrestling match that we parents loosely monitored for cleats in proximity to heads. Seven year old boys are all about physical contact. Lots of hugging, shoving, picking each other up, wrestling. There was also a fair amount of throwing stuff at each other - helped along by a room full of foam balls. Oh, and of course, there were the arcade games.
Lunchtime meant more silliness, more hugging and shoving and the chance to watch pack mentality in action. The boy who never drinks soda orders the cotton candy flavored Sprite that the other 3 boys want. The boy who hates all cheese gobbles up the lunch of mozzarella sticks and fries just like the lunch his buddies all ordered. They also schooled us in the fine art of translating burp-speech. I admit, I am far from proficient in that skill.
Being seven also means real baseball, with real uniforms, real pitching, real team spirit. The boys encourage each other. Lots of cheering. "We love pork chops, greasy, greasy. Hitting that ball will be easy-peasy." More chasing and piling on for the homerun hitter (well, okay, that was the other team, not ours). Pats on the back and hugs for the kid tagged out at 3rd base, now in tears. Being seven means being able to sit under a tree at the end of the game with the coach and actually dissect what new things about baseball they learned. "I learned not to be afraid when the ball is hit to me in the outfield." There is an intelligence and thirst for learning that is refreshing and inspiring to me.
Being seven means falling asleep in the car on the way home and lifting one's arms up to be carried inside, as if you were not over 50 lbs. of dead weight.
Oh, by the way, we lost all four games and every kid left the ballfield smiling.
We spent the weekend at our first "travel" baseball tournament. Four games in two days. On Sunday the games were five hours apart, so we had a bit of time to kill. We spent that time with three of JR's teammates (and two of the dads). Immediately after the game, there was the trip to a local playground to let them continue their game of catch without smashing any of the car windows in the parking lot of the baseball field. Of course, their interest in playing catch faded quickly as soon as they realized there was playground equipment to climb and a surface made of ground up rubber that was ideal for throwing at each other. Our next stop was a diner for breakfast (did I mention that game one started at 8:00 and ended by 9:15 a.m.?) In between spilled water glasses and duels with knives, forks and spoons, we played Twenty Questions - which gave rise to the type of silliness that is endemic to 7 year olds. "Is it an animal or a thing?" "A thing" "Is it an elephant?" "No, an elephant isn't a thing." "It is if it's a soft gray toy elephant." And so it went.
The next stop was a local funplex where we parents had hoped to occupy the kids at the driving range and miniature golf. The boys had their own ideas. Their favorite activity was a spirited chasing, piling on, wrestling match that we parents loosely monitored for cleats in proximity to heads. Seven year old boys are all about physical contact. Lots of hugging, shoving, picking each other up, wrestling. There was also a fair amount of throwing stuff at each other - helped along by a room full of foam balls. Oh, and of course, there were the arcade games.
Lunchtime meant more silliness, more hugging and shoving and the chance to watch pack mentality in action. The boy who never drinks soda orders the cotton candy flavored Sprite that the other 3 boys want. The boy who hates all cheese gobbles up the lunch of mozzarella sticks and fries just like the lunch his buddies all ordered. They also schooled us in the fine art of translating burp-speech. I admit, I am far from proficient in that skill.
Being seven also means real baseball, with real uniforms, real pitching, real team spirit. The boys encourage each other. Lots of cheering. "We love pork chops, greasy, greasy. Hitting that ball will be easy-peasy." More chasing and piling on for the homerun hitter (well, okay, that was the other team, not ours). Pats on the back and hugs for the kid tagged out at 3rd base, now in tears. Being seven means being able to sit under a tree at the end of the game with the coach and actually dissect what new things about baseball they learned. "I learned not to be afraid when the ball is hit to me in the outfield." There is an intelligence and thirst for learning that is refreshing and inspiring to me.
Being seven means falling asleep in the car on the way home and lifting one's arms up to be carried inside, as if you were not over 50 lbs. of dead weight.
Oh, by the way, we lost all four games and every kid left the ballfield smiling.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Trying to Regain Perspective
I am a joiner. I am never happier than when invited to participate in a group activity. My hand is always one of the quickest to raise when volunteers are needed. Even this year, nigh on twelve months into a five-hour daily commute and full-time job, I am just now learning to pull my hand back down and remind myself that I don't have to be a helper at every school activity. I'm still teaching children's liturgy at church, I'm still baking and icing ridiculous quantities of cupcakes for my son's "almost birthday" at school, I'm still keeping score and generally corralling the wildness on the bench during my son's baseball games. But believe me, I've cut back.
I am a joiner. In that, I am truly my mother's daughter. My mother, of the five children each spaced barely one year apart, with her full-time job, who still managed to be a Cub Scout den leader, a Girl Scout leader, president of the high school band parents organization. It gives me great pleasure to see that part of her live on in me. I am my mother's daughter.
This leads me to today's meltdown. I had forgotten that my son does not necessarily channel me or my mother. He is his own person. We tend to create narratives around our kids and who we think they are. JR is "kind boy." (This, of course, goes back to that first meeting in the orphanage when the orphanage director described him as "kind" and we thought, "how can an 11-month-old be kind?" Since then, though, every time that JR has acted with generosity and kindness to another we think "Aha! Of course, he is 'kind boy.'") JR is "athletic" (I can trace this to the first parent-teacher conference at his nursery school when the teachers raved about how well he could throw a ball at the age of 18 months. So every time he throws a ball, we think "Look at our athletic boy!") JR is "shy" or "slow to warm up," a description given us by his pediatrician to address his penchant for hiding behind us and not engaging with new people.
So I've created this idea in my head about our little boy who loves to do anything athletic and transformed it into little boy who wants to participate in every team sport available in our city for children his age. So naturally, when we got the email invitation for try-outs for the under 8 travel soccer team sponsored by our neighborhood recreation center, I was all over it. First, I scouted out the other likely participants from our social network (part of the JR narrative is that he only wants to participate in activities where he has at least one friend; making the choreographing of summer camps quite a challenge). Sure enough, one of his best friends, H, according to his parents, was going to try out, as were three of his classmates and a host of other kids he knows from baseball and church. So this morning, I wake JR up. We feed him breakfast, get him dressed, get ready to head down the street for try-outs.
Then the meltdown started. "I don't want to try out for soccer." "I don't want to play soccer" Dumbfounded (how could MY son not want to join something?) I entered into the fray. We battled, each of us becoming more entrenched in our positions. JR was unable to articulate the "why" of his position. "See, if you don't know why, then you have to try," I responded. Then he'd articulate a "why" and I would shoot it down. I put those litigation skills to use. Poor JR's Dad tried to appease both sides. That wasn't happening.
I withdrew, thinking I'd play my trump card. I'd check in with best friend's mom and once he knew for sure H was trying out, JR would cave. Except that H is not trying out today for travel soccer. He (like JR) has a baseball game today. He told his parents he wants a break. His parents are inclined to agree. After all, the boys are only seven (well, in JR's case, almost seven). There will be other, less intense, soccer available in the fall. In the greater scheme of things, the other mom reminds me, does it really matter if they don't do travel soccer this year? Is it really going to affect their overall athletic ability? Their enjoyment of the game?
Dad has taken JR off to visit with his grandmother for an hour or so before the baseball game. I'm ostensibly straightening up the kitchen and doing laundry. Instead, I'm writing in order to sort out my thoughts. How do I teach myself to step back (and to let my son step back)? We don't have to say yes to every invitation. We don't have to volunteer for every activity. And if my son says "I don't want to" and he's talking about playing a game, as opposed to doing homework or eating his vegetables, maybe I just need to let it go.
I am a joiner. In that, I am truly my mother's daughter. My mother, of the five children each spaced barely one year apart, with her full-time job, who still managed to be a Cub Scout den leader, a Girl Scout leader, president of the high school band parents organization. It gives me great pleasure to see that part of her live on in me. I am my mother's daughter.
This leads me to today's meltdown. I had forgotten that my son does not necessarily channel me or my mother. He is his own person. We tend to create narratives around our kids and who we think they are. JR is "kind boy." (This, of course, goes back to that first meeting in the orphanage when the orphanage director described him as "kind" and we thought, "how can an 11-month-old be kind?" Since then, though, every time that JR has acted with generosity and kindness to another we think "Aha! Of course, he is 'kind boy.'") JR is "athletic" (I can trace this to the first parent-teacher conference at his nursery school when the teachers raved about how well he could throw a ball at the age of 18 months. So every time he throws a ball, we think "Look at our athletic boy!") JR is "shy" or "slow to warm up," a description given us by his pediatrician to address his penchant for hiding behind us and not engaging with new people.
So I've created this idea in my head about our little boy who loves to do anything athletic and transformed it into little boy who wants to participate in every team sport available in our city for children his age. So naturally, when we got the email invitation for try-outs for the under 8 travel soccer team sponsored by our neighborhood recreation center, I was all over it. First, I scouted out the other likely participants from our social network (part of the JR narrative is that he only wants to participate in activities where he has at least one friend; making the choreographing of summer camps quite a challenge). Sure enough, one of his best friends, H, according to his parents, was going to try out, as were three of his classmates and a host of other kids he knows from baseball and church. So this morning, I wake JR up. We feed him breakfast, get him dressed, get ready to head down the street for try-outs.
Then the meltdown started. "I don't want to try out for soccer." "I don't want to play soccer" Dumbfounded (how could MY son not want to join something?) I entered into the fray. We battled, each of us becoming more entrenched in our positions. JR was unable to articulate the "why" of his position. "See, if you don't know why, then you have to try," I responded. Then he'd articulate a "why" and I would shoot it down. I put those litigation skills to use. Poor JR's Dad tried to appease both sides. That wasn't happening.
I withdrew, thinking I'd play my trump card. I'd check in with best friend's mom and once he knew for sure H was trying out, JR would cave. Except that H is not trying out today for travel soccer. He (like JR) has a baseball game today. He told his parents he wants a break. His parents are inclined to agree. After all, the boys are only seven (well, in JR's case, almost seven). There will be other, less intense, soccer available in the fall. In the greater scheme of things, the other mom reminds me, does it really matter if they don't do travel soccer this year? Is it really going to affect their overall athletic ability? Their enjoyment of the game?
Dad has taken JR off to visit with his grandmother for an hour or so before the baseball game. I'm ostensibly straightening up the kitchen and doing laundry. Instead, I'm writing in order to sort out my thoughts. How do I teach myself to step back (and to let my son step back)? We don't have to say yes to every invitation. We don't have to volunteer for every activity. And if my son says "I don't want to" and he's talking about playing a game, as opposed to doing homework or eating his vegetables, maybe I just need to let it go.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
That Litigation Rush
When I was a relatively new attorney, I was assigned to assist one of the senior attorneys on a case that turned into a huge trial. The trial itself took 8 weeks, during which the other attorney and I set up camp in Pittsburgh. The area of law we were trying to enforce was new, the stakes were high, the opposing side's client was a colorful character (to be nice). I had my first experience presenting an expert witness. Posthearing briefs were extensive. All in all, it was one of those career experiences that results in lots of great war stories. The case whetted my love for trial work.
Maybe a year after the trial, we got a decision that was mostly favorable. The judge affirmed the critical issues and, while he cut the penalty my government agency client was trying to assess, it was still a record-breaking huge penalty. The other side, of course, appealed. And the case sat.
I tried other big cases. I moved into management. I left the agency completely and started my new life last year on the bench.
Yesterday, a mere 15 years later, the decision on the appeal was issued. Again, a mostly favorable decision (although they cut the penalty, again). My case was even used to overturn a decision made in another case in the intervening years that (IMHO) made for bad law.
And all the memories came back to me, along with the adrenaline rush. It's been a few hours, but I am still just thrilled and excited and in that "I want to shout my news from the rooftops" mode. I'm almost as excited as I was when the Phillies won the World Series.
Maybe a year after the trial, we got a decision that was mostly favorable. The judge affirmed the critical issues and, while he cut the penalty my government agency client was trying to assess, it was still a record-breaking huge penalty. The other side, of course, appealed. And the case sat.
I tried other big cases. I moved into management. I left the agency completely and started my new life last year on the bench.
Yesterday, a mere 15 years later, the decision on the appeal was issued. Again, a mostly favorable decision (although they cut the penalty, again). My case was even used to overturn a decision made in another case in the intervening years that (IMHO) made for bad law.
And all the memories came back to me, along with the adrenaline rush. It's been a few hours, but I am still just thrilled and excited and in that "I want to shout my news from the rooftops" mode. I'm almost as excited as I was when the Phillies won the World Series.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Spring Fever
If the day should ever come when I'm no longer waking at 4:00 a.m. to start my 2-1/2 hour commute, I hope I will be able to hold on to Thursday's lunch hour as a memory of the good parts of working in NYC. Lately, I've been feeling so oppressed by this city - the crowds, the greyness, the expense, the cold wind whipping down the streets in my section of lower Manhattan, the dirt on the streets, my workload, the exercise of sheer will it takes to get me out of my bed at 4:00 a.m. and into a cab hurtling through the darkened streets of Philadelphia to make my predawn train to work. As I've said to some of my friends, I get all the downside of NYC and none of the good parts. My crazed schedule and my daunting workload have not allowed me the time to enjoy what the city has to offer.
But on Thursday I allowed myself to escape during lunch. It was an early spring day - the kind of day when people take to the streets, the parkbenches are loaded down with quickly discarded coats and jackets, little bits of green start poking out of the ground and the budding trees. I walked into Chinatown. I watched the kids at the playground. I stopped in a tiny restaurant for some Vietnamese bun. I jostled among the crowds on Canal St. I returned to my office feeling just a tiny bit lightened.
Here's to spring in New York City.
But on Thursday I allowed myself to escape during lunch. It was an early spring day - the kind of day when people take to the streets, the parkbenches are loaded down with quickly discarded coats and jackets, little bits of green start poking out of the ground and the budding trees. I walked into Chinatown. I watched the kids at the playground. I stopped in a tiny restaurant for some Vietnamese bun. I jostled among the crowds on Canal St. I returned to my office feeling just a tiny bit lightened.
Here's to spring in New York City.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Whose story?
When I started this commute, armed with my shiny new MacAirbok, I thought it would finally be my chance to really turn this blog into a regular report on our life. Instead, I find I probably post even less often than I did before. So I've been thinking a little bit about the why of it.
One reason is that armed with my wireless aircard, I discovered lots of other fun things to do while commuting (for instance, catching up on all the international Project Runway series on Youtube.com). Another reason is that I get a ridiculous amount of listserv email and even with the long commute, can't keep up. Another big reason is Facebook. It's so much easier to "Facebook" (when did it become a verb?) No need to compose long, well-thought out posts; just dash off a silly sentence or two and move on to see what one's friends are doing and accept and resend silly virtual gifts. It's quick, it's painless, it's public in a way that my little-read blog is not.
But having discovered Facebook has also brought into focus, once again, my own issues with setting boundaries and privacy. As most of you who know me IRL are well-aware, my personal privacy settings are virtually nonexistent. I love to share the most mundane details of my life. The problem is that I now share my life with JR and his superdad. Their personal privacy settings are far higher than mine. So, on Facebook, I had to alter my settings to suit superdad. For one, he is very, very skittish about pictures of JR being up on the internet. One of the appeals of FB for me was the fact that it was a forum for sharing photos of JR. Not anymore. If there are photos of him up there, they were not put up by me and they were put up before I started telling people "please don't post photos of my son." This is not easy for me because I think my son is beautiful and I like looking at his photos and want everyone else to see them.
There are also implications for this blog. I started this blog to share cute stories about JR. This week, though, I came face to face with the realization that they are not just my stories. They are JR's stories, and he is now old enough to have an opinion. And boy, does he have one. We had one of those little incidents recently which make for a great little anecdote. I had planned to blog about it. I did start sharing it with friends and family - until the other night, when I went to tell the story to JR's grandmother, in front of JR, and he went into total meltdown. In the midst of the tears, and my apologies, he burst out "But you tell too much!" He's right, of course. So I'm not going to tell the anecdote here.
I'm not ready to give up blogging. I just have to figure out how to reframe this blog to be a way to post about me and my issues as a parent, without broaching the privacy walls set up by JR and his superdad. I suspect I will probably mess up more than once (some anecdotes are just begging to be shared). But I would love to know how others negotiate the boundary between public and private in this internet world. Especially people like me, whose own sense of boundary is, shall we say, challenged?
One reason is that armed with my wireless aircard, I discovered lots of other fun things to do while commuting (for instance, catching up on all the international Project Runway series on Youtube.com). Another reason is that I get a ridiculous amount of listserv email and even with the long commute, can't keep up. Another big reason is Facebook. It's so much easier to "Facebook" (when did it become a verb?) No need to compose long, well-thought out posts; just dash off a silly sentence or two and move on to see what one's friends are doing and accept and resend silly virtual gifts. It's quick, it's painless, it's public in a way that my little-read blog is not.
But having discovered Facebook has also brought into focus, once again, my own issues with setting boundaries and privacy. As most of you who know me IRL are well-aware, my personal privacy settings are virtually nonexistent. I love to share the most mundane details of my life. The problem is that I now share my life with JR and his superdad. Their personal privacy settings are far higher than mine. So, on Facebook, I had to alter my settings to suit superdad. For one, he is very, very skittish about pictures of JR being up on the internet. One of the appeals of FB for me was the fact that it was a forum for sharing photos of JR. Not anymore. If there are photos of him up there, they were not put up by me and they were put up before I started telling people "please don't post photos of my son." This is not easy for me because I think my son is beautiful and I like looking at his photos and want everyone else to see them.
There are also implications for this blog. I started this blog to share cute stories about JR. This week, though, I came face to face with the realization that they are not just my stories. They are JR's stories, and he is now old enough to have an opinion. And boy, does he have one. We had one of those little incidents recently which make for a great little anecdote. I had planned to blog about it. I did start sharing it with friends and family - until the other night, when I went to tell the story to JR's grandmother, in front of JR, and he went into total meltdown. In the midst of the tears, and my apologies, he burst out "But you tell too much!" He's right, of course. So I'm not going to tell the anecdote here.
I'm not ready to give up blogging. I just have to figure out how to reframe this blog to be a way to post about me and my issues as a parent, without broaching the privacy walls set up by JR and his superdad. I suspect I will probably mess up more than once (some anecdotes are just begging to be shared). But I would love to know how others negotiate the boundary between public and private in this internet world. Especially people like me, whose own sense of boundary is, shall we say, challenged?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Perfect Timing?
About 5:30 a.m. (at which point on most workdays, I'm well on my way to the office), in my sleep I heard JR's voice "Plee-ase". Then, no longer asleep, I hear "Mommy, I threw up" So here we are at home, with a cranky, feverish, vomiting little guy. The little guy hasn't been sick in a long time (when we pulled his prescription history for last year we were amazed to realize we never had to renew his asthma meds last year). But if one has to be sick, when better than a day that school is closed, work is closed, we had no special plans and it's really too cold to be outside, anyway.
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