Working (Myself) Stiff

I have gotten soft. In my new career as a stay-at-home dad, I've apparently become unable to handle a nine-to-five job (or a seven-to-five, as it's been the past few days...keep reading, you'll understand in a moment).

This week, I've been in Atlanta working at my very part-time job, supervising a project (with six temp workers) that my boss didn't want to handle. This is a project I've helped to complete innumerable times before myself, so I had no doubts about running the show, so to speak. Keep in mind, also, that I worked this same job, in this same department, for this same company from 1995 until 2000, when I followed Stacey to Tuscaloosa, Alabama like a lost puppy. I've worked for them as a "casual" temp ever since, whenever I was in town, or needed some extra cash. To say I'm familiar with the ins and outs of this employment (partially a shipping/receiving job, partially paperwork) would be an insulting understatement. Been there done that.

But, these past few days, I come home (well, to my Mom's house, at least) almost limping because my feet and legs are so tired. The recent uptick in the thermometer hasn't helped much, because warm weather isn't exactly my favorite climate. Tonight, my head was throbbing so hard, I glanced in the mirror half-expecting to see blood spurting out of my head somewhere.

As much noise as I've heard about raising kids being the toughest job in the world, I must confess that I've found many more difficult occupations in my life — or ones I liked least, I should say.