"Real" Lawyers

When you are an attorney at a large law firm, you are worked hard.  You are stressed.  You are pulled in a thousand different directions.  But, you are also pampered. 

I'm not talking about the large salaries (though those are nice).  I'm talking about the support - the paralegals, the copy center, the cite checkers, the research librarians, the e-discovery experts, the graphics team, and I could go on and on and on.  At my first law firm, I could drop off the draft of a brief at 11pm, and by 8am, it was back underneath my office door - fully cite checked and proofed and formatted.  And when that brief had to be filed?  I didn't have to do it.  Someone else went to the courthouse or filed it electronically or served it or whatever else it is you do with a brief.  I couldn't really tell you what exactly has to be done. 

It is a huge help, and in an environment where time is at an ultimate premium, is almost a necessity.  But it results in a learned ignorance. 

Biglaw attorneys are smart, no doubt about it.  But they aren't necessarily skilled in the practical stuff.  They never learn the elementary nuts and bolts, and then when it comes to real litigation experience - the kind where you stand up in court and actually speak - they have to wait a decade or so for that.  (But they can write really well.  And use Westlaw.) 

The Lies I Tell

I like to think I'm an honest person.  At least, I try to be.  That's kind of what this blog is about - being honest, sincere, getting it all out there.  It's refreshing, it's cathartic, it's restorative. 

But God, I'm a huge hypocrite.  Because I lie to my kids all the time. 

These aren't big lies, mind you.  They are lies for their own benefit - for their health, their discipline, their state of mind.  Everyone does this, right?  Right? 

Such as:  

Lie:
It is very important to eat your vegetables. If you don't eat your vegetables, you won't grow big and strong.
Truth:
Mommy never eats the vegetables that she makes for you every night. Ever. Not to mention, when Mommy was a kid, she used to hide her vegetables in her underwear and dispose of them after mealtime, and she turned out just fine (arguably).
 
Lie
If you don't stop that behavior, there will be no television for the rest of the night. 
Truth
Mommy will never follow through with this consequence.  Because above all else, this only hurts Mommy. 

Lie
We don't need to be afraid of airplanes.  Airplanes are so much fun!  We love airplanes!
Truth
Airplanes are flying fireballs and if ignited, will plummet you to your death.  Your mommy must be significantly drugged to step upon one, and that is why she smiles so much during the flight. 

On Birthdays

Today I am 34. 

Crazy. 

I've never been one to stress about getting older, but for some reason this birthday is hitting home.  Not because I think 34 is so old, but because a 24 year old is a decade younger than me. 

A DECADE. 

The thing is, I still feel 24.  Not when I'm home with my kids or when I am doing preschool pick up.  But when I happen to be out to dinner with my husband.  Or having a drink with friends.  Or driving in a car by myself with the music blaring.   

I still feel young.   I just happened to have two kids and a husband and a mortgage.  That's the only thing that separates me from a 24 year old, really. 

"Have a Rotten Thanksgiving" - An Homage to New York

It's not a popular sentiment to have, but I generally dislike New York City.  I didn't like it when I lived there, and I don't really like it when I go back to visit.  It's busy, it's dirty, it's hectic, it's expensive, it's unfriendly.  I can appreciate the restaurants and the shopping and the culture, but it isn't enough to overcome the general disdain I feel when I am on the New Jersey Turnpike and catch that first glimpse of the New York skyline. 

But this past weekend?  This past weekend I loved New York City.  Because it involved a conglomerate of a few of my favorite people in the world, a cheap mani/pedi, amazing food, and the best homeless person ever. 

The whole fam made the trek to the Empire State last Friday afternoon, as there were a couple of family events going on that weekend.  The trip was pretty seamless, save for Braden having a panic attack at a rest stop bathroom because the toilets "didn't have a handle" (aka, the automatic flushers, the inventor of which I would like to curse).  I dropped my husband and kids off at my in-laws' house in Long Island and then there it was.  The exhale.  The amazement.  THE FREEDOM!  I drove into the city and didn't even care that it was New York, and oh yeah, I'm not supposed to like it.

The fact is, New York smiled on me this weekend. 

The Memo Heard 'Round the (Legal) World

Every now and then a "leaving memo" makes legal news.  Occasionally they involve cursing, a big F-you to the partners, or an F-you to the legal industry generally.  I myself, have tired of these.  Good for you, you have the balls to really give it to them.  Your memo went viral.  You're legal career is over.  Worth it?  Who's to say. 

But last week, a different kind of leaving memo made its rounds on the internet, written by a departing Clifford Chance associate.  You probably have read about it already, but if you haven't, here's an excerpt, taken from Above the Law: 

Pic of the Week - The Best One Yet

I haven't done a pic of the week in ages.  I thought perhaps the whole idea was extinct.  But no, no I say.  Because today's pic is just AWESOME!

Braden has fine motor issues.  What that means in the simplest sense is that he goes to OT once a week, he doesn't hold a crayon correctly, he hates holding a crayon, and we've purchased all sorts of finger strengthening devices so that he can ultimately hold said crayon properly and do things with it. 

So for Braden to write his name is a BIG deal. 

Look at that "e"!  Best "e" I've ever seen. 

I'm so proud of my boy. 

My Political Reawakening

There was a time when I was really into politics. 

It all started with the presidential election of 1992.  Bush/Quayle v. Clinton/Gore (v. Perot/Stockdale).  I was in 9th grade.  I like to think I was cool, but the evidence points otherwise.  Because I became OBSESSED with that election.  I would tape the debates on my VHS tape recorder, and rewatch them.  I would watch the news incessantly (from 5pm on).  I collected articles and newspaper clippings.  And when Clinton won, I took the covers of all the major magazines (Time, Newsweek, whatever else there was back then), and pinned them up on my wall.  Yes, some teenagers my age had posters of Johnny Depp on their wall.  Bill Clinton graced the spot above my bed. 

In some ways, my future goals were shaped by that election.  It was the first time I had really been interested in something outside of my high school, my town, myself.  I would go into politics, I thought.  It was my calling.

Sure enough, I ended up majoring in Political Science at Penn State.  I worked at an internship in the House of Commons during my semester abroad in London and loved it.  I volunteered for campaigns.  And then, I landed the golden ticket - an internship in the Clinton White House. 

A Moment in Time

Hurricane Sandy graciously spared us from an electrical outage, but it still meant long days inside.  Which meant much more TV than usual.  Which meant we dug into DVDs we hadn't watched in ages.  Which somehow led to us watching our wedding video. 

Braden was the inspiration for it, really.  He has been obsessed with the concept of marriage as of late, frequently wrapping a sheet around himself and saying, "Look, Mommy, married!"  When asked who he wants to marry, he always says "Mommy," not willing to accept the fact that Mommy is already married to Daddy.  We thought maybe the wedding video would set him straight.

The year after our wedding we used to watch this video all the time, but by all counts it had been close to five years since we had seen it when we put it in the DVD player on Monday.  I didn't expect it to be emotional, it was all for play with Braden, you see.  But for some reason, I found myself choking back tears. 

It was one of those occasions where the passage of time smacked me across the face.