The World's Worst Job Seeker

So I applied for a job.

Friday night I was doing my tri-weekly scan of craigslist for any remotely interesting part-time position, when I found it: television news segment producer, three days a week every other week, two days a week on alternate weeks.

I was so giddy I almost couldn't sleep that night. The next day, during Henry's nap time, I sent my updated resume and a cover letter to the email address. I felt electric.

And then 10 minutes passed and I felt ill. Every Feminine-Mystique-y stereotype I have in my head about the necessity of being a full time mother came charging out of the far corners of my brain. I'd be abandoning my son. Outsourcing the most important job I'll ever do. Turning him over to a stranger to satisfy my own selfish needs.

It didn't help when I told my mom about the job. She won't come out and say she thinks it's a terrible idea, but she manages to slip the idea in between supportive statements. "I totally understand the need for a job," she said. "That's why I started working as soon as you were both in school full time."

Then she reminded me that no job could be as important as taking care of Henry. And that although these years seem long now, when I look back I'll realize they were just a fraction of time. And that I will have more stress than I can imagine if I get a job.

But that she really, really, thought it sounded great.

I'm not blaming her. These things wouldn't bother me if they weren't already lodged in my psyche.

Don't get me wrong: I do not think working mothers are a bad thing. In fact, the mothers I know who worked from the time their children were born always seem to have the most confident, well-adjusted kids. Every one of my mom friends work or are returning to work, and all of their kids are lovely, happy little people.

This is just another way for me to beat myself up. Not just beat myself up--beat myself up over something that hasn't happened yet. And, let's be honest, will probably not happen.

Sure, the employers may be so impressed with my qualifications that they manage to overlook the fact that I failed to capitalize and italicize "the" in The Economist (which may not seem that bad to you, but as an editor, I feel like it's the equivalent of showing up to an interview in assless chaps). But there is no way they can overlook baby #2, which already has that I-ate-the-whole-basketball housing. I know pregnancy discrimination is illegal, but really, if you were a non-commercial satellite station, would you want to have to find a temporary employee within three months of finding your permanent one?

So to recap: I found a possible means of escape from housewifedom, I felt good, I felt guilty, I talked to my mom, I felt more guilty, I have almost no chance of getting the job anyway, which makes me relieved for a minute, and then sad again.

At least mental and emotional instability gives me something to do.