Shit if I know. I miss Philalawyer, admittedly. BitterLawyer.com doesn’t fully capture, to my mind, the idiocy tempered with occasional shots of pure unadulterated power that is the practice of law. And most of the good legal blogs aren’t written by women, at least not as best as I can tell. Oh, there are blogs out there written by women lawyers for sure, but I’m not reading them. If I want to spend an hour of my time chatting mindlessly about the perils of child-rearing I can just hang out at the kids’ bus stop in the morning and rot my brain with all the stay-at-homes. Thanks, no. I love my kids, but I don’t need to blog about them or about how I am working with my firm to develop a mommy track. I’m not and I don’t want to. If I had to drag my ass to 8:00 a.m. meetings with baby puke on my shoulder, so can you.
Here’s a news flash for all you 3L gals, assuming you’re not already contemplating literal or figurative suicide – your friendly neighborhood law firm does not care about you or your ovaries. It cares about your ability to produce billable work, and preferably a lot of it. As much of it as possible. Because if you don’t, that jackass in the corner office might have to pick up a pen, and he doesn’t wanna do that. He gave that all up a long time ago when he made partner. You’re pregnant? Super. You are a commodity. You are utterly replaceable, as is your male associate counterpart. It’s not a sexist thing, really, it’s just that your part of the dance of life takes nine months and his takes thirty seconds, and you will be replaced if necessary, just as soon as your personnel file has been sufficiently documented in preparation for the defense of your discrimination lawsuit. So don’t bother.
Why am I writing this? I suspect because I am depressed and exhausted and getting out of bed in the morning no longer holds the appeal it once did. Also, my associate is currently at the office drafting motions and setting up depositions, so technically I am earning money while I sit here eating a double chocolate muffin. This is the part where I’m supposed to have a revelation: hey, this isn’t so bad, is it?
Well, it is. It sucks.