I’m attempting to hone some writing skills to discover how to create content…and lots of it. I am endeavoring to publish my very first website aimed at oilfield families. Since the end of my short spurt of blogging a few long years ago, I’ve become an oilfield wife. My sweet little 3 year old has become a rambunctious six year old. And I married my longtime boyfriend.
He left about a year and a half ago to pursue a career in the Bakken Shale oilfields in ND. This is very far from my Atlanta home. Normally, he spends 2 weeks there and comes home for two weeks. While he is there, he works very long days, (I’m talking 18 hour days without a day off). When he comes home, he is dialed in. He is a super volunteer serving as the only man on our PTA and as “dugout mom” for tee-ball. He likes the extra attention he gets, our son enjoys spending the extra time with his Dad, and, well, I get a free pass on these duties.
I’ve recently made the decision to stop working a traditional job. First, because when my husband is gone, my schedule is too much to handle. Second, when he is home, I hate running out the door and not spending time with him. Third, my son needs to know that he comes before any sort of career and, finally, my boss let me know that as a salaried employee, she expects for me to work weekends and evenings. The last part came just days after I finished reading “The Four Hour Work Week” by Tim Farriss. I’m pretty sure that was critical timing.
Now, lets fast forward to today. I was able to go to my favorite park and walk the 2.2 mile trail of sanity. I looked at trees, squirrels and the lake. I smiled and said “hello” to anyone running, walking or biking in the opposite direction. I especially enjoy that part. Since I’m on my second week of that activity, I’m starting to recognize familiar faces. I listen to podcasts from my virtual mentors, Pat Flynn, Tim Farris and Chalene Johnson. After I listen to one, I put on my Spotify and listen to my playlist with the title “Happy”. And I am, happy.
My home is finally the recipient of proper attention. Gone are the days of dishes in the sink and quick fast food dinners because I didn’t have time to shop, let alone cook. My son, Harry, hates my cooking though and begs to go out to a restaurant as much as possible. He is getting used to dinner at the table, half of our meals with Daddy. I’m noticing little projects to do that I can notice and can accomplish, and want to accomplish. Harry and I read together every night, I pick him up from his bus every afternoon. I am not hurried, angry or rushed anymore. I dream of never going back and “trading my life for money”.