Panic, work-related, I:
One hundred thousand words, not yet fully edited, with several deadlines for various pieces of it at different stages of production over the next week. And it's about suicide, a topic of vital importance, blah, blah, blah, but one that's not exactly, umm, uplifting. For various reasons — family obligations, suboptimal planning, and events relating to the situation outlined in Panic, work-related, II (see below) — I'm behind schedule.
Friday Helena came home with a fever and an I-don't-feel-too-good pout. I'm not exactly panicking about the state of her health, but rather my ability to get any work done under these conditions. (Actually, it's turning out to be not so bad. The neediness and whining that inevitably accompany her head- and tummyaches are somewhat offset by her simply being a little bit older this time round and that much better at entertaining, or at least occupying and consoling, herself. Also, she's old enough now to realize she's not feeling well and give in to sleeping and resting, versus the tendency of her younger self, and of babies and toddlers everywhere, to insist on carrying on as usual.)
Panic, work-related, II:
Recently, I was offered a position of full-time employment, doing something I am perfectly suited to doing for a decent salary and at a convenient downtown location. And I accepted it. I start in a couple weeks. Life as I now it is about to transform into a very different kind of beast.
1. What do you mean I can't set my own hours, get around to working when I feel like it? What do you mean I can't wear my pyjamas or pyjama-like loungewear. What do you mean this doesn't seem like a good time to up and take a walk around the neighbourhood? But I wanted this, asked for it, and got it. Now to deal with it. And purchase some respectable officewear, of the sort I've not needed or worn in 5 years.
2. I have never before had a job and a child at the same time. The logistics of it are daunting. I have to remind myself that there are millions of families with children where both parents work outside the home, that millions of people manage to have jobs, and kids, and regular lives. I have to keep reminding myself of that or I stop breathing. As difficult as it seems, millions of people actually do it — how bone-crushingly, brain-suckingly hard can it be?
3. I'm not sure what the third element of this panic is, but I'm sure there is one. Likely something to do with the precise nature of the work itself. Frankly, I've been so consumed with my current contract and with the panic concerning it, that I've had little time or energy to formulate a full response, emotional or logical, to this job offer and its implications even a week after the fact. Nor has it been properly celebrated. Yet.
For the time-being, blogging will be light and sporadic, or possibly voluminous and angst-ridden, serving as either procrastination or therapy or both. I remind myself that millions, no, but at least tens of people with jobs and children and regular lives manage to maintain interesting blogs. Maybe I can be one of them.
Did I brush my teeth today? What are we having for dinner? I desperately need a haircut. I wonder how The Messiah of Stockholm ends.