5 Steps to the Perfect Job

I spent approximatley 1,920+ hours of this past year being at my job, and I have put oodles of thought into my daily speech and language shenanigans.  For 8.5333 years, I did my thing working in the schools.  I learned about writing reports (does not fare well to have 3 different names in one document) , doing some decent therapy (I never lost a kid)  and learning to work alongside actual adults (this was much harder than working with the kiddos).  I loved it mostly.  Then, came Opportunity.  She tapped on my door.  I kindly ignored.  She banged, and I accepted.   So, I changed jobs.  Now, I am a speech pathologist with a wee-bit of street cred with webinars, online courses and presentation oobligunk-skills.  Exactly a year-to-the-day, I changed jobs again.  Who am I, and what the hey am I doing?!  Evidence that I have worked and adult braces:

I'll let you in on a lame secret.  I love emotional regulation.  I need, yearn, desire it.  On an emotional scale, if something is a 3 or below, I cry.  If it's a 7 or above, I cry.  Mean people make me cry.  Nice people make me cry.  Apathetic people make me cry.  At times, I have no idea how I have functioned all these years and still have eyeballs.  So, with all this change, I am off kilter.  Chris Martin beautifully sings about being swallowed by the sea.  In my version (minus the alternative rock vibe and more of an off-key xylophone-feel), I am continually being swallowed by my own big feelings.  Big gulp.

So, here I am, again, working in a new place.  Here's the other thing I have realized in the last few days, I have loved, loved, loved each professional setting that has sauntered my way.  Really, I have a passionate, tumultuous, fulfilling affair with my profession.  I geek out on it, I am entertained by it, and I relish in the possibilities.   I have also learned that once I make a job my own, it has given me back a million-fold.  Who would have thought that I could be a hip-hop lovin', poverty-advocating, literacy-driven speech-language pathologist with an appreciation for a well-used curse word, punny riddles and a strong desire to keep succulents alive.

As I think about my profession, it brings me melancholy joy to think about how proud Mom was of my career path.  She worked hard on saying all of the syllables of my job title, "Bia is a speeCH LanguaGe path-o-lo-GiST."  When I was young, I told her I wanted to be a teacher.  Her response was not too kind or well.  Alas, I ended up working in the one setting that she thought would eat me alive.  "Not so much money, con, child.  And, you too sensitive for that."  Other kids rebeled by drinking beer and having sex.  I lashed out by working in a school.   I am too edgy even for myself. 

The fall before she passed away, Mom was doing so well.  The cancer was gone, and we were having a grand time.  I was going to have my own class for kiddos working on speech and language.  She came up to the school with me, laborously cleaned the tables (they were new and already sanitized) and unpacked a fine assortment of therapy toys I found at garage sales that summer.  I also developed some short videos for the students.  To give her something to do during the day, I taught her how to color the pictures on the PowerPoint videos.  When I got home from work, she would have dinner ready and show me her work.  She was so proud she could help.

After she passed away the following December, I was cleaning out some of her things.  I found a bag of fabric under her bed.  Mom was a seamstress for years, and fabric was clutch and always hidden in nooks.  In my classroom, I worked with Vicky, also a lover of making things from cloth.  With no desire to sew, I gave her the fabric.  One morning, she came to school and handed me a jar.  Inside were many cloth hearts of various sizes.  She took the fabric and hand-sewed each heart.  This jar has been in every one of my speech rooms.  It represents my choice to work in the field of education and communication, all the awesome, badass, kind folks I have worked with and my mama. 

                                          

Oh, yeah, here are 5 Ways to Find the Perfect Job:

1.  Don't let someone, even Mama, tell you what to do.

2.  Find your work family.  You may not like everyone, but you will love some.  Feed on their light and let them guide you to shine your own path.  Okay, I may cry (9 on the emotional scale) right now.  I am so grateful for my work families.  You know who you are. 

3.  Figure out what YOU have to offer the world.  You may be the only one in the entire universe who can do this thing.  Remember, what you have to offer is what you love to do on your own time. Work just happens to be your medium. 

4.  A job requires hard work.  Hard work is awesome.  So, get over it and do something hard and meaningful.

5.  There is no such thing as a perfect job, and that's okay.  Finding a pretty-darn-good-job is grand.  Perfection is a first-world problem and creation. 

Now, let's get to work. 



Mimi Remembers

I write frequently about Bennet and Ruby when it comes to this not-having-a-Mama-thing. When it comes to my human offspring, my mouth cannot consume the salty tears coming down my face quickly enough when I think about Mom. Tonight, I realized that I have another set of overwhelming emotions when it comes to my eldest, four-legged daughter.

It was December of 2003, and I quit my doctoral program. Lamenting the woes of trying to find a job and giving control to those who judged me for quitting, I was in my self-involved world. Then, I found out Mom's cancer had come back. The big, stupid C. While I was gone to Madison for graduate school for two years, all was well. I came back to Austin to pursue a life of research and academia, decided to quit after one semester and the cancer was back. Life is strange, and life is timely.

It was easy to make the choice to move back to Wylie. I was with Mom. It was, after all, where I grew up. My minutes, my hours were filled with work, reveling in Mom's stories and commentary about life, radiation appointments, chemotherapy and late night phone calls with Jeremy. My heart felt good. My lungs, on the other hand, were stifled. My world was downsized, and I was pissed-off. Friends were going to happy-hours, dates, music festivals. I remember hating Fridays. People would jovially talk about weekend plans. I would cry the entire hour driving home from work. The tears would always culminate into sobbs by the time I reached the drive-way. I remember calling Jennifer and sobbing and crying and sobbing. It was our weekly Friday date. Once the tears ran out, I would clean my face, enter the house with a smile and have dinner with Mom. Each bite of food was hard to swallow.

This was my life for months. Then, everything became brighter. The stars aligned, and I was going to meet my pug. My entire life, I wanted a pug. My friend Danny says I look like one. Maybe that's why? I aesthetically align with them. Regardless, it was love and love and love at first sight. She was the runt of the litter, and they named her Anasthasia. This did not work for me. She was renamed My-Lan, the name of the little girl in a Chinese lullaby mom used to sing to me. Over time, she became our Mimi Pug.

Mimi is nine years old now. Her face is so white now, and her eyes tell me that remembers that last year with mom. Mimi was my comfort and my solace. She was also Mom's. Her antics brought chortles to Mom's days. Instead of sitting on the couch all day while I was at work, Mom would spend her days with her squished-face companion.   While other dogs consumed dog food, our Mimi would get jasmin rice with the brown sauce from fatty pork. Even though I asked Mom not to, she would sneak in little pieces of the meat.  Still a wee-puppy, Mimi's energy was plentiful, and it surely put a little spunk in Mom's step. Until Mom couldn't do it anymore.

By the time Thanksgiving came around, the jaundice had returned. Everything had gone to shit. Mom's liver, pancreas, everything was shot. A Po, grandma, was living with us by this time. Mom couldn't be alone while I worked. By the time I got home each day, everyone was always spinning around Mom. She would just sit. My loquacious mother became a mute. You know, the only person that I think gave her peace was Mimi. I remember coming home, and the sweet pug would just sit right at her feet. She would just stay there. If mom had to go the bathroom, Mimi would sit and wait until she returned to her seat. Spunky, spry Mimi knew that Mom needed something else. She was less than a year old, and Mimi knew Mom was dying.

As I am typing this, Mimi is quietly sleeping next to me in the bed. When I look at her, I always, always think about that last year we had together with Mom. After the funeral, sleeping was hard. Dad worked nights, so, I was alone in the house. I was scared to sleep, and, to be honest, I was scared to live life without a mother. In the middle of one night, I remember walking over to Mimi's crate and opened the door. She looked confused. Once I patted the bed, she happily jumped up, nestled against the bend behind my knee and quickly fell asleep. So did I.

On days when things are more-than-a-bit hard, and I am missing Mom with every cell in my body.  I look at Mimi, and she understands.  More importantly, she remembers.  She was there when I needed her most, and she is here now for us and the girls.  And for that, I am so pug-grateful. 

 



A Story

This is one of my favorite childhood stories.

"Mẹ, Mama, I think I hear Thief.  His digging is getting faster!" said Little Girl.  Mẹ shuffled to the corner of the modest, and appreciated, mud house to pull out the four shoes.  "Con, child, put on the shoes.  Quickly."  Mama and Little Girl put a different shoe on each foot. Toes were curled to keep the much-too-large shoes on their feet.  "Now, move your feet."  Little Girl and her mama danced and stomped, hustled and hopped, treaded and trampled.  As the cadence and beats of four different shoes slammed against the dried muck floors, the digging subsided.  "Thief stupid," Mẹ always says.  "So many people in this scanty house." his ears would tell him.  Thief stopped trying to dig a hole into the mud house to steal. 

The plan worked.  It always did.  Thief would hear the gait of a strong, unyielding man.  Or, maybe it was the pace of a spouse keen on maiming an intruder?   Little Girl always knew Mama had a plan. 

Not long ago, Mẹ had a decisive plan.  She took Little Girl and left home.  Father took another lady, and Mẹ felt it was not right.  Mama looks for opportunity.  She always looks for a better way.  We found a mud home amidst the forest.  We have shelter.  We have food.  We have each other.  We also have shoes ready for when Thief visits.   

Mom often told this story.  It was meaningful to her.  Mẹ was her Bà ngoại (grandma), and Little Girl was her mother.  These women are a part of my story.  They are Strength and Gumption and Audacity. Có chí thì nên.  Will finds its way. 

Will has already found its way to Bennet and Ruby.  I see it in their eyes.  I hear it in their voices.  Really, it is the cumulative voices of many before them.