In the last month, I’ve worked in a hospital room, at my mother’s kitchen table, from a balcony overlooking a Mexican beach, and in my own living room. My work is location independent, which means I’m free of the confines of a cubicle. It also means I don’t have co-workers in the traditional sense. Sometimes this blows. But as I’ve learned in the face of heartache and disaster over the last few weeks, I am not alone. Far from it, in fact.
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As I write this, my husband is at the local grocery store stocking up on D batteries and - well, I don’t know what else he’s hoping to buy. My plans for the day included unpacking from two weeks of suitcase living and getting caught up on work. It hadn’t occurred to me to prepare for Hurricane Sandy, despite having known about the storms impending arrival in my state for days.

In my defense, I live in Western Pennsylvania and most of the weather news has been focused on the East Coast. As a new Pittsburgh resident, I’m still a little unfamiliar with my place in the geographical scheme of things, but I know that Philadelphia is about a six hour drive from me. I assumed that meant we were just going to get some rain and maybe a little wind. I told the kids to wear their winter coats and take umbrellas to school.

According to Twitter, Allegheny County officials (the ones I’m supposed to be listening to) have declared a state of emergency and warned residents to prepare for 72 hours without power. Oops. Off my husband goes to get batteries.

It’s safe to say that I do not plan well for emergencies.
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I became a grown up on Thursday, October 18, 2012, at about six thirty in the evening.

I’m 32 years old and I have two children, including one in middle school. I’ve been married for over a decade. I’ve bought and sold three homes, paid off two car loans and purchased an appropriate amount of life insurance. None of those adult milestones, however, prepared me for the rapid aging I experienced last week when my stepdad died.
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I was fired last night.

Well, fired doesn’t seem like the most fitting word since I hadn’t been getting paid consistently for about a year; I received an email relieving me of my duties. According to the email, the organization is looking to tighten their belts and wants to streamline things moving forward; the move will make it easier for everyone (else) to get paid in the future.

I can’t shake the feeling that the real reason I was let go - or at least a mitigating factor - is because I was never all in on working for free. Strangely, this isn’t the first time this has happened to me.

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Wednesday, October 10th is World Mental Health Day, and this year’s theme is depression. I suffer from depression, and it is one of the reasons I have chosen to work for myself for the last few years. It’s also one of the reasons that working for myself can be a very, very bad thing.

The symptoms of my depression are pretty typical. I lose interest, lack motivation, and crave sleep. When my illness is at its worse, this can go on for days. It’s tough to be a good employee if you can’t get out of bed for a week.

It’s also tough to force yourself to get out of bed - or leave the house - when you don’t have to.
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Over at The Cornered Office, Mir recently wrote about healthy boundaries for a mentoring relationship. Her post was, in part, a response to another article on Penelope Trunk’s blog about what good mentoring looks like. While I was intrigued by the ideas put forth in both essays, my strongest reaction was resentment.

I am resentful when I hear other women talk about mentors because I’ve never been able to enlist the help of one myself.
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A very strange thing happened in my life recently. I hesitate to tell you because I’m afraid that you’ll hate me. I hate me a little. Of course if I don’t tell you, this post goes nowhere fast, so…

I have free time.

In fact, I have quite a bit of free time. I’ve found myself with entire afternoons free of obligation and no unfinished to-do list muddying the waters.

It’s strange. Foreign even. The bulk of what I’ve written here at Work It, Mom! over the last few years has been about my never-ending struggle to get more done in less time. In fact, I just wrote two weeks ago about whether or not it was even possible (or necessary) to achieve a sufficient level of productivity! And then, all of a sudden, I was meeting deadlines, zeroing out my inbox, working on craft projects, volunteering at my kids’ school and still having time to wander around a botanical garden by myself.

What happened?
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I’m usually proud to say that I get the temporary nature of life. Like, annoyingly proud.

When the road gets rough, I am the first to wisely counsel everyone that “this, too, shall pass.” I advise my loved ones to meditate so that they can let go of “future thinking” and stop “borrowing pain from tomorrow.” In an interesting turn of events, however, I’ve found that my emphasis on the impermanence of life has actually started to interfere with my ability to fully embrace the present.

That’s what smug enlightenment will get you.
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I am in a constant struggle to squeeze more productivity out of my day. More accurately, I am in a constant struggle to not be angry with or disappointed in myself for not being able to do as much as I think I should. Long time readers here will not be surprised by this - or to know that I have once again decided to try and do something about it - but whenever I mention my attempts to increase productivity, I am met with a bit of push-back from trusted friends who ask, “what’s so great about productivity?”
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I confess that I’d put it off for far too long; I had a feeling the news would not be good once we went. Finally, just a few weeks after moving into our new home, I took both of my kids to the dentist. I got the news I’d been avoiding: my 12-year-old son needs braces.

Hearing the dentist say the words “orthodontist” and “as soon as possible” in the same sentence put a damper on my day. Having the receptionist request more than double what I’d budgeted for the visit (no, we don’t have dental insurance) solidified my bad mood and sent me into a momentary panic.
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