baby, you’re much too fast.

Posey scoots now, small arms propelling her backwards over the hardwood like a slippery, self-denying seal.  it makes her happy, this autonomy, this discovery of the world. ooh, another dust bunny! i think i heard her coo.

shoulda bought one of those sleepers with the mop attachment on ’em. happy baby, clean floors.

i have a job interview tomorrow.

it’s a big one, a federal job, a job with pension and all those exotic things that i haven’t had in the almost twelve years since i left the K-12 classroom. i spent a whole weekend last month compiling my twelve-page application, and most of the trip to Halifax having Dave quiz me on policies and mandates and the 73 other things i’m trying to stuff into my brain so i have a chance of not being blown out of the water by the internal candidates.  March is going out like a lion, a foot of snow here last night, and so school is closed and i’m trying to prepare a strategic plan for the presentation part of the THREE-HOUR interview while two sets of small snotty hands paw at me.

Dave is home, bless him. he has my back. and my babies.

it feels heady to draft communications strategy, to luxuriate in concepts like innovation and coherence. the notion of this job sings siren songs of salary and semi-security and skills development, of arriving.  i am all ears, a silly adolescent eager to put out for the big letter sweater who makes her feel she’s good enough.

but the prospect of shoehorning my stretched, milk-swollen bosom into my good jacket like a trussed chicken makes me feel exposed, faintly grotesque…Betty Boop playing professional.

and every time i try to imagine opening my mouth to say something articulate about my qualifications, i choke, feel brittle and strange and false, like a child caught believing in imaginary friends.  i want this. it scares me.

i have grown accustomed to being home. i catch Josephine’s eye as she gnaws fiercely on a stuffed rabbit, and her eyes crackle with light.  Oscar dons his Miffy apron and pulls his stool up to the kitchen counter to help me cook; wanders the house in underpants. my daughter will sit up soon, then walk, speak her first words. and if i get this job, i will not be there for nearly so much of that.

part of me wants to freeze this moment, the weight of this babe in my arms, the laugh of my boy as he shouts hoo-way! that part of me would stay here forever.  it is afraid i will fail at anything else.

i will not know unless i try.
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… some help, if you will.  i’m rusty at this interview stuff, struggling to remember the cadence of work, how people sound when their conversations aren’t mostly about poop. what’s the best job interview question you’ve ever been asked?  what do you wish you’d answered?

you can be my practice team.

wish me luck.