Moving On and Up--In Style

No longer behind bars.

Today is my wife's last day at one of the best law firms in the world. She's been practicing her profession at its top, with and among its very best, for nine years. She made her way well despite the atmosphere of the place, which, like that of nearly all law firms, tends to select against women, minorities, and (perhaps most of all) mothers.

Being all three has been hard. She would take the kids in the morning after I head off to the train and to my students, and I take them from the babysitter when I return just before dinner. Each night she'd call after Q and The Boy had polished off noodles or strips of tortillas, and give a status report. Some nights she'd be on her way out the door, but just as many times I'd be putting them--and myself--to bed before she crept in. Work came on Friday afternoons and flooded the weekends; it pulled her out of town to Texas and to Idaho and to North Carolina. They put a lock on her office door for privacy when she pumped milk for both her children; they took it away the moment she retired the pump. They pitted her against her male coevals who either had no families or were free enough from them to always work--anytime and for any amount of time.

After all this, and she's changed so little. Wiser no doubt, a little more cynical about the law perhaps. And tired. Otherwise, though, she has survived with little scarring.

The time has come to leave on her own terms. After a week off, she'll begin showing up to a new, bigger office at a luxury clothing company that you've probably heard of.

I haven't written that much about her as such since I've started this little distraction. The kids are always doing remarkable things, which makes them easy to remark upon. And becoming often makes for a better story than simply being. Our lives often seem like the scenery in which their lives unfold.

This is her becoming. Congratulations, love.

Pictures from the past

My wife encouraged me to post all the graphics that have appeared at the top of the blog. You can find them here in the order that they appeared on the site. (Nearly all the pictures used for them--or anywhere else on the blog--were taken by her, by the way.)

I've also put a permanent link to the headers page on the side bar to the left.

Hope that you're keeping cool today.

Where's Q (and how much does she weigh)?

We always knew that Q would be a star.

(Okay. Bad joke. But irresistible.)

Q went for her 15-month checkup this past week. As expected, she's a little on the thin side (at least as far as the standard graph goes). She came in at 20 1/4 lbs., gaining roughly two pounds in three months. That still has her, as my wife says, "rocking the 12th percentile." Height wise she's up to 30 inches or around the 50th percentile. The numbers don't in any way bother our doctor. After small starts, the 12th percentile sounds solid.

And there's no denying that she's healthy. The examination room couldn't hold her; she kept wanting to go for a walk up and down the hall, smiling at nurses (including the one who would eventually make her cry from two shots), peeking into other rooms at other kids. She's as irresistible as she is irrepressible. She's so much more confident than she was at her last visit just three months ago. How much more confident can this girl get?

That's our Big Stuff, as we like to call her.

...

Yes, today is my birthday. And, yes, I'm old.

I even managed to do something to my back; forget about feeling young.

Ah well. At least I get cake and lots of hugs.

"Mom" gets older

My unbridledly lovely wife has a birthday today. Happy birthday, my love.

For nine sweet days, she and I are the same age. Though I’ve not been as vigilant this year in reminding her of this fact as in the past, The Boy has taken up the slack. Our son, himself just out of a birthday (his third--and more about that later), decided for some reason to switch from calling her “mama” to “mom.” After two kids and nine years at a demanding job, she's still beautiful, tough, and tender, but The Boy has managed to find the most effective way to make her feel older: "Watch this, mom"; "Can I have something to drink please, mom?" He might as well have just come home from a junior-high sleepover.

(Note: Though he also drifts between “daddy” and “dad,” he hasn’t committed yet. My guess is because he hasn't yet figured out how to whine with one syllable.)

Still, when my wife comes through the door each evening, when Q and The Boy are burning through their last bits of energy for the day, they drop their blocks and trucks and balloons and books to free their arms to hold her. And The Boy always says through a huge smile, "mama!" Not bad at all.

Now let’s have some cake.