Today I got up early and applied the milking machine so that I could go out and work a shift at lovely boyfriends’ pub. It is great practice for when, much sooner than I would like, I shall have to return to the world of work. Before I went on my maternity leave I was working as a support worker for adults with autism.
I thought that this would be an incredibly rewarding job, and that I would come home each day feeling like I had made a difference in the world. I had spent the previous ten years being a manger of some sort, either in retail or the pub trade. I wanted to do something where I was not in charge, and that I could feel like I wasn’t all about sales targets, disciplinaries and stock takes.
I know that this is not really the done thing to say, but I am not a wonderful caring person after all. I may very well have been making a difference but at the end of my shifts I ran home, so pleased to have escaped the constant stream of fecal matter that my working day had consisted of. I really like the people that I supported, they are awesome. I liked going places with them and being part of their day. I didn’t mind the risk that they might whack you for no apparent reason. But I am not set up to be non phased by poo.
Strangely I don’t mind poo that comes out of creatures that I love. I happily follow the fluffy family around with a pocket full of poo bags, picking up the (sometimes double handers to manoeuver into a scented dwarf carrier bag , thanks Opie) brown presents that they leave for me. And then there is the cute little dribble face that I recently created. His poo is a runny yellow/green that has a strange acidic smell that kicks you in the back of the throat when you undo his nappy. And there is the undying fear that he will spray me like a broken sprinkler system if the slightest breeze catches his baby bits. But I do all of this happily ( if with a bit of gagging on occasion) I know that I will do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and that’s cool.
But I REALLY don’t want it to be my job anymore. I had a great time pulling pints and depositing roast dinners in front of diners this afternoon. But should I rush back to the pub trade because of one enjoyable afternoon? Do I want to reenter the world of drunk people, but not on the fun side of the bar? The fake laughing at the same lame jokes. Having to be nice to the horrific pervy guy that has ordered every drink from your boobs ( they can’t pull a pint mate, really, they can’t) Trying to explain that although they ordered a lager top, the lemonade does go in the bottom, it doesn’t change the taste and means that you don’t get froth everywhere.
I would love more than anything to be able to be at home with my mini man. I want to be there when he says his first word, takes his first step, throws his first tantrum. I don’t want to miss ANY of him. But life is not always fair and the bills will not pay themselves ( I have asked and asked them but they just sit there, inanimate, secretly laughing with their mates at the sorry state of my bank account) so I must find a way to generate money.
I had a money tree. That was a huge con, it just grew green rubbery leaves. Not a single unit of British currency came off it. Someone should contact trading standards.