The Real World

Job hunting. Every once in awhile, I get fed up with the ebbs and flows of freelancing, and decide to start looking for full-time jobs. This behavior is typically inspired by anxiety over money, sudden panic over the thought that we might never have enough to get out of an apartment, and, being a problem-solver rather than sit-and-sulk kind of person, the resulting decision that I need to be pulling more weight.

I grew up watching my mother work full-time while raising the five of us, so I took for granted the fact that I'd be juggling career and motherhood as well. Once I had my boys, I didn't experience that which I've heard other mothers mention - a feeling that I didn't need to be doing anything else to feel fulfilled, purposeful, that I was stretched to the max with my new role alone. I got married very young, so I didn't have the luxury of relinquishing earning potential - but more than that, I still felt the need to be exercising my creative juices in order to feel, here's that word again, fulfilled.

Problem was, when I had my boys, I DID experience something else I've heard other mothers mention - the feeling that I really didn't want to be physically away from my kids for longer than, say, two or three hours at a time. When they were younger, it was more like one hour. I was addicted to their presence, if not to the glamour of changing diapers, then certainly to the locking of eyes, meshing of souls that would take place when I nursed or rocked them to sleep. To watching them growing sleepier and sleepier, their eyelids drooping but fighting to stay open, until I could close them myself with the lightest brush of my fingertips.

I didn't want to miss any of that. Cliche, perhaps. But cliche for a reason.

But I still wanted to work when they were sleeping, when they were gurgling happily in the exersaucer. I wasn't going to watch daytime TV, and, let's be honest, I wasn't going to take a nap.

Thus was born the title of "freelancer." Work for yourself, charge what you want, work the hours that fit your schedule, not the other way around. Do it at home, with your kid right next to you. Take your laptop on vacations to visit the grandparents. No being a gimp to a boss you don't respect, no sitting idly in a cubicle somewhere feeling utterly bored, like your skills weren't being utilized, the way my friends complained.

The problem with being an independent contractor is that your income is only what you make of it - meaning, if you don't aggressively seek out new jobs and clients, they don't just find you. You can rely on a certain amount of word of mouth in your favor, and, if you do your job well, a certain amount of repeat business. But if you really want to make money, you've got to Be! Aggressive! Be! Be! Ag-gressive!

Which can Be! Be! Exhausting! And terrifying. After all, when you put yourself out there, when you present something you've created, your artwork, to the world - it's hard to separate yourself from the experience. It's hard to think of it as Just Work. It's like putting your whole being on display, for judgment, critique, approval. To get design jobs, you've gotta open yourself up to that. You need to be confident enough to talk yourself up, to be your own cheerleader, whether you feel it or not. Parenting requires a certain level of humility as it is - I'm not always in the mood to risk extra beatings.

So when things get particularly slow, my first response is often to convince myself that I can't afford to keep working from home, I should suck it up and find a full-time job with a set salary that I can count on. I hit Monster and apply for jobs for which I'm overqualified, in neighborhoods I can't logically commute to, with shit salaries if you were to calculate the hourly rate they actually worked out to be, because I'm used to measuring my self-worth by the hourly rate I can manage to command. Sick, I know.

Sometimes I get interviews, which I inevitably blow, I think because I inevitably mention my kids. Bottom-line: not many employers are looking to hire someone who feels equally committed elsewhere - like to their babies. At least that's what my gut tells me.

It could be I just suck at interviews. Y says I can, at times, give off the impression that I think I'm too good for a lot of these jobs, these people, who run corporate America. He's not criticizing - he feels the same way. But he thinks that it probably seeps into my interviews, that I'm only indulging them by answering mundane and idiotic questions, like what is my biggest weakness ("Why, that I'm too much of a perfectionist, of course!" *bat eyelashes here*), that I refuse to kiss ass.

I'm not saying he's wrong.

The other day, Y and I had a Big Talk about our finances, our budget. Our intentions to really try and save money, for the first time in our lives. Until now, we told ourselves we simply weren't able. Now, if we're careful, we can put away a few dollars each month. If we're careful, and if I work.

Ariel is going to start attending Elan's nursery school this Fall, which will leave me plenty of time each day to get back to the grind. Which means I need to find clients to fill that time. Which, really, I know how to do - I've done it for the past five years.

But for the past few weeks, I haven't been working at all. I've had both kids home with me, and there hasn't been a moment to spare for anything else. RookieMoms is a great site, full of ideas and activities to do on a daily basis when raising your kids, to keep stimulated on an adult level. Had I not taken this month off, I don't think I'd have fully understood WHY you'd need structured activities, and structured breaks, as a stay-at-home-Mom. I'd have thought it was just fun.

I get it now, though. It's because otherwise, playing kid ALL the time, while nice for the child, can get seriously boring for the parent.

Like I said, I won't be hard-pressed to start working my brain again, in addition to kicking a soccer ball around the park in 100-degree heat.

But I guess I'm feeling rusty, nervous about getting back in the swing of things, though I am excited to. This week, the nerves turned into panic. The panic turned into one of my old standbys - the full-time job search.

Recently, I've been doubting the long-term viability of the whole graphic design thing, leaning more towards - if you can believe it - writing. Why do we choose a major in college when we are too young to know what it is we really want to do with our lives? Only to face the quarter-life crisis of trying to decide what it is we are really best at, what it is we're meant to be doing? I know I'm not alone in this.

Getting writing jobs ain't easy. Methinks a Masters in Journalism would help, which, unfortunately, I lack. So, I figured, I'd look for design jobs at newspapers and magazines - at least that way I'd be around the written word. I found an opening at the largest local Beverly Hills newspaper and sent off a kick-ass cover letter. Granted, it was more production art than real design work, but the salary wasn't bad, and like I said, the thought of working at a newspaper was undeniably appealing.

I got a strangely formal email back a few hours later from the main publisher, stating that if I wished to be considered for the job, I should call a certain someone whom we'll call Shirley Dorn, to arrange an interview. A response the same day. Hooray!

I locked myself in the bathroom so my kids wouldn't be able to interrupt, and dialed the Beverly Hills phone number. A female voice answered, already sounding annoyed.

"Hi, I'm looking for Shirley Dorn?"

"Speaking."

"Oh, um, hello. My name is Margo and I'm calling to arrange an interview for the production artist position? I was told to call you?"

I could HEAR this woman roll her eyes, the boredom in her voice palpable. "Yeah, can you come Thursday afternoon?"

I hesitated. Best just to be honest, I decided. After all, I didn't NEED this job, and already I wasn't sure I wanted to work for this person.

"I'm not sure I have babysitting then. See, my kids aren't back in school yet."

Pause.

Then Shirley spoke, in the most condescending of tones: "And you don't think that's going to be a problem with this job?"

"Well, they start school next week!" I replied, surprised.

"Yes, well, you think you could handle 8:30 in the morning until, sometimes, very late in the evenings, when you have...kids?"
She spoke that last word the way most people talk about household pests like mice or roaches. With disgust.

She took my moment's shocked hesitation as a sign of confusion. Or weakness.

"You don't think that kind of schedule could be a problem?" She repeated thickly for emphasis, clearly growing more and more bored with each passing second that I tested her patience. I imagined her glancing at her watch.

"Well, I didn't know anything about the job schedule," I answered lamely. "It could very well be a problem. None of the details were mentioned in the ad."

"This is a newspaper," Shirley said shortly. "And it's a production job. When the paper needs to come out, you have to work as long as it takes to get it ready. Period."

I was done with this woman. Hated her. Period.

"Do you think it's still worth an interview?" I asked, forcing equivocal boredom into my voice.

"Probably not."

Seriously, I thought. Don't bother sugar-coating anything for my sake. Tell me how you really feel!

Well, then.

"Thanks for your time." I clicked the line dead before she could beat me to the punch.

Okay. Maybe I hadn't thought the newspaper thing through that carefully. Maybe I could have guessed that the hours would be too strenuous for a young mom. Maybe I could have guessed that Beverly Hills, in general, would pack too much snobbery for my Midwestern likings. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything about my kids, if I wanted the job.

Which makes me wonder if I had really wanted the job. I mean, I'm not normally loose-lipped to the point of self-sabotage. I don't get nervous on the phone with strangers and lose my ability to think clearly, to choose my words carefully.

If I'm going to get a full-time job, I concluded, it's going to be under the clear understanding that I have kids, and I'm going to behave as such.

Realistic, or not.

I stood in the bathroom, leaning against the sink, the cordless phone trembling. I looked at it for a shell-shocked second before processing the fact that it was my hand that was shaking, and not out of disappointment or humiliation, though Shirley had definitely done her best, intentionally or not, to humiliate me.

It shook out of anger. And a touch of relief.

Clarity dawned and I devised several plans to generate freelance leads, once the kids are back in school. It didn't seem so scary anymore. In fact, it seemed a hell of a lot less intimidating than owning up to the Shirley Dorns of the world.

Anyway, I comforted myself, I doubted I could sneak any blogging in under her regime.