Mistaken identity

Have you ever been mistaken for someone else? I have and each time has been terrifying and hilarious in equal measure. In that order. Terrifying while I scramble through my mind struggling to understand exactly what is going on and then hilarious – and relieving – when it dawns on me that I am not the person, who the person talking to me, thinks I am. On Sunday night I was scrolling through twitter on my phone when I saw that Rupert Guinness, a sports journalist with the Sydney Morning Herald, had sent me a message. He asked if I was looking forward to starting new horizons tomorrow, being Monday.

A few minutes earlier I had posted a link to this blog about adjusting to childcare. I thought it seemed a long bow to draw as I really hadn’t pictured Rupert as a reader of this blog, but ‘What else could he possibly mean? I thought to myself. So I replied. I tweeted ‘Fortunately things on my new horizon are getting smoother now’. Which in hindsight, he must have thought was very odd. But not as odd as his next message seemed to me. He wrote ‘No I mean about your desk change tomorrow. I see you’re coming to sit with us’.

At this point I found myself laughing with unease and confusion. See, there were desk changes happening at my work over the weekend. I just didn’t think I was among them. And while it seemed odd that either the sports team was moving to our level, or that I was moving to the sports team, we do work in the same building so there was a tiny thread of possibility. Strange? Very. Unlikely? Certainly. But not completely outside the realm of possibility. So here I was at 10pm on Sunday night wondering where on earth I would be sitting the next day. And why I hadn’t heard anything sooner.

And then order was restored. Rupert thought he’d been tweeting Georgina Robinson, a Herald reporter who was starting with the sports team on Monday (who reasonably enough was moving desks). Once clarified, the three of us found the exchange very funny.

Strangely enough it’s not the worst case of mistaken identity I’ve experienced. Back when I started my first job as a writer, the big editor, who was my boss’s boss, tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to go to his office. This editor rarely ventured outside his office and particularly not to our side of the floor, so his presence in itself caused a stir. Eyes were firmly on me as I walked across the floor into his office.  I assumed I must be getting fired which I thought was a real shame because I had barely been there a few weeks.

But in we went. He started quizzing me on my job. How it was going. What I was working on. If I was enjoying it. And, then, a query from leftfield. ‘How are your hands?’ he asked. Momentarily, I was stumped.  I looked down at them and wondered. I’m not a gifted pianist, I’m hardly handy around the house and I don’t even have nice handwriting. But it was also probably the first time I’d ever given my hands much thought. Surely that means they’re pretty reliable which has to count for something? I muttered something about having no complaints.

He continued on about a new role he thought would be more suitable for me. Bearing in mind I’d only been in my current role thirty seconds I thought this seemed odd. And then I had a flicker of sense. I realised the editor thought I was my colleague who was suffering RSI and needed a new role. I suggested that perhaps he wanted to talk to her. At which point he stared straight at me, with an exquisite look of fear and confusion in his eyes, obviously wondering who the hell I was. We continued awkwardly until I was dismissed. Back at my desk there were many questions and much laughter as I explained the situation. Not long afterwards my own boss approached me. He had it on fairly good authority that his own boss was unlikely to venture across to our side of the floor again. Ever.

Have you ever been mistaken for someone else?

Not another guilty mother

So. Now that we're through the acute phase I'm finally ready to talk about Miss I's adjustment to being the child of working parents. This is a significant development. Until recently, neither of her parents were engaged in the workforce. Now we both are, and, as a result, so is she. In a way.

For four of her seven days, there's no longer time for lounging in her cot, leisurely enjoying a long breakfast or having the luxury of time to select an outfit for the day. No. There's no room for spontaneity in our house on school day mornings. Our routine is precise, almost-military like and completely foreign.

The night before is my new best friend. I lay clothes out for me and Miss I before bed. Our coats hang on the front door, where her backpack and my handbag sit ready to be scooped up as we scoot out the door. Lunch is ready in the fridge.

If it were at all feasible I'd feed us both breakfast, dress Miss I and apply my makeup the night before too. Because every detail that is finalised the evening before saves us precious minutes getting out the door, each morning. Which, in turns, saves us precious minutes waiting in traffic, on the bus. Which in turn, saves my precious sanity and that of my fellow passengers and the bus driver. (Too long cooped up in a stationary bus tends to bring out the worst in Miss I). So being organised is practically a health and safety measure.

At the end of our bus ride I walk Miss I to her daycare. These days this particular aspect of the routine is a piece of cake. But for the first week or so it left me needing cake. Which before 8am is pretty dire. And hard to come by.

Before Miss I started I was adamant that I was not going to feel guilty about working or her going to daycare. I am fortunate to have a job I love, I found not having a job for a long period of time quite difficult and financially having a job is essential. So, really, I decided, there is no room or need for guilt. After many long internal dialogues I concluded it would be sensible to devote my emotional time and energy into my daughter herself, instead of feeding any feelings of guilt.

Which was all good and well until it was time for me to leave. At which point her tiny face crumpled, she gripped onto my leg and sobbed. And then the guilt I was meant to subdue, engulfed me. It wasn't intellectual. It was primal, emotional and impossible to ignore. My heart didn't seem to care for the broader logical imperatives for me going to work. All it saw was me leaving my darling girl - the bundle of life that bewilders me every day - in tears. This time she was bewildered by me. By the fact that I would leave her. And, it hurt. I felt cruel and selfish and mean.

They* say the best thing to do in this situation is to just eat cake and drink gin say goodbye and walk away. The longer you stay, the more confused and shocked the little person will be, when you do finally leave. So for a few days I would wave goodbye, walk out and make a beeline for the office where I would quiz my colleagues on how on earth they coped and survived this treacherous ritual. And then I'd spend a good part of my day wondering whether working is the single most evil thing a parent can do.

I am happy to report it's probably not. (Surely stealing their toys and flying across the world is worse?) Our morning farewell is no longer loaded. It's now a matter of picking out a toy or someone else's breakfast and Miss I happily plays as I say goodbye. Which is excellent because had it proceeded much longer, I suspect I would now be unemployed, overweight from cake consumption and racked with guilt.

*'They' being the holders of all baby wisdom – authors, friends, strangers, childcare workers, taxi drivers and anyone else who would listen.

An unlikely topic

A few weeks back Mia Freedman inadvertently created a furore when she expressed reservations about Cadel Evans being declared a hero for winning the Tour de France. It got me thinking. Not because I think what she said was hugely contentious. I don't. I think she made a valid point – that we elevate sporting prowess above other valuable pursuits. But her comments made me think she underestimated the power of sport. And that, my lovely readers, is the strangest, most-unlikely, sentence I've ever typed.

Arm swinging days

Yesterday I met a friend for coffee who is truly and madly in the midst of something quite special. The last time we caught up was a few weeks ago and although she didn't want to jinx anything by saying too much, she mentioned that she'd met someone that week at a dinner party. Actually she'd probably met several people that week in the course of her daily life but there was only one someone. Fast forward several weeks, it's really shaping up as something.

Unwritten words

Lately I've written some fabulous posts. A combination of funny, poignant, astute observations wittily tied together in coherent, flowing form that I'm just bursting to share with you. You would love them!! If only they existed!! I am very sad to report that my radio silence here is directly proportional with the amount of time I have found to write posts. That is none at all.