untitled

Last night, in an attempt to locate Josh's frequent flier number, I dug out my old day planner. I suppose using the word "dig" is a misnomer. I knew exactly where it was located. In the summer of 2008, when we moved into this house, I placed my day planner on a shelf on my closet and left it there. Until that is, last night.

Picking it up, it felt strange to me. I had forgotten how heavy it was. It was thick, because when I was in law school and then later, when I was acquiring my master's, I used to love to plan out my days, thus I used a system that allowed each day its own individual page. My planner, all 365 pages, was dearly loved.

As I flipped through its pages, I slowed down when I came across the month of February. "Study community property," "Practice multiple choice questions," and "Memorize California evidence rules" were common entries. Then, near the end of the month, taking up a three page spread, "Bar Exam" was highlighted in bright orange. The next day was blank.

The months of March, April, and May were filled with notes and schedules from the track team that I used to coach. Workout plans, parent phone numbers, and directions to different high schools were written on its pages.

The first few days of June were marked with job interview information. A phone number for a recruiter. The address of a firm in Los Angeles.

Then, on June 11th, there was a circle around 1 PM. Next to it, scribbled in pencil, was the word "utlrasound."

Looking at that page brought back a rush of emotion. I remembered sitting in my car, outside my office, calling my OB-GYN. Telling them that I had a positive pregnancy test. Telling them that I was certain that I was not pregnant. Telling them that I must be a false-positive. Shaking as I wrote ultrasound on the page. Scared that something might be going on that I would have no control over, something that I had not planned.

My notes on days following June 11th were sparse. "Start packing" said June 28. "Start new job" on July 21. After July, the days were blank and empty.

Holding my planner, I knew that for the later part of 2008, I started consolidating all of my appointments on my computer in Outlook. The planner wasn't necessarily discarded because I no longer made plans. It was just that my plans no longer fit into its daily, pale blue lines.

I remember entering "due date" on February 3 into my outlook calendar, then changing it a few weeks later to February 5, and then even later to February 6. Finally, at some point I gave up, frustrated by the fact that my midwife couldn't provide me with an absolute certain date. I deleted the notation altogether, determined to try something new, attempting to roll with it.

For 2009, I didn't even buy a day planner. In May 2009, I realized my mistake, but felt it was too late to make such a purchase. Besides, it felt like life was moving forward so rapidly. The days blended into the nights, the weeks absorbed by weekends, and soon it was August, then October, and finally December. I felt like the entire year escaped me. Not that it wasn't documented, because it was, here and in Lola's baby journal, but nothing was really planned.

While I've come to accept that life moves forward, and can do so joyously without any real planning, there is a part of me that longs for order and stability and scheduling. After all I am a lawyer, and I became a lawyer by way of planning and plotting my life out on those pale blue pages.

Knowing this, I purchased a small day planner for 2010. It's no Franklin Covey, as I can no longer afford such luxury, and an entire week is mapped out in two pages. Whimsical blue flowers grace its white cover and so far, its pages contain notes on doctor appointments, a running list of people to whom I owe thank you notes, and date reminders of celebratory occasions.

And perhaps, best of all, it captivates Lola. She, the one who taught me that sometimes the greatest events of our lives are not planned, pats its cover gently and quietly turns its pages with her tiny fingers. Have I found a happy-medium? I don't know, but I feel like the answer is maybe.