Career – East Coast Approach

These times, they do try us.

When my office started working remotely, a colleague started sending us weekly emails to keep us connected. Usually asking us an engaging question that conjures a quick response. Last weeks was a doozy. She asked us to send in a brief summary of a situation that’s been made difficult by the pandemic. No sugar coating. No filters. She called it “Truth telling Tuesday”. Below was my response.

To: Sarah

Subject: Your timing is impeccable

When I saw this come across my email yesterday, I wasn’t sure what truth to tell. The Petrov household has had its fair share of trials and tribulations during the pandemic, but once the moment passes, they all seem a bit insignificant. We move on. Checking for scars, collecting our new “triggers.” And we as parents start mentally preparing for the next, inevitable, $hit show.

My dear, sweet Nikola, sensing my dilemma of not knowing what to write about, wanted to help. So, at 7pm, during our first reading of “Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus”, he looked at me, and I swear, it was like a telepathic exchange. With his eyes, he employed the widely Meme’d idiom “hold my beer”. And that’s when things went South. Which, in turn, forced us North – To Maine Med ER.

The scream crying came fast and strong. An ear ache was the instigator. The medicinal properties of children’s Tylenol were no match for the ailment. And thus, a trip to urgent care was required. Looking at the clock and knowing that time was not on our side, I scooped up Nikola, and ran as fast as an out of shape woman carrying a 35-pound wailing toddler can. No time to change out of slippers. A sacrifice was made.

A frantic phone call to the urgent care imploring them to please wait for us was to no avail. We arrived at 8:02 to a dark and locked building. An additional phone call to his pediatrician and a turn of the heal. We were off for the 45-minute ride to Portland. The ER nurses and doctors made quick work of our visit. For which I am eternally grateful.

A prescription for an antibiotic would be the cure. And all I’d need to do, because of the hospital pandemic rules, would be to exit the building, go back to the garage, get myself and cranky toddler back in my car, drive to the main entrance, find parking, get out, get my child out, walk in that entrance, sign in, a left and then a right, and alas our pharmaceutical refuge awaits.

We purchased the healing, bubblegum smelling concoction, without insurance. My new insurance card wouldn’t work. Because, well, Its 2020. A quick late evening jaunt in a foggy, super shady Portland neighborhood to return to our car. And an end to the adventure was in sight. I could smell it. But first, I thought it best to give Nikola his first dose of medicine before we started home. He looked at me and said “I feel good, mama” I assured him we should take it anyway. Just to be safe. And then he puked everywhere…. And then that was what I smelled.

Enough is as good as a feast

What is enough? It’s an age old question that seems to be having a revival these days. These times of pandemic pandemonium have sent parents and people alike careening towards self-reflection and perhaps more aptly, uncertainty.

While I certainly considered myself to have been wading in those worried waters. I have come out of it on the other side. Because of my good friend Mary Poppins.

Nikola loves Mary Poppins. Watching it no less than 3 times a day while his daycare was closed. Mostly just during the song and dance numbers. During the the toughest weeks of isolation, it was on a constant loop in our house. We have all made deviations from the “plan.” The grandiose visions of healthy daily meal plans, perfectly structured socially distant outings, vision boards of pristine schedules adhered to down to the minute. The invariable feast of almost constant stimulation. All of the things that social media projects that inevitably makes you feel less than when the plan collapses around you. As it almost always does. It doesn’t matter if you have children or not: The above was just an example. This is most everyone these days.

Everyone is dealing with some form of a question in which the repercussions of their answer or choice is unknowable. And while life itself tends to trend similarly – The questions seem bigger now. The impact of our choices seems larger. Looming over us like an ominous storm cloud. A storm we’re not sure we’ll survive.

The question I’m hearing the most from all around me is “is it enough?”

“It” is so many things. To different people. “It” can be:

My abilities
My patience
My concern
My time
My adaptibily
My skill
My moral compass
My beliefs
My faith

I could go on for days, as I’m sure most of you could too.

During this time of isolation, we as humans have gone through periods of trying to provide those around us and ourselves with a feast when “enough” will do. At times draining ourselves dry of energy, clarity, motivation. All of the things we need in order to feel fulfilled. We can’t do that to ourselves. We need to feel good about our day. What we did or chose not to do. Being comfortable with decisions we’ve made, because it was enough. I think we owe it to ourselves to at least try.

And speaking from a parenting perspective: I am absolutely certain that there is no such thing as an “expert” in the realm of parenting. I don’t believe it for a second. All I am sure of is that if you are an active parent who has their child’s well-being at heart than I have no doubt what you’re doing is enough. And I’d be willing to bet that more often than not, it more closely resembles a feast. I hope some people can find comfort in that.

When is an appropriate time to call yourself a writer?

Hi, my name is Darci and I’m a ___

When someone asks what you do, what do you say? Your profession, I assume. But, what if your chosen profession doesn’t entirely encompass ALL that you do?

I love my dayjob. At this point, I am quite content in saying that it is my career. Can I be two things? Can I be a Client Service Associate for a wonderful company in the Wealth Management industry and a writer? If that is in fact, what I am; A writer. Of course! But when is it prudent to declare it?

Where does the title of writer, or blogger, or whatever you love doing come into play? Is that reserved for only when someone asks you about your hobbies?

Do you get to lay claim to the title of your choosing when you make money from it? I suspect that most people would say that seems like an appropriate time. But, if that’s the case then does the $.37 I’ve made from advertisements on this blog count? Probably not….

So where does that leave me. Little, old, self-centered me. I’m not selling anything. My following, while they are some of the most lovely people I’ve never met, is moderate, at best. I have no discernible talent or skill I can offer to anyone as a training tool. I am nothing short of me. Someone who enjoys writing, sharing stories, and of course, blogging. This is what I do, for now. And for some weird, inexplicable reason; I want people to know I do it. It gives me a sense of pride and accomplishment. And more than anything, I love it.

I know that nobody has the answers for the questions above. It is a personal decision. It’s whatever I feel comfortable with. And maybe what this all boils down to – Being uncomfortable. And I’m uncomfortable because I doubt myself. I doubt that what I do justifies me proclaiming myself to be a blogger. Or a writer, or whatever it is that I am. I have doubts in my ability. Doubt in my tenacity to do or be something better. Doubt will eat you alive if you let it. It will keep you from being who you are, or who you’re meant to become. But most importantly, it will keep you from achieving your goals. And I for one, resolve to not let that happen. So.

Hi, my name is Darci and I write a blog.

Pregnancy and the accompanying anecdotes.

I’m pregnant. After 2 years and 11 months of trying, my husband and I finally got a positive pregnancy test. We spent a lot of money on sticks that I had to pee on, went to doctors, had fertility tests (all came back fine), and even tried in vitro. All with no luck. But, as of 2 days ago, we are 17 weeks pregnant.

We found out the morning of October 11th. The day we left for our trip to Macedonia. I was about 5 days late at that point. I’m a superstitious person and after not just months, but literally years of getting excited every 28 days, and taking a test early only to be disappointed, I resolved to wait. Wait until I was really late, like reeeaallly late. I didn’t want to jinx it. My husband Kruno was getting more and more excited as those late days passed by. When I did take the test, I didn’t tell him what I was doing. It came back positive almost immediately. I called for him to come to the bathroom. Drudgingly, he came. He thought I needed him in to kill a bug. I showed him the test and excitement ensued.

The last 17 weeks have been enlightening. I learn something new every day. About my body, my abilities or lack thereof, and places I can, all of sudden, no longer comfortably reach because of my growing size.

And with every minute of research I’ve done since that positive test, I’ve become more and more aware that I know nothing about pregnancy, labor, and perhaps even babies. And I’d like to share with you all some of the more interesting revelations I’ve had.

WHATS HAPPENING TO ME???

This question came early and often. Google became my most used app. How could I have been so clueless? In movies and TV, pregnant women are portrayed in a certain way. Emotional. Vomiting, Bitchy. I thought I was mentally prepared for all of it, but the other symptoms and the pure intensity hit me like a wrecking ball

I get so emotional, baby…

The first to rear its ugly head was the elevated hormones. I’m an emotional person to begin with. But I naively thought “How much worse could this get?” Well… Let me tell ya.

Every emotion I feel, I feel it times a hundred, maybe even a thousand. If I’m sad, it borders on devastation. If I’m angry, watch out. But the most notable change is that I am loving harder. I love people HARD. Wicked hard. Over this past holiday, I looked at my young nephews, I just wanted to grab them and not let go. I wanted to look them square in the eyes and say sternly ” I love you, dammit!” (Picture Rhett Butler saying that to Scarlet O’Hara in “Gone with the wind”. But, I thought better of it. The boys are young and I didn’t want to scare the shit out of them.) And when I left my grandmothers house to come back home, I cried for a long time. She lives just a few hours away. I can go see her any weekend. And as I’m typing this, thinking about how much I love these people and how much I miss them, I’m crying. I’m a mess.

And my crying has changed. The act of it itself. These crying spells last forever. My tears have even gotten bigger. The amount of fluid that is falling from my eyeballs is astounding. My tears are the size of nickles, I kid you not. Isn’t that weird? Has anyone else experienced that while pregnant? And because of all these things. The dehydration from the size and quantity of tears, and the ease at which I cry, I have had to completely change how and when I view things. For example, I’m spending far less time on Facebook these days. I used to love watching the heart-warming videos. that would populate my newsfeed. But no more. I can’t risk it. I also haven’t been able to watch several episodes of “This is us”. I watched a few at the beginning of the season, but when I saw the previews of the one where Kate has a miscarriage, all bets were off. Now the second part of the season is supposed to start and I’m in a pickle. Do I devote an entire day to catching up on the season? Let’s do that math: 4 episodes I missed = 4 hours of viewing. + 2 hours of crying time (conservatively) + 1 hour of recuperation to let the puffiness in my face dissipate. That’s a big commitment.

My body is a wonderland

No, no it isn’t. While it is mystifying me these days, I don’t think that’s what John Mayer meant. You can read Pinterest posts, join the community group chats in your pregnancy apps and read “What to expect when you’re expecting” all you want, but I guarantee you, something is going to happen that will throw you for a loop. From my albeit brief experience, I’ve come to realize that it’s important to use the mentioned resources as merely a guideline. Most of my symptoms have occurred earlier than normal.

One of the most notable and noticeable changes were that things errrr… grew a bit quicker than I would’ve expected. Below is a screenshot of a conversation I had with a group of friends about my husband noticing a change.

My clothes got tighter right off the bat. And I thought “Ok, no big deal. This was expected I’ll go buy some new clothes.” But it isn’t that easy. Nothing fits right. Nothing. I’m not big enough for maternity clothes, but my stomach is too big for regular clothes. Everything I own at this point is frumpy. And because of the heightened emotions, the ill-fitting clothing sends me into a spiral of self-consciousness and frustration. There are days that I can’t even look in the mirror before I leave for work. Those days are the “Fuck it” days. And they are happening more frequently as the pregnancy progresses.

One other thing that I started noticing recently was my walk has changed. I used to have a confident stride. I don’t know why considering how clumsy I am, but I did. I used to be able to comfortably wear heels up to a certain height. But that’s all gone now. As the day goes on, and I get to feeling less and less comfortable, my walk transforms. Slowly, subtly, into a waddle. At work by 4 pm, as I go to and from the printer I notice my body shifting from side to side, with a brief but significant settle in each step. I will immediately correct it, but I know deep down that it’s going to come to a point when I’m no longer am able to. It is inevitable. The waddle is coming.

Don’t you, forget about me

“Of all the things I have lost, I miss my mind the most”. Mark Twain must have stolen this from his wife when she was pregnant. People talk about pregnancy brain often. But nothing prepares you for it. I am not just forgetting things, but I’m thinking I do things or say things that I don’t. “Didn’t I tell you that?” has become my most used sentence recently. A few weeks ago I had mentioned to my boss that I had forgotten to text some family members back recently. She was understandably concerned whereas my job is mostly following up with clients and remembering things. I assured her that I only let it affect my home life. And that is the truth. I noticed that this was starting to happen, so the moment I leave work, I totally shut off my brain. So far, it seems to be working. While this doesn’t thrill my husband, it’s a sacrifice we’ll have to make until I figure something else out. I haven’t written a post in a really long time. Not because I didn’t have anything to write, or I was too busy. I have been conserving all of my brain cells for work. This post, in fact, has taken an exceptionally long time. I’ve been storing up for weeks to finish it. Now, I’m no neurologist but I think there might be some logic to it.

The end

While this is only a short list of the symptoms I’ve experienced, these are what has struck me as funny. I think it’s important to keep levity at the forefront. Because what awaits us at the end is going to be the most momentous experience of our lives. We are so excited to be parents and I am excited to share our little stories throughout the process. S

It’s a fine line between fearlessness and belligerence.

I remember a few years ago I read an article that talked about an art gallery opening. The layout of the event was set up like a person’s house. With several different rooms, all with different types of artwork in them. One of the spectators arrived via skateboard, and instead of carrying it around with him, left it leaning against one of the hallway walls close to the entrance. Everyone that arrived after him, stopped to photograph his skateboard. They all perceived it as a work of art.

When it comes to art, I am a novice at best. I know nothing about it. But there seems to be a lot of it. And it’s got me thinking… Who has to perceive something as art for it TO BE art? And better yet: Who has to perceive you as something for it to be true and does it matter?

When I first read about the Fearless Girl statue. I was immediately drawn to her. I read every story I could find that mentioned anything about her. I don’t consider myself a feminist necessarily, or an art connoisseur by any means, but everything about this bold, brazen sculpture spoke to me. The artist was able to make this statue convey gumption in the most subtle yet unequivocal way.

There is a lot of controversy surrounding this pony-tailed, little girl. Specifically, how she was placed in relation to the iconic Charging Bull. The male artist who created the seven thousand pound symbol of American power and resilience pitched quite the fit about the girl. Stating that the female artist who made this tiny, in comparison, 250-pound Fearless Girl statue had “altered the perception of the bull” because of where and how she was placed. Facing the bull. He isn’t entirely wrong. The statue had accomplished everything the artist had set out to do. Everything about Fearless Girl was very intentional. The artist said, “I made sure to keep her features soft, she’s not defiant, she’s brave, proud and strong, not belligerent”. And I think the artist was able to perfectly emulate that.

I’ve been thinking about how I’m perceived a lot lately. If people’s perceptions of me and even my own are an actuality. Everyone wants to see themselves in a favorable light, but is that the truth? I haven’t been reaching my potential professionally. And while some of the fault undoubtedly rests on my shoulders, I believe it is also a product of my environment.

I’ve decided it’s time for a career change. I don’t fit in in the wealth management industry. I am not naturally meek or mild, but this position has forced me to be both in some instances. I don’t like it. It makes me uncomfortable. I feel unsure almost every day. In most of the things I do. Except when I’m talking to clients. That’s when I’m at home. I’m confident that whatever they need, I can help them. If I don’t know the answer, I’ll put on my Nancy Drew hat and work tirelessly until I find it and report back. I’ll conquer the unknown happily and fearlessly. Because I know that when I do, the client will be thankful. I will have helped them accomplish something they couldn’t have done on their own. And that is a great feeling.

One of the things I miss the most in my current position is being part of a team. I guess technically, I am. But Just because someone says “you’re apart of the team!” doesn’t make it so. That means they may think of you as that, but if no actions are there to support this thought, then does it matter how they perceive it? Shouldn’t how I feel carry some weight? Whose perception is correct?

Over the last couple months, I’ve had several interviews. And recently, I have had 2 men, in a hiring position, tell me that I “seem like I can be a bitch when necessary”. They aren’t wrong, I guess. I like to get shit done. But, I didn’t love how the word “bitch” hit my ear. One person immediately felt bad and said: “I mean that as a compliment”. And that’s how I had taken it. I think that’s how some people perceive being strong and taking charge. When and how people use that word can and do have different connotations. Whether that’s right or wrong, well, I guess it depends on the perceiver…

I have been offered an amazing position. One that I am so excited about it gives me chills. It’s at a fantastic company run by an incredible group of successful, intelligent women. I didn’t know if I was going to get it honestly. The interview process was intense. And I don’t know if I was necessarily the best candidate on paper. But as it would turn out, after 5 meetings, and hours of some of the most self-reflective questions I have ever been asked, they chose me. And I know that I won’t have to be meek or mild. I won’t have to feel like an outsider. I’m going to be a part of a team. Like, for real this time. I can be confident, tough, determined. All of the things that The Fearless Girl and I were meant to be.

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WHATS HAPPENING TO ME???

I get so emotional, baby…

My body is a wonderland

Don’t you, forget about me

The end

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