If you’d asked me in high school or college if I thought I’d still be living paycheck to paycheck at 34, I would have responded with a wide-eyed “I hope not!” And yet here I am, living paycheck to paycheck and hoping that no one comes along and pulls the rug out from under me or the roof from above me because Lord knows I can not afford a catastrophe right now.  I started thinking about all of this last night and I realized that I don’t like the feeling of not having money tucked away.  I don’t like knowing that if my car needs repairs, I can’t pay for them.  I don’t like feeling like a financial failure.

The thing is, I’ve never really learned how to save.  My parents are amazing and I love them, but they never really taught me the value of a dollar.  I’ve always worked, but I worked to buy silly, frivolous things… not to pay tuition or to save up for a car.  I had everything I ever really wanted handed to me, even if it wasn’t the exact version of my dreams.  I wasn’t handed a brand new BMW when I turned 16… but they did buy me a very old Ford Tempo.  I wasn’t given a trust fund, but my college tuition was fully paid for.

I just never learned what it means to SAVE.

So I’ve decided to do something about it, and I’m posting it here so that you can all help hold me accountable.  My goal? $30,000 in savings in six years.  30k by 40.  It’s a lofty goal.  Some of you will laugh and think “I have that much in my back pocket,” and some of you will laugh and think “No way, no how.” But I’m going to do it.  I want to teach J how to save.  I want to be the kind of parent who can afford to pay for braces if they are needed.  I want to feel like I’m financially okay… even if I’m not 100% secure, that I’m sort of… prepared.

So what it boils down to is this… I have to save about $500 a month to hit $30,000 by the time I’m 40.  This number may vary because of birthday money, Christmas money, and any bonuses I might get between now and six years from now.  I think it’s doable.

I think it’s going to suck.

I hate being broke.  I hate that I have to give up eating out and splurging on gifts for friends.  I hate that I have to avoid buying new clothes for myself or for J and that I have to live on such a tight budget that will allow for groceries and gasoline and very little else.  But I will hate it even more if I raise J to be the kind of man who is constantly worried about where the next dollar will come from.  I will hate even more if J is staring down at 40 and has nothing saved to show for it.

This is going to be a really hard thing to pull off.  But all I keep thinking is this… at the end of six years, I’ll be out of credit card debt, I’ll have a car that is paid off, and I’ll have $30,000 in savings. 

And I think that will make all of the “pain” worth it.

Most of you know that my brother is currently living with me until he can find a job in the crashing market known as the legal field; he was kind enough to go with me to the surgery center and wait with me through the two and a half hour delay and then again through the actual procedure and recovery.  And I appreciated him being there.

But as I sat there in the hospital bed, gowned and capped with those strange textured socks on my feet, I couldn’t help but think of how different things were this time last year.  I couldn’t help but remember that this time last year, my “someone” would not have left the room when I had to get dressed and undressed.  My “someone” would have been there to help me put on my pants… a job that the nurse kindly performed as I was thoroughly unable to do so.  Last year, my “someone” would have helped me into the house and brought me food and drink and sat with me while I cried about how bad it hurt and how I wished I could rewind time and not go through all of this.  Last year, my husband would have been my “someone.”

There are so many things that change when you get a divorce, so many strange and subtle things that you never actually expect to haunt you.  Only they do.  When forced to list your emergency contact on a piece of paper you suddenly draw a blank… you’re thirty-four years old and the closest thing you have to a “someone” is your mother who lives two states away.  And just like that, another dagger shoots into your heart and you wonder why this is happening to you; you wonder why this has happened to you.

I have gotten used to writing my mother as my emergency contact.  I have grown accustomed to checking “single” or “divorced” on medical documents.  I have even stopped feeling the urge to instantly explain that this status was not my choice, not my “fault.”  But sitting there in the surgery center and yelping when the IV was inserted into my arm… I realized I was still not accustomed to not having a “someone.”

On an every day basis, I am okay.  I go through the motions.  I work and cook and clean and parent to the best of my ability.  And I do a good job; I know that I am doing the best job I possibly can.  And on the ordinary days, I can pat myself on the back and know that things are getting better… that I am getting stronger.  But it is these extraordinary days when things fall apart.  These days when I wake up post-procedure and wonder whose arms I can cry in, whose arms will hold me up when I can’t stand, whose hands will be there to wipe away the tears.  It is these days when I am out of pain medication and barely functioning; these days when I show up to daycare in pajamas and slippers just praying not to see anyone else.  It is these days where I feel fragile and insignificant,  broken beyond repair; these days when I wish that just for a moment, just for a day… he could be here with me.  That somehow, he could sit here and hold my hand, tell me this will all go away… tell me he will be my someone again.

And then the clock chimes and I realize time has passed, time is passing,  and I am still here, still on my own, still breathing slowly but surely. 

And I wipe away my own tears, slide back into my slippers and slip out the door; off  to pick up my child and begin again.

There’s something about new babies… something about the smell and feel of a warm, tiny body cradled in your arms… especially after you’ve become a parent yourself.   Being in the presence of someone’s brand new best gift ever takes you back to when your best gift ever was brand new, and soft, and full of the promise of life and future.  Babies are a wonderful reminder of what is right and good and special about our world.

This morning, I sat on the sofa next to my baby… not so much baby as toddler… and thought about how different my life would be if he had never arrived.  I thought about where I would be, who I would be married to, and what I would be doing.

And to be honest? It made me laugh.

I thought about the person I was before I became the mother I am.  I thought about how she dressed and how she spoke.  I thought about who she wanted to be and what she wanted to become… and it just made me laugh.  That girl, that silly, vain girl, could have never imagined the beauty that comes with being a mother.  The girl I was believed that true beauty was on the outside…  she could have never guessed that true beauty lay in the warm depth of a burgeoning life.  That girl would never have appreciated the hundreds of curls tucked under her arm or the soft sweetness of hearing a voice you created tell you he loves you.

When I think back to what my life was like before J, I smile.  I smile and remember that nothing, no one, and no place is greater or more special to me than these things, this person, and this home that we are creating.  The girl I was could not have dreamed the woman I am.   She could not have closed her eyes and found me, not in a room of few or a world of many.   She could not have picked me from the crowd if I’d asked her to.

Because having a baby, creating a life… it changes you.  It changes you in all the best ways, moving your heart onto your sleeve, your dreams into curls, your love into form.  Having a child is knowing, without fail, that for the rest of your life you will never be whole… there will always be a part of you, a warm, sweet, smiling part of you… that is separate:  living his life, his dreams, his world. 

The girl I was  could not have appreciated today, could not have wrapped her head around the thought that going to see a brand new baby would be anything more than an fun side trip on the road to somewhere else. 

She could not have known, as I do now, that life begins and ends and does its living all in the moment that a brand new baby is placed in your arms.

A week when, by Thursday, you’ve become a walking zombie who is going through the motions until Saturday gets here?

This is one of those weeks for me.

On Monday, I ended up in a three hour meeting with a client and a calculator and I do NOT do math.  On Tuesday, I went to get on the elevator and managed to drop my ginormous ring of keys directly down into the small space between the floor and the elevator… and all the way down the elevator shaft.  On Wednesday, I went to get blood drawn for my pre-op and actually ended up sobbing over a small needle in my arm like the pansy I am.

And the kicker came on Wednesday afternoon, when I got a phone call from an opposing counsel.  I was sick at the end of last week and missed a day and a half of work, which just makes paper multiply on my desk.  I did try to stay on top of all my emails but I was … sick.  And on top of feeling bad in my sinuses, I’m still taking pain pills for the horrible sting of my back.  So I get this call yesterday from an opposing counsel about a consent order he sent me earlier this week or last.

I’d shot him an email yesterday morning about the consent order because we were arguing about two thousand dollars.  I was insistent on $9,500, he was insistent on $7,500.  The last email I had from him said he was going to have his assistant send me the consent order for $7,500 and he hoped I would agree.  So while he’d sent me the consent order, I didn’t read it… I just shot back an email saying we couldn’t agree to the $7,500 but that I’d agree to $8,500.

Cue the phone call.

It seems that, although he TOLD me the consent order would be for $7,500, he actually sent a consent order for $9,500.  The full amount I wanted.  But I didn’t know… BECAUSE I DIDN”T READ THE CONSENT ORDER.

I’ve never wanted to shoot myself in the face so much in my life.  Ultimately, we agreed to do the consent order for $9,000 in light of the miscommunication… so I basically threw away $500.

I am not that kind of lawyer.  I don’t make those kinds of mistakes. 

But this week has been just that kind of week.  I’m embarrassed and exhausted and can’t wait for it to be over.   I’m overworked at work and at home.  I need a break from both, a week to regain my sanity and my competency.  Because I can’t keep making silly mistakes like the ones I’ve made this week.

Have you ever had these kind of weeks?

Tell me I’m not alone.

She was gorgeous.

Her car was gorgeous.

And I imagined that, yes, her life was pretty gorgeous as well.

When I first got pregnant with J, I was determined that I would be, well, let’s just put it out there… a MILF.  I wanted to lose the babyweight and wear the right clothes and be the opposite of the frumpy soccer mom image that most of us have of what a “real mom” looks like.  I wanted to be stylish.  I wanted to be sexy.  I wanted to be that woman in the Lexus behind me. 

I tore my eyes away from her and scanned my own car; broken cds in the floorboard, a teddy bear left over from show and tell two weeks ago in the backseat; coupons scattered from a failed grocery store trip, yesterday’s coffee mug in the cup holder.  My car was dirty. 

I looked down at myself: hem line torn from my left pants leg where I got it caught on the heel of my shoe several weeks ago and never fixed it; a faded Kool-aid stain on my white shirt from months earlier; and the tell-tale pulled back hair that signals “I overslept and didn’t shower this morning, sorry.”

I watched her order her coffee, imagining that she was ordering something perfectly perfect and totally non-fat with only the barest hint of sugar.  She smiled as she ordered, clearly pleased with her life, her face, her car and her coffee.

I wanted to throw my car in reverse and total the Lexus.  I wanted her life.  She was who I thought I’d be: stylish, calm, perfectly perfect in every way.  

But as I watched her in my rearview mirror, something else caught my eye.  It was just the barest tip, just the slightest rounding of gray in the right hand corner, but it caught my eye.  I followed the curve down and around the carseat, safely strapped into my car.  And suddenly, I saw my life very differently.

I could spend my time focusing on her, on that woman in the rearview mirror… on that woman I would never be; or I could spend my time focusing on this… this perfect little symbol of why my life was different.  Maybe I could have a cleaner car and a better dressed me if I spent less time and money on him.  Maybe I could drop him off at daycare an hour earlier to go to the gym and pick him up an hour later to get my nails done.  Maybe I could spend his “book and toy money” on fancier clothes or a new car… but that wouldn’t be very me. 

If I have to look in the rearview mirror at the lives I’ve left behind, I’d like to always have that reminder that I had today: the reminder that whispers “You are the you that you were born to be;” that sings “This is you.  This is right.  This is your perfect.”  Because all too often I spend time wishing I were more like that woman in her Lexus and less like the woman I am…. less like the mother I am. 

And I’m a damn good mother. 

I may not be a MILF.  I may not have the perfect car or perfect life for anyone else.

But I have the perfect life for me. 

So I turned my attention to the drive ahead of me, nodding in time to the music on my iPod and tapping my not-so-well dressed foot against the floorboard of my not-so-well cleaned car. 

This is me. 

And I need to be living the life ahead; not wishing for the life behind.

Today, I’m chatting up being a working mom to a chronically ill child.  And how awesome it is. (Ha. Ha. Ha.)

Happy Valentine’s Day!

It’s a terrifying world of juice spilled over the top of sippy cups, toothpaste squirted on everything but the brush, and crazy non-matching clothes. No matter what it is, my son is convinced he can do it by himself.

He wants to put the DVD in the player.  He wants to turn on the television.  He wants to run the bath water.  He wants to cook dinner on the BIG stove. 

He wants to drive my freaking car. 

Seriously. Every morning we have the conversation that no, he’s not quite big enough to drive the car yet and every afternoon he climbs out of his carseat and into the front seat of the car and pretends to drive.  It’s like my life is flashing forward 14 years AND I DO NOT LIKE IT.

I know I’m supposed to encourage independence.  I know I’m supposed to smile and nod and let him open his own cereal bar and climb stairs without holding my hand.  But people… he’s two.  He’s two going on too old to need my help.  I watch him doing these things and I remember when he was swaddled up in my arms and needed my help to raise his head or burp or even eat.  I remember when I had to carry him in and out of bed; I remember when I had to wipe his face and hands after every meal.  I remember when he needed me for everything.

And now he bounds out of bed by himself, carrying his books and toys from one room to another.  He puts on his own shoes and brushes his own teeth.  He knows how to work the freaking DVD player… when did all of that happen?

My baby is growing up, y’all… in mis-matched clothes, with semi-brushed teeth.

He’s growing up.

She looked at me, rather confused, and informed me that my son almost never hits and when he does, it’s in response to someone who hits him. 

“The only problem we have with J,” she told me with a smile, “is that… well… he argues with us all the time.”

::cue sheepish grin:: I have no idea where he gets that from.

But back to the point… my son has entered the age of “storytelling.”  I hesitate to call it straight up lying because he’s two… but you know what I mean. 

Case in point: This morning we snuggled together on the sofa and watched Little Einsteins before school.  The morning was completely without incident; we had cereal bars and juice/coffee, and snuggled and then we were out the door.  On the way to school, he was very quiet.  Finally, as we pulled into the daycare parking lot, I asked him what was wrong.

“I sad.” He said, not looking at me.

“What made you sad?” (All questions must be formed into “what” questions and not “why” questions because he doesn’t quite understand “why” just yet.)

“Mommy.”

??? 

“What did mommy do that made you sad?”

“You put me in time out this morning and I cried.”

?????????????????????????????????????

Nope.  Sorry.  None of that happened.  There were no tears.  There was no time out.  There was nothing sad in our morning.  It’s kind of funny…

And kind of not.

Because ultimately, it lead me to think about bigger and scarier things… how do you teach your kid how to tell the truth?  How do you encourage his creativity in making stories and exploring imagination while still instilling an understanding of “this is what really happened?”  It’s no big deal if he tells his teacher that mommy put him in time out, even if it’s not true.  But what happens when he decides to tell someone that mommy hits him? Or that daddy hurts him? Or that anyone does anything that they shouldn’t and didn’t do?

He’s only two.  He’s creative and I love that.  And I want to raise a son who tells stories in all the best ways.

But I also want to raise a son who knows the truth and stands by it.  And at two, I’m not sure how to start that conversation.

Weeks where you just wonder what the hell is the point.

Normally, on weeks like this, I try to remind myself that J is the point, that I work and get out of bed every morning because of him.  But it’s hard to remember that when your legs are heavy and your head is aching and you feel the weight of the world pressing down on you until you just want to scream or break something… a bone, a heart, a precious picture… just to remember what it’s like to feel something other than, well, nothing.

I struggle with depression.

It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me or to anyone who has read this blog for any significant period of time. 

I struggle with it.  I fight it off morning after morning.  I pop little blue pills to tell it to clear out and leave room for being happy and joyous and… me.  I go round after round, being pounded into a corner one moment and landing a strong right hook the next.   This is a week when I am losing.  This is a week where I find myself bruised and beaten, using the ropes of this arena just to hold myself steady… just to hold myself together.

It is a hard fight… especially on weeks like this.  Especially when I’m the only person who can answer the questions, calm the fears, cheer the sadness.  Especially when my son needs his mommy to be, well, Mommy… and not to sit quietly by.

Fighting depression is hard. Especially when there are children watching… especially when there is anyone watching.  

But if I’ve discovered anything in my life it is this:   Fighting depression alone is even harder.