I’m late! It’s 11:30 AM, and I just got home. My dd (dear daughter) and the 3-year-old left at 2 AM to head to the Little Rock airport. They are now in DC, visiting their father/grandfather. So, while dd’s hubby dropped her off in the middle of the night, I stayed over in their house, which is just across the highway. Couldn’t sleep worth a dang. Then I was up cooking breakfast for the other two girls (12 and 8), because that’s what their mom does on weekends, and I didn’t want them too lonely. I did that while dad got a much-deserved lie-in. After breakfast, I organized the girls to do some housework. When dad rose and decided to do a grocery shop, I decided it was time I headed home and get some work done.
That was my morning. And now, I’m ready for a nap.
Yes, my life is probably a lot like yours, even if I have this weird job. I live in the country, about five miles outside a small Arkansas town. It’s quiet. We have animals—dogs, cats, horses (that we don’t ride—they’re just giant-sized pets). My life is filled with work and family—trying to balance both is a constant struggle. I tend to let family draw me away from my desk, because I can’t resist the girls when they call and want their “nina”. I used to be pretty focused, but the older I get, the more I love to spend my hours wallowing in their affection. Yes, I said wallow. Like a pig in mud. I head to their house, and even if I just saw them hours before, they’re covering me in kisses and hugs and wanting me to look at their drawings.
They think my job is pretty weird. Just this morning, the 8-year-old asked who my boss was. I told her, I was. “No, Nina, who tells you what to do?” I raised my eyebrows and told her I was the one who decided what I wrote, what my schedule (ha!) would be, etc. She didn’t think that was so great. “I wanna use one of those clock things, where you put your card in, and it tells you how long you have to work.” I thought about that, and for just a second, I thought, God, that wouldn’t be so bad. Clock in. Clock out. I could leave the job behind once I drove out of the parking lot. But then, I realized that if I had a “real” job, I’d have to head home, jump into the shower, and hope like hell I had everything in my purse that I needed for the day. I’d have to work with people I might not like, maybe deal with customers or clients who I liked even less. “Real” jobs have their own versions of stress. That everything I accomplish, good or bad, rich or poor, is of my own making, well that’s the trade-off.
So, tell me. Do you have a “real” job? Do you ever wonder whether the grass is greener for those of us who don’t?
And remember, I have a brand new short story (a naughty menage) out right now, and a sexy Western coming Tuesday!