Back in the day, when we assumed we would conceive naturally, efficiently, often and with good results, I started wondering what my workplace would be like when I was a mother.
Suffice it to say the prospects were so unfavorable that we moved this summer and I switched companies. Every choice has pros and cons, and this job was no different: better hours, worse workload, less pay (not a lot less, but it wasn’t a raise), and in theory less prestige, since it is a smaller company.
Now in reality, I’m a bit of a standout character working on a product that’s winning some acclaim in my industry, so the prestige part has actually been better.
That said, there are always the downsides you can’t predict. And with this job, they are many.
I haven’t worked in a lot of jobs, but I’ve worked for and with a lot of people. Yet some of the criticism of my work I’m currently receiving is the first I’ve ever heard.
“Difficult to work with.” “A poor communicator.” “Disorganized.”**
Amazingly, it seems to be coming from a very limited number of people. And it’s put me on edge because I don’t think it’s true. Which makes it hard to fix — if it’s not broken, you’re going to have a tough time repairing it.
Getting back to my main point. I think Aunt Flo is due to arrive any day now, and I’ve got cramps the likes of which I haven’t had in years. As in, “if I don’t sit down now I may black out cramps.”
So I contacted my boss last night and said I would be working from home today. I cannot afford to take another sick day because if this is AF, we are moving on to IVF and I will need all the days I can get.
With as technologically sound and advanced as my employer is, it amazes me that “working from home” still translates as “taking the day off to eat creme pies while I get a mani/pedi.”
You see, I am young and she is old and angry. And that makes me untrustworthy.
No, she hasn’t said as much yet, but I’m pretty sure I’m due for a stern lecture when I get to work tomorrow. The real kicker is that I’ve gotten more done today than I could have possibly done in the office — no one bothered me (okay, the cat did jump on the keyboard while I was typing an e-mail and it fired prematurely), I didn’t have to take an hour for lunch (what with the fridge right there), and all the while I’ve been able to drown my sorrows in a glass of wine, wrapped on the couch with my heating pad.
So while a good bit of my melancholy is just PMS waiting to flower, I can’t help but think I cannot stay with this employer even if we can’t make aliyah. Imagine if I had a baby to care for! Or if I got put on bed rest! There is no future in this job, and I’m really bummed that I’m finding myself in the same predicament less than a year after we moved.
** For those of you who think the disorganized portion may be just, given my dismal lack of housecleaning, I assure you I am insanely organized at work. As in like scary OCD, organized. A past co-worker once noted to my supervisor: “You might want to send her to see someone. I don’t think that’s normal.”