The Seven Year Itch

Every 25 years, I like to have a kid. But every 6 or 7 years, I like to change careers.

I started out as an environmental activist. After graduating college - a bit late because I took time out to have Jade - I began working at FSEEE (then called AFSEEE). They hired me as a part-time administrative assistant. It was a start-up nonprofit with four employees at the time (including me). The founder, Jeff DeBonis, was a Forest Service whistleblower. He courageously called out the federal agency he worked for, charged with protecting national forests, on its complicity with the timber industry.

As a start-up organization, things were volatile in the early days of AFSEEE. When the editor of its bimonthly newspaper left the organization, Jeff asked me to step in. And thus, my career in journalism magically began. It was a terrific job right out of college. I felt like I was part of an important movement that was going to save trees in the Pacific Northwest and beyond. I gave the organization everything I had for six years. But eventually, I tired of the grind.

I returned to school for a Master's Degree and began studying journalism more formally. When I graduated, I found a job at a a glossy magazine called Mercator's World, which focused on antique map collecting. Inner Voice, AFSEEE's publication later morphed into the more professional Forest Magazine. Mercator's World eventually went belly-up. But in the process I converted my writing from advocacy-oriented screeds to more balanced magazine-style journalism. I began freelancing for magazines and other publications, learning to write in the process. My dream was to write long-form nonfiction pieces like my hero John McPhee.

After about six years or so years of this, I took a part-time job as a Communications Coordinator for the Wayne Morse Center of Law and Politics at the University of Oregon School of Law. The goal was to have a half-time job with health benefits so I could work as a freelancer the rest of the time. But my proximity to the law school sucked me into a new career. After being inspired by visiting professor Charles Ogletree, I decided I wanted to be a public defender. On a whim, I took the LSAT. My score was decent enough to get me into the UO law school. The Morse Center sponsored my education there. Again, I was lucky enough to be mentored by a supportive, one-of-a-kind boss, Margaret Hallock.

So I became a lawyer and took the seemingly insane step of leaving Oregon behind for Philadelphia. This was around the time that Jade went to college at UC-Santa Cruz. I was ready to trade beautiful scenery and nice people for grit and surly people.

At first I loved my job working in the trenches of our racist criminal justice system. With Jade in college, I could live a single life for the first time since I was a teenager. It was fun living in Center City, fighting the good fight, partying hard on the weekends.

But now I'm married and have a toddler. We moved into a quiet residential enclave, and I take the train to work. I am becoming bone weary of fighting in court every day, of waking up early and leaving Jericho at daycare, of being too tired in the evenings to really focus on him. I feel old and out-of-shape.

While I've always liked most of those I represent, the breadth of their problems has become too depressing. And I can't forget the ones I've failed. Too big a part of their lives -- their freedom -- relies on my humble skills. Besides the albatross-like weight of incarcerated former clients, I'm sick of being disrespected in court by judges, ADAs, family members, and those I represent. Services rendered for free do not have the same cache as those rendered by paid lawyers in $1,000 suits. The quality of representation is seldom noticed. Style is what matters.

And when I succeed, I may only keep my client out of jail briefly. Most of them come back, repeatedly making the same mistakes or falling into the same traps. I've had my heart broken many times by those I believed in. All the work and self-sacrifice no longer feel worth it. There are plenty of younger, fresher bodies to replace me in the trench.

So I'm ready for something new. I want a job where I can think slowly and deeply rather than quick, off-the-cuff. I want more control over my time. I want to be appreciated. I want to be able to take care of myself as well as my family. Universe, make this happen!

Overshadowed

I guess I'm just a day late and a dollar short in terms of having my situation widely publicized and picked up on the wire. Another year, a few more kids, a grandkid or two, loose a kidney, and maybe I would get the coverage that this woman got.

Peace of Mind

I woke up today at around 6:00 am. The house was quiet. I felt better than I have in a long, long time. Other than my usual 2:00 a.m. wake up, I slept through the night, and so did Jericho.

You see, he still sleeps in our bed with us. Despite my tough talk before he was born -- that I was going to Ferberize this baby! -- he still sleeps with us and still wakes up to nurse. Yes, I'm still nursing him. I plan to stop when he's two (we'll see how that goes).

In truth, Jericho has the permanent position in our bed. My husband and I often fall to sleep in other places, on the couch downstairs or the futon in Jericho's bedroom. Like Oedipus, our child has supplanted the father in bed, with poor Bryan often relegated to the daybed in Jericho's room. It's not good, I know. I guess we were never committed fully to sleep training.

When the three of us are in bed together, none of us sleeps well. We toss and turn and wake each other up. We need a king-sized bed but the shape of our bedroom won't allow it. Any book would tell me that this is bad. I know, I know! But this is where we find ourselves.

Jericho doesn't even have a crib anymore. The sides were loose, so I disassembled it and assembled the step-two toddler bed. There's no way he's sleeping in there. There's nothing caging him in. I threaten him with going to sleep in your crib when he won't fall to sleep in bed with me. This sometimes works. In desperation, once in a while, I've put him in his room to cry and shut the door. Then I go get him ten minutes later and he'll often fall asleep, snuffling. No, I'm not going to write a healthy sleep book for toddlers.

I'm embarrassed about our predicament. However, to be candid, I like sleeping with baby. I like it when the three of us -- actually, four of us, because our dog sleeps in our bed too -- all sleep in the same bed. I put up with the baggy eyes (I've started wearing makeup) and sore shoulders and neck because I love the closeness. Now that I'm back at work full time and I can't spend most days with Jericho, I want to spend at least those nighttime hours together. I don't like the thought of him so far away and alone in his room. He doesn't like that thought either.

But he will eventually. Let's hope so.

Fairy Godsister

Jade and Jericho are starting to form a relationship, and it's wonderful to watch. He calls her "Sista." She came to visit recently and he kept asking for her after she left.

I have a brother who is 23 years my junior. I wish I was closer to him. But I barely saw him the whole time he was growing up. It's hard to reconnect as adults, when you're so far apart in age.

I want Jade and Jericho to have a real relationship. What they need is time. Jade is making a point to see him as much as possible. That makes me very happy. The older Jericho gets, the more he will connect Jade with the rest of his family. He's beginning to understand. She's not a traditional big sister. She's like a big sister and fairy godmother rolled into one.

Blog Resolution

Today is Martin Luther King Day, and I'm back to blogging. My writing impulse has been subverted during the past year by writing workshops. I took several "Life Stories" writing classes from the energetic Minter Krotzer, wife of the hilarious and talented poet Hal Sirowitz.

The women who were in my first workshops last spring and summer (or was it the summer before last?) were so wonderful. We formed our own writing group that is still going on. Oh, how I've missed being part of a community of writers. I generally hate writing itself but love hanging out with writers and talking about writing. I like to absorb artistic sweat and breath by rubbing shoulders with literary folk.

I had such a wonderful writing group when I lived in Eugene, Oregon. It was one of those Camelot-like communities that will never be again. Our success was mostly due to our "leader", Kathleen Holt. Kathleen would never have referred to herself our leader, but everyone in the group knew that it was she who made the group possible. She gently shepherded us away from gossiping our time away and molded us into a productive workforce. The group spawned two wonderful books, by Debra Gwartney and Guy Maynard, and a whole lot of mutual cheer leading and interesting work. It didn't hurt that the group included brilliant people along with gifted professional writers.

So with the birth of my new writing group, Philly Scribes, it feels like going home again. This group is less professional writerly than the Oregon group, more touchy-feely and straight-up supportive. We're all women, you see. But damn, I'm excited about the work we've been creating. It feels so good to meet and watch half-remembered tales become elegant life stories. We are turning the ugly ducklings from our live into beautiful swans.

However, for me, the result of my year or so of trying to get back into "real" writing has resulted in a disillusion with it. I think I took one workshop too many. I spent too much time stretching and massaging my little vignettes about motherhood and my life into something shapeless. It was like taking a little knitted booty and trying to make a sweater out of it.

My writing, I realize is suited for the blog. It's quick, cheap, and pithy. By quick, I mean that I don't have time to agonize over every word and sentence. By cheap, I mean that no one wants to pay for it. By pithy, I mean that if I am not intimidated by having to write polished essays and query letters, I can just churn shit out. And once in a while when you actually write -- rather than just thinking about writing -- something emerges that brings a sort of truth to writer and reader alike ... hopefully.