Nothing Will Work Unless I Do*

It's been three weeks since that initial awkward conversation with my boss. Three weeks in which the actual work I have to do has pretty much dried up completely, and I find myself in what I can only describe as a strange state of limbo. There is still the minutest possibility that another internal job may come off, but as time passes and that possibility fades into the distance, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I may soon find myself unemployed.

The timing is actually rather fortuitous, meaning that at least I am unlikely to have to worry about childcare over the summer holidays. Brilliant, right? Finally loads of spare hours in the day to get around to tackling my paper mountain, or licking the house into some kind of acceptable shape. I even have time to blog more regularly. Um. However, despite my previous protestations, I'm more than aware of the fact that the life of a stay at home mum can't be mine on a permanent basis. The past couple of weeks have given me a very brief insight into how it might look. Apart from the odd day of unusual productivity decluttering the kids' toys, I've come to the conclusion that I'd just end up eating too many biscuits and spend too much time doing online shopping. So much for economising.

The need for money and mental stimulation therefore mean there is only one thing for it - I will have to find some kind of gainful employment. I can't deny that the prospect scares the hell out of me. I've worked out that my last "serious" interview was probably around 14 years ago. Realistically, much as I'd love to find something flexible, I fear my only real option would appear to be to go back to a full-time office-based role.

Or maybe it's time for a complete change of direction? Get off the treadmill, escape the rat race and start something of my own? The problem is what? I'm too much of a generalist to specialise in selling any of my services. My childhood dreams included an acting career (I fear I may have missed the boat on that one), writing a novel (not self-disciplined enough, even if I thought I had a talent for it, which I'm not sure I do), or owning a bookshop. And sadly headlines declaring the "end of the bookshop" appear all too common. Plus I don't really fancy working weekends. I fear my other interests of gin, cheese and interior design are already well covered in the marketplace...

The return to a cubicle farm beckons. Unless anyone has next week's lottery numbers?

Have some pretty flowers. Don't they instantly lift your spirits?

(*attributed to Maya Angelou - Nothing Will Work Unless You Do)

Something always gives

A strong part of the reasons why I went back to work after having children was that fundamentally I'm the kind of person that gets easily bored. I don't think anybody who has ever stayed at home with a newborn can deny that, while there can undoubtedly be extremely rewarding, there are also long periods of tedium involved. And, as we have previously established, I'm not really the kind of person that finds the whole baby group and coffee morning round an easy one to negotiate. I just thought it was nice to think about some other things for a while, and work seemed like a ready-made, easy way out.

I've also spent my entire career in a relatively fast-paced, high-tech, multi-national environment. Conference calls at odd times of the day, juggling the needs of the Egyptians vs the needs of the Austrians kind of seemed like second nature. I can therefore kid myself that children and childcare is therefore just another ball that I need to keep up in the air. I make lists for everything, and I probably couldn't function without putting absolutely everything into my Outlook calendar and relying on the little reminder windows that pop up to keep me on track. It helps that I have a reasonable memory that is forever ticking through its own mental lists too. It's not easy, but I'm masochistic enough to enjoy the variety and the challenge. 

Mostly, anyway. 

If all of that sounds too good to be true, then here comes the but. 

Doing a full day's work, making sure the kids have clean clothes, have done homework, have got Brownies uniform, making sure the bills are paid...etc etc... All of the things that are necessary purely just for us to function as a household come at a price; namely, that the house is a complete mess, and relies on other people coming to stay for it to be in a vaguely tidy/clean condition.

I've partly come to terms with the fact that my home will never be the showhome I envisage in my head. (Part of me holds on to the fact that it's a rebellion against the showhome-like qualities of my parents' home.) Dishes are destined to be sat on the side ready for the dishwasher to be emptied, clothes will be on chairs, toys not in their place. And don't get me started on the paperwork. Oh, God, the endless piles of paperwork waiting to be filed...

It doesn't have to be like this, I occasionally tell myself. It doesn't help that a good friend of mine manages to hold down a stressful job as a lawyer AND have a permanently immaculate house. (Although she only has one, apparently tidy, child. Grr.) Spurred on by her good example I occasionally go through bouts of manic tidying, or go out and buy another self-help book that promises eternal salvation:

Yeah. Guess what? Not read it yet. It's hidden under a pile of paperwork. 

To the Tune of Camptown Races

Oh my house it is a tip, doo dah, doo dah

My mother she would have a fit, doo dah, doo dah

But I really do not give a sh*t, oh de doo dah day

That is all.