Work.
It’s a dirty word in my house.
This last January, I dove back into public accounting after nearly two years’ reprieve. This time though, I’m back with a purpose. I take online classes through Southern New Hampshire University toward a Master’s of Science in Forensic Accounting, and I work in public accounting for practice and pay. I’ll have my required hours to sit for the CPA exam before I finish the education requirement. With a little bit of luck and planning, when I graduate, I’ll have not three but six letters to tack on to the end of my name. At least one of my professors thinks I ought to continue and pursue my PhD as well. Regardless, I’m a freight train heading for a destination known as alphabet soup.
This comes with quite a lot of work.
During tax season, 50 - 60 hour weeks were the norm for me, and that was just the work I was paid to do. Admittedly, it’s a little bit light - many accountants pull 80 hour weeks for three months out of the year. Several in my office pulled this for a few weeks toward the end. They went home, nibbled on a bit of food, and went to sleep to wake up and do it again the next day.
I went home, ate a cold dinner, and did homework before a short sleep to wake up and do it all again the next day.
January through April this year, there was a lot of me doing work of some form or another. My toddler started protesting.
“Mommy has to go to sleep,” my husband would explain to our night-owl of a child,
“Mommy has to get up and go to work tomorrow,” I said, even on Friday and Saturday night.
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” His protest would start with something recognizable as a word, and quickly devolve into screaming, tears, and spits and raspberries of rage.
Work is a dirty word in my house.
Months later, when I’m home by six and don't go to work on the weekends, that word may still elicit a near-epic breakdown. Especially if we suggested there might not be any cartoons if there wasn’t good behavior.
My toddler is smart. He understands what that means. But he’s not quite mature enough to handle it. Tired of the demands for more “Transformers,” and horrible shows meant to edutain that only hurt my and my husband’s brains, and he hid the TV. He unplugged it and put it in the closet.
It was two nights of bliss.
I’ve been able to sit at the kitchen table and knock out homework, and even put a bit of thought, effort, and research into it to turn out something I consider quality.
What’s even better is that my toddler joins me.
I sit on my little Chromebook and type away and calculate taxes for fake people and prepare fake financial statements and journal entries, and he sits at his place and scribbles on paper, making letter and Earths and BumbleBee and Optimus Prime.
What’s even better is that my husband gets a few minutes of peace to focus on his own work while I split my mind between accounting and our toddler.
And “homework,” apparently, doesn’t have the word “work” anywhere in it.
