The Dreaded Question

The other day someone asked me what I did all day. I used to be a legal advisor for 9 police departments. I taught at police academy, did appeals work, reviewed evidence, wrote search warrants, trained new prosecutors, wrote a newsletter on changes in the laws and had other various duties. When I was working and someone asked me, "What did you do all day?" It was easy to answer that question with something tangible and important sounding. "I made fifteen bond arguments after reviewing all of the cases and then I worked on an appellate brief." That would be a fairly typical answer on a fairly typical day.

My days just don't translate into something that concrete anymore. Someone I used to work with recently asked me, "Are you doing anything anymore?" I knew what he meant- he wanted to know if I was still practicing- but my mind raced through everything that a typical day entails and I stammered for a response that was appropriate and didn't minimize what I do spend my time doing.

Someone else asked me recently, "What does Teddy do all day?" I answered, "In a broad sense, he spends all day learning." I know that it's true. I see him stacking cups and flipping through the pages of his book and I see him refining his eye-hand coordination and I see him taking in the images. He talks to his toys and the pictures in his books and each day his language becomes a little clearer and I can understand a word or two more. I sit with him on the floor and I help him with a task that's frustrating to him and I see him learning patience and perseverence. But how do you translate that into a sound bite? How do you explain why it's so draining, especially when the toddler is having a day filled more with frustrations than accomplishments?

Sometimes I think about what my goal for the day is going to be. I used to do it while driving to work. "I really want to finish that appellate brief this afternoon and get it filed" or "I need to finish that legislative update and get it sent out to the different departments." Now it's "I really need to get the floor mopped" or "I need to get my grocery list made out and go to the grocery store." It doesn't seem as important when I'm explaining it to someone who's never done it. It's even a little embarassing, actually.

I know that what I'm doing is crucial to my children. I know that my first responsibility is to them and I know that as surely as I know I'm going to draw my next breath. For me that means being here. Henry laughed for the first time a couple of days ago and his dad got to be there for it. So many of the milestones that they hit I get to see first and report on. To my recollection, I've been there for each of them. That's more important to me than any appellate brief I've ever written.

When people ask me "When are you going back to work?" I answer the question that they mean- when am I going to be a practicing lawyer again- but if they followed me for a day they'd realize that sometimes trying to get the kitchen floor mopped is a less realistic goal than finishing an appellate brief. My work is always interrupted and often superceded.

Speaking of, Teddy doesn't usually sleep this late- I need to go see if something's up. I've already fed Henry, changed his diaper and gotten him dressed. I coaxed him back into his first nap. Now I'll get Ted, change his diaper, get him dressed, feed him breakfast and clean the kitchen. My coffee's almost cold since I haven't been able to have an uninterrupted cup in months. I am a perpetual motion machine. So what will I do all day?

Everything.