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Take some time out for yourself. You deserve it.
New Zealand or England. Where will you go first?
Take some time out for yourself. You deserve it.
New Zealand or England. Where will you go first?
My son gave me one heck of a serve on Day-8. I felt the burn travel the nine hours of distance between us. I hope you understand that nine hours is a conservative estimate for myself as the driver. Anyone else can drive from Hamilton to Wellington in less time, but apparently I drive like a nana.
So, there I was wandering around The Warehouse at tea time because Husband needed something and I went along for the ride. Seeing no other human beings all day can leave most people a little frazzled but I become positively odd. Friends and family members take it in turns to break me out of the house and waft me around the city’s shopping malls so I don’t forget how to speak in full sentences.
After much fumbling I answered it. There’s no excuse for the fumbling because it was in my hand, but I did put the yummy tube of Pringles back. I can’t eat them. I was just looking. Stroking actually. Yeah, I should be honest here. I was stroking a box of salt and vinegar Pringles and deciding if they were worth an allergy day on the toilet. But my son rang and I discovered I couldn’t walk, stroke, salivate and talk at the same time. I could once, but not anymore.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
I love my son. Husband’s eyes lit up at the prospect of another victim for my whining and took off towards the car products. He lost me in the air freshener section.
I did my big sigh and explained how hard I was finding it, working for myself. He agreed I was a horrible boss and then let me have it.
“No, it’s not still holidays for you,” he said, leaving me open mouthed. “It doesn’t matter that school doesn’t start back until February. You don’t work there anymore.”
Now, this wasn’t complete news to me. I remembered leaving. We had a lovely bespoke party in the Archives department and I managed not to cry. But that’s not the point. They haven’t gone back yet.
“I’ve been robbed then.”
“But you don’t work there anymore,” he repeated. “You started a new job. Now you need to get on with it.”
Ouch!
He talked some more and it all made sense. I wandered around the store while he structured my days for me and offered tips on productivity. He reminded me a lot of my husband and it made the corners of my lips turn upwards. Until I spotted said husband eyeing up car washing kits and had to intervene. I swear his car owns more beauty products than I do.
My son suggested time-sheets and I must admit I freaked a little. Husband capitalised on the moment to gain himself a new car cloth. It wouldn’t be right to put it back on the shelf after being used simultaneously as a gag and a hanky.
As soon as we got home, I got out my daily planner and worked out how many hours a week I wanted to work. Salary doesn’t come into it yet as everything is ploughed back into my business. My OCD tendencies are satisfied by the neat log of activity and different coloured highlighters. I have a plan. A Day-8 plan.
I’m currently racking up nine hour days and cutting through my backlog like a maniac. Things are finally falling into place. I’m more productive than I’ve ever been but it took a different perspective to get me there.
From out of the mouths of babes. Who knew?
Day-8 was a good day. A very good day.
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