Ode to a Job: The Ballad of Validation

I am a writer.

I can trace my obsession with writing to my 5^th grade English class where I self-published my first short story – The Mall Marauders. It was about 3 best friends who uncover a dress smuggling ring operating out of a Laura Ashley dressing room. I still consider it my best short story to date.

The point is, I’ve been writing a long time. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do and the only thing I’ve consistently been passionate about throughout every phase of my life. And, if I do say so myself, I’m pretty good at it.

So why then, do I feel like I’m not “really” a writer unless I’m making money doing it? When someone at the proverbial cocktail party asks you, “What do you do?” and you say, “I’m a writer,” the inevitable follow-up question is, “What do you write?” Before becoming a stay-at-home mom, I had no trouble answering this question. “I’m a copywriter,” I would answer proudly.

Now I know, I know… Copywriting is the hepatitic whore of the writing world. Where any given meeting or creative brief might include such dignified phrases as youth market infiltration, value engineering and human directionals (read: selling shit to kids, cutting corners and those poor guys who stand on the side of the road holding the arrow signs).

Truth be told, I hated it. I couldn’t wait to quit. The whole time my husband and I were trying to get pregnant I kept thinking things like, “If I could just get pregnant and quit my job, I’d have so much more time to write screenplays as a stay-at-home mom.” What a load of dirty diapers!

So anyway, that’s what I did, and to my surprise (but to no one else’s reading this who has kids), I had less time to write screenplays than ever before and even worse, when I got asked, “What do you do,” I didn’t even feel like I could legitimately tell people I was a writer any more. Because let’s face it, if you tell someone you’re a writer and then you don’t have a paid gig to back it up, well, you’re viewed about the same as some tortured teen with Cheetos-stained fingers spewing verbal vomit into a journal.

It’s amazing how much validation is contained in a paycheck. I did not realize this until I found myself without one for the first time in my life. I had always thought having a child would be the ultimate validation. It’s not. It’s not even close. And if you’re one of those parents that tells everyone how parenting is a blessed joy every minute and you’re forever wrapped in a cotton-candy blanket of bliss that only a brood of forever-needy children can provide, well then I’ve got some verbal vomit I’d like to spew your way.

So this week I started a new job. The first one I’ve had in almost 4 years. And I’m ecstatic and terrified in equal parts. I love the thrill of getting the job – knowing that you have marketable skills that someone wants. I love money – I can’t wait to get that first paycheck.

But I’m also having to scratch away at those butt-munching chiggers of doubt. What if I don’t do a good job or have enough time or hate it? And the guilt… Will I be as good of a mom if I’m working? How much more time is this going to take away from the time I should be spending with my daughter?

And what about my screenplays!?!

I honestly don’t have an answer to any of these questions. The only thing I know for sure is that somebody better invite my ass to a cocktail party quick!

Problem Child

I remember exactly two times in my entire school career – from preschool to graduate school – when I got in trouble. In first grade I had to stand on the wall at recess for five minutes, and in fifth grade I, along with two of my friends, got called over to the teacher’s desk where she told us that even though we were “feeling our oats”, we needed to settle down and pay attention. Juvenile delinquent, I was not.

So imagine my surprise and dismay when, shortly after my daughter started school, we started getting almost weekly reports from her teachers of “rough days” and multiple trips to the “thinking chair”. Today, I was informed at pick-up, was apparently another “rough” day.

According to eyewitness accounts, trouble started immediately after drop-off. Because of bad lighting or inept photographers or particularly squirmy kids (I’m guessing here, we weren’t actually told a reason), my daughter’s class photograph was being reshot at school this morning. You would think that not having to corral 36 preschoolers would be enough of an incentive to not f@#$ up the first time, but I digress.

Allegedly, my daughter (my three-year-old daughter mind you) did not like the way she was smiling in the photo. She demanded a retake. When they had the nerve to say no, she demanded a solo headshot. When they remained firm in their refusal, the situation escalated.

Feeling short-changed, my daughter refused to go to the potty when her teacher noticed her doing the all-too-familiar tiny-stepped, tight-legged pee pee dance. And then, to add insult to injury, her bow fell out of her hair and her teacher callously refused to help her put it back in until she went to the potty.

And then, all Hell broke loose. Still reeling from the utter injustice of it all, she watched in horror as someone dared to eat the last orange slice at snack time. The same orange slice that she wanted.

Well, it was just too much to bear and she started screaming. She screamed so loud and so long that they had to remove her from the classroom so as not to interrupt all of the other non-fit-pitching kids who were innocently trying to enjoy their music time. They took her to the office where she continued to scream, without stop, for a total of 20 minutes straight.

I was mortified.

Why is it my kid that’s always the one? (Her teachers assure me that there are two others in her class that behave the same way. Gee. Thanks.) Now I have to mention here that her teacher was more than slightly amused as she recounted this story to me, which lets me know that she has no idea how these anecdotes pierce a million holes in my heart and destroy my self-confidence. Oh well, I guess it’s probably best I keep that to myself.

The truth is, there are more days than I’d like to count when I feel like I’ve already, in just three years, completely failed as a mom. I see other moms out there with like ten kids who seem to have it all figured out. And here I am, not able to keep one child out of the “thinking chair” at school for more than a week or two at a time.

But here’s the thing. My daughter is sweet, smart, caring, beautiful and has a personality that lights up a room. Whether it’s the grocery store, soccer classes or the gym, everyone greets her by name and remarks how she’s their favorite little customer, student, etc. But, the catch is that it’s the same strong personality that makes everyone love her that makes her fly into a rage and pitch these fits of impressive proportion.

So in light of today’s events, I’ve decided to pour a glass of wine and cut us both some slack. I’ve done all the “right” things to try to modify this behavior. We’ve identified her triggers, given names to all the emotions, made plans of action to keep her frustration from getting “worser” and “worser”. But in the end, I realize that she’s probably just going to be a fireball for the rest of her life. Lord knows her momma can pitch a fit when she wants to, too. 

Start a blog? Why not!

Lord have mercy I've gone and started a blog. Just what the world needs I know. But here's the deal - sometimes it's hard being a Southern Girl in a SoCal world. It's a little isolating, this Stranger in a Strange Land feeling, and this is waaaaaaaay cheaper than therapy. 

On this blog you can expect a lot of random thoughts about things that make me feel out of place... like being a stay-at-home mom, being an aspiring screenwriter and being the only one on my block that's ever eaten fried okra. (The okra thing may or may not be true, but I frequently exaggerate to make a better story. I'm Southern, remember.) 

So join me. I might make you laugh. I might offend you. I might bore you. No... I take that last one back. I'm very entertaining. You'll see. I've got a lot to say.