Chasing Superwoman (14 page)

Then, when I pretend like I don't hear Him, He shows me other people in my life who are hurting. Often they are mothers, and when I look at their journeys it reminds me to “be content with what you have.”
1
I don't know why I can't see this myself—why I can't be not only content but completely thankful for everyone and everything in my life—but sometimes it helps to put myself in someone else's shoes.

A Matter of Perspective

God uses Big-Hearted Betty, the first woman who ever watched my children, on a regular basis to show me just how much I have to be thankful for. She always tells me to enjoy these times and appreciate life while my kids are young. She should know. Her world as a single mother changed when her middle son, Mike, was seventeen. She blames herself for letting him go out one night with a group of friends and always says, “If only I would have stopped him.” Mike never reached his eighteenth birthday because of a fatal car accident, and Betty has never gotten over the heartache. As any mother would, she always asks God why He let this happen. She was even at a prayer meeting the night before his death. Yet she doesn't blame God; she still blames herself.

Shortly after Betty's oldest boy, Terry, turned forty, his cancer set in. Terry died shortly after his forty-first birthday, and since his death Betty's ache is too deep to even talk about. How many mothers have lost two of their three sons to untimely deaths? The stress has nearly killed her, and had she not fought so hard to live she would have died of a broken heart. It's really too much heartache for one woman to bear. But Betty still continues to fight, and she loves little children more than anything because they remind her of better days.

So when Big-Hearted Betty gives me advice, I try to listen. She always says to me, “Susan, these are the best years of your life. I'd do anything to have my kids back again.”

When I look at my kids, I'm just thankful to have them and hold them. I forget about my parking garage, rude drivers, and the MECH. I even forget about how much I have to do at work, or my need to save more for retirement. And when I start to have a pity party, I'm reminded of Big-Hearted Betty.

On Mother's Day, the kids woke me up and gave me cards and homemade presents in bed. It was better than Christmas morning. Nick and Anna had made me a scrapbook of baby pictures and family photos, which Nick had titled
The Book of Memories.
I barely noticed that the glue was so thick that the pictures were lumpy and wet. And I didn't care that they had used all the rejects that didn't make it into the family album. It was the nicest gift I had ever received.

Then I thought about Big-Hearted Betty. Would anyone take the time to make her feel special on Mother's Day? Her sons would be looking down from heaven and smiling, but I still had to call her. But when? After presents and breakfast we were off to church. Then lunch. Five loads of laundry. Housecleaning for guests. I started to get emails from work around midday. (Who in her right mind works on Mother's Day?) I ignored the emails through dinner but then returned a few messages. More cleanup and playtime. I had to get the kids in bed early for school. Baths. Stories. Prayers. I looked at my watch. I had forgotten to call Big-Hearted Betty. Better late than never, I gave her a call after the kids went to bed. She picked up the phone and started to cry. She had spent the day alone. No phone calls. No cards. No scrapbooks.

After I hung up the phone, I shed a few tears and thanked God again for using Big-Hearted Betty to show me how much I really have. Like the apostle Paul, Big-Hearted Betty knows what it's like to live in plenty and to have need.

My children also help me put things in perspective on a regular basis. Like Anna. Anna is the most content child I know. It doesn't take much to make her happy. A blank sheet of paper and markers. Time alone in her room. Listening to music. Going to the park. Mommy picking her up from school. Playing beauty shop, and doing Mom's hair. She rarely asks for more, and she'd rather spend time than money. Last year at Disney World, I took her to all the shows and paid to have her dressed up like a princess. By the second day, she was tired and ready to go back to the hotel. So instead of dragging her to more shows, rides, and long lines, we went back to the hotel and lay down. She turned all the lights off, put on her own show with flashlights, and then we went swimming. It was one of the best days we had together in a long time.

When we got home, everyone asked her about Disney.
What was your favorite part? Did you get to see all the princesses?
Anna announced to everyone that her favorite part of the trip was—you guessed it—“swimming at the hotel with Mom.” In other words, we could have rented a hotel down the street with a swimming pool and spent the day together. Some lessons come with a heavy price tag.

I'm sure when Anna is sixteen, she's going to have a list of demands and I'm going to look back and remember the trip to Disney. When she says, “Mom, I really want my own car,” I'm going to respond, “Anna, I can remember the days when you were happy just staying home and playing beauty shop.” Then I'm going to remind her about the trip to Disney, and how she was more content spending time than money.

I'm sure her life won't always be this simple, but I pray that she would always have her spirit of contentment. Just watching her reminds me how far I have to go.

Maybe you have a child in your life like Anna, who reminds you to be thankful for the little things, like spending time together. Or maybe you have a friend like Big-Hearted Betty, a friend who has had a journey much harder than yours who helps put your own life in perspective. For whatever reason, many of us working mothers think that nobody has it quite as hard as we do and sometimes we forget to be content, no matter the circumstances.

THIRTEEN

Who Has Time to Be Superwoman?

But do not forget one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.

2 Peter 3:8

What would I do if I had an entire day off? I mean totally off: no work, no activities, no cooking, no laundry, no carpool, no shopping, no gatherings, no errands. What would it really be like to have nothing, absolutely nothing, to do? I can't even let myself go there.

For now, my days “off” are reserved for my family. Have I mentioned that I have no social life? I used to make plans on nights and weekends and stay out late. I would write letters to old friends, make new friends, and organize gatherings with zeal. I was raised with a clan of sisters, after all. The more the merrier.

So why have I become antisocial? I'm incredibly stingy with my time. These days, I'm grumpy if my nights and weekends are packed with too much to do. My ideal weekend? Stay at home and do nothing.

The reason? I've simply run out of time.

Everything is a cost-benefit analysis. If I exercise, I can't eat lunch. If I eat lunch, I have to work late. If I write, I give up sleep. If I take Abby to her doctor's appointment, I have to work late tomorrow. If I go to Bible study, I give up time with Doug at night. If I take a day off work, I always have to make up billable hours.

Everyone seems to want my time, including me.

Me and My Laptop

I really want a pedicure. And I never have time to get my hair colored. By the time I drive to the salon, wait in line, get my hair cut and colored, and drive home, it's a minimum investment of three hours. Who has three hours to spare? Not me. Which is why I wait until the last possible moment to get color. My roots are completely gray (not entirely a bad thing when you're a trial lawyer). But sooner or later, I have to break down. I'm too vain. One of the great things about being the youngest sister is that everyone gets old before me. When I was little, I always wanted to be the oldest. But now that I'm older, I realize there are certain advantages to being younger. Like being the last one to get wrinkles. And, no, I'm not planning to show my gray any time soon.

So I squeeze a few hours out of my workday for the salon and put a meeting on my calendar that says, “Meeting at HS re: H&B.” It sounds important. Translation? “Meeting at Hair Salon regarding Hair and Brows.” I'm not about to tell my clients I can't make a meeting because I have to get my brows waxed.

Without exception, I'm the only person who brings a laptop into the salon. Most of the other women are reading
Cosmo
or a trashy novel. I get a few stares and I wonder, am I the only one here who is pressed for time? Apparently so. I try to plan it so that my conference calls fall during the forty-five-minute break where my color soaks in, otherwise the stylist is beyond annoyed when I'm on the phone while she's trying to color my hair. The other problem is that the goopy chemical solution always cakes around my ears and leaves a stain on my phone. Otherwise, the salon is a perfect place for a conference call. It's relatively quiet, no one bothers me, and it relieves my anxiety to know that I am not wasting time after all. At least I can bill for it.

If I'm running ahead of schedule, I'll take the time and get my brows waxed. After all, I'm already there and I can kill two birds with one stone. I absolutely hate tweezing my eyebrows. It's right behind ironing and washing windows. But I figured out that it's not really worth my time to go to the salon just for my brows when they will just grow back in a few weeks. Every time I get them waxed, I get the same guilt trip: “You really should come in every three weeks, especially with your Mediterranean condition.” Instead, I'm patiently waiting for the unibrow to become high fashion. But I can spare the extra fifteen minutes when I'm already at the salon, and it's really nice when my brows aren't connected—at least for a few weeks.

One of my friends has the same problem with her brows. Her secret? She tweezes them in the car and claims she'll never go back. Not only does it save her time, but her brows look better because the outdoor lighting is far superior. So I put my tweezers in my purse and thought about giving it a try. The only problem? I'm already too busy in the car.

Another thing I don't have time for? Talking on the phone. I used to think Doug was rude because he never answers our home phone. These days, I have to agree. Lady Lawyer is already strapped to her phone all day. Who has time for personal calls? Email may be impersonal, but it is easier, faster, and—most importantly—done according to
my
schedule. This is one of the reasons I'm addicted to Facebook. It actually saves me time. In a matter of thirty seconds, my news feed tells me who's had a bad day, who's changing jobs, and who's coming into town this weekend. I don't have to talk to anyone, and I don't have to answer messages unless I want to. And no one thinks I'm ignoring them, because I can post about how busy I am with the kids or what I'm doing at work, and I'm actually saving my friends time because they don't have to call me either to know the intimate details of my life. They can just read about it like everyone else.

Okay, Facebook may be a little impersonal, and I know you can't have real relationships solely over the Internet. But there's something to say for the convenience and efficiency of mass communication, especially for a working mother. And while I know I probably waste time on Facebook, being able to respond to messages or read updates when it's convenient for me—like when everyone else is sleeping—makes me feel like I have greater control over my time, even though I probably don't. Unfortunately, some of my friends will never join Facebook, and they always call at the worst time.

As much as I love Big-Hearted Betty, she always calls in the evenings when I'm trying to put the kids to bed or on Saturday mornings when the family has already been apart all week and we just need some down time together. I can't hang up on her—we're the closest thing to family she has. She's lonely, and she just wants to talk. She can carry a conversation by herself—it's not like it takes much effort on my part—I just have to listen. But even listening takes time, so after I listen to her for a few minutes I usually interrupt her in midsentence and find my exit.

After I get off the phone with Big-Hearted Betty, Encouraging Amy calls. I don't answer. No, I haven't yet been able to convince her (or any of my sisters) to join Facebook. We can't have a superficial conversation, so it's a minimum of twenty minutes every time we talk. And I don't have twenty minutes. I really want to talk to her too. I need to hear her encouraging voice, and I want to hear about her kindergarten class, Kaitlyn's cheerleading camp, and the struggles and excitement of starting to plan for her first child to enter college. Instead, I ignore the call. I can email her later.

I don't even have time to call my own mother on a Saturday morning. Last year, I sent her birthday card a week late. I still feel terrible about it. I had every intention of getting it in the mail sooner, but I was traveling the week before, and when the weekend rolled around I completely lost track of time. I would send her one of those automatic email cards, but she's not even on the Internet, let alone Facebook.

Who has time to keep up with all the birthday cards anyway? I keep up as best I can. Kids come first, followed by parents and sisters. Forget friends and acquaintances. Brothers-in-law fell off the list about ten years ago. Doug doesn't really care about birthday cards, but the kids and I still try to remember to do something special every time his birthday rolls around.

Being a Multitaskaholic

When Doug turned forty, I knew I couldn't wait until the last minute to pull his gift together, and I wanted him to be surprised. I thought long and hard about what I could give him. The only thing he really wanted was a flat-screen TV for our bedroom. The thought of it made me shudder. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I had to come up with something that wouldn't keep me up at night or drive me absolutely crazy. So I came up with the best gift I could think of. Time. Doug loves nothing more than my time. I planned an elaborate trip that would be a complete surprise.

The plan? His mother and sister would arrive after dinner on Thursday evening for cake and ice cream. I'd invite a few of his friends to stop by, then I would spring on him that we were leaving in the morning for a three-day trip to an oceanfront resort. He hates surprises. But this was different. What could go wrong?

Lady Lawyer planned the trip from my office. My first mistake. Come to think of it, I think I planned the trip while I was on a conference call. Second mistake. I'm what they call a multitaskaholic.

Doug opened all of his gifts, and my gift was last. When he opened our plane tickets, he looked at the date and time. You guessed it, I had booked the wrong flights. Nonrefundable and nontransferable tickets. He really wasn't very excited once we figured out the fee to rebook the flights would be more than the cost of the entire trip.

So we cancelled the trip and stayed home. The next day, my in-laws went home early, I took the day off work, and we took the kids to a pumpkin festival. I got sick on the Ferris wheel and vowed never to surprise Doug again. In a moment of weakness, I told him to just go and buy that flat-screen TV he really wanted for our bedroom. So Doug got his TV, and I got sick on the Ferris wheel. Multitasking has its limits. So much for the gift of time.

I've thought about starting my own chapter of Multitaskaholics Anonymous. “Sorry kids, I can't be home for dinner tonight, I'm on my way to my MA meeting.” But the last thing I need is more time away from the kids, so I'll have to cope for now.

At the office I know people are talking about my addiction behind my back. “You know, one of these days she's going to push the limit too far. Have you seen her emails while she's on conference calls? You can always tell when she's multitasking because she just agrees with everything you say, which
never
happens when she's paying attention.”

They certainly have a point. At least my law partner, Harvard Bill, had the guts to attempt an intervention. He tried to persuade me that there's no such thing as multitasking—“Your brain just switches gears and can focus on only one thing at a time.” He sounded convincing, and he twisted my arm to seek professional help. Some college professor had studied the impacts of multitasking in the workplace, and he was speaking to a group of attorneys about the ethical implications of multitasking. I agreed I needed the help, so I signed up for the seminar and had every intention of attending.

The only problem? Something came up at the last minute, I was in the middle of multitasking, and I missed it.

Slowing Down

Another indicator of my constant hurry? Speeding tickets. Unfortunately, I've learned the hard way that even Superwoman can't fly, and I have my share of citations to prove it. Most of my speeding tickets are from the morning, when I'm on my way to work, taking the kids to school. I'm always late, and I'm always in a hurry. Come to think of it, I never got speeding tickets until after I became a working mother. Every time I get behind the wheel, Lady Lead Foot just takes over. For this reason alone, I will never have a bumper sticker on my car that has anything to do with my faith. Jesus already has a bad name in enough circles. He doesn't need my help.

It was one thing when I got a ticket for going forty miles per hour in a twenty-five-miles-per-hour zone. I didn't even see the sign. It's a completely commercial district, and no one would know the speed limit was only twenty-five miles per hour unless, like me, you get caught. The police officer also zapped me for not having a front license plate. How was I supposed to know it was a legal requirement? What does he think I am, a lawyer or something?

Then there were the highway tickets—going a “little” over the speed limit when I thought I was just keeping up with traffic. Sometimes Lady Lead Foot just takes control, and before I know it the red lights are flashing. I really didn't think I had a problem until the school bus incident. It's one thing to get a speeding ticket, but a five-hundred-dollar fine, a potential license suspension, and up to sixty days in jail? What was I thinking? Sometimes, when the gentle whisper doesn't work, God just has to smack me over the head to get my attention.

It all happened on a Thursday morning around 8:00 a.m. I was taking Abby to preschool and, you guessed it, I was running late. I came to a long line of cars just sitting in front of me. What could be the hold up? I decided to just pass them.

When I came to the front of the line I saw a school bus. I panicked, put my head down, and put the pedal to the metal. At that point, what were my choices anyway? I couldn't exactly stop in the middle of the passing lane. Besides, there were no children around. One of the cars gave me a loud honk (I would later learn this was my neighbor) and Lady Lead Foot took over. This was a lot worse than a speeding ticket. I was completely ashamed. At least Abby wasn't old enough to understand, and no harm was done. Or so I thought.

The next morning at seven-thirty, someone was knocking at our front door. I looked outside and saw a police car. My heart sank. They were coming for me. It served me right. I should have learned my lesson with the speeding tickets. But no, I always have to push the envelope. This time, I had really done it. I'd made a lot of mistakes over the years, but I never thought I'd spend time in prison. Incarcerated Mommy was not going to be able to take very good care of the children. At least Lady Lawyer gets to come home at night. I couldn't bear the thought of my children seeing me in prison. And what would I say to my Sunday school students? I thought I could never get fired from teaching Sunday school, but acts of moral turpitude are an automatic disqualifier. At least some time in prison would give me time to finish the book. I guess it could be worse.