Part Time Lover

In my five-plus years as a working mom, I've run in to her from time to time. And even when I like her, I always sort of hate her. You know... THAT woman. The one that has managed to score the most elusive, highly-coveted position in corporate America: The flexible work arrangement. The part time job.

You've met her, haven't you? The one who's managed to keep one hand firmly planted on the upper rungs of the corporate ladder while wrangling a kid (or two, or three) with the other? The one who canoodles with clients over lunch on Thursdays and consorts with farmer's market vendors on Fridays? The one who's figured out a way to stomach a pay cut without resorting to pleather shoes or giving up organic nonfat lattes? The one who makes it look OH-SO-EASY?

(It probably doesn't help that she is usually also unnaturally thin with extraordinarily cooperative hair. WHAT GIVES, ROBOT LADY?)

For a long time, I have assumed she had something I didn't. Some boring but exceedingly rich Wall Street-type husband. A trust fund. An Internet porn side gig. Or maybe just an extra maternal chromosome that made being away from her child ALL DAY unbearable.

Then on one solitary, soul-searching six-hour car drive, it occurred to me that maybe she DID, in fact, have something I didn't have: The gumption to figure out how to make it work, create a plan and then just ASK for it.

HUH.

Well, what do you know? That actually worked.

A few months later, I AM her. I still have the job I love, but on a slightly reduced schedule. I still have great benefits and a salary we can live on, with a few budgetary tweaks (like cutting back on childcare costs, as opposed to say, great shoes or lattes.) But now I can ALSO pick my son up from school...make dinner (really!) and consume it at an actual table with the rest of my family...take the dog for a long evening walk so she'll wear out and stop that damn barking...maybe even catch a few excessively bad reality TV shows without felling th eneed to manically fast forward through every commerical. All in a day's "work."

Three days into my new schedule, I can tell it won't be as easy as SHE made it look. Already, I'm mourning that purchase I probably won't be able to make. Already, I'm bending those boundaries and agreeing to work a little later, a little longer, than I probably should.

But then I think about the sleeping boy upstairs who ran to greet me at the end of his school day. And then I scan the three dirty lasagna dishes scattered across the dining room table and smile at how I tricked Jack into eating his green beans tonight. Then I reach down to pet Frankie, wiped after our turn around the block and snoring away at my side. And then I look at Ben's face and read the relief written all over it. That's when I know for sure. It was the right thing to do, and the right time to do it. And heck, it seems to be WORKING.

I feel like I've won the lottery. I AM THAT WOMAN.

Except for the part about being unnaturally thing with extraordinarily cooperative hair.

Hmmm...maybe I should ask for THAT next!