Every time one door closes, another opens. It’s a pretty common (lame?) saying – in fact, I saw it on a church sign yesterday, just as it seemed to be at its most applicable to me.
On top of being a mother – which, if I understand correctly, is a job where you do very little but receive a great deal of appreciation (or was it the other way around? No. That is definitely the right order. That’s why I signed up for it, after all) – I am considering a handful of other possibilities to occupy myself after the move when I have that overwhelming amount of ‘free time’ I hear parents talking about so much (again, I think I’ve got that right. Parents are rarely busy, correct?).
There are a few writing avenues I would like to explore, and I’m also interested in getting to know the polar bear down the street on a personal level, for example. Lots of open doors.
But before I can get to those doors, I had to close another one.
Yesterday was my last day of work. I finished all my assigned tasks in the morning, and by early afternoon, I had written out a super-duper professional letters of login information and pointers to my replacement, who I assume actually exists and will start in the near future, despite hearing very little from my superiors to support the theory.
Once that was all done, I packed up all my personal affects, cleared the browsing history on my computer (no one needs to know how many cute puppy videos I watch in a day), got a few last-minute belly rubs from a couple women in the office, and ducked out as quietly as I could.
I haven’t had a lot of time to really reflect on my three-year career, but I will tell you this; that door is closed rather firmly. As sure as I am that there’s a mole on the back of my right hand and that the Toronto Maple Leafs will not win the Stanley Cup next year, I know I will not return to that same position in that same capacity.
That is, in part, due to the soul-draining energy required to do the job well.
On a less dramatic note, though, it’s because of Little Parasite. Because here’s the other thing I know; there’s an opening in Cochrane for my exact position that I’m fairly certain I could get hired for simply by walking in the front door (because they’re desperate, not because I’m that good).
But again, that door is closed. LP will change things, and I won’t be able to handle the exact position I had here.
Or, as my husband so delicately put it: “I gave you a career-ending injury.”