For the last…month? few months? as long as I can remember, I have been working at least 48 hours a week. This isn’t my choice; then again, it isn’t really forced overtime either. I work a job where I feel obligated to show up and cover shifts. If you called 911, you’d want a dispatcher to answer the phone, right?
Anyway, 48-hour weeks. And 60-hour weeks. Add to that my husband’s work schedule, the fact that I sleep during the day, errands, meetings, and whatnot, and I hardly ever see my husband or my baby!
One of these days, she’s going to get up and walk around and speak in full sentences, and I’ll be at work, worrying about which ambulance I should send to which call.
One of these days, my wonderful husband might run out of patience with me.
One of these days, the friendly banter with coworkers (whom I see more of than my own family) might turn into the dreaded “emotional affair,” followed by drama and soul-searching and drama and counseling and internal turmoil. And drama. Ugh.
Before any of that happens, I need some balance. I need to go home and stay there for a while. I need a few hours alone with Stephen so I can remember that we’re friends and lovers instead of just coworkers who work opposite shifts running a household. I need to play with my little Lizard, too.