Well, the day has come. Or rather, it’s coming. In a week. A week to get my poop in a group. To plan and prep and clean and plan and prep some more.
I am now gainfully employed.
And I am freaking.the.freak.out.
While I haven’t been lounging about, not by a long shot, I haven’t had a “get paid every two weeks” job in 11 years. A job where having clothes that fit and match is important. Where makeup is more than my current “no one will see me today but the mirror” standard. Where this social introvert has to go interact with others for long stretches of the day and try to decompress in the car before returning to the House of Chaos.
I am thrilled to have gotten this job. While I’m freaking the freak out, I am relieved to have it. There aren’t many positions out there for people with an 11 year “official workforce” resume gap who also need a somewhat flexible schedule, and somehow I found one.
OHMYGODHOWAMIGOINGTODOTHIS??? I know it can be done, my brother and his beautiful wife are certainly testament to that. He works full time, she’s going to school to be a physician assistant (I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen her since moving here at the end of July; she is a studying machine and I am in awe)…and they have a five month old. It can be done. BUT OH MY GOOOOOD!!!! How am I going to do it?
I think of getting the boys out the door in the morning and then trying to get to work on time. I think of getting them from after school care and juggling homework (ohsweetbabyjesusonapony) with dinner and house stuff and and and… Between 9am and 3pm my brain is dying to work; it’s just those end cap hours that are jumping onto the ulcer bandwagon.
The terror would be greatly reduced if I wasn’t so worried about A. He does not react to change well and he has barely adjusted to the move. He’s happy I now have a job, but I don’t think it’s occurred to him just what that means for him. It means he has to somehow get a lot of homework done independently at after school care (oh, hi there ulcer). It means he can’t lose his shit on me in the middle of the day (go away, ulcer). It means that he, somehow, has to find a way to even out his emotional asynchrony and (oh God forgive me for this) suck it up and deal (I shall name my ulcer Oscar).
We used to laugh in music school that we got more done simply because we had so much to do. When you have the same amount of studying as every other student plus have to practice several hours a day (also finals and performance juries), you just get it all done. A lot gets sacrificed in the process, but it gets done. I don’t know what’s going to end up on the sacrificial alter, but I pray it’s not my sanity. I have so very little left as it is.
But I need this job; the economy has been mean to us, and moving was not much kinder. I know my worries are First World Problems (and frankly, most of my worries are FWP), but that doesn’t make it any easier.
One week. I can do this.