Something's gotta give...

...Unfortunately, it appears to be my blogs. And my housework. Oh, and my exercise. Smoking, I still have time for.

As most of you are aware, I just went back to work as a therapist after taking two years off to be with my son. And by taking two years off I mean worked as a nanny for three kids plus my son. This was grueling work in the most rote of ways: endless diapers and games of hide-and-seek, constant searching for sippies and blankies and teddy bears, holding two and sometimes three babies in my arms, sending kids to time outs and rushing them to toilets... It was nonstop, all day long. But it worked for Jack and me. It allowed us to be together and gave him some kids to play with and learn from. And it allowed me to take every Wednesday off to be alone, to recoup on the beach or on my couch with a book, Jack safely at Grandma's or Aunt Lisa's or Aunt Mirna's.

By February, however, I began to hate all things toddler and the family (either sensing this in me or by a random stroke of good timing) decided to place their kiddos into preschool. I was out of a job. It was time for me to re-enter the work force, to place all of my fingerpaint-stained and macaroni-and-cheese tinted clothing in the dumpster, put on some heels and head into the adult world.

Somehow, and like it always does, everything came together. I found a job and a daycare that I felt good about and have somehow transitioned from Stay-At-Home-Mom to Working Mom. Jack and I have somewhat created a new routine to our lives: wake up at 6:00am, snuggle in the bed for a half hour, try to get showered, dressed, and coifed while Jack is begging to be held all morning, eat breakfast, pack a lunch, drive through Starbucks for my caffeine fix, and arrive at day care by 8:30. I usually stay for about ten minutes and get him acclimated to his day at Chrissy's, a mom who just recently decided to create a daycare in her home so that she could be with her two kids.

I spend the day in one-hour therapy sessions with children and families whose lives are incredibly challenging and complex. It's good work and I love it and I feel honored to be a part of their lives in this sacred, special way. I love how focused each session is, how still and clear and connected I feel throughout the day. I am doing what I love and this is a good, good thing.

By the time Jack and I usually arrive back home, it's after six. This is where my day goes to hell. I would love to just come to our home, fix us some dinner, and play with my son on the floor until bedtime. I would love to just relax with him, maybe walk to the park or play in our back yard. But the moment I come home, my second job begins. I am an apartment manager.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck goddamn fuck fuck fuck. I hate this cock-sucking job so goddamn much. FUCK. Fuck.

Every night I come home and it's phone calls adn people at my door, complaining about the maintenance guys or the pool filter or yelling at me because I charged them a late fee because they didn't pay their rent. They're upset with their neighbors or with the guy who parked in their space. They want to know if they can change apartments. Their garbage disposal isn't working and it's the seventh time it's broken since they moved in. And they want me to come take a look at it.

I get phone calls at 3 am. The roof is leaking. The couple in 205 is fighting. There's a possum in the backyard. I get strangers at my door wanting to come in and use the bathroom. I have old ladies who call me and can't hear me on the phone, or worse: they want to tell me all about their most recent surgery. I have tenants who want new carpet because "I've lived here for four years." I have tenants who constantly lock themselves out. I have tenants who find the most random shit to be upset about: the spiders in the palm trees outside, the noisiness of the garbage truck, the postman not coming on time.

And then there's Carlos. My maintenance guy. FUCK SHIT GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKER. He's the owner's brother-in-law, which means that I can't fire him. Which I would have done two years ago. Because he's a cocksucker. The tenants are always infuriated with him because he'll take three weeks to respond to their maintenance request, then forget to come when he said he would, and then do a shitty job when he finally does make it over here. And who are the tenants complaining to the whole time? Yup! Me! Yippee!

So, going home is never what I want it to be. And after getting bitched at by a tenant for not taking care of them, the sound of Jack's whine is enough to send me through the roof. And poor Jack... it's SO not his fault but he gets the brunt of my frustration. I hate that I am this person when I'm at home: bitchy, annoyed, frustrated. Jack deserves more. I deserve more. I would SO drop this job if I could afford to. But, it pays the rent (literally) and until I marry a man solely for his money I'm stuck here.

Something's gotta give. We can't live like this. I won't live like this.