Vignettes from a small island

One.

A job ad is posted by a local organization. A job for which I am amply qualified. It’s half-time, walkable. The deadline is the next day. I prepare the documentation. I pause. Doubt fills the pause. If I don’t get the job, as has happened many times over the last seven years, I will be flattened. If I do get it, how will I manage with three children, one not yet a year old, and a spouse who has no fewer than three upcoming trips scheduled? Who would do childcare? How would I manage work-schoolbus-babyfood-bedtime-preschool-laundry-readingaloud-diapers-lunchboxes-hygiene plus childcare coordination? I will never have the luxury of taking a job without thinking of everyone else. The doubt boils over. I recycle the application. I resolve to return to the question in the autumn once two children are in school full-time and the baby has turned one.

Two.

Three men, friends from other places, stay with us for a few days during a conference. All are awed to some degree by my husband, whose credentials are impressive, who publishes productively, who is a committed vegan, who volunteers, who runs vast distances, who teaches a spin class for triathletes on the weekend for fun. “How does he do it all?” one wonders aloud. His dedication is strong, to be sure. But he has help. In general I stay home with the kids, plan the meals, cook the suppers, do the laundry, tabulate the budget, get up with the baby at night. Willingly, more or less; and he is not a hands-off parent, either. Across the years the labour has expanded to fill my time. In advance of the conference I cleaned the guest spaces of the house in fits and starts while caring for kids and it felt like an accomplishment. In my diary I wrote, “I never thought I would be the sort of woman for whom a vacuumed floor constituted an achievement.”

Three.

I stand behind my bench at weightlifting class, shivering slightly. The gymnasium echoes with the chitchat of the retirees who arrive twenty minutes early and take all the plum spots. Before she switches on the thumping warmup music the instructor explains the theme of the month’s workout: nothing changes if nothing changes. Together we clean and press our barbells and settle them onto the meat of our shoulders. We sink into deep squats, the burdens calculated deliberately. We want to put on enough weight that we risk failing to complete each set. This, we learn, is how to become stronger.

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