“You’re no fun,” says Munchkin, tears in his eyes. And while it’s not news to me, this time, man, it hits a nerve.
I’m at my office computer, glued to the very same screen I’m glued to now. He has come skipping in to talk about Water Day at his school. He’s got his swim shorts and UV-protective shirt on. He’s jazzed about messing about with hoses and buckets and mud, and he wants to share it.
I, on the other hand, barely glance in his direction and just utter “Uh-huh”, “Mmm” and a mock-excited “I know!”
Then his head falls into his hands and he says it: “You’re no fun, even on water day.”
I stop, take him onto my lap, kiss him and tell him: “You’re right. I have to work on that, don’t I?”
I love my work. I feel privileged to be able to do what I do. Journalism and P.R. feed my creative, curious, people-loving, personality perfectly. But sometimes I love it too much. I was brought up in a household with high work standards and strong work ethics. My brother and I had part-time jobs from our mid teens. We picked fruit for extra pocket money (so did our parents) from an early age. I am grateful for that. Hard graft is a beautiful thing, and I want my kids to think the same. But it’s a double-edged sword when you don’t know when to stop. A therapist told me I treat myself like a factory. She may be right.
Now, thanks to my iPhone, I find it hard to escape work. I am ‘on’ 24/7. I can check emails and update the four (yeh, count ‘em) Facebook pages I am in charge of any time I want. I can think of a feature idea and go to Google to start researching it that very second. Smart phones prompted a conversation last night among a few of us mothers. We shared tips on how to separate work from home, how to take time answering an email or text message from your boss without them thinking you were a slacker. Because if you offer yourself 24/7, like I do, then that’s what’s expected of you.
Changes are afoot for me. I am working my notice at a job I still love and adore. I truly am ambivalent about leaving. But between that and the increasing success of 3 Story Magazine, other freelance commitments and a house to run, something had to give. It seemed that I turned around and suddenly Sweetpea was almost a teenager, and Munchkin was about to wrap up kindergarten, and where did that time go? Once, I asked my Gran Drummond what was her biggest regret. The last few years of her life, we exchanged long, ruminating letters, mostly consisting of me asking for her memories and advice. This was a woman with a brilliant brain, who ran a business, was comfortable financially, owned some gorgeous properties in her lifetime, and traveled. What did she regret? “That I didn’t spend more time with my children.” Work can be wonderful, she said, but you mustn’t let it take over.
That’s hard for me, seeing as work is a huge part of my identity. But I’d rather be remembered as the mum who made her little boy giggle and danced with her daughter, than the mum glued to her phone.
