Of course, we’re both relieved after 11 months of nail biting agony wondering what was to become of us. A few friends offered to put us all up in their houses. I’m sure the invitations were genuine, but they are most likely just as relieved that we will not be squatting in their living rooms. I won’t divulge the details of Gabriella’s new job. She can write her own blog. I’m sure she’s getting right on that. Nor can I thank those who opened the door for her in this very public forum. Suffice it to say, our village came through, and we are grateful.
We’re supposed to be cracking open the champagne and celebrating the end of unemployment and financial ruin. I can’t. Her job keeps us from foreclosing on our house but requires that I work full-time, as well. Certainly there are worse fates in life, and I’m well aware. Our blessings are numerous, and I am grateful for all of them. I’ll share all that blessing crap on my Thanksgiving post, of course. For now, I’m feeling a little bit sorry for myself, and I’ll thank you to allow me a moment to mourn my life at home with my kids. We’re keeping the Veuve in the cabinet. It’s an Asti Spumante toast for now.
“What’s the job, Deborah? Tell us. Tell us, do!” Well, if you must know because you spend so much of your day imagining what I’m doing, I’ll tell you that I will be working in the noble and virtuous and glamorous world of online advertising sales. That’s right. You wish you could be me. It’s a normal reaction. And if that is the case, feel free to drop me a line. I might want to be you...if your wife, girlfriend or au pair is hot. We can try to pull off a Freaky Friday kind of thing and spend a week in each other’s shoes until we both beg to return to our sad little lives because we found another life that was even sadder. Game?
Guess I’ve got a case of cold feet. I thought my toes were numb because we can’t afford to heat our house. Though we’re surrounded by two income families, I can’t imagine what our world is going to look like once we’re both working outside the home while some stranger takes over my life in my house looking after our boys. Sure I complained every now and then about being stifled and suffocated and underappreciated. Whinging is the national pastime for stay-at-home mothers. We all do it, but it doesn’t necessarily mean we’d rather be somewhere else.
But now, I will be somewhere else, and I have exactly 9 days to rally. Gabriella is negotiating her start date, but it looks like we have a small window of time to work out childcare. For anyone who has ever hired someone else to take care of your kids, you know that it takes a minor miracle to find a good nanny. When I began the job search, I considered the ad I would place. It would read:
Full-time Nanny wanted at competitive salary who is a nurturing, energetic, responsible caregiver for 2 sweet, respectful children aged 3 and 6. Light housekeeping. CPR certification and valid driver’s license required. Fluent English speaker preferred. Please provide references who will verify that you are Mary Poppins come to life.
Reality has slapped me with the back of its hand and yelled, “WAKE UP YOU FUCKING AMATEUR!”
I’ve come to realize that my expectations might be a bit high. My ad now reads:
Will pay more than my own full-time salary for a nanny who has a pulse and a car.