Entries Tagged '2009's Resolutions' ↓

Life is too real lately.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking for granted what I’ve got: a smart, though somewhat crazed, beautiful little girl; days to spend with her; good friends, who are like family. I’ve got it all – all I could ask for really – except for stability.

For the past nearly two years, I’ve had a cushion. When The Ex and I split, making first informal arrangements (then legal ones) for monthly support, I could breathe a huge sigh of relief. I dug in my heels and asked, hell, I bartered, for exactly an amount I’d need to be able to more than scrape by, with other forms of assistance. Enough so that I didn’t have to worry about paying the bills, if I was keeping my head screwed on right. He agreed.

It’s been an easy couple of years, financially, with only the two of us to worry about. Rent, utilities and groceries were the main concerns. People will always hand off kids’ clothes, regardless of our need for them; diapers always go on sale just as we needed them and had a mega-super-fabulous-deal coupon; we learned to do without certain things, like expensive beauty stuff and name-brand paper towels. I managed to keep up an expensive tobacco, caffeine and occasional-binge-drinking habit. (I use the word binge loosely, for the record.)

This is coming to an end, soon.

In fact, it seems like everything is coming to an end, soon. Too much change, too fast, all within the same six weeks or so.

In less than seven weeks I’ll be packing for the BlogHer conference, thanks to the sponsors in my footer – I don’t have the whole thing paid for, but my leftover expenses are a lot smaller now than they were. I don’t travel for a reason and I don’t shop at certain supermarkets for the same – I can’t handle crowds all that well. But mind over matter, I will have fun. Something I need to expend more effort searching for.

When I get home from BlogHer, it’ll be time to throw Isobel’s third birthday party. That’s a post unto itself.

In July, Isobel will be done with daycare for a month. The woman that takes care of her is going home with her family for the entire month of July. When they’re back in August, Isobel will likely resume her two mornings a week in the woman’s care, but the damage will have been done. I’ll have spent July scrambling to fit in 12 hours of work where there is no longer allotted time for it.

In August, The Ex and I agreed to renegotiate our support agreement. Meaning that logistically, I could have half the support that I receive now. It’s still a lot, but it wouldn’t be enough if I wasn’t making enough.

At the end of August, I’ll have to decide if we’re staying in this apartment, or giving notice to move to a larger, (and 99% likely) more expensive place. I don’t want to leave this neighbourhood, but part of me really quests for a basement suite or duplex that needs some fixing up that we’re allowed to do. With a stretch of back-, side- or front-yard, for her to leave crap all over that I can step on. For a dog or a cat. For my own bedroom. But, money is the biggest problem, as I’m honestly living in the best neighbourhood I know of, with the closest amenities, for the cheapest price. Moving will cost more than we’ll see as a reward – for a little while. But it would sure be nice to live in a space bigger than half the size of the first place I ever rented on my own when I was 15 years old.

During that same move-or-stay time, Isobel’ll start preschool. Financially, that’s not a concern because the government is real nice to single moms with low incomes when it comes to childcare. What is a concern is that right now, she’s signed up for two afternoons a week and we’re awaiting room in the five-mornings camp. That could happen by September, it could happen in the winter. I don’t know. If I keep her in just the afternoons, twice a week, that’s virtually replacing the childcare I’m used to her having now and paying $300 a month for – for free. Meaning I could still possibly do the twice-a-week daycare deal, too, since it’s the same amount of money.

This is all happening between July 23rd and September 6th. I’m freaking the fuck out.

I also have a new writing job and another coming up soon that, at the moment, are unpaid. They have awesome potential and if successful, will mean a lot to my resume. I also have a few websites to design – again, resume fodder (and, well, just fun). I’m also working on an ebook series. Mentally formulating what my portfolio and another domain will look like, considering learning Photoshop, still sitting on three different CSS texts, have the pre-existing two paying blog jobs, a need to shower and brush my teeth and am jonseing for a boyfriend.

Life is fucking fabulous, y’all.

I’m so scared that I’m going to crash and burn, and take Isobel down with me. I don’t know if ever before I’ve ever wanted to be taken care of so much. I don’t know if my current stress level will even let me allow someone to take care of me. I don’t know how to make it all better, besides just shutting up and doing shit.

So, these 900-something words are basically to say: I have a lot of stuff to deal with, I’m feeling like I’m going to drown, and instead of hiding and backing away from it all, I’m strapping on my shit-kicking boots and getting sweaty.

If you’ve sat and pondered what you’ll be when you grow up as many times as I have, then you’ve changed college majors a few times, signed up for and dropped several classes and picked up a wealth of books from the local big box retailer that are still sitting on your shelf, waiting to be absorbed.

If you’re as prone to maniacal planning as I am, you’ve drafted your entire course-load for undergraduate, masters and doctorate degrees, down to off-the-top-of-your-head notes of thesis topics and resources to look into. Every single time that major in college changed. Or could have. At some point, you’ve owned lists and lists, and possibly considered a book of lists, with a master list of all the lists within said book of lists.

All because you were trying to decide what to be when you grew up.

I’ve wanted to be everything under the sun, from a pediatric oncologist to a pharmacy technician, a writer to a librarian, a cousellor to a bartender. I was going to get anorexic kids healthy, help people work the 12-steps and at the end of the day, design an entire bridal collection. Then I’d bake, frost and deliver the wedding cakes to go with. All while penning the latest and greatest coming-of-age-in-a-dark-and-stormy-way novel.

I could do anything, my brain and mania told me.

I was exhausted from all of the maybe I should be this when I grow ups. Because I couldn’t choose just one thing and stick to it. I couldn’t commit to a life, or some chunk of one, being X, when I could also be Y, Z, 0001 and a naughty nurse.

So, somewhere along the way, I decided, accidentally, to never grow up.

I schlepped from job to job, never staying long, always being promoted and excelling until I didn’t anymore. I moved into new areas of expertise as often as Kirsty Alley calls herself fat. Each job increased my confidence more – if I could do this and do it well, then I could do that – and each industry further heightened my self-esteem.

Make no mistake, I can think I look like a troll, but I know that I’m a fucking asset to a company. I own that shit, immediately upon walking in the door, make it my bitch, put it on a leash and tell it to be quiet unless spoken to. Then I break up with it on a post-it.

At this point, I’ve had over 20 jobs, most of them different from the ones before. And it’s never bothered me.

Ahem.

Only recently, as insomnia has crept back in and plans have gotten more grand and inspiring (I refuse to call this mania, this is merely spring cleaning. On a global level.), have I figured out that even though I’ve been living the life of a grown up in some facets, I still don’t feel like one. I still feel like that 19-year old, bouncing around from easy job to simple gig, making enough to pay the bills, buy smokes and ensure that my Starbucks addiction was quenched.

Except now, I have a kid. And I’m a single mom who currently gets a great hand-out from The Ex, but won’t for much longer.

Except now, I’m doing stuff that is pulling in money, like grown ups do.

Except now, I’m doing stuff that I want to do when I grow up. That happens to pull in some money.

Now, I’m thinking of entitling myself a freelance whatever.

I do a few different things very part time, each of them paying off in some way and value, and each of them could be a full-time career, if I was willing to commit to them. But there’s that broken brain vessel or whatever in me: I can’t commit to one thing. I can’t say “I will be a freelance writer” and the next thing you know, I’m pitching articles geared toward a specific genre, then writing them and getting paid, and going onto the next.

It’s too hard to do that – to wake up every morning and be one person. For me.

But I’ve still decided to grow up at the tender age of 28.

I’ve accepted that I’m not now, nor ever have been or ever might be, that person who picks a career and sticks to it. My perfect grown up existence might actually require me to have a few different careers going at a single time, or else, more bouncing around might take place. And yeah, I have a kid to support and model behaviour for – doesn’t make for a stable existence for her, if I’m constantly moving around.

Now, I blog professionally, outside of the Mommy is Moody compendium. I do bookkeeping and small business consulting. There’s more that I’d love to do – which is supposed to be the goal, right? Do what you love and it won’t seem like work, and all?

• I want to do what I do here everytime that I get the urge to change my look – tweak and customize themes.
• I want to do what I do for myself and friends – transform small apartments and spaces into clean, organized, livable solutions.
• I want to edit and write articles.
• I want to draft an actual, whole, entire novel and shop it around.
• I want to create ebooks. And recipe books.
• I want to get paid to travel and speak about something I’m apparently some form of expert on (which means I’d better get on mastering something, some time soon).
• I want to prepare meals made of simple, healthy foods for families-on-the-go.
• I want to have one hand in online marketing and another in event promotions.

I don’t want a fat wallet, the most beautiful home or 2.5 kids, a cat and dog. I don’t see myself shooting for the executive chair, or a sugar daddy. I’m not planning to ever drive, never mind a sleek, expensive, green-is-the-new-pink-is-the-new-black car.

I want to be busy being me – all 1013 facets of her. And I think the first step is building a career as a freelance whatever.