Psst: Look Who’s Off” On A Saturday

Kathleen Cei Photo

This was another week of backlash and consequence at work. To recap: I had asked the manager if I could stop working every Saturday so I could spend more time with my kids, and he agreed. So now I work Monday through Friday and the last Saturday of every month. But the guys I work with now resent me being there (I’m the only girl) and are upset by the manager’s decision. They think I’m getting special treatment.

So I’m left to wonder if I am getting special treatment because I’m a girl. Or because I told him I felt like I was falling apart at home. Or just because I had the confidence to ask for the schedule that everyone else there wanted.

I’ve heard that I’m the topic of conversation often, and behind my back, and it makes me uneasy. It makes me feel paranoid, suspicious, and angry. I don’t want to be a working mom. But I am.

Almost exactly a year ago, my husband lost his job. Without warning, shocking his system, and changing our family life forever. He was called into what he thought was a last-minute meeting. He was almost excited, as he was never asked to these types of meetings. He entered the conference room thinking he was being invited to sit in a client meeting and pitch his ideas. (He was in advertising.) He walked in and saw a colleague in tears. He saw the area HR manager next to him. He thought his friend was being fired. The funny thing was, he wasn’t. He was crying because he had to fire my husband, and the HR manager was there to make sure he did.

So while I was at home in stay-at-home mom heaven, having my toddler sing to me, and my parents visit, I heard the door open. I thought it was a neighbor or one of my daughters’ friends, as we have an open door policy. But it was my husband, looking pale, stunned, and carrying a box. I figured that the answer to the What the hell is he doing home, looking like that?!?” was that the entire company went bankrupt. But it wasn’t. It was him, looking almost sick, holding over seven years worth of desk decor in a box that made him look small. Seven years of wedding photos and children’s pasted crafts, miniature buddhas and decorated desk calendars; all reduced to one box.

I burst into tears when he told me he was let go” and that there was no warning. It was 11:30 a.m. on a Thursday, and he was confused by my tears. I felt betrayed, I told him. I had worked at the same company years before (that’s how and where we met) and never saw them do anything like this. There had been people who had worked there for 25 years!

Flash-forward almost a year. I’m working at a job where I now feel like a pariah. I love it and hate it, often vacillating several times a day. But it’s better than the other jobs I’ve held since the shock. I’ve stocked shelves at Dollar General, rearranged the underwear section at Family Dollar, written ad copy for an online jewelry website, sold cruise packages over the phone, telemarketed for medical software systems, and sold cars. Sometimes I’ve done two or three of those jobs at once.

I’ve been humble enough to take any job offered me but find it very hard to keep one. I don’t know if years of staying home have made me soft when it comes to the world of work, or if I’m too sensitive when it comes to employment, or if I expect too much from the rest of the world. I was lucky enough to stay home with my daughters for over three years. How I got to be a stay-at-home mom is not lucky. Our younger daughter was born with a heart problem, and had to have her first surgery at eight weeks old. After the surgery, I went back to work and my husband stayed home. (He was still on FMLA leave.) As we approached the end of his leave, we found some things we hadn’t planned on: no one place would take both our children based on the difference in their ages (7 – 1/2 years); we felt overwhelmed at leaving an infant who just had surgery with a caregiver; and we realized that we would barely break even after daycare and after-school care costs.

Since he made 55 percent of our income and I made only 45 percent, the choice seemed clear. Obvious, in fact. I would stay home. Looking back, I know that I would still have a job had we decided for him to stay home. But his would still be gone. Hindsight can kick you while you’re down, make you feel so insignificant and small. And that’s where the decisions I make now at work feel harder to bear. Because I replay all of the past as I ask for a different schedule, and feel consumed by the guilt I feel by even working in the first place.

And now the boys at work resent me, and my manager told me I need to switch working Monday nights for Tuesday nights. Which means I don’t get to ever see my little girl’s new ballet class. I already promised her I would be at every one, and I think she’s sick of me apologizing about missing everything she does. I don’t know how everyone else does it.

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