North Star Writers Group

I have a confession to make. In the past, I have job-jumped several times in the name of the almighty dollar. Having held six different jobs in the 10 years following my undergrad degree piloted me up the salary range. There was something about making more money by the age of 27 than both of my parents combined that made me feel pretty good. I, of course, was an idiot.

At the same time, it sent me spiraling down the relationship tornado, all the way to the tip where destruction is unavoidable. I guess you could say I’ve turned a few seemingly decent relationships into Wicked Witches of the West, shoes sticking out of the house and all. And not just romantic ones. Ones with former bosses. And clients. And coworkers.

It took meeting my husband to look at career progress in a completely different way. And having children to rethink it yet again.

You see, my husband is the exact opposite of a workaholic. Except when it came to teaching me not to be one. He committed to the effort, gave it his all and tirelessly taught me his traits. Finally, after a good three or four years (for I never claimed to be a quick study), I caught on to the value of coming home at a decent hour to a good glass of wine.

He inspired me to find a job that would allow for this. And that, I did. I’ll admit. It’s one of those nice, stable ones with small 2.5 or 3 percent raises year after year.

Still, it took having a child to completely rid me of my former habit of crunching numbers, obsessing over the fact that $20 a week – or whatever that 2.5 percent came out to – was like throwing a chicken wing at a Rottweiler. They’re just going to look at you, cock their head to the side and wonder, “Where’s the rest?”

I was that Rottweiler. When I got my first great review at Stable Company, and the pittance to accompany it, I walked away stunned. I’d never had one year in all my career that, in the end, amounted to that little.

Then, I went home for the day. I looked at my six-month-old son, and realized a couple of things. First, $20 a week buys a lot of diapers. Also, it buys me that bottle of wine to enjoy with my husband.

More importantly, I realized how small increments add up to a lot, and sometimes, it’s all a person can give, whether a rule tells them so, or it’s really all they’re capable of. When my son was born, he was nearly a month premature. Weighing in at 4.5 pounds, and not looking so much unlike a little chicken wing himself, he spent a week in the neonatal care unit before we could bring him home.

During those days, one ounce counted. One sixteenth of a pound was an achievement that my husband and I would celebrate with hugs, smiles and renewed energy to face the next day. He also had a feeding tube from which he received most of his nutrition. But, as each day passed, and he took in another two, four, or eight ounces on his own, again, we rejoiced.

These days, it’s the addition of one word to his vocabulary that’s the cause of our excitement. His own little 2.5 percent increase in communications ability. It’s a treasure. Not unlike my $20 a week, I’m lucky to have it.

For me, the real raise I’ll get in life – the one that matters – is when he’ll finally say “Mommy.” He’s been saying Daddy for a long time. And Grandpa. And lots of other words. My husband tells me he says Mommy when I leave for work in the morning, but I think he might be stretching the truth to make me feel better. That’s OK. I know it’s coming. And I know it’s going to sound better than manager, director or vice president ever could.

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This is Column # CD058. Request permission to publish here.