I got an email from one of the co-ordinators the other day, asking me about my project allocations. Effectively, she was noticing that I was 130 percent allocated to projects, plus I was doing some internal work setting up a practice. She thought that this must be wrong. It wasn’t.
I am also, if you were interested, studying for 2 software certifications and my project management certification.
Oh, and a roommate who figures I can make partner in another year if I just apply myself.
I am, a tiny bit busy. I spend my days and my nights surrounded by computer and text books.
Into this comes a discussion with a colleague who remarked that she is so busy and her life is so hard. Her children take so much of her time. She says she pushed her brain out with her last child.
And I can’t argue with her. Do my obligations really rate? Can they rate? It’s like this terrible game, and whatever I can come up with, she can trump. Why even try? Really, why bother? If all she has to do is play the mummy card, why bother?
Oh yeah? You think you work hard, well, I’m a mum. I work harder than you. I do this terribly important job that is totally unrecognized.
I am small and petty. I want to point out that I too pushed a baby out of my body. My thoughts, my memory, my sanity fled as my son died. It took me 3 years, but I recovered. And just what was your excuse again?
I want to scream, not just a bit. I want to scream that the work I do is important. That what I do ultimately matters. I want to scream that I, utterly without children, fulfill an important role in the world, that what I do has the power to change the world. It doesn’t matter that I pick up your slack. I do your extra work so you can do the school run, the doctors appointment. I take the meeting because your kid is sick and stay up late, get up early so you could be home for bath time.
And I am silent. Because I don’t feel like I can argue. How do I ever win against the holy St. Mother? It doesn’t matter how hard I work, you will always trump me with your motherhood I tune out of the conversation, retreating in my head to the list of things I have to do, thinking about what’s next.
A little bit of her voice always creeps in. Rummages around my frayed and worn edges, makes its self at home.