Chasing Superwoman (3 page)

Doug had his doubts that I could pull it off when I told him about the call. I explained to him that this wasn't the typical group of friendly clients—this was an intense group who would not tolerate the usual background noise in our family vehicle. It was crucial that we arrive at the campground before the call so that I could find absolute peace and quiet. Under no circumstances could I take the call inside the chaos of our car.

You guessed it—after getting out of town late, hitting weekend traffic, and stopping for multiple bathroom breaks, we were still driving at 3:00 p.m. The campground was poorly marked, and Doug had apparently taken a wrong turn. At 3:01 I completely freaked out and said to him, “Stop the car, now!” I opened the car door before he came to a complete stop, jumped off on the side of the road, and started to dial. Unfortunately, just when I need it most, technology backfires—we were out in the middle of nowhere, with no mobile coverage. I kept trying to dial with no luck. Looking up, I saw an old farmhouse about fifty yards away, and I started to run for a land line. An elderly woman with poor hearing and a stern look stood outside. “Excuse me, ma'am, but I was wondering if I could use your phone? You see, I have a conference call and I'm not getting any cell phone coverage out here.”

She continued to stare.

As I approached her, she started to explain that she was hard of hearing, so I repeated myself. Then I noticed that she happened to be holding a cordless phone in her hand, so Lady Lawyer seized the moment, grabbed the phone out of her hand, and started to dial. At this point, she started scolding me and said, “You better not make any long-distance calls!” So I called my secretary, Loyal Larraine, on the firm's toll-free number and explained the situation. Loyal Larraine is always lecturing me about how I can't say no, but fortunately she knew I was in a panic and saved the lecture for later. She quickly covered for me and sent an urgent email to my clients, explaining that I was “traveling” and outside of mobile coverage, but that I'd be getting to a pay phone as soon as possible. Loyal Larraine is used to this drama.

Doug found the campground in about twenty minutes, and as soon as I spotted a pay phone I grabbed my briefcase, put on my lawyer cape and, again, jumped out of a moving vehicle. I quickly spread out my legal papers in an old phone booth and started my call—at least it was quiet and no one would have to know I was actually camping.

Later, Doug asked me why I constantly put myself through these fire drills. One of these times, I'm going to surprise him and actually say no. He's not holding his breath—he knows my track record.

Like when I was a brand-new partner and my then-managing partner asked me if I would like to be in charge of hiring. “How would you like to spend several hundred hours a year meeting and greeting law students, attending recruiting receptions and social events after hours, conducting interviews during your already-crammed workday, and running our hiring committee for no extra pay?”

I said yes, of course.

I enjoy spending time with law students. During our interviews I like to ask them what motivates them. The answers vary. Personal challenge. Intellectual drive. A competitive spirit. Lack of other alternatives. None of them says money. I'm sure a few of them are lying, but their responses generally play into my theory that most lawyers don't go into law for the money. Most students have a few questions for me as well, like “How do you have a life and practice law in a large law firm?” This is my favorite question to answer because I have a canned answer: “Three children. Three maternity leaves. I'm not divorced” (not a proper subject of discussion during interviews, but I throw it in anyway). “My kids and husband actually like me. I smile a lot. I exercise at lunch. And I even make time to do
pro bono
work.”

It sounds convincing, but some candidates see through this response. So they ask me, “How do you really do it?” My standard answer? “I pray a lot, and I maintain a sense of humor.” I'm lying in part. Lady Lawyer's prayer life is virtually nonexistent, but I probably do pray more than most lawyers, which counts for something. And it's getting harder and harder to maintain a sense of humor, especially dealing with all those Lazy-Snake Combos. But on most days I still remember to laugh.

I never got into law for money anyway. Don't get me wrong—now that I have three kids, college savings plans, and a hefty mortgage, I'm pretty much saddled like the rest of America, but I can honestly say that I have never been motivated by money. Sure, sometimes it's about doing the right thing, but the real truth is that Lady Lawyer is on a power trip. I've had this discussion with my law partner, Harvard Bill.

Most people are motivated by money, pleasure, or power. Jesus called it the lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh, and the boastful pride of life. Most lawyers, including me, are motivated by power—otherwise known as the boastful pride of life. Bill agrees, except he doesn't quite process it in biblical terms. He's one of those intellectual agnostics, and I like to quote him the New Testament just to make him nervous. He tells me point blank, “You're never going to convert me to be a Christian.” At least he doesn't blame me for trying. We both have a good laugh when Lady Lawyer turns into Fundamentalist Lawyer. She can be quite entertaining.

Clients and Good Works

Just like there are different kinds of lawyers, clients come in all shapes and sizes. Intense Client. Rich Client. Needy Client. Skeptical Client. Lawyer Client. Lawyer-Hater Client. Vindictive Client. Party Client. Macho Client. Cheap Client. Reasonable Client. Crazy Client.

The easiest client to deal with is probably Lawyer Client. I realize this seems completely contradictory to everything I've said thus far, but truth be told, it's easier dealing with your own kind. Lawyer clients are usually predictable. The worst kind of client, of course, is the Lawyer-Hater Client. Unfortunately, this is an ever-growing segment of the population. I'm at the point in my career where I really don't want these clients at all, regardless of what they might pay me. I once had a Lawyer-Hater Client come close to assaulting me and decided at that moment that some things are more important than money, like my life. I charge extra for getting assaulted.

I was recently speaking to a group of MBA students at a secular university, and they would not stop peppering me with questions about morality and the law. “Just because something is legal, what do you tell your clients when it's not the right thing to do?” I responded, “I give my clients legal advice, I don't tell them what to do or what not to do.” The students were surprised. They also weren't satisfied. I tried to explain to them that my job is to tell clients what they may do within the bounds of the law and give them legal options. I am not a decision maker. My job is to advise what's legal.

But the students kept coming back to a different question—why don't I feel the need to give my clients moral advice? If not me, then who?

I couldn't stop thinking about this after the class. Most of my clients are ethical, but morality rarely enters into the equation when I give legal advice. Have I allowed myself to completely divorce law from morality? As a Christian, don't I hold myself to a higher standard?

In the book of Ephesians, the apostle Paul explains that “we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”
2
In other words, even when I'm wearing my lawyer cape, I am supposed to be doing good works. In fact, God even prepared these good works in advance. Pastor Eric recently explained that the Greek word for
workmanship
is actually
poiema
. It's where we get the English word
poem
, and it is often used in Scripture to refer to God's creative activity. Pastor Eric went on to explain that our good works are supposed to be lived out as “poems,” and God is writing His words on our hearts, minds, and souls so that we can give the performance of a lifetime. This gave me a new perspective on work. If God prepared my work in advance, it must have some spiritual purpose.

Sometimes, even Lady Lawyer tries to take this mandate of good works to heart. Last year I started representing indigent mothers who are rehabilitated drug offenders. Most of them have all but lost parenting rights, often because of abandoning their children for a lifestyle of drug abuse. My first client, we'll call her Lisa, hadn't seen her son for almost a year—since she had gotten out of prison. And even though she had stayed clean and followed the court's drug rehabilitation program, she wasn't able to convince the court she could be a fit mother. My job? To help her win back her son. Some people ask me how I can do it. “As a mother, how can you in good conscience help a mother regain her parenting rights when she abandoned her own children just to get high?” My answer? I'm a mother. Lisa's son is the same age as Nick, and it broke my heart just thinking about the pain she was feeling being apart from him. Despite her mistakes, she still loved him and wanted a second chance. I've always believed in second chances, and judging her is not my job.

Besides, I've never met the perfect client.

Speaking of perfect clients, I've given some thought about what it would be like to have Jesus as my client. I like to picture Him walking into the firm's lobby in His robe and sandals. The receptionist would probably call security. Most of our clients dress in business attire and don't have long hair, but there's really no formal dress code for clients, as long as they can pay our rates.

Assuming Jesus could make it past security, He would still have to get past the financial performance worksheet and new client intake procedures. I don't think He had much in the way of a financial portfolio or other assets, so this could be a problem. Then again, He arranged for His disciples to get money out of a fish to pay their taxes, so I assume He could find a creative way to pay His lawyer. Actually, I don't think I could bring myself to charge Him. I just know He would be my favorite client, and that would be worth much more than my billable hours. I think He would want Lady Lawyer to be tough but fair. And I don't think He'd make Lady Litigator settle just to avoid a fight, especially when I'm dealing with Jerk Lawyer who is completely unreasonable. He could tell me when Liar Lawyer is bluffing. And He could also tell me when Lazy Snake is going to strike. He wouldn't complain about my hourly rate, He wouldn't try to assault me, and He'd even understand if I said no to go on a camping trip. What more could I ask for?

Most of us wish we could change something about our workdays, and most working mothers, like me, know our jobs aren't perfect, but we're still thankful for our chosen professions, and we work diligently so our children will appreciate the value of hard work and develop a strong work ethic. Sure, maybe we need to start saying no, but the experience and opportunities that come with saying yes can make us better at our jobs and even help us to be better mothers.

Sometimes when we're reading together at night, Nick and I read the parable of the ten talents, and we both agree that neither of us wants to be the guy who buries his talent in the ground. I go on to explain that most days I really enjoy my job, because I'm being the person God created me to be and trying to do my best. Isn't that all God asks of us?

THREE

It Takes Children to Make a Mommy

Pour out your heart like water before the face of the Lord. Lift your hands toward Him for the life of your young children.

Lamentations 2:19 (NKJV)

Doug and I had been married for nine years and there was no good time to have a baby. After I graduated from law school, I wanted to have “time” to settle into my career before children entered the mix. I remember the day I found out I was pregnant. I cried. I was completely terrified. As the youngest sibling, I had never cared for anyone else—everyone always mothered me. I never had pets, and every plant I'd ever tended had shriveled and died. Until then, I had never even entertained the thought of taking care of anyone other than myself.

I was just hitting my stride in a fast-paced, demanding legal career. A baby now? What was I thinking?

It was too late for regrets. Like it or not, I was going to be a mother. And soon.

My pregnancy with Nick was uneventful—the usual morning sickness (extending into the afternoon and evening), weight gain, short temper, and mood swings. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

Sometime during the eighth month of pregnancy it dawned on me that I had forgotten to sign up for birthing classes. I kept putting it off, thinking I'd do it next month. Finally, Doug and I decided to show up for a class. After we settled in and moved the chairs in a circle, a dozen expectant parents went around the room talking about the names they had chosen, the color of the nursery, and all the planning they had done for a new arrival. Doug and I felt like we had just shown up to the prom in T-shirts and tennis shoes. We didn't have a name, didn't know the sex, and hadn't decorated a nursery. I have always liked surprises, especially good ones. After all, there's no reason to buy a bunch of clothes if you don't know the gender. And why decorate a nursery with a bunch of goofy wallpaper when something neutral will serve you well for years to come, particularly when it comes time to sell?

Just when we thought the class couldn't get worse, it did. We all moved to the floor and the instructor turned off the lights and put on freaky music and told us to start our breathing exercises. I could barely see Doug, but I knew he wouldn't last long. It takes him about two years to warm up to most people. This was a little much, even for me. He gave me the signal and we made a quick exit, no questions asked.
We can rent a video at the library,
I told myself.

At my last checkup prior to delivery, I still hadn't rented the video. I was thirty-eight weeks, and Nick was breech. We were hoping and praying that Nick would turn. My sister Encouraging Amy, who birthed all of her children at home through a midwife, had me doing exercises, standing on my head, and observing other old wives' tales. She tried her hardest to convince me I could do it: “Just stand on your head another thirty minutes, and we'll pray the baby turns.”

When you have four older sisters who have all birthed children before you, you are going to get your share of unsolicited advice.

In oversimplified terms, I have two pairs of sisters: my right-brained sisters—Mona and Janie—and my left-brained sisters—Marybeth and Amy. I consider myself quite lucky to be surrounded by such balance.

Mona, my Firstborn Sister, is proud to be the oldest. She's organized, driven, put-together, and responsible. She's always trying to convince me that I am really a firstborn prototype, despite my birth order, because according to her research the gap between Janie and me caused the family birth order to repeat itself and turn me into her firstborn twin. I listen attentively but know deep down that I will never be that organized or responsible. Just ask Self-Employed Stefanie or Sassy Shelly about my study habits.

Janie, my other right-brained sister, is also known as my Blonde Sister (Mona went blonde after she turned forty, so that doesn't count). My girls have fondly nicknamed one of their Barbie dolls “Aunt Janie” and I often hear them say that Aunt Janie is in the bathtub, or Aunt Janie doesn't have any clothes on again. Don't let the blonde jokes and Barbie image fool you—Blonde Sister is one of the most sensible, put-together women you'll ever meet in your life. She and Firstborn Sister keep their homes as if they just came off the cover of a magazine, and they're always showered on the weekends (unlike me) and have perfect hair and makeup, increasing the hygiene standards for the rest of us.

Not surprisingly, my right-brained sisters told me to follow the advice of my doctor and take as many drugs as I needed for childbirth. I can still hear Firstborn Sister saying, “Natural childbirth is for the birds. Don't be a martyr.” Blonde Sister fully agreed, “You're crazy if you don't take the drugs.”

My left-brained sisters, Marybeth and Amy, rave about natural childbirth. Marybeth, my Artist Sister, has a heart that is bigger than Texas and a sense of empathy that is unmatched. She's the closest thing to a flower child in our conservative family, and she and Encouraging Amy nursed their children longer than my father will ever know (at least longer than I'm allowed to write about). Encouraging Amy is always the first one I call when I'm in a crisis. Most importantly, she's a woman of prayer, which is why I've got her on speed dial, even though I know I'm going to hear all about her latest nutrition kick or home remedy. She and Artist Sister tried hard to persuade me to have a natural delivery with no drugs—“You don't want all those drugs to affect the baby, after all.”

Of course I was torn. Before going to that last checkup, I hadn't decided yet if I would follow the advice of the right-brained or left-brained sisters. It was a toss-up, and I figured I'd just play it by ear. Besides, I had a couple of weeks before delivery. Right now, I was more worried about stopping in my office first to get ready for a deposition later that day. I can still picture that ugly gray suit I was wearing. By my third pregnancy, the pants would rip and the front would be stained from breast milk. When you are in your last weeks of pregnancy and you feel like you're the size of a house, anything that fits will do. Who wants to spend more money on maternity clothes when you're ready to pop?

I decided to walk, a fifteen-minute stroll from my office, to what I thought would be an uneventful checkup. If I was lucky, maybe I would be dilated. All of my sisters agreed I shouldn't get too anxious with my first delivery, so I was playing it cool. To my surprise, after a quick exam, the doctor immediately recommended that I proceed with a C-section. Nick's position had shifted, and labor could be high risk. I went back to the office and started crying. I wasn't ready to deliver a baby. I hadn't even cleaned off my desk. So I proceeded to do what most expectant mothers do twenty-four hours before delivering their firstborn: I put on my best poker face and went to take a deposition.

I was in the midst of contentious litigation. Opposing counsel, a Jerk Lawyer, looked at me straight in the eye prior to the deposition and said, “When's the baby coming?”

I lied, “In a couple of weeks.” I couldn't let him see that I was weak and vulnerable. I could cry later. Now, it was time for Lady Lawyer to take care of business. For Lady Lawyer, there are certain advantages to being pregnant. I find that most witnesses are eager to spill their guts and make damaging admissions to a pregnant woman. I appear sweet, innocent, and harmless. All I want is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. A pregnant lawyer is a sheep among wolves. My motto? “Be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.”
1

By the time I finished the deposition, I had regained my composure and hadn't let my guard down. I couldn't give Jerk Lawyer that satisfaction. But I was still unprepared. And scared. Even though I had the advice of my older sisters, I wished I hadn't skipped all those birthing classes. I had gotten comfortable wearing my lawyer cape. Would a mommy cape even fit?

Lessons from Mary

When I look at the birth of Christ I am comforted by Mary's lack of planning. It doesn't appear she attended birthing classes or decorated a nursery. She didn't have a birthing coach, and she was far away from family and friends, traveling to Bethlehem. The amazing thing is that God had prepared her.

I had read the story of Mary and Elizabeth since I was a child but only recently was struck by God's complete brilliance in using the birth of John the Baptist to prepare Mary for her own labor and delivery. When the angel Gabriel visited Mary and foretold the birth of Christ, Elizabeth—John the Baptist's mother-to-be—was already six months pregnant.
Mary went to visit Elizabeth and stayed with her three months.
2
Six plus three is nine, so Mary must have stayed for John's birth. Assuming she did, she would have watched and learned about labor and delivery firsthand from her older cousin Elizabeth. Like me, Mary had a relative to teach her the ropes. I'm not sure if Elizabeth was a left-brained or right-brained “sister,” but I know she had Mary's best interest at heart. So Mary didn't have to attend birthing classes or rent a video. How else would a young virgin in the middle of Bethlehem know how to give birth with an inexperienced husband in a stable?

I had grand visions of going through labor and delivery without fear. I would welcome the pain and have a quick and easy delivery where
I
would be in control, not the doctors. Okay, maybe deep down I knew I would take the drugs, but a scheduled C-section is not what I had in mind. Have I mentioned that I hate hospitals? I've represented too many doctors in litigation, usually when they got in trouble, and it's not pretty. The Lawyer-Hater Client who almost assaulted me? You guessed it, a doctor. Now I was completely at a doctor's mercy, going under the knife. Doug couldn't watch.

Then Nick entered the world. Becoming a mother was the most exhilarating experience of my life. Nothing else even comes close. My mommy cape not only fit—it was warm and cozy, and quickly became my favorite. I had entered the special yet mysterious club of motherhood. Mary and I had a new bond.

Every Christmas, when I get out the familiar nativity scene, I stop for a moment and hold Mary in my hand. I wonder if childbirth was exhilarating for her, or whether she was too scared and unprepared to enjoy the moment. Was Joseph freaked out like Doug? I can't wait to ask her someday what it was like to birth Jesus in a stable. Where did she get the swaddling clothes? Did she bring them on the journey, or did she borrow them from the inn? Did Jesus cry like most babies, or are the words to “Away In a Manger” really true? Crying or not, like most mothers, I'm sure she treasured every moment. Too bad she was so far from home. She couldn't call her mother and say, “It's a boy,” even though Gabriel had already spilled the beans. And the next few months had to be equally difficult, caring for a newborn while traveling around on a donkey.

Day-Care Drama

I love newborns. The best part about them? They don't talk back. Those first few months, Nick screamed most of the time he wasn't sleeping, but I didn't mind. A screaming baby was a welcomed break in Lady Lawyer's routine. Besides, he was
my
screaming baby, and I knew our uninterrupted time together would be short. I got an occasional call or two from the office, but for the most part I left my work behind for nearly sixteen weeks and focused completely on Nick. We were inseparable.

Leaving Nick to go back to work was like ripping my heart out. Everyone told me it would be hard. I can't say I was surprised. It just hurt more than anything I could remember. What were my options, anyway? I was five years into a successful legal career, had a baby, and found myself leaving him in the arms of a stranger. I cried a lot those first days. So much that sometimes I forgot to pray.

As an associate at the firm, I had little flexibility. Fortunately, Doug did. We decided that he would work at home in the afternoons while Nick napped, and we would hire someone to watch Nick in the mornings. It seemed like a good plan. How hard could it be to find someone to love and care for my precious newborn? After screening about fifty candidates over the phone and meeting about fifteen women in person, I selected a young but experienced nursing student, Sleepy Sally. (I didn't realize she was sleepy until after I hired her.) When I first met her, she seemed smart, energetic, and had good references. She'd be with him for only about four or five hours a day. What could go wrong?

I took some comfort in the fact that my office was only five minutes from home. My first day back to work, I waited until lunch to call and check on Nick. There was no answer. I left a couple messages, thinking that Sally had possibly taken him outside. To satisfy my curiosity, I decided to drop home myself. Sally's car was still there, so I walked in, looked around, but still saw no sign of Sally. I put on my mommy cape and flew straight to Nick's room, relieved to see him lying in bed, sleeping. But where was Sally?

After searching the house several times I finally found her, sleeping in our attic. Devoted Mommy wanted to smack her, but I pulled myself together, woke her up, and asked her to leave. I was so hysterical I couldn't breathe. After she left, I couldn't stop shaking.
Why didn't I have a hidden camera? How could I be so stupid? Of course she was sleepy, she was working two jobs while trying to go to nursing school. What was I thinking?
I would have to quit working. I could never trust anyone again. Doug came home to calm me down. I was too upset to fire her. Lady Lawyer is a master at firing
other
people's employees, not her own. Especially not when it involves her children. I could go ballistic. So I made Doug do it.