It’s 6pm on a Wednesday and I’ve just finished work for the week. I don’t have the TFI Thursday or TFI Friday feeling that I’m used to. This is my new working pattern: but I’m a bit disorientated and feeling strangely neglectful.
Maybe it’ll be easier next week, when the bank holidays have worn off and Wednesday is the end of three days instead of two. Maybe it’ll be harder next week when the Christmas malaise has worn off and three days are as long as four.
I will now be at home for more of the week than I’m at work. I am lucky to be able to do this. I should be delighted: but I will not be able to call myself a career woman any more. I will be a mother and a wife who entertains herself with a bit of a job for pin money.
I’m melodramatic. It’s cold and dark and I’m suffering from withdrawal from constant chocolate eating. This is an opportunity for me to define myself as something other than an office monkey. I can’t bear the little man spending more time with strangers than with me any more; I get four days in a row now with my little buddy.
I mustn’t stop being melodramatic. I want to hate this month: I need something to kick me out of this inertia. My job wasn’t working at four days; my life will be better, but the job will be immeasurably worse, at three. And everybody arounds me knows I need a change. So in my three days next week I have coffees set up with promising women who could be jobshare partners. I have long overdue mentor meetings set up. I even sent a tentative email to a recruiter.
So welcome, 2017. January may look bleak; but I have the start of a plan. And I can teach the little man that Thursday is now also baby and mummy day; he will giggle and I will melt. The emails will wait until Monday.