For the past two years my wife and I have both worked from the home. It took its toll on us. We found ourselves arguing about the little things that shouldn’t even be mentioned, let alone at decibels that only the neighbors could hear. We bickered over the bickerless and grated the nerves of the other like so much cheese. Familiarity led to the lack of it.
Recently, my wife took a job out of the house. Once again we have our own space. We are able, each of us, to be our own person and no longer feel ourselves defined by the other, or the situation, or the fork that she tried to stab me with (not really). There is room to breathe.
It kind of sucks.
With my wife’s new job taking her out of the house I am suddenly alone with them. You know who I’m talking about. They demand constant attention — something we had once volleyed between us like beach balls in a stadium now smacks me squarely in the head as soon as I dare look in the opposite direction. I’ve become that guy that gives the beach ball to the security guard, and everyone knows that guy is a total jackass. Go on, boo me. I’ll wait.
The thing is, I have deadlines and a 50+ hour per week workload, and frankly, it’s hard. Sure, I know others do it all the time, and yes, I can do it — and I do it well, but that doesn’t mean it’s awesome. I’m a writer. My job requires quiet, heavy drinking and random bouts of pornography, all of which are now impossible and/or widely frowned upon.
I had a meeting this morning, just like I do every Tuesday. It’s a group call on the phone with a bunch of people that can fire me. I was 10 minutes late because I had to get my oldest ready for school and put breakfast in the bottomless belly of the younger. I joined the meeting in progress while running, yes, literally running, to my son’s school. The bell rang as we hit the crosswalk. We stopped by the office for a tardy slip, walked briskly down the hall, and suddenly it became my turn to speak and all I could say was, “I love you. Have a good day.”
I finished my meeting on the walk home and nobody cared that I was out of breath, full of stress or that I had forgotten to make my son his lunch. They wanted what they pay for and I gave them what I could, hoping that they wouldn’t ask for change.
My job is getting less from me. My children are getting less from me. It’s a one-two punch. Hit the wallet. Hit the heart.
Even now, I write these broken words around sudden stops, tending to the humanity of it all with sternness and the promise of consequence.
Take the punches and roll. Take the money and run. Take it easy.
Even now, I write these stern words around sudden stops, tending with humanity the consequence of broken promises.
Just take it easy.
There is a beach ball floating across waves of cheers and paperwork, and it is headed straight for me.
