I work part-time: 3 days a week for a wall street firm. And 2 of those are from home. Yes, I know what a lucky bitch I am, and the next time I hear that, I swear I’ll hurl the nearest screeching toy that finds its way under my aching feet.

Truth is, its been 3 months (almost) and I haven’t found my groove yet. I still hate the fact that at the end of each day – once the family’s fed, dishes are done and floor is faked clean – I ignore the lonely New Yorker magazine that sits on a untouced pile of fellow New Yorkers, and begin the annoyingly long login process to my work machine. And just when I’ve checked all e-mail (ok, mass deleted all e-mail) and the bloated apps finish loading, Nibbles squirms for a quick nibble. By the time I’m back, totally zoned out and drowsy from the oxytocin rush, the damn session’s kicked me out. This lil’ routine repeats itself till 1ish when the systems decide to back themselves up, thereby completely stalling my sputtering momentum. Then I mope around for an hour or so and fall asleep practising my getting-laid-off speech.

I’m tired of being a charity case. What else am I, in a team that’s brimming with over -achieving type A personalities with laminated career plans? Just a poster child for maternity benefits the firm provides. A sheltered sheep amongst wolves. A sheep that once howled proudly with the rest of the testosteroned pack.

It was bad enough for me to pursue the wrong major, simply because I could and I felt I owed it to womankind. Now I’m saddled with the burden of being the model working mom in IT. I wish I could say, “You picked the wrong chick pals. So long and thanks for all the fish”.

Worst part is, Big Byte takes considerable time off from his work to help out while I chew my fingernails staring at screen. I suppose I could hire a nanny during the day to get some work done – but right now, the thought of someone else hanging out with my kid while I immerse myself in mind-sucking analysis is just not appetizing. I guess I’ll swallow the gruel for a bit longer till I see that neon sign flashing with the answer to Everything (and this time, it ain’t 42).