Three weeks ago I was elated. I had had a Zoom meeting with a librarian from our public library system who helped me realize that there may be a market for a business idea I had. It was the second day of my son’s in-person schooling and I was temporarily unencumbered by virtual learning; that was no accident. My mother had come over to watch the baby so I could focus on the meeting, and I had actually showered (and washed and styled my hair)!
I was nervous before the meeting; many of the ideas I would present had never been said out loud, only bounced around inside my head. My thoughts ranged from Will she laugh at me? to I just know this is a stupid idea, nobody would ever go for this. By the end of the meeting I was floored; as they poured out of my mouth my dreams burst into technicolor. Yes, this could actually work!
She gave me some advice: develop a business plan using tools from a local branch of the SBA and email her back so she could help me again with market research. I was flying high for the rest of the day; while I didn’t get a chance to talk to RB about it when he came home, I was excited to share the news with him later.
At least, until he got the phone call.
While I was upstairs nursing G, I heard RB on the stairs talking to someone on the other end of the phone. It was muted and hushed, but I heard him say, “Thank you very much,” before I felt the wooosh of his deep exhale as he hung up. He paused before coming up the stairs, and I knew he got the job. Not just any job, though: his dream job. The job I had pushed him to apply for, despite his mother’s well intended advice. The job I had repeatedly told him he was made for. The job I knew he would excel at if given the chance, born from a once in a lifetime opportunity. “The worst that can happen is they offer it to you, and you have to tell them no,” I had told him.
He talked about it for hours, to anyone who would listen, before he finally took my advice and applied. He nailed the interview, although at our last counseling session he expressed anxiety at the possibility of getting it since he thought it meant we would have to move. “You’d have to move,” I had replied. “I’m not leaving my mom.” I told him if politicians and correctional officers can commute the five hours from Albany on the weekends, so could he, should he choose to do so. “Absence might make our hearts grow fonder,” I had said, although it was laced with some sarcasm. I wasn’t willing to leave, and he knew it.
Having somewhat forgot about it, the email for a second interview arrived a few weeks later. He had only one response when they asked him, point blank, what he would need to accept the position: to be headquartered out of Buffalo and not have to reroute his young family. Surprisingly, they agreed.
So here we are. Any semblance of my dreams becoming a reality has disappeared just as quickly as it materialized. After my unpaid leave I will return to a job that brought me little more than income, exposing my family to an increased risk of COVID, and will probably never amount to much more professionally. RB will continue to flourish and rise while I will learn to adapt to whatever it is I’m turning out to be.
“How’d your meeting go?” he had asked. I shrugged. “It was fine.” I didn’t feel like talking anymore.
2/26/21
pumpandump 