Maybe if I try…
Part of becoming a grown up is accepting the fact that you can no longer accomplish “anything you want to do.”
No, I’ll never explore Mars.
No, I’ll never discover that I’m actually a princess, mixed at birth.
No, I probably won’t even inherit millions of dollars from a dear uncle who I don’t recall ever meeting.
And apparently I won’t be able to work outside the home either.
I had argued this fact on two occasions without an actual trial:
- After my daughter’s birth, I stayed home, with the intent to return back to teaching after the kids were in school full time. Just after my son was born, I was diagnosed with MS. After much deliberation, it was decided (with nearly no input from me) that my career, for which I’d gone to undergraduate and graduate school, as well as countless workshops, seminars, and symposiums, blah, blah, blah was no longer an option. I would be unable to return. I mourned, but still upheld hope: maybe if I tried…
- During my divorce deliberations it was decided (with, once again, nearly no input from yours truly) that I COULD work; that I was just being lazy by saying otherwise. I rejoiced: maybe if I tried…
And try I did… I uploaded my resume to one of those online-job-recruitment-site-thingies on a Wednesday night, and my first call came in on Thursday morning. With no preparation at all, I started interviewing. I was not quite as nervous as I normally would be, because I wasn’t actually planning on going back until the following year, when my little one was in kindergarten. This was just practice, I told myself. I hadn’t even updated my certifications!