So two interesting things happened at work yesterday. One, my boss “popped by” my office to introduce me to the general counsel of one of our biggest clients. Right as I was wrapping up my research into a remote control fart machine (www.thefartmachine.com – GO THERE NOW). Luckily, I had just finished playing the sample fart noises and had mostly calmed myself down when they came in. But I was reclined in my chair with my shoes off. Sigh. And two, I heard through the grapevine that a co-blabbermouth told someone that I hadn’t been working enough lately. My first reaction wasn’t to get mad at him for gossiping or talking shit about me; it was to feel really bad. It’s bad enough to feel guilty that I slack at work when home needs me a little more (or when I need home a little more), but to have someone else notice? Ugh. And not just notice, but feel the need to call me on it. Ugh ugh.
This person is junior to me, so in bizarro law firm world, his opinion doesn’t really count for much. My very understanding boss knows I work hard, keep strange hours, and occassionally come into work with mis-matched shoes and breast pump parts hanging out of my bag. But hearing about the gossip did make me get in a little earlier today, and hold off on the fart machine research for a little while.
So I went to the cah-razy synagogue book signing last night (unfortch, no drunken table dancing), which was really lovely. The author was inspirational and funny and smart. While she was reading the introduction to her book, I realized that I kept shoving my work bag around with my feet, and kind of pinned it between my legs for a little while, you know, so some crazy non-fiction chick-lit book lover didn’t gank my work bag (which is filled with about 40 highlighters, an old pacifier, and a wallet with four pounds worth of change in it) and then make her way up the balcony stairs and down through the crowded synagogue, laughing maniacally and leaving a trail of post-it flags and old receipts behind her.
And then I remembered my own mom’s obsession with someone stealing her purse. As far as I know, no one ever actually stole her purse (maybe because of her vigilance), but for as long as I can remember, she always had a death grip on it when we were out in public. And now here I am, straddling my work bag at a book reading.
Totally random, but it just got me thinking about fears and how we pass them down to our kids. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because both of my kids are fairly cautious — both were very timid walkers, they aren’t crazy about strangers or new things, and my preschooler still “scooches” on his butt down the stairs (so he doesn’t “bite it,” in his words). And then I think about my own life, and how I’ve taken a very safe path to get to my boring, I mean, very important lawyer job. Where my job is to tell people how to minimize their risk.
So I want to encourage my kids to be bold, to do things that challenge them, that surprise them. And I figure the best way to do that is to do it myself. Which really goes against just about everything in my nature, but actually feels pretty good. Writing like this is a risk for me, and I like it.
But I’m still not getting over my fear of opossums. They can suck it.
Just heard “Hey Girl” by Garrison Star, and it is such a nice song. One that I’m going to share with my daughter some day.
That is all.
I’m sure it has happened before, but I can’t remember it: the press wondering whether a man can juggle his career and his kids. Granted, his circumstances are a little, eh, unusual, but still…
So for the past 6 nights, my daughter has decided to wake up hollering and shaking the rails of her crib in the middle of the night and will not stop screaming until my husband or I go in and rock her. As cute as she is, I would really prefer not to see her at 3 am, particularly when she is yelling for no apparent reason. I took her to the doctor to follow up on her most recent ear infection (sigh) and she’s healthy, so I think she’s yelling just because she can. And maybe because she’s finally getting her top two teeth.
Anywho, I don’t think I can fully explain how freaking mean and grumpy and generally psychotic lack of sleep makes me. For example, I could not find a matching sock for my son this morning (laundry tends to reproduce like the Duggars in my house when mama’s tired), and I seriously considered punching the laundry basket. Because it really had it coming.
Functioning at work while sleep deprived is always a bit of a performance. It requires a little extra make-up, a lot more working with the door closed, and massive amounts of coffee, combined with telling a few select blabbermouths about my lack of sleep so the word slowly makes its way to the people who need to know that, really, don’t mess with Sarah today. On a conference call yesterday, someone I’ve never met actually said, “Oh, did you finally get some sleep last night?” Well done, my co-blabbermouths.
And tonight is my first Girls Night Out in, oh, like a year and a half. Although it probably doesn’t qualify as a real girls night out because (1) I am wearing frumpy flats and my hair is a wreck; (2) there will be no drunken dancing unless something goes terribly wrong; and (3) we are going to a book signing. At a synagogue. Somewhere in the middle of pregnancy #2 I officially became lame. Whatevs. The point is that I’m exhausted, feeling sad that I won’t be putting my kids to bed tonight, and not able to appreciate the good things I have going on today.
Some day I’ll make a Costanza-style napping nest under my desk. If only I had the energy.