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Published on Mommy Tracked (http://www.mommytracked.com)

The Pickle.

by Christina Michael 

 

 

Here is no surprise: the full night’s rest did not un-pickle my dill pickle created by the really full time, really real job offer from the government agency. Onto Plan B: bother your husband and anyone else who happened to be in my bandwidth to discuss (and discuss and discuss again) whether to accept the job offer.

 

 

Plan B, Part 1 (why do I have such O.C.D. that I outline everything in my head like that?): Have a meaningful, eye-to-eye conversation with my husband (over a nice bottle of red wine and dinner) to analyze this job offer. As you can imagine, Plan B, Part 1, did not take shape in that rose-colored glasses kind of way. The reality of Plan B, Part 1, was the kids screaming in the background, my husband not paying much attention to me or the kids at all, and the baseball game humming in the background on T.V. I’ll concede that my husband says he wants me to do “whatever makes you happy” (a.k.a. don’t bug me, I’m watching the ball game, just do whatever you need not to make you {and me} any more miserable or stressed]). Regardless, he was no help with the job offer analysis.

 

 

 

Onto Plan B, Part 2: Bugging my close friends and family. The problem was that they were busy and have their own problems to solve and lives to handle. I really didn’t want to bother them (or bore them and myself) any longer.

 

 

 

Onto Plan B, Part 3 (a.k.a. Court of Last Resort): Discussing the job offer with my seven- year old son. Though he really has the mind of a 40-year old, that was not really effective at solving the job dilemma. His response was, “Mom, can’t we just play a game or watch ‘The Suite Life of Zack and Cody?’” Where was my mom when I needed her? Mom, if you’re “up there” listening, show me a sign. Tell me what to do (she would have said, “I understand, honey, I know you will make the right decision either way”).

 

 

 

Well, the skies weren’t parting (darned, Mom, why did you have to die too young, too quickly?). My kids just wanted to finish their Disney channel show. My husband just wanted to hang out and watch the bottom of the ninth. My friends and sisters just wanted to carry on with their busy lives and worry about their own dill pickles. So goes Plan B.

 

 

 

There I sat at my desk with the offer letter, in black and white, staring at me squarely in the face. No revelation. No dawning upon me. No “gotcha” moment. No light bulb went off. Not even a night light 3 watt light bulb.

 

 

 

I would just sleep on this one for a second time. Maybe this time sleep will help me figure it out tomorrow (didn’t work the first night, but let’s try for round two). At the moment, there was no space in my world for job offer analysis (or over-analysis or re-analysis). My sons needed to be reminded to brush their teeth (are we really supposed to floss their teeth, too?) and tucked into bed, tomorrow’s lunches needed to be made (our school’s “no nut” and only “healthy snack” policy is eliminating my ability to throw a PB&J sandwiches on Wonder Bread and a Go-Tart snacks in their bags), the dog needed to be walked, and I needed to get a few hours of sleep (I keep telling myself that Ambien is not addictive if you don’t use it every single night – once every few nights does not qualify as a Jack Osborne prescription drug problem, right?).

 

 

 

I hope when the morning comes this second time, it will be “like a highway sign, showing you the way, leaving no doubt, of the way on in or the way back out” (maybe Jerry Garcia had the right idea when he sang those lyrics). Even if that “highway sign” doesn’t appear to me in the morning, one thing I am sure of is that the morning will bring me precious gifts: a nice walk with my kids and my dog to school down the block without stressing to get back to work, a mellow trip to the grocery store without having to buy only frozen pizzas and tater tots for dinner (don’t they make those things without trans-fat these days?), and the ability to pick up the kids from school at 3:00, take them to soccer, and help them with their homework without needing the “Nanny Diaries” nanny to do these things for me. Those are a few gifts that I know will arrive when “the morning comes”.

 

 


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