January 17, 2006
After working in the same place for over seven years, I'm now sitting at home waiting for a whole new journey to begin.
People ask if I'm sad about leaving. Despite some high stress situations this fall and the usual workplace complaints, it's been a fulfilling job. (A dream job, really, as a co-director of Christian Education.) Yet my leaving feels too unreal for me to feel sad. On my last day, I went through the motions, was flattered by farewell gifts and honors, yet felt like I'd be coming back the next day.
Nope. Here I am, sitting at my computer mid-morning, wondering what to do with myself.
The Surreal Life
When will it sink in? When will it sink in that my day-to-day life will never be the same? When will it sink in that I am having a baby? When will I get the guts to pack my hospital bag?
I keep waiting for some lightening bolt to help me process this change in identity. While I know that your work doesn't define you, that's easier said than believed. Especially for someone as Type A as me. I work, therefore I am.
I know what it's like to be the getting-paid-for-what-I-do-with-a-product-at-the-end-of-the-day Martha. How will I recognize myself when I stay home all day with an infant and nothing tangible to show for it?
I can't flip the switch in my mind.
So why try? Right now, I'm on holiday. I've got friends to visit, floors to mop, long baths to take, and hopefully some uninterrupted hours of reading. As far as I'm concerned, the baby can stay put as long as she wants. (And it looks like he will: he's firmly entrenched in my rib cage with no sign of dropping. I have no dilation, no effacement, and not even any Braxton-Hicks.)
My old job gave me vacation time. The new one won't.