A letter of resignation


Look, I’ve had some hard jobs. I’ve worked technical support for a school district with over 100,000 users and only TWELVE support specialist. I’ve answered, “I don’t know my email password” and “How do I change my desktop picture?” more times than I care to confess. It took patience. Not as much patience as the time I worked in a daycare with a class of eight two year olds and only ONE of me all stuffed in a twelve-by-twelve room for nine hours a day. I thought that was really hard at the time. But this job? This parenting gig? It’s so. much. harder.

I don’t want to be the mom with the crazy hair and the furrowed brow and the flames shooting out her nose. I don’t want to be the women with the premature gray hairs, the lines etching on her eyes, the drool and glazed over wistful look during the four minutes of quiet each day. I want to be happy. I want to enjoy my children’s youth. I want to be able to honestly say “It’s hard, sure, but…” Right now? All I can say is “it’s hard.” There is no but.

And there’s always a but.

The constant arguing. The battles. The tiniest detail of the day that blows up in to the largest issue. “I WANT TO PUT THE TOILET SEAT UP BY. MY. SELF.” The meltdown that follows. The fact that it’s my child who can’t share. My child who is laying on the grass screaming. My child. Lemme say that again. My. Child.

Half the time I can’t figure out how it’s possible I even have children at all. I remember uttering “no, we don’t need a condom” once. And blamo! Three years later we will never need a condom again. Life is cruel that way.

So, if this job came with vacation maybe I’d have signed up. If there were sick days, sure. If there was a lovely pay increase or a bonus check or some compensation, I’d be fine. But there’s not. So, I resign. I’ll have my desk cleared out by morning. And I’m sure you’ll have a replacement before my foot hits the doorstep.

What’s that? You drive a hard bargain. Ok, well, I’ll stay. But let’s work on that vacation and yearly bonus, ok?