The Motherly Magic of Making Shit Happen

“Well she should have thought of that before she had kids.”

I stuffed those words down into my gut for nine months as though I was pregnant with them. I ruminated on them and they grew bigger and bigger.

When I interviewed for the position I was crystal clear that I am a single mom and the inevitable unexpected falls squarely on my shoulders.

“Kids get sick. School closes for weather. It’s all on me. Will you be able to accommodate me working remotely when those things arise?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

And then the masks came off. Literally and metaphorically. The pandemic was deemed as being over and my son and I got sick with everything we’d missed out on during that second year of preschool and first half of kindergarten. From November to June we were sick at least once a month. I met my deadlines from my living room floor, sometimes grabbing the puke bucket every twenty minutes, answering emails in between. I learned new software platforms in my pajamas. I sorted accounts payable and made sure payroll was done on time. I took boxes of work home every day when the mercury started dropping just in case school was canceled.

I made shit happen. Moms tend to do that.

But then one of the owners came to me one day in May and said another owner “had some things to say” about me working from home so much.

“I told him you don’t really have any help. He said, well she should have thought of that before she had kids.”

The fact this conversation was even being repeated to me was enough to make me want to walk out the door right then. My younger, child-free self absolutely would have. But of course, my younger, child-free (albeit less skilled) self had a different kind of market value and the conversation would never have taken place.

I wanted to tell him I didn’t plan to become a divorced mom. I wanted to point out that I didn’t anticipate my mother dying when my son was a toddler, therefore being unavailable for grandmotherly support. I really wanted to tell him they should have thought of it when I told them I didn’t really have any help.

Instead, I mumbled something about thirty-five year old women and biological clocks and physically felt my morale leaping into the toilet. I quiet quit that day. I started plotting and scheming and planning my exit. I wasn’t going to do this anymore. And I definitely wasn’t going to do it for half the going rate. By September I’d settled on launching a virtual assistant business.

I listened to every audiobook, podcast, YouTube video, and livestream I could find while I plugged away at my desk. I enrolled in a business planning and mentoring program for VAs in November. I listened to the training videos and live calls while I paid company bills and answered emails. I took discovery calls from my car on my lunch breaks.

I booked my first client at the beginning of February and gave thirty days resignation two weeks later, offering to find and train my replacement. One owner asked me to stay forty-five days to help with some upcoming projects. Another told me not to look for a replacement. I realized I was being drained dry while there was no value placed on my position. I was gone a week later. I booked my second client on my first day as a full-time entrepreneur (which felt a whole lot like unemployment).

I was making shit happen. Moms tend to do that.

It was just two years prior to all of this, nearly to the day, I was fired from my part-time retail job. I was at the precipice of leaving my marriage and already had boxes packed. I’d been a stay-at-home mom the previous three years and I was terrified of what was ahead of me.

My then-husband was at work and my toddler was slated to spend the day with his aunt. He woke up with a sore throat and became lethargic before vomiting all over me and an urgent care waiting room and spiking a fever of 102. I called in to get my shift covered and told them my husband was trying to leave work early so I could still come in. I had a voice message from the owner within the hour. She, a mother of three, told me they’d have to let me go as they realized hiring “primary caregivers” wasn’t in their best interest, especially considering my “situation”. She offered thoughts and prayers along with advice to look for remote work.

Three weeks later, the pandemic struck. I’d moved out of the marital home and in with my father. My hero. I did find temporary remote work and made my foray into the world of virtual assisting. When that position ended I found odd jobs sewing, painting, cold-calling. Anything I could make a buck doing while the world shut down.

As schools started to reopen and my son was headed to kindergarten, a friend told me about an opportunity at his dad’s small printing company. It sounded fun and the pay was decent enough. When I followed up with him he lamentingly informed me his dad said he wouldn’t hire a woman. A woman would be too much of a distraction to the men on the floor. I was flabbergasted and righteously indignant. Hopelessness had a firm grip on me, but I maintained my determination.

So when I was offered the office position and was assured they’d work with me when I needed to work remotely as long as I was delivering results, I felt like my metaphorical prayers had been answered. I’d held out for what was meant for me. And it was. It was a wonderful stepping stone to help me climb out of purgatory and into my new life. I was able to buy a house within months of starting (thank you, credit union!), I gained new skills and confidence, and found the independence I’d been craving.

But it just wasn’t working. Not for me. Not for my son. And apparently not for one of my bosses.

So I made some shit happen.

I was raised by a woman who, with only a high school diploma, not only took a seat at the table in an industry spearheaded by the Good Ol’ Boys network, but she became its matriarch. The wife of a long-distance trucker, she raised three babies, went to college, and built a career and a company. By the time she died she’d launched two more businesses.

She made shit happen. And she was a great mom.

My older sister, after a lifelong battle with obesity and in the throes of divorce, rebuilt a life, and built a successful personal training career and fitness studio with a toddler by her side. One 4:00am wake-up call at a time.

She’s still making shit happen. And she’s a great mom.

I have friends all around me doing similar. Raising children, running households, and excelling in their businesses and careers.

They are making shit happen. And they are great moms.

But they/I/we are still being asked, “Can you do the work?”

We are still being told, “I’d rather work with someone who doesn’t have children to distract them.”

We are still being doubted. So we push each other. We cheer for each other. We refer each other.

And we make shit happen. All while being great moms.

It’s shocking to me that mothers are still being so drastically underestimated as a collective. Finding solutions is what we do. Making things work is the whole thing. We know how to be flexible. We’re master multitaskers. We can think on our feet when chaos is swirling around us. We organize schedules and remember there are six spirit days and four basketball games this month and this one needs new shoes and that one outgrew his pants and recycling gets picked up every other Wednesday and we have exactly two hours and twenty-two minutes to complete x-y-z before the other one wakes up from her nap.

Stop overlooking us on the principle that we have a particular responsibility. It’s a big responsibility, but it is the one that drives every other single thing we do. We know how to show up and persevere and deliver results. Because we have to.

So we make shit happen.

If you want something done, ask a busy person. The more things you do, the more you can do – Lucille Ball (a mom who made shit happen)

- Candi

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