Profiles

I stared at the paragraph, reading and not reading it for the fifth time.  I read how it was important to write a professional profile, precise and unique.  I was drawing a blank.  I could think of three qualified people I could ask at that very minute who would be happy to help me write it.  But at that moment, I didn’t email or text any one.  I needed to define myself first.

It had been a long time since I could say what I did without some measure of hesitance as though I had chosen poorly, as though I was wasting my potential, as though I was doing nothing of importance.  It stung.  Because that judgment came from somewhere else.  When I worked as a student assistant, aka grunt/go-for, I always spoke my title with bemused confidence, following it with an example of the most mundane, ridiculous thing I had done recently.  “I’m one of the student assistants at the English Department; I run nonsense messages between the Office Manager and the Head of the Communications School, whose office is three blocks away.”  “I’m one of the student assistants at the English Department; I make class flyers and copy out of print novels for professors.”  “I work for the Dean of the Law School; I had to carry out twenty boxes of admission pamphlets out of a flooding basement last week.”  It didn’t bother me to tell people I worked as a tele-customer service representative or a medical files clerk (which at the time was the number one least stressful job) or a nanny or a teacher’s assistant or for the Girl Scouts.  I held a bunch of nonsense jobs, and none of those bothered me.

***

We sat out on sea-doos several yards out from the shore on the lake, engines off, floating, waiting for the other guys to get the other two sea-doos working.  One sucked up a rock when taking off from the beach.  I should have gone to shore and help.  I had the smallest hands.  But then I looked over at one of the guys flirting with the girls sunbathing and realized if I went to shore, he would take the sea doo and then I would be stuck on the shore with the sun bathing girls.  I don’t think so.  I had fought for the right to be out on the water.  I was not baggage.

I looked over at the guy next to me.  He was an older cousin of one of the guys.  He was visiting.  He wasn’t going in to shore either.  Probably because he needed a break from the girls who were throwing themselves at him.  Girls.  They had nine years on me but acted like they were still in high school.

We sat in silence.  He was still fuming from our tiff on the shore.  It ended with, “Darlin’, I’m glad I’m not the one marrying you.”  I gave him a fierce smile and said, “Sweetheart, the feeling is more than mutual.”

The cousin: So.  What do you do?

Me: I’m a cashier at Home Depot.

The cousin: (He looked at me for a long moment.)  There’s no shame in that.

Me: (sigh) No, there’s not.  But I have a four-year-degree with honors.  I searched for over six months, sending out thousands of resumes, interviewing countless times, and all I got to show for it is a cashier job at Home Depot.

The cousin: You’re young.  There’s no shame in working hard and doing your best.  Even at a job you didn’t chose.  Even at a job you hate.

Silence.

I opened my mouth to respond.  A sea-doo engine roared to life.  There were cheers from the shore.

The cousin: Let’s see what you got.

I snorted and turned on the sea-doo.

***

“So what do you do?”

It was his second question.  His first was “How do you know the bride?”

What do I say?  I am a stay-at-home mom, raising three small boys.  My husband is at home because he can’t figure out if he loves me and wants to stay married to me and doesn’t want to lead me on by escorting me to a wedding.  I just told him to pack his things and move out, since he’s had several months to figure it out and can’t.  He’ll move out tomorrow.

That sounded a little bitter.  And complicated.  And really, really bitter.  I was here because I wanted to support my friend and pray that she had better luck than me.  I wanted to believe in true love and happy endings.  I wanted to dance and talk to other adults and catch up with old friends.  I wanted to have fun and forget that I felt that I had just wasted several years of my life. 

Besides I looked hot.  The bride told me so as we stood to get a picture taken.  She whispered in my ear, “Fae, he’s a fool.  You look hot.  Jesus, your boobs are huge!”  She was also a little drunk.  I smiled, thinking of the nights I had tucked her into bed when she stumbled home from being out with friends.

Me: I’m a writer.

There’s truth.  And there’s truth.  I wasn’t writing The Great American Novel.  I hadn’t had anything substantial published in years.  In fact, it had been months since I wrote a poem, and I couldn’t remember the last time I struggled to type out a short story.  I had thought that I would be able to write when I stayed home raising children.  There would be so much free time.  Ha.

But.  I could give up writing, only when I gave up breathing.  I had a blog, something small, where I could keep up some of my craft.  I had just sold a tiny article for a buck, but as one of my writing professors used to say, “A byline is a byline is a byline.”  I would be damned if I gave up on my dream before I was six feet under.  I was a writer, damnit.  Just not a well-paid one.

The guy: Wow.  That is so cool.  I just manage a golf course in Montana.

Me: Montana?  Doesn’t it snow there?  A lot?  How do you manage in the winter?

He returned my smile and leaned closer to tell me about converting a golf course into a cross-country ski track and how fun and beautiful it is.  I repressed a shudder.  Snakes, spiders, and scorpions are the only things worse than snow.

***

The therapist: So what are you afraid of?

I looked at her.  Um, what?

The therapist: What are you afraid of?  What holds you back from accomplishing your goals and achieving your dreams?

Um, what?  I fear nothing.  I don’t have time.  Every morning I wake up to get boys out of beds, make them breakfast, hustle them up the stairs, nag them into getting dressed, washing their faces, and brushing their teeth and hair, make their beds.  I struggle with a squirming toddler to get him out of his pajamas, out of his diaper, back into his diaper, and into clothes.  I then have to make myself presentable to the world and make my bed, put my clothes in the hamper, straighten my room.  Then it is a dash to make sure everyone has everything and that we’re ready to conquer the day.  The older boys are dropped off at their different schools.  Except on Tuesdays and Thursdays when only the eldest goes to school.  Then there are errands to be run and entertaining toddlers to be done.  If I’m lucky, I’ll go for a walk with another mom.  There is a house to be clean, a preschooler to be picked up at school, lunches to be made, and a toddler to be put down to bed.  Then it’s teaching the preschooler to write his own name, work on his fine motor skills, and then I spend quality time with him, so he doesn’t feel like he’s stuck in the middle.  Then I let him play video games while I write and read a few news articles.  I may make phone calls or clean a little or do yard work or just nap.  Unless it’s Wednesday, then I’m the volunteer librarian for the eldest one’s class.  Then it’s get the toddler up, pick up the eldest.  On Tuesdays we take him to his religious class and go to the park.  On Wednesdays, he gets out early, so he and I spend one on one time together, so he doesn’t feel like he’s getting lost in the crowd.  Every other day, it’s rush home, force the eldest to do his school work and reading, play with the kids, make dinner with a toddler who is dragging and pulling on my leg because he wants to help as I tell the other boys “no, you may not play video games; go play outside.”  Then it’s time to set the table, encourage the kids to eat, clear the table with their help.  Then I have to put away the food, start on dishes, spend time with the boys, get them to pick up their toys, bathe a toddler, put the toddler down for the night, bathe the older boys, get them ready for bed, read them a book, have the eldest read, say prayers, and lay in bed with them for a few minutes.  Then I have a moment to breathe and read a book or study for a math entrance exam before I tackle the kitchen, the floors, the laundry, and whatever day’s chore needs to be done and whatever else needs to be done.  And then I’ll have time to talk to friends and send emails.  Unless it’s Saturday, then I have the boys all day, and we try to get out of the house and do more homework.  Unless it’s Sunday, then we add church, baking, and crafts to the mix.  That doesn’t include the dozens of tiny things that have to be done to run a household and raise three kids.  So what do I fear?  I fear that I am blowing my time and money on this therapy session.

Instead, I smile a fierce smile.

Me: I’m afraid of dying and slipping into an abyss that makes all that I did, all that I am, nothing.  Other than that, there’s not much to fear.  I’m just a busy mom, raising three boys, trying to the best I can and hoping that I can make this all work out.

The therapist: But what about your dreams?

Me: I’m a writer.  I’m getting better.  I’ll make the time to write.  I’ll figure this out.

***

That night I didn’t write the paragraph.  I wrote it the next morning during the drop offs.  It’s precise.  It’s professional.  It’s annoyingly not me.  But I can edit it

I don’t know where that judgment in my head came from.  It’s not my voice.  I made this decision.  Things didn’t go as planned, but when do they ever?  It turns out this parenting and running the household thing is a full time gig with lots and lots of overtime.  When I look back on poor choices and mistakes, the ones I don’t regret revolve around the boys and being their mom.

Granted, I still have a long way to go to keep them out of juvy.