On Monday I read my horoscope and the last sentence said, "You've had your fun, now it's time to get back to work." Monday happens to have been my first day at my new job -- See! Astrology really works!
But seriously. It’s a big story I have to tell – my six months of looking for a job. And I want to tell you all about how I was discriminated against for being a mother and how I was punished for having taken six years out of the workforce. I also want to tell you how impossible it is to find part-time or flexible work options – that is, unless you know somebody. And I want to tell you what I think of Caitlin Flanagan’s assertion that something is “lost” when a mother works – I want to tell you what I’m losing, and I want to tell you about all the things I lost to stay home.
I want to tell you even more than all that – and I will, I promise! But tonight, I’m exhausted, so this will have to do:
First, after six months, not only did I find a job, but it’s even a good-paying, flexible and part-time (until I want to go full time) job, doing something I like with people for whom I have tremendous regard. I really couldn’t have asked for more.
In the “I couldn’t have asked for better” department, let me say that I now have a “househusband” (temporarily) twice a week. The first day I made a meatloaf and left explicit instructions about when to put it in the oven, how to scrub the potatoes and put them in the oven, how to chop the asparagus and sauté it, etcetera. The second day, several times at work I thought to myself, I really should call my husband and tell him what to feed the kids for dinner. But I refrained, and when I got home, he’d gone to the store, bought salmon and baked it. And in addition to three vegetables, he even (God have mercy) served the kids a starch. (This is huge, as my husband believes in only three food groups – meat, vegetables and sugar. Dairy, starch, grains, fruit, etcetera all rank right down there with Snickers bars and Coca Cola in the nutrition department, according to my husband. It is often and with much agitation that I remind him that “a piece of chicken” is not "a meal.”)