Work = misery?

There's an essay circulating the blogosphere written by Linds Redding, an advertising executive in New Zealand who recently died of esophageal cancer at age 52. In his essay, "A Short Lesson in Perspective," Redding comes to the conclusion that he duped himself into believing that his work was more important than sleep, holidays, birthdays, school recitals and anniversary dinners.

It's the now-that-I'm-dying-I-realize-I-spent-too-much-time-at-the-office cautionary tale that seems to surface in the collective consciousness of the rat race Western world every few months or so, much like the recent article in The Guardian about a hospice nurse who wrote a book called the "Top Five Regrets of the Dying." The biggest regret, particularly among men, was missing out on watching their children grow up and spending QT with their wives because they were too busy working.

These articles always make me think about my relationship to work and whether it's true that we define ourselves too much by what we do. More specifically, I wonder whether I'm so busy "doing" that I'm not spending enough time "being." My answer is typically yes, although I've gotten much better at it in recent years, both by force and by choice.

I've always been good about taking vacations and spending time with family and friends. I've never understood coworkers who brag about working while in Florida at their cousin's wedding or never taking a day off. I don't think they're noble. I think they're stupid. (I'm still working on my issues with judgment.) It also bothers me when people can't seem to turn off their Blackberries during lunch. Are they really that important?

One thing that's helped cure me of my addiction to work is getting fired (that's the forced remediation part). Part of the reason I was fired from a job I loved four years ago was my passion for my work, which sometimes veered into self righteousness that wasn't appreciated by upper management (but should have been, dammit. I WAS WORKING SO HARD.)

I always thought that if I was really good at what I did, I would be valued. Not true. You have to be good at what you do and get along with people, especially those you consider impossible. They are the ones who will come back to bite you. And if you have to choose one: being good at what you do or getting along with people, you're better off getting along with people — a reality that perfectionists like me hate to face. Can't my work just speak for itself?

Getting fired has helped me tread more lightly in my current job and not care so much. I still strive for excellence but I'm not as intent on being right (which gets exhausting by the way). I shut down my computer by 6 p.m. and rarely check work email at home. I mean, it's not like I'm a doctor or IT support. What kind of writing emergency is going to happen?

Late nights at the office are also fewer and farther between, along with working on weekends, particularly now that I have a child. The other day I was sitting on the couch with my laptop doing something I'm sure was super important when Dave brought Owen in from taking his nap. Owen's cheeks were red from being smooshed into the mattress and he had that stunned I-just-woke-up-and-my-brain's-not-working-yet look on his face. I always smile when he looks like this because man, can I relate.

Dave put him down on his playmat and instead of ignoring Owen and letting him entertain himself like I sometimes do, I closed my laptop and stood up. I switched my iPod to my favorite pop songs and laid on the floor next to Owen. I took his arms and bopped them back and forth to "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen and "We Found Love" by Rihanna. I put my hands under his hips and jiggled them up and down to the beat of "Payphone" by Maroon 5.

Owen giggled and smiled, even as I sang to him that "We are never, ever, ever getting back together" along with Taylor Swift. It was the most fun I'd had in weeks.

Disconnecting from work and being in the moment like this is not something I'm always willing or able to do. That's another thing I've learned about "being" vs. "doing." It's a process. Sometimes I'd rather stay immersed in some project than play with Owen. And that's okay. The more I notice and accept the fact that I'm caught up in the compulsion to do at the expense of the ability to be, the more I want to play with Owen later. The human psyche is funny that way.

Another point that I appreciated in Redding's essay is his discussion of how the Internet age has sped up the turnaround time in the advertising industry so much that he and his colleagues no longer had the luxury of sleeping on an idea. As a consequence, they became more conservative. Without the time to let inspiration marinate into innovation, they stopped taking creative risks and fell back on tried and true techniques. It perfectly illustrates the cost of "doing" at the expense of "being."

This is my favorite part:

The trick to being truly creative, I’ve always maintained, is to be completely unselfconscious. To resist the urge to self-censor. To not-give-a-shit what anybody thinks. That’s why children are so good at it. And why people with Volkswagens, and mortgages, Personal Equity Plans and matching Lois Vuitton luggage are not. It takes a certain amount of courage, thinking out loud. And is best done in a safe and nurturing environment. Creative departments and design studios used to be such places, where you could say and do just about anything creatively speaking, without fear of ridicule or judgment. It has to be this way, or you will just close up like a clam shell. It’s like trying to have sex with your mum listening outside the bedroom door.

Forget the fact that I have both a Volkswagen and a mortgage, I laughed aloud at the part about having sex with your mom outside the bedroom door. Talk about inspiring nothing but inhibition. In my quest to become better at "being," there's a safe and nurturing place I go every Wednesday night where I can speak freely without fear of ridicule or judgment (okay, sometimes we judge each other a little).

If you don't have such a place, go find one. Otherwise you'll end up having to write your own now-that-I'm-dying-I-realize-I-spent-too-much-time-at-the-office essay.

Driving Mr. Owen

If there is a hell, it would look something like this: You would be assigned to a car, most likely with automatic transmission, with a screaming infant in the back. Then you would be directed to drive around one of those big traffic circles they have in Europe for all of eternity in bumper to bumper traffic.

Why do I say this? Riding in the car with Owen is one of my least favorite activities as a parent. It starts with the fact that he doesn't like his car seat. The second he gets wind of the fact that I am transferring him from his stroller into his car capsule he starts to whine. As I struggle to pull the straps out from under him and pull them over his chest, he takes one look at me, arches his back and tries to make a break for it.

"I know, I know," I croon as I push his belly down to steady him and pull the fastener from underneath his padded behind. "I know you don't like this. I'm so sorry baby but it's the law." As if validation will do the trick.

Once I've snapped him into the harness that makes him look like a fighter pilot or an astronaut about to be shot into outer space, his whine becomes louder and louder and builds into a full blown wail. If Dave is driving, I'll sit in the back next to Owen trying to soothe and distract him. "Shhhh, Shhhh, Shhhh," I'll shush into his ear, pressing my face next to his like I learned in the video of Dr. Karp, the so-called Baby Whisperer pediatrician, who wrote "The Happiest Baby on the Block."

That doesn't work so I rummage through the diaper bag and pull out Sophie. I start squeaking her in Owen's face. He just cries harder, now with his eyes closed and tears, real tears, streaming down his face. I try handing him his cloth star with the crinkly paper in the corner. But he can't even see me. He won't open his eyes no matter how many times I say his name. His face is beet red and he's gone, screaming with his eyes closed in an alternate universe I can't reach. I feel like Leslie Nielsen trying to calm the hysterical woman in "Airplane" by slapping her repeatedly across the face. But of course, I don't.

Instead I yell to Dave to turn the CD player to Track 1, Owen's favorite Elizabeth Mitchell song. She's a children's folk singer with the most beautiful soothing voice.

              I've got a friend in Baltimore, Little Liza Jane
              Streetcars running by her door, Little Liza Jane
              Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane
              Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane

Owen hesitates for a moment, recognizing the melody as something he likes. I frantically sing along with the chorus, trying to get him to grasp my fingers so I can dance his arms back and forth like he loves when he's in a good mood. I hold my breath to see if the pause will actually take. It doesn't. His face crumples up and he starts wailing again. I exhale in a big sigh, my insides rattled. I struggle to calm myself by taking another deep breath. He won't take a pacifier anymore so that's out. There is only one thing left to do: feed him. No wonder he's in the 90th percentile for weight.

I reach into the diaper bag and pull out his bottle and unscrew the cap, then I rummage around for the bottled water and the blue plastic container with pre-measured formula. I focus on keeping my arms steady as I pour 4 ounces of water into the bottle, then tap tap the formula into the bottle, praying that Dave doesn't hit a bump and send the water and formula powder flying down my shirt and jeans like last time. That was fun. Especially considering that I only have one pair of jeans that fit me right now and I had nothing casual to wear for days.

I take another deep breath as Owen continues to scream. I screw the nipple on tight and shake the solution until the powder dissolves. I think about the study of Buddhist monks in which a scientist took scans of their brains while they meditated to find the neurological origins of tranquility and oneness. They should try it with a screaming baby in the room.

I put the nipple into Owen's mouth. His brain registers the feel of the pointed plastic and he starts to suck. It's suddenly quiet, except for the stuttered sound of the air expelled from his nose as his chest heaves up and down as he starts to settle down after a long cry. Holding his bottle to his mouth with my left hand, I grab the burp cloth with my other hand and dab the wetness from his cheeks. He closes his eyes and starts to make his happy gulping noises. I lay my head back on the seat and close my eyes.

I can take the massive poops that explode out of his diaper and up his back. I can handle the gallons of spit up on the shirts I just washed. I don't mind picking up the dozens of toys that are always strewn across the living room. It's the uncontrollable crying that makes me want to jump out of a moving car. All I can think is what I've told my nephew and niece for years whenever they've acted up: "It's a good thing you're cute."