Why I quit my day job

I worked at the same place for almost eleven years. The people were nice, the pay was ok, and the work was often interesting— sometimes even fun. So why did I quit?  I have a few reasons. Some may sound crazier than others, but they all made sense to me. See what you think, and tell me your thoughts.

1. I couldn’t stand dropping my kid off at daycare every day.

No matter how great the place is (and ours was great), it’s a beating. I tried it for a year and just couldn’t take it any more. Besides, there’s a law of diminishing returns. Daycare for one is like having a second mortgage.  Daycare for two is just plain ridiculous.  I couldn’t afford to work anymore.

Some of the gals at the office told me that it get easier to drop the kids off everyday. That, my friends, is a lie. And as much as I hate to be a cliche, here I am, right in the dad-gum middle of Cliche Town, living on Cliche Street.  I’m a working mom who was conflicted about professionalism vs. motherhood who decided to become a stay at home mommy blogger. You can email me at mommyblogger@cliche.com. (Not really, but that’s about how it feels.)

2. Because I was tired of doing the same thing over and over. For over a decade.

My previous job was a good job, don’t get me wrong. But when you get to the point you can do your job with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back, you should start looking for another job. Being overly competent at your job may be comfortable, but it’s dead boring.

Right before I quit, I found one of my daytimers from four years previous. I flipped through it and realized I was still doing the exact same thing at work.  That was the final nail in the coffin.

3.  Because God told me to.

Before you write me off as some religious wacko, let me tell you that I am just your average religious weirdo, not a wacko.  Seriously, though, here’s the way it went down:

For months I had been doing some serious soul-searching. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my life but I was pretty sure it wasn’t what I was doing at the time. I applied for jobs, cried, moped, and pulled my hair out. None of that seemed to help, so I also prayed.  And I didn’t hear squat-diddly.  Nothing. Nada. Zip.

So I prayed some more, and cried some more, and generally felt like a wild animal that had been trapped in a box. If you aren’t around wild animals much, just imagine putting your cat in the carrier to take it to the vet.  I was spinning around in circles and throwing myself against the walls of my little (self-made) box and I had no idea how to get out.

So one night I was in the bathtub telling God how I thought He should answer me, since He clearly hadn’t figured it out yet, since I hadn’t heard anything from him in weeks. Months. Possibly years. I was spelling it all out for Him. I mean, He is God Almighty, but I thought I needed to make it easier for him, just in case he didn’t understand my request. So I was listing all of the possible options I could think of, and numbering them off on my water-wrinkled fingers. As in: “#1. I could get a new job. #2. I could keep my old job. #3. I could work from home.” Etc. I let God know that He could just give me a number, if that was easier. But I honestly felt like He wasn’t listening anyway.

And then, right there in the bathtub next to the Pantene, I heard a voice plain as day that said,

“Are you willing to give up all of your ideas about what your life should look like, in order to receive what I have planned for you?”

*crickets chirping*

And I said: “Uhhhh… can I get back to you on that?”

I thought about it for a minute.

“So, will I still be able to use my gifts and write, and do stuff I like to do? You aren’t gonna send me to some jungle where nobody reads books, are you?”

(Imagine the Lord of Hosts with his arms folded, raising one eyebrow.)

“Umm, OK. What about my husband? What if I say yes to what you have planned, and he doesn’t want to go along with it?”

(Now imagine that He’s tapping one foot, but trying not to laugh at you.)

I thought about it for twenty-four hours. I was a little bit afraid I was pushing my luck, you know, what with God finally giving me an answer, and me asking Him to please just hold on because I am afraid He might actually give me what I want. After the twenty-four hours of more soul-searching, I said, “OK. Let’s do it. You show me the cliff, and I’ll jump. As long as it’s a metaphorical cliff, cause you know I have that fear of falling, right?”

Just to make sure, I asked about two dozen of my closest friends what they thought, and they all agreed that I should quit. But I think they knew, anyway, that my heart wasn’t at the office anymore. It is in the possession of a baby boy, who has chubby little fists and banana on his face.  Now that I’m where my heart is, I can be true to myself, true to my heart, true to my writing.

So here I am. I’ve jumped off the cliff and lived to tell about it.

And no, there aren’t really any crickets in my bathroom.