The Opinions of Children (and Adults)

Nathan, my 2 year old son, recently started saying, "I don't like it" when he either (a) has decided he doesn't want something despite having begged for it or (2) honestly doesn't like it. It's hard to tell sometimes.

What strikes me the most is his ability to just say it--regardless of whether its that he doesn't like peas or abhors tickling today. Either way, he's going to let me know. Now. If not sooner.

I myself am...direct. Perhaps too direct at times. In my old(er) age I've toned it down and living in Los Angeles (the land of never saying exactly what you mean so that everyone can wonder what the "ef" you're really talking about) has taken the edge off my drive to consistently point out what I think.

Which leads me to today. I was speaking with opposing counsel regarding the status of the settlement release that was provided to him 5 weeks ago. He was, again, requesting, as a "professional courtesy", an additional two weeks to review the release and make proposed changes--if that was "ok" with me. I was about to agree when I thought of my son and his adamant "I don't like it" response. So that's what I said. I was met with silence. So, like my 2 year old son, I repeated myself--just in case my brilliant opposing counsel missed it the first time. I added an explanation and hung up. An hour later I received a copy of the release back with comments.

I'm not really advocating for people to revert to acting like 2 year olds--it would make for a messier existence for sure--its more advocating for clarity. For me, thanks to Nathan, being clear, and getting things done, just got easier.

It always seems impossible until its done

Nelson Mandela. So true.

Last night was my volunteer night at Legal Aid. This of course followed a day that started at 5:00 am, consisted of one of more painful 8 hour depositions I've had to attend in awhile, and ended with a crappy ass commute from downtown to the beach. But I digress. Back to Legal Aid.

"Jane" comes to the window and asks to see me. Jane, by way of background, is a 62 year old woman from New Orleans. She has a beautiful accent made only more beautiful by her striking appearance—deep coffee skin and bright blue eyes. Jane, while soft spoken, is a pathological liar. No, I'm not judging her (I've been known to tell some whoppers myself), I'm just stating the facts. You see, Jane has come to see me before. And every time Jane comes she has a different version of her story.

Jane, as it seems, has been living with her ex-husband/boyfriend/brother in his recently deceased wife's house/apartment/condo for the past 6 weeks/months/year. Follow me? Jane is not listed on the rental agreement. Because she is not on the rental agreement, everyone that lives there is getting evicted.

Jane has come to see me for the last three weeks about the situation/the landlord/the "woman who is doing evil" to her. I have, patiently, explained to Jane what the rental agreement says, how her "ex-husband/boyfriend/brother" has broken the agreement and that it is landlord's right to evict her—whether its "evil" or not.

Last night Jane had a new story. Last night Jane told me that the family needs to live there because her son is graduating from high School in June and they can't move until that happens. Jane is adamant that they are going back to New Orleans as soon as he graduates. I resist to urge to thank God and explain to her that I am very happy to hear that her son is graduating but that she was required to move out 3 weeks ago. Jane says, "Ok, well then I move out 3 weeks ago. What now?" Nice.

After explaining to Jane, for the 15th time, how the law here in California works she looked at me, straight in the face and said, "so that's it?" I said, "That's it Jane." Her response? "Well why didn't you just say that?" Sigh. I hope that Jane really does get "it", that she some how resolves the situation, and that her "family" finds a new place to live.

I drove home, hopeful that I would get there in time to see my Nathan before he fell asleep, hold him, lose my day in his sweet little boy smell. And I did.

It always seems impossible until its done.

Really?

There are times when I am so overwhelmed with gratitude for all that I have--my career, my beautiful son, my looks (ok--that was a joke) and then there are times when I just feel like looking up at the Big Man/Woman in the sky and saying, "Really? This is the best you could do?" Today is one of those days.

I am sitting in my office, drinking a green tea (iced, vente, unsweetened) trying not to pass out from exhaustion, and---wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Nathan, my sweet light of my life two year old, is getting his molars. So he has turned from the "sweet light of my life two year old" into an insane, 30 pound nightmare that head butts and bites small children, says "no" about 1,000 times a day, throws food, and refuses to sleep at anything more 20 minute intervals. Aaaaah. And I thought picking a jury or dealing arrogant attorneys was difficult.

So the question is—why? Why must the situation be this way? Why do babies/children have to suffer through so much at so small? The question hidden within this question—why must I have to suffer because he is suffering? I know, could I be more narcissistic? Probably not. But while Nathan is rolling around in the dirt today, head butting kids and making the daycare really work for their money, I've been up since 4:45 am, at the office since 5:30 am (yes, I really am that low maintenance) for an east coast client telephonic meeting, and I'm exhausted.

Anyway, while I drink my green tea (and ignore my email chiming) I wonder--maybe teething is God's way of getting them ready for the bigger pains in life?