We working parents toggle between jobs.
Every weekday, working parents slit the fine ether between worlds and move from one plane of existence to another. When we leave the office and go home, whether the distance is measured in miles or steps, we divide our day between two distinct realities.
The morning trip to work is the first transition. Coffee’s kicked in and office intensity looms, but right now we have the time in between. On rough days we use the drive to puzzle through what must be done first. On calmer days we drive in a steady state of awareness, letting the mind scan, sort and prepare. If we’re lucky, we can focus on work and not pine for the toddler who was just dropped off at daycare, or worry the adolescent will be bullied, or miss the teen driving in the opposite direction to school.
At the end of the day, the drive home is a different story. There’s a little numbness and a lot of relief. There’s the after-buzz of a busy day, the sense of accomplishment and pride mixed with a touch of frustration — tomorrow’s plate will always be just as full. We’ve put in a long day, under pressure, and that can’t just be shrugged from the shoulders like a sweater.
But we have to put it somewhere, because we’re not finished with work. Now we’re going home to the other job.