Domestically Disturbed

This morning, I sat on the hardwood floor between Toddler and Baby, brokering peace negotiations between the pajama-clad girls who are many long months away from receiving their Masters in Sharing. Mission accomplished. Within a few moments, Toddler was playing with her Mama Tape Measure and Baby was playing with her Baby Tape Measure. And I had a few fleeting, but delicious moments to go online before Baby pulled up on my back and yanked out a massive fistful of my hair. Maybe she wanted me to get off my computer. Or, maybe she's envious because she's bald.

Anyway, before snapping my laptop shut and giving my girls the absolute, unmarred attention they deserve, I was able to read this article. It's the latest entry in Judith Warner's NYT blog Domestic Disturbances. And I was sufficiently disturbed (in the best possible way) to forgo that much-needed shower and read it over a few times, read all of the comments it elicited, and then write my own comment. In that little comment box, I wrote one of my Insecurely Yours letters. I thanked Judith for her brave words, for speaking up, for defending those of us here on ILI and beyond who are educated and interested and insecure. If you are curious, you can read my letter below.

Now, off to analyze my infant-induced hair loss and take that much-needed shower. In case you are interested, while I am showering, I will be giving myself a very articulate pep-talk to prepare myself for the attacks I fear are headed my way. And if there is time left over, I will contemplate the symbolism of those tape measure "toys" with which my girls love to play. Cheerio.

Dear Judith,

Thank you. For daring to lift that proverbial lid on our society’s simmering stew of resentment of women with “major educations,” of women who are intellectually-curious and interested, of women who are unwilling to stay mum behind a lipstick smile just because their lives are charmed in some way.

In writing this post and triggering the comments that precede mine - many of which are unnecessarily snarky and collectively serve as a prime example of the very resentment you explore — you cast a light on profound and provocative topics of education and wealth and social perceptions. Many of your readers are missing the point here - and maybe willfully so. Patently, your article is not about the law of child endangerment, or what it means to be a responsible mother. Nor is your article truly about this one woman, a professor in Montana.

Rather, your article (bravely) points to an arguably wider phenomenon, namely our culture’s apparent desire to put a muzzle on women who are affluent and educated. There does seem to be a belief that because these women enjoy noteworthy privileges of elite educations and financial freedom, they should keep quiet. Often, it seems that acceptable stories - of struggle, of adversity, of that enigmatic “real world” that we all live in — can only be voiced by members of the more “normal” species of women. I recently started a blog called Ivy League Insecurities in an effort to give these women a voice, to combat the societal message to stay mum and enjoy my “good” life and I have been criticized and - shocker - told to keep quiet, that my story is not a story worth hearing, that my insecurities are inauthentic because of my objectively “privileged” life.

So as one of the well-educated women you write about who is simply unwilling to stay mute, I applaud you for writing this and for welcoming and weathering the very predictable and revealing maelstrom it has triggered.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan Donnelley Rowley

BUI (Breastfeeding Under the Influence)

Couldn't ignore this one. Police recently responded to a domestic disturbance call in North Dakota and encountered an intoxicated woman who was breastfeeding her newborn. They arrested her. And she subsequently pleaded guilty to child neglect and faces up to five years in jail. For more of the sordid details on this boozing and boobing saga, click here.

No, I do not know enough about this situation to cast informed and well-calibrated judgment on the actions of the police here -- and no one has compelling scientific evidence about the effects of alcohol in breastmilk on infants -- but as a lawyer and as a mother and as an American, the story troubles me.

As a lawyer of latter day, I'm worried about the very real problem of line-drawing. Are we going to start rounding up pregnant women who are sipping wine or nibbling feta or not eating anything while pregnant because data indicates that these things might not be good for the fetus? Are we going to arrest a woman who has ingested vast amounts of caffeine and is nursing? Where do we draw these legal lines?

As a mother, I am concerned about this story because, well, (gasp), I consumed moderate amounts of wine while nursing both of my daughters. Yes, I was responsible. No, I didn't nurse while intoxicated. But I would be lying if I said I abstained from Pinot during those postnatal months. I would also be lying if I said the Pinot wasn't often a sublime treat at the end of a long and tiring day. And I am no scientist, but both of my girls appear to be thriving. (Brag Moment: Toddler's teacher called her a superstar today!)

As an American, I worry about privacy. I am not sure anyone truly knows how to define privacy or that enigmatic right to privacy. But it's easier to intuit when privacy has been violated. It seems to me that this woman's right to privacy has been compromised in some way I cannot quite articulate. Admittedly, this is an argument I am less sure about. And this is when facts of the case matter. If this woman was conspicuously drunk, unable to care for her tiny baby, and someone in that home or nearby called the police because conditions were unsafe or out of hand, maybe her right to privacy has been surrendered? Who knows. My legal knowledge is rusty. This is where my lawyer friends can maybe help me out?

What are your thoughts on this arrest? Does it trouble you like it does me? Are you better able to articulate what is wrong with this picture? Or maybe there is nothing wrong with this picture and I am simply defending my own questionable behavior?

Dear Columbia Law School Girls

Dear Columbia Law School Girls,

There must have been something in the water or the Strokos fat-free tuna we consumed with wild abandon in those good old pre-mercury-paranoia CLS days. Because between us, we now have six baby girls (and another any day). No boys allowed.

Who would have guessed back then when we were busy making final exam outlines (okay, you guys were busy making them and I was busy thinking up artful ways of asking you to share them with me) that we would collectively produce more than a half-dozen baby girls in the next half-dozen years?

I have never regretted going to law school. Never. Columbia was a fantastic school and I learned a ton there. I learned all about Constitutional Law and Evidence. I learned about all of the bars along Amsterdam Avenue. I learned how to answer a question about a case I hadn't read. I learned how to spot a group of girls among the masses who would prove life long friends and fellow mommies.

Now let's do everything in our power to make sure our girls don't become lawyers. Just kidding. Kind of.

To life, law, and little girls! I love you all.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

A Scrumptious Saturday Spread

Enjoy this lavish link buffet, a sweet and savory start to your Saturday. Chock-full of choices and calorie-free, so click away! 

Hilarious Heather Armstrong welcomes an univited house guest in the 34th week of her pregnancy: Fred The Protruding Belly Button.  {Dooce}

Bad mommies unite! A defense of the modern phenomenon of Mommy Confessions.  {Hybrid Mom Insider}

Nanofiction?  Twiction?  Cell-Phone Novels?  Technology is changing what we read and how we read it.  (Where does that leave us writers?) {PC World}

We humans are literally wired to help each other, but what happens when compassion fatigue sets in? {Daddy Dialectic}

Reality is not always roses.  Not every Mother's Day sentiment fits squarely on a pastel Mother's Day Card.  {NYT's Motherlode}

Want to up your happiness and lower your blood pressure?  Then get your hug on.  {The Happiness Project}

Bristol Palin as abstinence advocate?  And Britney Spears should be the voice of virgins. {New York Times Op-Ed}

You know the economy's in shambles when a promising young lawyer turns to prostitution.  {Above The Law}

Spiderman has a son?  I'm ceaselessly amazed by couples who manage to conceive one of each!  {Celebrity Baby Blog}

I Am Not a Good Liar

Which is not a bad thing.  After all, I am trying to start a conversation here about authenticity in this fake-it-to-make-it world of ours.  I am just saying that the inability to lie (about little, relatively inconsequential, things.  Calm down.) can sometimes complicate life.  How about some examples (in chronological order of course) of my pathetic inability to twist the truth in benign situations?

Exhibit A (I am a senior in high school): It's a mild winter night in Manhattan and two of my best friends and I have all just gotten into college early, so we decide to shelve our good girl selves and have a little fun to celebrate.  Our destination of choice?  Au Bar.  For those not familiar with this delectable den, think: underground, swanky, and very rebellious for a pack of teens.  The three of us walk up to the bouncer who's in all black and all smiles.  And, thankfully, he doesn't ask for IDs. BUT.  Just as he is opening up that red velvet rope thing to let us in, he turns to me and asks, How old are you?  Now, I feel my friends' eyes piercing me through my cliched black leather jacket I'm wearing.  And I decide now is the time to be perfectly honest.  I say, I am seventeen. Rope closed.  Unhappy buds.  Back home.

Exhibit B (I am a 2L in Law School): It's the very beginning of my second year at Columbia. We are all gathered in fearful flocks at the DoubleTree Hotel somewhere in the morass of midtown.  Each of us clutches a list of law firms in our sweaty little fists.  After, say, six interviews with different (and yet fungible) firms in different hotel room-cum-interview-abodes, I walk in for my final interview of the day.  Anyway, good-looking graying Partner asks me what kind of work I hope to do at his glorious firm.  And I realize (and fast) that I have no idea what firm I'm interviewing for.  Quick.  I look around for clues.  But no such luck.  Time to wing it.  Now all of these firms have big, bad corporate departments.  So I tell him I am eager to be a corporate lawyer.  Confusion contorts his features.  And he says, That's odd. Your resume screams litigation.  You'd be perfect in my department.  Most people would nod and say, Yes, that is curious, isn't it? and knock that firm off the long list and call it a day.  But no. Apparently, I am not most people.  I say, You know what?  I had no idea your firm had a litigation department.  Of course I want to do litigation.  Silly me.  And, the crazy thing: I got called back for a second interview.

Exhibit C (A few hours ago): I am in a midtown hotel getting a haircut.  I come out of my appointment feeling like one of those perky chicks from a shampoo commercial because my hair looks nice and is for once not looped into a greasy bun atop my head.  But it is raining outside.  Pouring.  So I find a friendly-looking hotel staffer and ask if there is somewhere I can purchase an umbrella.  And he says, If you are a hotel guest, they will give you an umbrella.  And I say, But I am not a hotel guest.  He looks at me like I am a wee bit crazy and says in a whisper, Well, tell them you are a hotel guest and they will give you one.  So, like a good girl, I do what I am told.  I tell the hotel guy behind the little stand-thing that I need an umbrella.  He walks into a closet and gets me one, but just before handing it over, he asks, What is your room number?  And I say, I do not have a room number.  He looks at me like I am a criminal.  But I am not a criminal.  Just an amateur liar.

Are you a good liar?  Or, like me, are you bizarrely and painfully honest ALL OF THE TIME?  

Mommy Needs A Margarita

The girls and I have been on our own for 34 hours and 24 minutes.  But who's counting?  

Nanny had a much-deserved day off yesterday and Husband made a quick trip to Bucknell to receive an alumni award. This girl time has had some predictable and unpredictable effects on me:

First, the predictable.  I find myself missing Husband.  And Nanny.  And clean hair.  And spit-up free clothes.  And adult conversation.  (And, yes, I am acutely aware of the fact that many moms, maybe most moms, endure much longer stretches of time alone with their kids.  Many, again most moms, do not have delightful nannies and super hands-on husbands.  So, I am happy to admit that I am both fortunate and perhaps a tad spoiled.  Okay, enough of the disclaimers.)

Now, the more bizarre.  I find myself thinking of the media's Bad Mommy du jour Madyln Primoff (the attorney mother who kicked her bickering teens out of the car).  Okay, I do not just find myself thinking about her.  I find myself (gasp) sympathizing with her.  Calm down, let me make my case.  Of course she was reckless and went too far.  Of course.  But she is not just human.  She is a mother.  And a partner at a law firm.  The media seems especially outraged at this final fact; God forbid a woman with a higher education and a high-wattage career lose her cool on occasion like the rest of the population.  As Romi Lassally stated earlier this week in her compelling Huffington Post piece, "Women like Primoff are expected to kick butt at work with a Fembot-like smile while simultaneously ruling the kitchen in an apron and high heels cooking organic dinners for the whole family."  As someone who did a short stint at a big law firm, it seems to me that law partners -- who spend long hours dealing with difficult clients and colleagues and cases --  might be especially apt to snap.  So, yes, this five second lawyer has a shred of sympathy for this woman.  Sue me.

One other bizarre effect this mommy marathon has had on me?  I'm craving a margarita.  A big one.  Frozen.  With salt. And I don't drink margaritas. Or like them.  

Maybe, just maybe, tense mothering moments make us do things we wouldn't otherwise do.  Like kick our kids out of a car.  Or salivate for the odd salty cocktail?

As I finish this post, I am sitting on the hardwood floor.  Baby sits to my left in her BebePod seat thing that looks like a lime (maybe that's what triggered the hankering for Jose Cuervo?) and Toddler sits to my right on her pink plastic potty. And the doorbell rings.  And Nanny walks in.

And now.  I will post this.  And begin to worry about how it sounds.  And shower.  And kiss my darling babies goodnight.  And go outside.  And savor the dregs of the day's sweet sunshine. And find me that margarita.

Ha

I just got a fortune that said: You would make a good lawyer. 

Guilty As Charged

Technically, I was still on jury duty today.  But I didn't need to head downtown.  I was told that I was "on-call" and needed to be able to report to the courthouse within an hour.  Now, it takes a good forty-five minutes to get to 100 Centre Street by cab and get through security and up to that bench outside of the courtroom.  The subway proved quite a bit faster (yes, the Hubby has been right about that all along).  

Anyway, I felt rather tethered today.  I wanted to go to the gym, but worried that I would miss the all-important call on the cell and wouldn't be able to get downtown to pinch hit in time.  For similar reasons, I postponed my weekly trip to Fairway and did not put the headphones in to knock off some chapters of my manuscript.  I did, however, brave the Dora & Diego Exhibit at the Children's Museum of Manhattan. With the bad weather, it was more of a zoo (and germfest) than ever.  In any case, I clutched my BlackBerry extra-tight in case the Judge might need me.  Suddenly, I had a thought: is this really any different than any other day?  Aren't we moms and lawyers and bankers and doctors -- and all adults for that matter -- always to some degree "on-call"?  Isn't this what it means to grow up, namely that we are never quite free?  Someone always might call us and need us.  The nanny.  The boss.  The client.  The patient.  The parent.  The child.  

Well, I didn't hear from the court all day and around 4pm, I called to check in.  "There is a verdict," the soft-spoken court clerk told me.  "Your service is complete."  Now this lady wasn't going to even tell me what said verdict was, but of course I inquired.

Guilty as charged.  I felt my blood begin to boil.  

The prosecution had not proven the elements of both crimes (obstruction of justice and resisting arrest) beyond a reasonable doubt as the law requires.  The case, albeit fascinating, was in many ways a sideshow.  Four police officers testified (one of whom I may have gone to school with -- ooh, now I can look him up on Facebook and will report back) and each contradicted the next.  The defendant, an endearing fifty-year-old Central Park horticulture worker, and his menopausal wife (her "diagnosis of menopause" was a huge part of her testimony) had gotten into a domestic scuffle in their apartment in the projects and the defendant had called the cops.  When the cops came, something shady went down, but no one told a narrative that made any sense.  The defendant and his wife both testified and contradicted each other's story.  Anyway, there was no clear criminal picture here and it was the prosecution's job to paint one.  So, I left for Starbucks 99% sure this fellow would be found not guilty.

But, not so.  And tonight I realize why they might not put too many of us lawyers in the Major Leagues.  Because, if anything, I would have kept those other jurors in that tiny room until someone convinced me that my doubts -- and there were plenty -- were somehow unreasonable.  And that would have taken a long time.

And tonight I feel sad for a man whom I don't know and will never see again who is locked up somewhere in this city awaiting his sentence.  And tonight I feel sad for that man's wife whom he clearly both loves and hates. And tonight I feel sad for the granddaughters these two have raised together who sit in that small apartment 4C somewhere in East Harlem and wonder what happened to their grandpa.  

A few days ago, this lawyer of latter day was thrilled to be participating in our nation's judicial system.  Tonight, I'm happy to be home.

Tuning In (and Out)

Well. This afternoon was a waiting game for this faux juror. The six Major League jurors began to deliberate.  But my fellow alternate and I were kicked off the island.  (Talk about mixed metaphors.  Yikes.) I was banished to Starbucks to wait.  Ordered to remain within striking distance of the courthouse.  In the likely event one the Superior Six suffered a sudden bout of Appendicitis.

Just yesterday I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn't be able to deliberate, but today I was singing a different tune.  Why?

After the prosecution and defense finished their summations, the Judge read us the very important jury instructions.  He was loud and clear. His voice carried far and wide in the little courtroom.  Like a good girl, I sat still in my burgundy pleather chair and made commendable eye contact, even nodding at what seemed to be appropriate moments.  But there were good chunks of time where I heard nothing. Nada. Crickets.

So, sequestered at Starbucks, I decided that I was in fact thankful that it would not be up to me to make such a weighty decision about the fate of a fellow human being.  Because I was not sure I heard everything I was supposed to hear. In fact, I was sure I didn't hear things I was supposed to hear.  Things it was my civic duty to hear and understand and digest and use as a solid foundation for The Decision.  

And then I had a caffeine-fueled mini-epiphany that this was perhaps why I was picked for the Minor Leagues.  Maybe that Judge and those lawyers took one look at me and something screamed short attention span.  Was it the (only-quasi-faux) blonde hair? The artfully-torn designer jeans?  The fact that my questionnaire had so many slashes (I indicated under Profession that I was a Writer/Mom/Lawyer)? (Note: I am a loyal fan of the slash and his cousin the parethesis and up until a few moments ago, I couldn't quite remember whether the period goes before or after the closing parenthesis.  And then I hit save and looked it up. And for you fellow members of the Punctuation Police who are still with me: the period goes before the final parenthesis only if the entire sentence is encapsulated in said parentheses.) 

Phew.  

But I digress.

Yes, I'm being long-winded and self-indulgent and dramatic and all those other adjectives they warn writers not to be. For the truth is that if I were allowed in that deliberation room, we would've been given a copy of the jury instructions I tuned out.  Truth is most matters in life (like, say, the proper use of parentheses) aren't quite as serious as those lived out in the criminal courtroom.  But why do we do this?  Why do we tune things out?  Like the convoluted list of specials at the Italian restaurant? Or the flight attendant's safety details? Or the conversation with Husband about what might be wrong with the dishwasher? 

Now men often get criticized for doing the selective hearing dance and, yes, they happen to be very good at not hearing the desperate cries of a hungry newborn at 3am, but we all do this.  Almost daily.  What gives?

Maybe our brains can only accommodate so many details at once and once they reach max capacity, the ears take a breather?  Maybe we tune out things we don't need to hear?  (Why do we need to hear that they have special soft shelled crabs if we know we want the halibut?)  Maybe we tune out things that we simply do not want to hear.  (Like the fact that our plane might crash and if it does it might be over the ocean and we might need to maneuver oxygen masks and use our filthy seat cushions as flotation devices.)  

Or maybe we each have a pinch of ADD leftover from childhood? (Witness Exhibit A: This Post.)

Don't Read This Post

You rebel. Here you are doing what I said not to do.

I got home from jury duty at about 5:30pm and my toddler flung herself on me and I felt like I had been gone for a week (and suddenly I had immediate and intense sympathy for working moms who are gone all day long), but that is not the point of this post.  Well, toddler asked for a Cookie Monster juice box and I'm pretty lax in the nutrition department (as you will learn) so I fetched said box from the fridge.  And I handed it to her and said, "What's the rule?" and she said in her irresistibly singsong voice, "NO SQUEEZING!" which was the correct answer.  And then she took the little box and what did she do?  You guessed it.  She squeezed it.  Hard.

But, suddenly, I had sympathy for my little girl.  Why suddenly?  Because I had a couple moments today where I was explicitly told not to do something and all I wanted to do was that forbidden thing.

Moment One.  The supervisor in the Jury Room was a man named Larry and literally the nicest man in the world and he told us a cautionary tale about how we should under no circumstances use our BlackBerries in the courtroom.  He told us about an ill-mannered sports agent who dared to use his BlackBerry while he was being questioned by the judge and how this terrible man was kicked off the case and ordered to sit in the jury room for a full week.  This story had two effects on me: (uh oh - the list within the list) (1) It made me happy because it underscored just how addicted we are to our BlackBerries and my forthcoming novel BlackBerry Girl (Summer 2010) is all about our society's addiction to the Berry among other things; and (2) It made me want to use my BlackBerry in the courtroom.  Literally, while the DA was questioning a witness, I felt my sweaty palm inching into my pocket to grab my Berry.  Thankfully, I am not a toddler and was able to resist.

Moment Two (and Three and Four).  Every time the judge dismissed us jurors, he turned to us and said sternly, "Do not under any circumstances talk with your fellow jurors or anyone for that matter about this case.  Do not read any articles about this case.  Do not look up this case on the Internet.  Do not visit the scene of the crime or what you believe to be the scene of the crime." He even waved that foreboding and fatherly finger.  And what did I want to do the second I stepped outside of the courtroom?  I wanted to turn to my fellow jurors and ask what they thought about the opening statements.  And what did I want to do when I stepped outside the courthouse?  I wanted to call my husband and tell him all about the defendant.  And what did I want to do when I walked inside my house (after doling out infinite hugs and kisses to the girls of course)? I wanted to Google up a storm.  Again, thankfully, I was able to resist.

But...

Is there a lesson hidden here somewhere? Maybe if we removed that word "don't" from our vocabulary (or at least limited its use) we'd be better - or at least more efficient - parents?  Maybe if our parents or society didn't tell us not to date bad guys or drink too much wine or gossip... Well, you get the picture.  Who knew a day spent at the New York Supreme Court would have me contemplating behavioral psychology?  

Okay, off to go visit the scene of the crime :)

Lucky Number 7!

I thought it would never happen.  A mere four hours into service and I was picked for a jury! 

Well, kind of.

I am Juror 7 of 8 on a 6-person criminal jury.  What does that make me? An alternate.  This means if something happens to my fellow jurors 1-6, I get to step up to the plate and deliberate. And, if not, then I get to sit there for three days and soak up the details of the case and then they will send me home.  Which is kind of cruel.  Like being invited to a fabulous New Years party and after spending a few hours downing divine drinks and hors d'oeurves being told to go home right before ball drops.  Kind of a bummer. 

Some legal details (I think) to pass along... The DA is good-looking and soft-spoken.  The courtroom is dimly lit and depressing.  There is some very disconcerting bullet-proof glass surrounding the box. So, who else is in the box? I won't reveal names (and, yes, I do remember some of them), but we have four men and four women: one anorexic girl with rhinestone glasses and five-inch heels, one woman who is clad in head-to-toe Gucci, one woman who could easily be one of Mom's friends, an oversized older man who is two parts Donald Sutherland and one part Santa Claus, a suspiciously tan older man who looks like he plays a mean round of golf (don't know why), and a very chatty twenty-six-year-old guy (I peeked at his questionnaire) and yours truly.  And I am the only lawyer who made the cut (and there were plenty of others).  Too bad we are forbidden from taking notes during the trial for this is good stuff and this tired mommy can only retain so much...

Signing off from some random Starbucks in Soho.  Or is this Tribeca?

Back to the box for me...

The Box Trot

For those of you who were worried, I made it to Monday :)

Sunday blues, begone.  Today is a new day.  An exciting one.

Maybe I am a nerd (very likely).  Or maybe I crave an escape from my day-to-day (yup).  Or maybe I miss the law a teensy bit (not so sure about that one).  Or maybe I take civic responsibility very seriously (could be), but this morning I report for jury duty and I am giddy.  And there are a few reasons why I am irrationally stoked to be headed to the other end of this island to sit in an uncomfortable chair in a vast room full of strangers.  Here is a list.  (Humor me; lists are things both mothers and lawyers love.  They make us feel organized.)

One.  I have always wanted to be picked for a jury.  While it seems the rest of you will spew any excuse to resume your regular life, I am an odd bird, eager to be plucked by that discerning DA for a spot in the box.  Last time I did this thing? I had just taken the New York Bar Exam. This fact elicited horror in the eyes of the lawyers; I knew way too much law to be on the case.  Probably more than they did. (Don't worry, it has since escaped.  Big time.)

Two.  Being held captive in a room full of disgruntled New York strangers is a writer's dream.  Talk about material. 

Three.  Being held captive in a room full of disgruntled New York strangers is this writer's dream.  I am currently writing my second novel Ivy League Latte about a Yale Law student who finds herself pregnant before graduation.  Anyway, my protagonist Clio is called for jury duty right before she gives birth and among those sober strangers fidgeting with newspapers and their BlackBerries, whom does she encounter? Her first love.  So, what will I do while those around me fidget with their papers and their Berries?  I will write that chapter! (And keep an eye out for the ex).  Talk about multi-tasking.

And if I'm actually picked for a jury (unlikely, but a girl can dream), I won't be able to tell you about the case or the judge or the criminal, but I'm sure I will have plenty of other random things to report about the melancholy masses cooped up in a government building on a monotonous Monday morning.  

Stay tuned.