My Day Job

Why I won’t/wouldn’t, can’t/couldn’t give up my day job. It is my life. My real life. It is not a nine to five. It is 24/7.

Sometimes it’s hard to take me seriously, as a writer—even for me. That becomes a huge problem. It is a huge problem. How can anyone else take you seriously if you don’t? Why should they?

I mean, take priorities—there is just no contest between getting mother’s medication snafu’s straightened out, ordered, delivered—last minute, because she failed to tell me she used her last blood pressure medicine and besides, it only takes one day to be delivered by mail order,(You don’t know you’ve stepped over that demarcation line, the one between care receiver to care giver, until it rises up and slaps you down.) and where to put that comma or get character worksheets down or plot points worked out.

Taking my writing seriously has always been a struggle anyway, with financial struggles, time crunches, and the unique life of a ‘railroad widow’ raising three boys. There were never two of us to drive three boys to soccer, T-ball, music lessons. There was me and in a real pinch, my mom. (I insert here that I called on her as little as possible because she had enough to do as a widow with a job and a yard to care for.)

Well, now there’s another little guilt stab, isn’t there? She helped me out, and though I don’t feel obligated, I do owe her. From the time I was eighteen, she stood in as my mom and my dad, plus, caregiver to her parents. She stepped up to the plate for her parents, without the support of a husband. (How blessed am I?)

Anyway, it took me forever to figure out how to carve time for my own dreams. I was a stay at home mom back in the day. I was busy trying to give my boys wings, as best I could. Besides it took me a long time (it wasn’t even mentioned back then for a housewife to dream dreams) to learn I needed to dream my dreams and follow them. To learn it was as much for my children and grandchildren as me. If I give my grandkids only that one thing—that it is never too late to follow dreams—that will be everything.

My day job means I am a part-time writer, with a full time guilt. Guilt follows you through raising your family, but it peaks when you’re doing caregiving. You see, the help you give is never enough and those needs keep growing. You end up fearing you’ll be sucked into the tsunami and you’ve seen those who were.

You feel like you’re just waiting for the next disaster, that next one thing that will put you under. You wait for the one thing that breaks the camel’s back—yours. You want to do all you can for your parent, but in the back of your mind, you think about the writing you are not doing and feel guilty about thinking about it. Every day there is a feeling of being torn. In addition, there is more than just caregiving that tears at you. You have your family, your husband. Sometimes to write you give up time with them and is that worth it? You may never reach your goal, but you have all these blessings. Don’t you owe them your time?

I’ve been a caregiver all my life, really. From the fluffy little black kitten with the white bib, I had at six, to pet store animals, babies, boys, husbands and now, my mom. It is something I know how to do. What I don’t know is if I can also write enough, well enough to publish a book.

But it isn’t as if I can quit either.

My day job is my life and my writing holds me up.