And it hits the fan.

Oy.

The girl we hired didn't work out. By "didn't work out," I mean she called in sick three times in three weeks, seriously, have you ever called in sick even once at a new job? With a cold? With a sore knee? I kid you not. So, we had a conversation about dedication and commitment, and I asked her what would happen on the day she called me to say she couldn't work because she had a cold, and I told her I had no childcare arrangements for that day, and anyway both my kids are sick too, and sorry, but she'd have to tough it out?

She decided she wasn't up to the job.

What this means is that for a while, probably a few months starting on the 20th of May, I'm going to be working six days a week, fifty hours. I'm not thinking about that and what it means for this household, I'm just going to deal. Today is Friday. Tomorrow is Saturday, and it's going to be okay.

Yesterday I was at work alone for a while. I tidied my desk, threw out seventy-five of the post-its that my (treacherous, abandoning, beloved) co-worker loves so much. I was surprised to find that I was at peace. Work is a familiar place to me, and I feel comfortable with my hands on the wheel, guiding the business through the ebb and flow of customers. And hey, it's one heck of a lot easier than looking after the kids.

So maybe say a little prayer for me, and cross your fingers that my DH will suddenly learn to cook.