Goodbye Gray Box

Does this look natural to you?

I’m feeling feisty today, and while I may regret writing this rant, I can say with certainty: I’m looking forward to getting out of Dodge.

It will be a pleasure to say goodbye to the cube farm I’ve called home for the past 5 years. Who invented the cubicle, anyway? If he or she were alive today, I’m sure that person would be hunted down and taken hostage by the billions of employees who are forced to sit in a square box 40-plus hours a week.

If you haven’t had the pleasure of living in a cube farm, than you are among the fortunate few. Cubicles are the most unnatural work spaces ever created. All privacy is lost. Unless you’re wearing headphones and listening to Metallica, every conversation is an open forum.

And I don’t want my phone calls to be heard around the farm. To compensate, I make my personal calls behind closed doors, but when anyone outside of work phones, my voice drops five decibels and my responses are typically, “yes,” “no,” or “okay.” The husband almost always emails if he wants to chat, because he knows he’ll be talking to an automaton if he calls the office.

Cubicle living is not dissimilar to my freshman year in college, when I had no choice when it came to choosing roommates. Like them or not, they are yours to keep—day in and day out. And no matter how much your fellow cubies annoy you, farm living dictates you must maintain professionalism at all times.

Fortunately for me, my immediate cube mates are pleasant, quiet people, who enjoy stopping by from time to time and chatting about everything from American Idol to recipes. However, there are a few nearby cubies who will openly talk about a person, even if that person is obviously within earshot. I’ve kept my cubicle farm manners, and requested that said cubies stop by my desk, anytime, to discuss whatever’s on their mind.

This idea of openly conversing with a person about matters at hand is apparently a cubicle farm faux pas. I’ve learned that cubies prefer to a) email b) shout over the wall Wilson-style or c) phone. Talking face to face, it seems, is reserved for meetings only.

Can you imagine trying this method with children? Honey, don’t whine to me about your peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Just send me an email, and I’ll get you something else. Or sweetheart, I’m in the other room, give me a call when you’re ready to go potty.

Cube farm practices are so silly, but maybe these behaviors are the result of placing people in boxes all day. I hope someday, cubicles will become quaint relics of the past, but for now, I look forward to moving out of mine.

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Keep Calm and Carry On

My New Mantra

A responsible, young woman quits her job to pursue her dream of becoming a writer, all while raising two precocious toddlers. Sound like the plot to a Lifetime Original Movie? Not so.

Last week, I took the proverbial plunge and resigned from my job of five years. Am I crazy? Possibly. It’s not like opportunities pop up in Maine every day. Am I aware that the country remains in an economic downturn? Yes. Are my husband and I independently wealthy? Hell, no.

Despite the risks, i.e. my fears of living on the street, this decision feels right. For the first time since graduate school (pre-children), I can’t stop writing. And even though there are 3 million parenting blogs out there, I’m hoping I’ll have something useful to contribute—or at the very least, be somewhat entertaining.

My hopes were at once buoyed and dashed during a recent outing with the kids. Ted and I were taking the Saturday divide and conquer approach. He would stay home and clean the house (love him), and I would take the little ones to a strawberry festival. It was a beautiful day to be outdoors, especially after 3 weeks of rain. Lauren, Will and I arrived at the farm ready to scour the fields for berries.

We joined the troops of strawberry pickers, and while the two kids toddled behind me, baskets in hand, mouths stained red with fruit, I felt redeemed. We would no longer be limited to weekends for our excursions. With me free of the office, the kids and I could go on fun outings all the time.

But I was soon reminded of my maternity leave, when a perfect day can self-implode in a matter of minutes. After collecting our strawberries, we boarded a tractor to take us to the festival (mistake #1). Will clung to my neck like a koala bear, and an obnoxious cell-phone user wouldn’t make room for Lauren, even as I tried to hoist her up with one arm.

During the tractor ride, Lauren dropped her sippy cup and it rolled down the road, which caused copious amounts of tears and shouting, “My cup! My lovely pink cup!” And me, desperately trying to talk her down, promised we’d retrieve it once we left the festival.

After that, I took Lauren and Will to the children’s tent (mistake #2), where I stood in a face painting line for 20 minutes, holding my 30-pound boy, only to have him refuse when it was his turn.

The rest of the time in the tent was spent chasing one or the other to various activity tables, all while carrying a tiny bean sprout Lauren had planted, a series of paper cave paintings and two necklaces, plus a backpack full of supplies and one of Will’s boots.

I coaxed them out of the tent with the promise of strawberry shortcake. Lauren instantly dropped her $5 dessert to the ground, adding, “I don’t like this, it’s yucky.”  Will’s treat fell in his lap, which didn’t seem to bother him because he ate the rest with his bare hands.

And finally, when I dredged up the mental and physical ability to return to the tractor, I ran into my husband’s O.G. (old girlfriend). What were the strawberry gods trying to tell me? That I’d be crazy to want days like this? I knew full well that 80% of motherhood is surviving through the day—the other 20% alcohol. Okay, maybe 70/30, but who’s counting? Either way, I would have plenty to write about, and wasn’t that the point?

In the mean time, I’ll be savoring the next few weeks before I leave work. I’ll miss the important things, like uninterrupted morning coffee, shopping during my lunch hour, surfing the Internet and adult conversation. Other than that, I will try my best to keep calm and carry on—no matter what happens.

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Candidate for Idea of the Year

After months of struggle, I’ve found a way to put our crazy toddler mornings to rest. I reached my breaking point last week, after returning from a 4-day solo trip to New Jersey for my sister’s graduation. Time away from home weakens my resistance to whining, crying and quibbling over minor details. And our morning routine with Lauren encompasses all of the aforementioned challenges. Here’s a typical conversation:

Ted: Which shirt would you like to wear? The striped one or the pink one?

Lauren: I want the pink!

Ted, offers her the pink shirt.

Lauren (collapsing to the floor):

Nooooo, Daddy! I want the stripes! The stripes!

And then typically even-tempered Will decides this game looks like fun. He refuses to wear his jacket. He refuses to put on his sneakers. He’s clearly enjoying saying no as often as he can. 

After ushering the children into the car, I ran back into the house for sippy cups. Upon return, I found Lauren in her car seat topless and whining, “I don’t want to go! I want to wear a dress!” Will stripped of his shoes and socks. And poor Ted, who’s in a new job, was on the verge of breakdown. The stress of getting out the door on time, coupled with the shrill screams coming from the back seat, had the man in a frenzy. He sped out of the driveway, dare I say, Dukes of Hazzard style, with Lauren hollering, “Wait! I want to kiss Mommy good-bye.”

This sad parting had me near tears. For a moment, I considered leaving my job. One less paycheck seemed like a better option than putting my family through this daily trauma. Then I had a brainstorm. Or a flash of common sense. It occurred to me that like myself, my daughter doesn’t want to be rushed. I decided we would wake her a half-hour earlier, so she can spend time luxuriating on the couch, taking in a little Caillou, sipping milk and eating dry cereal.

And after a week long test, this new routine is working. After her half- hour of “me” time, she does almost everything we ask without argument. There’s still a bit of whining, but hey, she is 3.

In the mean time, with everything going so smoothly, Ted said that waking Lauren up earlier is candidate for Idea of the Year. Now if only I could find a way to spend more time on the couch in my pajamas.

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