The Day I Lost My Career

When the Juggling Act Crashes

It’d been a thoroughly rotten week, the sort that begins with grand ambitions and crumbles into a chaotic cascade of regrets. My son was off on his summer holidays, and I had devolved into a steady diet of Cheese Strings and Curly Wurlys, purely for survival. I’d cobbled together some of the leftover annual leave from maternity leave six months ago, with plans to enjoy the time together as a family. Clubs, camps, and all the organised fun would wait until next year. This summer was ours, much to my manager’s dismay.

I went back part-time, you see, so technically, this leave was my leftover full-time allowance, which I proudly wielded like a legal right I’d fought tooth and nail for. My manager seemed to react to my leave with the kind of scepticism usually reserved for tax fraud. Every time I announced my upcoming absence, she’d give me a look that practically screamed, "I wish." I, too, wish - mostly that I’d burned it all off at the end of maternity leave. Still, legally it was mine.

Anyway, back to the disaster. My son and I were all set for a day at the beach, with ice creams and 2p arcades on the agenda, when I got the call. My daughter, who was meant to be joyfully mucking about at nursery, was showing the unmistakable spots of hand, foot, and mouth. Because summer wouldn’t be complete without some exotic plague. My son was devastated, his dreams of seaside glory dashed. I tried to rally: “If she’s not too bad, maybe we’ll still go?”

And so we fetched her, her splotches and all, thinking a change of scenery might even do her some good. It wasn’t until halfway to the coast that her actual state made itself known. She screamed like a banshee, my son begged for an arcade stop, and I began seriously contemplating the benefits of cancelling all future family outings indefinitely. But once we got there, I bribed them both with a quick toy shop visit. Bad move.

The shop was cramped, designed for one parent with a handbag, not a human tank armed with a giant buggy and a highly-strung baby. She refused to be held, obviously, choosing instead to sprint around, making an intentional effort to infect every stuffed animal in her path. Meanwhile, my son was haggling over the £5 pocket money I’d promised him. His eye landed on a pricey model, which he was convinced was actually £7. “It’s £5, honey,” I muttered, gaslighting him with the calm confidence of someone who has no idea what they’re talking about, but a deep need to leave the shop ASAP.

Meanwhile, my daughter had grabbed not one but two Jellycat toys. One was a soft bunny, fine, typical. The other? A giant, unsettling heart with a face. I love Jellycats as much as the next beleaguered parent, but there are limits. I wrenched one from her grip, and before I knew it, I was shelling out £40 for a bunny just to keep the peace. “How much did that bunny cost, Mummy?” my son asked very suspiciously. “£5,” I lied.

We left the toy shop barely alive and finally made it to the beach for a packed lunch that was mostly soggy sandwiches. Somewhere between the lukewarm juice cartons and squashed crisps, my phone pinged. A new email had arrived, ominously labeled from HR. “Important meeting,” it read. One of those subtly worded messages that actually means, “Prepare to feel your heart implode.” It would be communicated after said meeting, that if you were to find a meeting plonked into your calendar after it, you were gone - poof.

I sat there, numb, clutching that overpriced bunny while my kids squabbled over rocks. My hands shook so violently that I resembled someone suffering from advanced hypothermia. I knew this meeting was coming for me, and I knew it wasn’t good news. But I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t have enough phone signal to confirm whether my job of nearly a decade - the one I’d shaped and reshaped to fit around my kids, was about to be whisked away, or if I still had a prayer of clinging on.

The drive home was an exercise in sheer willpower, with my daughter wailing in one ear, full-on misery, and my son in the other, asking a string of endless questions I was barely able to answer. When we finally arrived home, I scrambled for my phone, desperate to learn my fate. “Important meeting with HR at 3 p.m.” And that was it.

I let out a guttural sob trying to hold it together while my kids looked on, completely baffled. This was parenting, life, career - sacrificing what felt like everything only to end up sobbing into a £40 bunny in the driveway. Because sometimes, you just need something soft to cling to, even if it’s ridiculous. And, that something happened to be a stuffed bunny.