Another Thursday Night . . .

9:01 pm

Sam should be in bed. 'Nuf said . . . it's a school night and he's all of six years old.

But instead . . .Sam is playing on the NASA Kids website. I'm simultaneously reading and laughing out loud at "Bright Lights, Big Ass" by Jen Lancaster on my Crackindle (seriously, the ability to download virtually any book at the touch of a 3G powered button is dangerous. As in sorry kids, mom spent your college funds on Amazon.com dangerous) while playing "Words with Friends" (aka, fake Scrabble) on my Apple CrackPod Touch with Jud and Max. Jud's in the family room watching something on Comedy Central only a 15 year old boy would like. Max is watching football with Terry in our bedroom. But that's the beauty/bane of WiFi . . . we can still play together on our separate iTouches. No one said "the family that plays together, stays together" meant we all had to be in the same room did they? (okay, so maybe it was "prays" together . . . but that's for another day).

The din of the dishwasher, the washer, and the dryer . . .I'm just so happy the kitchen is clean by 9:01, I don't even care Sam's not in bed . . . (ask me about that again at 7:00 am tomorrow morning). And it's the NASA website for crying out loud . . . self-induced educational learning should warrant a later bedtime shouldn't it? (repeat: ask me again at 7:00 am tomorrow morning).

9:05 - Peel myself off of Crackindle and CrackPod . . . I've already made my moves on Words with Friends anyway . . . now I have to wait for Jud and Max to play . . . Inform Sam it's time to crawl in bed. 9:05 isn't awesome, but it will do.

9:07 - I hear Sam pitterpatter into our room and say to Terry: "Can I watch TV with you" and hear Terry mindlessly respond (since he's so engrossed in a football game between two teams he has no allegiance to where one team is ahead by 26 points in the first half . . . yawn . . .) "sure."

"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" But too late, the damage has been done . . .

9:26: Sam's still watching football . . . I have relieved myself from bedtime duties since Terry granted the TV watching wish. . . and have a note to myself to call Terry at work at 7:30 tomorrow morning when Sam STILL won't get out of bed . . . and at 7:45 when Sam is screaming that he's too tired and he's not going to school . . .and at 8:00 am when Sam is STILL eating breakfast when we should be walking out the door . . .

9:36: Sam's finally in bed and I hear Terry singing Alan Jackson/Jimmy Buffett's "5 o'clock Somewhere" as his bedtime song . . . Why "pour me something tall and strong . . ." is a lullably song to Sam is beyond me (of course, this is the kid who would only go to sleep when he was an infant if Terry sang "Land Slide" or "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" to him . . .)

9:39: All's quiet in the Richardson home . . .

Just another Thursday night . . . Goodnight John Boy . . . Goodnight Daddy . . . Goodnight Mama . . . . Mama? Mama? Shh . . . Mama's gotta make a six-letter word fit on Words with Friends before she goes to sleep!

Blanketing Life

What in your home is a snapshot of your life? Is it photo albums and scrapbooks? Pictures on the wall? Pieces of furniture? I recently had the revelation that much of the story of my life - at least the last twenty years of it - can be told by the blankets in our house.



I was washing a few loads of blankets today. A sleepover with ten fourteen year olds - who travel lightly with no change of clothes or sleeping bags - caused me to pull out a few stacks of blankets. They were sleeping in the basement, which is quite chilly at night. They may be too cool for sleeping bags, but I was not about to be responsible for them freezing for hours on end.



So as I washed all of these blankets, post-sleepover (after all, it was a group of fourteen year olds, almost all of whom had come to our house following two hours of basketball practice), I realized the story they tell.



There are the TCU blankets - some well-worn from my years in college, some acquired during trips as an alum. All purple and sporting a Horned Frog. A reminder of the great times I had and that the person I am today is in large part because of my years in college.



And the Lowes Island blankets. Navy blue and forest green. Relatively simple in appearance and size. Except for the Lowes Island club logo in the corner. A reminder not only of our time in Virginia, but also a measure of how far we had come. My husband was an Evans Scholar, the scholarship for golf caddies, memorialized in comedy in the movie "Caddy Shack." The scholarship that provided the financial means for Terry to go to college and set a path for his future. Most Evans Scholars caddy at private clubs; it is a source of pride for a former Scholar to one day join a golf club and support another generation of caddies. Lowes Island was the first club we joined and where we spent much time playing golf, swimming with the kids and meeting new friends. We're still non-resident members and I'm not sure we will ever give it up. Terry was very proud the day we joined.

Then there is the Great Falls blanket; a picture blanket of sorts. It has scenes of the Colvin Run Mill just a few blocks from our house in Great Falls, and Thelma's - the wonderful ice cream store that also sold a little bit of everything (including the Great Falls blanket). That blanket brings tears to my eyes. It reminds me of our wonderful years in Virginia, and will forever make me wonder why we ever left. It was a few years before I let anyone use the blanket; I wanted it to stay pristine forever. But then I realized that we needed to make it part of the fabric of our life, to snuggle up with the memories.

And some of the most recent additions to our collection - the blankets, much like the Great Falls blanket, from the 50th Anniversary of Infant Jesus of Prague church, our newest faith home in Chicago. Those blankets have joined us at football games filled with spirit (and perhaps The Spirit) and nights at home watching television together. They represent who we are now, where we have made our home.

Blankets have wrapped themselves around me in times of joy and sorrow, comfort and pain. They have warmed me, surrounded me with memories of the past, and are present as we create the stories we will tell tomorrow. The stories of our life.

Commuting Solitude

There is something to be said for the solitude that comes with driving to work. It's a solitude that I find myself craving from time to time. Or every day.

My commutes have always been at least thirty minutes, and often closer to an hour. Most people hate that kind of commute. I suppose I did not know any different for quite a while.

I never envied those who had a quick walk or bus ride to work. In fact, I always felt bad for them for living so close to the office. There was never any excuse to not make it to work! And never any reason to not stay late, since you could be home in just a matter of minutes.

Oh, mind you, I never drove to work in silence. I had my morning show I faithfully listened to, and my afternoon show I listened to. Sometimes I cranked the radio. Sometimes I played cds. But more often than not, I listened to my radio "friends." By myself.

I could laugh or cry or groan after hearing a bad joke. I never had to break up a fight or worry that what I was listening to was inappropriate for my other passengers. I did not have to speak to anyone. I rarely was on my cell phone, save for a call home to say I was indeed on my way home. I could have a snack or a beverage without sharing. It was me time.

I have not yet found a way to replicate that me time since I have stopped working. Car time was
just that, car time. I could not really do anything else other than drive and listen. Now, even when the kids are all at school, and I have the house to myself, I still do not have that complete me time. For when I am at home, alone, laundry beckons, dirty dishes stare me in the face, clutter eyeballs me. There is always something to do.

I don't miss the stress, the frustrated clients, the never really being able to leave work at the office. But I miss my car time.

When a stranger calls . . .

It happened again. The random phone call out of the blue that sends my head spinning and my heart wrenching. I know I should expect the calls since my contact information is listed, as I am required to do. What pray tell does this to me every few months? A simple phone call from someone looking for a patent, copyright and trademark lawyer; looking for someone to help them with an invention, a story, a logo for their company. As a registered patent lawyer, my registration and contact information is listed on the United States Patent and Trademark website. Not surprisingly, people call.



I generally speak with them for a few minutes. Explain that I am, for the most part, retired. I give them the name of an attorney friend at a big firm downtown who can either help them or direct them to another lawyer. I usually answer a few questions about patents or copyrights, but cannot give them advice without them formally retaining me as their attorney.



So why emotional roller coaster? Because every time I take one of these calls, I second guess my choice to be mostly retired. I enjoy the projects that arise every now and then from past clients and my former firm, but I've made the decision to no longer practice full time. It would be quite a commute into the city, my better half travels most of the time and the boys were developing an aversion to nannies, so it was my time to put my career on the back burner while Terry's takes off.



But the rush that I get when I talk to an inventor about their project - the adult conversation, the confidence I feel at discussing something that dominated my life for over fifteen years. In my selfish mind, I am sure I am a much better patent attorney than I am stay-at-home mom. Weren't my boys better off when I was working? Wasn't I a better person when I worked full time?



Maybe I should touch up my resume. Maybe I need to look into getting another au pair. Maybe I should hang my own shingle in my neighborhood. Maybe I should brush up on the most recent changes in the laws and regulations. Wouldn't that paycheck be so wonderful so we could again have new cars, and more vacations? And oh how I would love to go shopping for all of those darling work clothes and snazzy shoes.



But, alas, I take a deep breath, count to ten and give myself a reality check. Not right now. It really is okay to stay home with the boys. They love having mom around. They love not having a nanny. They love that I cook them dinner and take them to practices and help them with their homework. They love that if they need to talk to me, I'm in the next room - not a phone call away. I love not having work issues hover over my head all day and all night. Legal issues never take a break, nor do the lawyers who deal with them. I love not having to clear my calendar to attend a school function.



I was a great person and a great mom when I worked full time. And I was a darn good lawyer . . . still am. But I am also a great person and a great mom staying home with the boys for now. Both paths were and are right. And it is okay when that phone rings to want to put my lawyer hat back on and remember when . . . and okay that when I hang up from that call, I can set lawyering aside and be just as proud to be mom.

In defense of video games

I have to confess: our kids received a Wii, an Xbox 360 and a Leapster this year for Christmas. I know, we're crazy, but there was a method to the madness. To be fair, we did try to get the three of them to decide that one system would fit all (to no avail). I fretted over the decision to buy all of these electronics. Let's face it, while we are bombarded with technology ever minute of every day, we're equally bombarded with reports that our children are not creative enough, spend too much time on tv, have too many material things and can no longer entertain themselves. Perhaps I should say mea culpa for being a less than steller parent.

When I worked full time, I know I gave into extravagent requests for gifts because I felt guilty about spending so much time away from my kids. But now that I am home, shouldn't I be so happy to spend time crafting, coloring, reading, baking cookies and playing make believe - all of those things I thought I was missing when I worked a million hours a week? Well, sure . . .

But I have one child whose hand-eye coordination has never been strong. Years of occupational therapy helped a bit, but those therapy-style games are no longer cool when you are thirteen. I have another who needs to keep moving all of the time - kind of hard to do inside for the protracted Chicago winter. And I have a four year old who needs be distracted from bugging his big brothers and their friends and occupied while he tags along to myriad events for which he is merely a spectator.

So we purchased an Xbox 360 so that our 13 year old can further develop his hand-eye coordination, but still look "cool." The complexity of the games requires quick thinking and equally quick finger moves. Repeat to self: the studies have shown that our best surgeons were devout gamers.

And we purchased a Wii for the physical activity it provides. No sedentary games for this family - Wii Sports and Outdoor Challenge have us jumping and running and testing our balance (watching mom and dad try to lift the correct leg to move left or right is quite entertaining for the boys - CAUTION- no video cameras allowed. I refuse to end up on YouTube!).

And we purchased a Leapster for the little guy. He's a trooper, getting dragged along to his older brothers games, tagging along in the car. Oh sure, I bring a bag of crayons or cars or Legos most of the time. But, honestly, I'm tired of crawling around gym floors or grassy fields looking for that lost Lego guy or the blue crayon, with the zeal of someone looking for a missing diamond. At least the Leapster is a fairly good size - kind of hard to loose at the football game. Not to mention the bonus of being educational. He's practicing numbers and letters and having fun.

So call me crazy and excessive. Tell me I spoil my kids. Tell me they would be much better off without all of that technology. I won't listen to any of it. Like I said, to me, there was a perfectly logical, practical, method to my madness. So if you are thinking of buying one, two, three or even four new electronic toys for your kids, come see me. I'll be behind you all the way!

Notes to Realtors

I suppose I should say that I understand that it is your job to tell me what is wrong with my house, but to the Kansas City/Leawood/South Johnson County realty profession, I have this to say:

1. I don't care if you don't like the colors in the house. Tell your client to make an offer that would include repainting whatever room(s) they don't like.

2. If you must leave a comment and your client doesn't like the house, just say they don't like it. Period. I'd rather hear that than some excuse.

3. Be careful about comments that will likely personally offend us. We've lived in this house, raised kids in the house, and it has been our home. Remember that.

4. Don't comment on the tidiness of the house. You'll called an hour before and wanted to see the house. Rightfully, we could have said no - but you may have the person who falls in love with our house, and we are not going to pass that by. With a housefull of boys, we did our best - but you may have caught us at a weak moment.

Is my disdain too obvious?

Welcome to Chi-Town

Ten . . . hours without power

Nine . . . phone calls to plumbers at one a.m. (no one called back)

Eight . . . inches of rain that fell in Chicagoland

Seven . . .days and counting and still no visit from the insurance adjuster

Six . . . days before the Disaster Services crew arrived to pump out water and attempt to dry out the basement

Five . . . inches of standing water in our newly finished basement (carpet laid the day before the storms!)

Four . . . hours of sleep we got the night of the storms

Three . . .tornado warnings that sent us to the basement (before it flooded)

Two . . . new hot water heaters

And a heavy duty new sump pump, with battery back up

Welcome to Chicago . . .