A Tectonic Shift in Priorities (Or Collateral Damage in the Mommy Wars)

We have a new person at work, who I will refer to as "NP" for purposes of this blog.  NP has an infant.  Today NP's boss, one of the highest-ups in the food chain where I work, blithely stated that NP would be assigned to work on an urgent assignment this weekend, without the slightest hint of prior consultation or consensus with NP.  NP sat there with a shit-eating grin and did not protest.  It sucks to be new.

Whoa, Nelly.

I thought to myself that if my boss had similarly committed me to work this weekend without consulting me, I would have said, "I have plans." Because I do.  And I plan on having plans for the weekend for the next fifteen years or so years.

Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) and I are getting closer to adopting a toddler-age sibling set through foster care.  As we get closer, I am alternately excited and nauseated at the prospect of what our life will become as late-life parents to young kids.  We're marking some major milestones as of late -- BMNB turned fifty last year; I will turn fifty next month; and we'll mark our tenth anniversary five days after my birthday.  If all goes as planned, we'll be parents by the end of the summer.

All of this has brought about what I'd call a tectonic shift in my priorities. 

It is now more important to me than ever to have my weekends free for the family I'm trying to build and the life I'm trying to create for them.  I don't want to be told with little notice and no opportunity to refuse that my weekend will be yanked out from under me.  That's one of the reasons why I hated litigation -- the lack of control over one's schedule.  When BMNB and I got married, we agreed there could only be one trial attorney in the family, and since I didn't want to be the trial attorney, it worked out well.

It is also more important to me to create the kind of family life for my kids-to-be that my parents created for me.  We always ate dinner together as a family, and my mom cooked almost seven days a week. McDonald's was a treat for us because we only went there once a month, if at all.  We ate huge Sunday dinners as a family, so much so that we were spoiled.  We got to the point where we kids were turning up our noses at roast beef, turkey and ham.  I'd give my left arm for my mom's roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy right about now.  Hell, I don't even know how to make gravy.

Unlike most women my age, I've never taken time off to raise children.  I've never had a maternity leave.  My one and only pregnancy ended in a miscarriage, brought on in part, IMHO, from stress doing -- you guessed it -- litigation.

I want more living and less working.  I have the nerve to expect more of life at this stage in my life.  I actually feel I deserve to be happy in my career and home life, and if I can't be happy in my career, well, two tears in a bucket; motherf*** it.  It just doesn't matter as much to me anymore.

I'm not like BMNB.  He's happier than a pig in you-know-what practicing the law he practices.  He has more freedom than I do -- an alternate work schedule, the freedom to work from home, and no bosses looking over his shoulder.  It works for him.

Me, not so much.  And I know that I'm running out of time to figure out how I'm going to make this all work because, sooner or later, that urgent assignment will come in, it will be my turn, and I will be expected to work over the weekend.  My refusal will be considered insubordination.  I'm already wearing a target on my back at work (it's a long story -- let's just say I'm in someone's cross hairs); any misstep can and will be held against me. 

How much time will I take off to get our kids acclimated?  How much time can I afford to take off? 
Do I quit altogether and see if we can make it one BMNB's salary alone, even with the debt we have? That I can even consider such an option is a blessing that most women don't have, and I don't take it lightly.   Do I just jump into motherhood and a new mother-friendly career (ahem, blogging?) at the same time and let go of the possibility of a pension, 401(k) and health care benefits in old age?  What will our social worker think? 

While other women are contemplating leaning in, I just feel like collateral damage in the so-called "mommy wars."  Working moms and working-at-home moms (I think the term "stay-at-home mom" doesn't fully capture all the work that the term entails) seem to still be working this motherhood and career conflict out on each other instead of together opening up a can of whupass on the labor market to better accommodate parenthood.  I would have thought that by this stage of the game, all the things that women need to parent and stay in the work force would have been standard issue by now in America -- paid parental leave, a child care center or pre-school on every corner, common and accepted part-time and shared work situations.  But they're not, and each woman contemplating motherhood is left in a feral state to try to patch together some semblance of work-life balance.   Lean in?  At this stage, I don't care to lean in.  I'd rather lean back, hold my kids-to-be, and read every single Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein book to them without worry.  It is no longer a priority of mine to impress my superiors at work and continually prove myself to people whose opinion of me, in the end, doesn't really matter.  What really matters to me is to know what it is to love children of my own and to share that love with BMNB.  Everything else pales in comparison.

And the irony of it all?  NP's boss is constantly out of the office with her sick children and doesn't work weekends.  How's that for leaning in?

I don't know how this will all turn out, but I'm excited about what the future holds for BMNB and me.

Stay tuned.

Dear Santa, Can We Cut A Deal?

Dear Santa,

I'm a lawyer. That means I basically grew up thinking just about anything was negotiable. I think this "naughty or nice" thing should be negotiable because, for one, your terms are vague, and two, whether my wishes are fulfilled shouldn't be an "either-or" proposition. Santa, behavior is way more complicated than that. We lawyers see shades of gray where other folks see only black or white, and we are highly compensated, unless we work for the State of California, for seeing those shades of gray. They're called "legal argument."

So Santa, think we can cut a deal on this whole "naughty or nice" thing?

First, some things need to be taken off the "naughty" table. Santa, what happens between two consenting married people in the privacy of their bedroom or other places with smooth surfaces shouldn't make the "naughty" list. BMNB didn't date me on and off for twenty years and then marry me just because of the intellectual conversation, Santa. I'm just sayin'. Some of my "naughty" has been pretty nice to him. Just because you see us when we're sleeping doesn't mean you should be watching, Santa. That's just kinda pervy, if you ask me.

Second, some of the nice things should be weighed against the naughty ones to come to a determination as to whether my wishes will be fulfilled. That's only fair, Santa.

So, here goes with the naughty things I've done this year:

I'm still not on speaking terms with some members of my family. But Santa, I have so much more peace in my life because I'm not. Do I have to give up my peace to be on good terms with people who wreck my peace just because they're related to me? No arrest warrants or restraining orders were issued because I kept to myself, Santa. I hate to stereotype, Santa, but in a black family, that's huge.

I embarrassed a public official in a public meeting. But he deserved it, Santa, because he misrepresented something and I called him on it. I did it for the good of the tax-paying public, Santa. I consider that pro bono publico, Santa. Not entirely naughty in my book.

I didn't visit my in-laws down south this summer. I allowed my work to get in the way of traveling with BMNB. That I do regret.

I did go off on some of my co-workers in a meeting. But they deserved it, Santa, really they did. I had returned from vacation and they were all on my back about getting something done that was nowhere near being late, while another co-worker who was late on a project was being allowed to skate. So I called them on it, Santa. I don't regret that, but it was naughty.

Oh, and I may have told a few people to kiss my pretty black ass, Santa, but I come by that naturally. My mom used to tell people that all the time, and I'm sure she's in heaven. I think you should overlook that, Santa.

Now for the nice:

I cooked more this year, relatively speaking. No, Santa, I'm not trying to get over on you, statistically speaking. I know that when you go from not cooking at all to cooking once, that is essentially a 100% increase. I did cook more than once, Santa. Not much more than once, but I did cook more than once. BMNB has not starved to death. Yet.

I lost weight. I joined Weight Watchers again (Yes, Santa, I know I'm to Weight Watchers what Lindsay Lohan is to rehab), and I lost weight. Mind you, when they switched our meeting leader to this insipidly happy chick, I stopped going and regained some of the weight. But I'm really going back, Santa, really I am.

I finished my book. That's huge, Santa. I should get major points for that.

I grew vegetables last summer and gave them away. No, Santa, they didn't go to the needy. They went to my neighbors and my sisters. Is that any less nice?

I took BMNB to see one of his favorite singers, Anthony Hamilton, in concert for his birthday.

I fed my sister's cats while she was away at a retreat. Okay, I know I'm reaching here, Santa, since I really adore her cats, but it was still nice of me to do so.

I gave out legal advice to relatives. Yeah, Santa, I know -- I'm supposed to do that.

I gave up red meat, dairy, and caffeine. Okay, Santa, fine -- I'm giving up red meat, dairy and caffeine. Yeah, you saw me last week with that applewood-smoked bacon and Gruyere grilled cheese sandwich.

Come to think of it, Santa, maybe I haven't been all that nice after all. But when you consider what I want for Christmas, I think you'd be willing to cut me a deal.

Okay, Santa, here's what I want:

A son for BMNB.

Yeah, I know -- we basically flunked our adoption classes last year as no-shows. But we've gotten our priorities in order and I think BMNB is really ready to become a dad. He's had lots of practice with our great-nieces and great-nephews, and I think he really longs to shape the direction of a young African-American boy in need of a father. It would really make him happy, and anything that makes him happy makes me even more happy.

So Santa, think we can cut a deal?

Thanks for reading, Santa.

Black Woman Blogging

P.S. Santa, I wouldn't be mad if you made it two boys, as long as they don't leave the seat down when they pee. I hate that.

Hitting the Reset Button

Memorial Day is a wonderful time to take stock -- of the lives lost in defense of our nation, of what we have, of what we've accomplished thus far this year. It's also a good time to hit the reset button of our lives.

I know that I, like many women, slide into schlumpadinka-ville during the winter months. I dress for warmth, not for style. I don't pay attention to my hair. I eat comfort food, not healthy food. Nail techs would run from me in horror if they saw my feet. Exercise regimen? As if.

But all that self-denial in pursuit of warmth and comfort takes its toll. Most of the cute summer clothes are not in my size. I'm out of breath just taking the stairs. My hair looks like a cross between Sasquatch and a drunken Diana Ross. And nail techs would still run from my feet.

So it's time to hit the reset button.

Sure, I've got a lot going on -- I'm getting involved in local politics (as an activist), BMNB and I are still in adoption mode, and our house looks like nuclear winter on the inside. But I read O Magazine's column by Donna Brazile this month, and in it she said something that got my attention:

You can only go as far as your body will take you.

I hate to go all Oprah on y'all, but that was definitely an "A-ha" moment for me.

I've always counted on my intellect, but if I don't take care of my body, my intellect doesn't matter. It's hard to express deep thoughts if a stroke has altered your speech. It's hard to run around after children if a heart attack has slowed you down. I don't even want to go there.

So I'm hitting the reset button. I'm rededicating myself to eating better, exercising, and taking care of myself. I pulled out the Weight Watchers materials, and although I'm not ready to rejoin the group, I am ready to start being mindful of what I put in my mouth. I want to run a marathon one day, God willing, if my body will take me that far. I want to run after the kids BMNB and I have yet to have.

Now, if I can find a nail tech who won't run from my feet . . .