I Accidentally Put My Children Up For Trade

I was sitting at my desk yesterday morning, hair fixed, makeup good, dressed like I had my life together, trying to get started on some serious work when I looked down at a Post-it note from the day before that said, in my own handwriting, “Trade Sara and JB for a long time.” I sat there looking at it for a solid minute, trying to figure out whether I had actually lost my mind and decided to start bartering children. There was no explanation beside it. No little arrow. No reminder that this was part of a schedule. It was just sitting there beside actual legal work like trading children was a perfectly ordinary thing I needed to handle before lunch.

The bad part was that I did not remember writing it. I knew it was my handwriting, and I knew I had been trying to organize the next few days with the kids, but I could not immediately remember what I meant. For a genuinely alarming minute, I was trying to figure out what I thought I was taking in exchange. A long nap? A working printer? A person who could find both shoes without an investigation?

Eventually, it came back to me. My parents were going to keep the kids while I took each of them separately for some one-on-one time with me, and I was trying to alternate who got the longer stretch. It was actually a thoughtful plan. I had just written it down in a way that made it sound like I was accepting offers.

After I confirmed that Sara and JB had not been listed, traded, appraised, or otherwise made available to the public, I tried to move on with my work. That was when the printer started acting like it had reached its limit too. It printed one document, stopped in the middle of the next one, made a noise that suggested something inside it was dying, and then eventually printed copies of something nobody had asked it to print in twenty minutes. I stood there in nice clothes, opening trays, checking paper, restarting it, and trying not to say anything I would regret in front of the staff.

Then I had to log into one of our systems, which reminded me that the office password has become less of a password and more of an honest statement about how everybody feels after dealing with technology all day. I am not going to repeat it publicly, but it is not inspirational, and it is not elegant. It says exactly what it needs to say.

By the time the printer had finally decided to cooperate and I had convinced myself I was not secretly running a child-exchange operation, I was already irritated enough that nobody needed to add much more to the day.

Then a call came in from someone who had a lot of opinions about what I should be doing differently. I am leaving the details alone because I do know how to act in public, even when other people are making a strong case against it. But apparently I made a face, because my receptionist looked at me, saw my head cock a little to the side and that small smirk that means I am deciding whether I need to respond or simply sit quietly until my personality improves, and Nan immediately moved toward my desk.

She did not ask whether I was okay. She did not tell me to take a breath. She threw herself across the desk like she was trying to protect the paperwork from me. That was not dramatic on her part. There has been a time or two or three, when I got aggravated, swept my entire desk clean with one arm, and sent papers, folders, chargers, pens, clips, Post-it notes, and whatever else was unlucky enough to be in front of me flying across the office.

It was not a productive choice. I had to pick every bit of it up later, which was annoying. But I would be lying if I said it did not feel incredible.

So there I was yesterday afternoon, sitting behind my desk with my hair curled, makeup still intact, nice clothes on, and my receptionist halfway across the desk because she had decided the stapler and the files needed protecting.

The children had not been traded. The printer had not been thrown out the window. Though my banker friend across the street was warned in case they saw it flying out of my window.

Nobody’s feelings had been hurt, at least not by me. I did not clear the desk, even though I feel like it should count for something that I managed to sit there and continue acting like a normal professional after beginning the day by wondering whether I had accidentally offered my own children in exchange for something better.

At the end of the day, Sara and JB were still mine, the printer was still alive, and the office supplies were all where they belonged. I am not saying that makes me a model of emotional regulation. I am saying nobody got traded, nobody got thrown, and sometimes that is a perfectly respectable day’s work.

---

Judith L. Hampton

Attorney at Law

Hampton Law Firm