In some ways I feel like life as I knew has come to a screeching halt. My “professional” work doing occasional freelance writing has dried up just like my milk supply.
It wasn’t totally intentional that I would stop writing and breastfeeding around the same time, but apparently, the less time I sit at my computer to write, the less milk I produce.
In my current, sleep-deprived state, I’m not necessarily missing conducting interviews while bouncing baby burrito in his seat, or having engorged boobs in the morning. But, it’s nice to be needed. The cries of hunger that eminate from the crib can now be quenched by daddy, or nana, or just about anyone who I beg to come over to help so I can just. go. pee. I liked being the only one who provided nourishment for his little (not so little at 3 months) belly.
It’s also nice to use my brain. There’s only so much television I can watch in an afternoon (and the DVR makes it so much easier to pack it all in). As much as a small assignment stresses me out, I like having my BlackBerry calendar buzz with a calendar reminder of something other than “Get Diapers.” (Yes, I set calendar reminders for such things.)
Motherhood the second time around has brought me a lot of pride, not the least of which is that I felt comfortable enough to breastfeed in public multiple times, not anxious whatsoever to hide the baby under a terrific hooter hider. (FYI, as a Bravado Ambassador, I found it interesting that according to a recent Bravado Breastfeeding Information Council report, where, when and how to feed your baby away from home is a source of concern for many new breastfeeding moms. Up to 30 percent state that having to breastfeed in public creates anxiety for themselves and their spouses.)
I also felt I could conquer more than perhaps I could. Having two kids decreased the amount of free time I had by a factor of like 70, not two. And such, I can’t really feel good about myself putting the baby on the activity mat and the older in front of the television just so I can write up a few paragraphs.
At least not yet.
I’m in a bit of a personal and professional lull and I’m thinking that’s probably okay for now. While my lack of milk will be a permanent change to my body, the professional well will fill up again as soon as I can see QWWERTY straight on my keyboard again. (See! A typo on QWERTY!)
They don’t stay babies forever, and so if I’m not being needed in the same way, I’ll take what I need for now. A little lull.
I think I forgot to mention in my last post that, uhm, last week I was offered a full-time job. That’s right. A chance to strip off the lululemon, a reason to dry my hair every day (although that is debatable) and most importantly make me some money.
Of course I turned it down instantly.
I’m sure admitting that has got to be every career coach’s worst nightmare. The job was interesting, it actually paid me money, and would have been a good fit. A good fit, had I not been five months pregnant and in no mental condition to take on a full-time job. Seriously, the next time someone asks me for career advice I’m just going to laugh in their face. Apparently the only thing I’m good at these days is avoiding any type of work commitment.
That being said, sometimes I do have a regret about my decision. But only when I think about the potential money I could have been making. One thing I miss about not working is not having my “own” money. The kind where a certain someone doesn’t care if I come home with that new pair of lululemon pants. Of course when I worked all of my “own” money was sort of fake because I enevitably had to have my husband bail me out at tax time due to a lack of me understanding anything about that “withholding” column, or whatever. But it was easier to get away with it.
Or maybe it was because the economy was better.
Whatever the case, the money would never be worth me leaving my envious and rather comfortable position of staying at home, but it did make me pause.
For about half a second. My old lululemon pants are just as cute as the new ones I’ve seen.
There are two things I’ve been thinking about lately. First, I think my last post about quitting one’s job may have been a little bit bullish. The smart and sassy Kim brought my bullish-ness to my attention when she remembered something I said a long time ago – that re-entry into the workforce wouldn’t be an issue for me because of my fabulous part-time arrangement. She thought I had it all figured out. I think basically I sound like a big asshat. (Truth be told, my word du jour is “daft prick” but I’ll save that discussion for another day.)
Did I really mean to be so confident about my chances of re-entry? Because I didn’t. I guess I didn’t forsee the whole part-time work thing not working out the way I planned and that I’d be getting more itchy over time for some real work. And yes, I admit it. I’m now really itchy for more work and sort of feeling more unsure about my possibilities than ever.
Which brings me to dinner parties. (Yes, these two topics are related, they really are.)
Whenever I go to a dinner party for my husband’s work I always get a case of the insecurities. He works with so many smart, engaging and interesting people, that I’m always worried about how it’s going to look when I answer the question,
So, do you work?
Not that they care, nor do I really care what they think. But I really wasn’t in the mood to discuss the mommy wars with the really smart lawyers around the room.
So imagine my delight when another SAHM at the dinner party sat right across the table from me on the other side of a really smart lawyer. She was older, wiser, had somehow gotten her kids into private school. Wow, I thought, I hit the dinner party jackpot.
But all we ended up talking about was potty training, after school activities, and playgroups. I kept trying to include the really smart lawyer to my left involved in the discussion, but really, what 60-year-old man wants to engage with two neurotic Jewish moms?
Any bullish feeling I had about myself evaporated at the table last night just like that chocolate mousse cake off my plate (my g-d was it good.) I left wishing I had more to add to the conversation than my thoughts about the Ferber method.
There’s always the next party, I guess. Either that, or I’m going to have to become a really good liar.
I’m not good at many things, but one thing I know I did well was quit my job. In fact, I’m gonna go right out and say it. I’m really good at saying “no,” “I don’t think so,” “when monkeys fly out of my ass,” you know.
I’m an excellent quitter.
Once I decided to pull the plug, I did it, and didn’t look back. It may have costed me headaches freelance work, but whatever, I had decided I wanted to be a slave to the little man a full-time SAHM. And, so here I am, still changing adult-sized poops one year after I stormed into my old boss’s office and told her what’s what.
Why am I getting into all this now? Because I have a ton of friends who are ready to pull the plug (even in this economy) and they’re nervous as hell about what to do. So they call me because I once was like them, full of vim and vigor for the workplace only to have it sucked out of me like the squeegie-tool gets the snot out of a baby’s nose. They, like all boogers, want out. Any way they can.
But getting out is scary. Going from a cozy place, whether it be a nostril, or your sky-high office with well-paying job is scary. And here’s where I can help. (And where the squeegie-nostril analogy will end.)
(Almost.)
I’ve been thinking about it for awhile, as you can tell, and I think it’s time for my unsolicited advice for all my friends out there on how to psych yourself up to quit your job. (Drumroll, please.)
- Once you have made the decision, STICK TO YOUR GUNS. Negotiating with your boss is a little lot like negotiating with your toddler. Giving in is sin. And what I mean by this is that if they want you to stay on a month and you want to give two weeks, split it in the middle and stay for three. Unless they’re gonna throw in some ridiculous hanger-on bonus or something.
- Don’t worry about what you’re going to do after you quit. If you are quitting to spend more time with your kids, then maybe try that until you’re blue in the face from playing Candyland all day long. And then you’ll kick yourself for not being back at work. I’M JUST KIDDING. Nothing’s permanent. If it’s not working for you at home, I’m sure there are other jobs out there. Welcome to McDonald’s, can I help you?
- I know, I know, you’re worried about child care. If you quit, you’ll lose your nanny, you can’t afford day care anymore, you don’t need the help. And you probably can’t or don’t. But really, who needs extra help when you get to spend every waking moment with that little ray of sunshine you call caffeine. I mean, really?
- Really, you know yourself better than anyone else. You know what’s best for you. Not your cubemate, not the mail delivery guy, and no, not the barista on the first floor. When you’re ready to leave, you just know. Trust your gut. Even if it’s put on a few pounds in the last year.
Now go on, get! You’ll be happy, I promise. Just think, in a year, you’ll have mastered the SAHM thing just like I did: you’ll have figured out exactly how to force-your-child-to-sleep-all-afternoon-so-you-can-watch-your-favorite-shows-and-dick-around-on-your-computer-while-simultaneously-empyting-the-dishwasher.
It’s a beautiful thing.
Tagged as:
quitting your job,
SAHM
It’s inevitable whenever I meet a new mom the topic of do I work, stay home or what will come up. I’m a talker and I’m also kind of nosy.  I like to know what other moms do in their spare time – who they are behind the veneer of Play-Doh and finger paint. I love when moms reciprocate as well and try to find out a little about me.  In my post-working life I have so many different facets to share it’s sometime hard to know which ones to activate when. Last week, for instance, when talking to a mom in my son’s camp class, I was volunteer mom.
In my head, moms who volunteer also have perfectly-bobbed hair, clean-shaven legs, wear white dresses with yellow flowers and a strand of pearls to bed. Ok, so does Sarah Jessica Parker, but her hair is long and messy so she can get away with it. I never pictured myself as a lady-who-lunches-while-addressing-envelopes-for-a-fancy-fundraiser.
This does not look like Little Miss Junior League.
But these are my new adventures. Spending my time serving my community. Donating my time and talents to bigger causes.
That is, when I’m not being freelance writer mom. Or SAHM mom. Or even helicopter mom. (Ask my friends who attend playgroup at my house).
Increasingly I realize that while I don’t necessarily want to have a job, I like having the ability to activate the workhorse part of my personality. Like when I get to be “I’m a legit blogger” mom. A line created by my husband defending the “you have a blog?” inquiries at a work dinner.Â
I also like being able to turn it off. Like those days where I laze around, go to the gym, get my nails done and leisurely pace the aisles of Target at 2 pm on a Wednesday. I have those moments too. Even Diego’s Rescue Pack must get tired of being activated all the time.
Even Rescue Pack can’t get out of Target without spending at least $100.
My version of adventure is finding new and different outlets for myself. Outlets for my brain, my body, my future. I like having challenges outside of putting together 3-D puzzles that a three-year-old should be able to do, but I can’t seem to figure out. It’s nice to say I was elected to something that I believe in, and to have the ability to help out another organization with skills I learned on the job.
The six-month bug is itching me bad. Now that I’ve got a little momentum behind me, I like the thought of being busy with something that requires me to use Excel spreadsheets again. Just as long as it doesn’t interfere too much into my time with the world’s best sidekick.
I’d take a two-year-old over Baby Jaguar any day.
I’ve had some close encounters of the working kind in the past week. Remarkably, since I left my job, I’ve had little to do with my former coworkers. It’s not out of spite or anything. (Although I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate me calling them at 1 pm while they’re at their computers and I’ve just finished watching an episode of Top Chef). It’s just that I’m being lazy about the whole “networking to get back in the workforce someday thing” and I have no urge to really know what I left behind me. I wish I could say that I miss work, but I don’t, actually. So while I like to hear from my old friends, I don’t have that morbid curiosity about me wondering, “are they getting by without me?” Because I’m sure they are.
However, in the last week, I’ve gotten some pokes from my former colleagues and work associates. My old team took me out to a very nice “going away” afternoon tea where I gorged myself on scrumptuous handmade scones and shrimp sandwiches until my stomach hurt. (Cut me some slack. Most of my lunches these days consist of french fries and an occasional crust of grilled cheese.) My colleague even asked me before our get together if I was excited to bust out some of my old corporate wardrobe again. Like I all I wear are Uggs and leggings all day every day. Please. It was actually somewhat entertaining to put on a shirt that buttons, pants that aren’t made of denim and have somewhere to be with adults at 3 pm, but by 5 o’clock, I was relieved to go home, take off my thong underwear (I have little problem with panty lines while I’m at home) and slip on my momiform.
I mean, after we discussed gossiped about all our old clients, what was I supposed to talk about? My “blog” which is so “cute?” My son, who’s growing up faster than I care to believe? My coworkers are childless and I’m not sure they were that interested in the latest potty training techniques. Plus, it’s not like I’ve been very good at keeping up with marketplace trends; I’ve let my “work” magazine subscriptions all but completely lapse in the three months since I stepped out the door.
This lack of interest in the working world wasn’t just obvious over Darjeeling and jam. I’ve had other work-related avoidances as well. For example, I turned down a good freelancing opportunity last week. I blew off a former colleague who wanted me to speak to his class. I’m even bailing on a “how to be a better freelancer” seminar this week that I’m supposed to go to with my new friend and learn how to market myself better. Freelancing lesson #1: don’t bail on popular blog friend for night at home. (Truth be told I am staying at home to prepare for a vacation later this week, but my former gunner self wouldn’t let a silly thing like vacation get in the way of some good networking.)
I’m sure somewhere out there Leslie Bennetts is signing Hail Marys praying for my working mom salvation. I’m a serious ”keeping myself in the mix” flunkie. I’m a career-path dropout. Hell, I’m not keeping that “key contacts” roster alive. You know, the one I’m supposed to keep so that if in six months I’m going ballistic with a temper-tantrum-throwing-toddler and I want to go back to work it will be seamless. On paper, I’m setting myself up for complete failure. But I’m keeping hope alive that the way everyone else judges what moms do when they stop working will somehow change if and when I decide to ever be a “working” mom again.
That just being me doing what I want to do when I want to do it will be enough. I’m not giving into the career Grim Reaper yet.
