After my son was born, all I kept hearing was, "Now you'll see how having a baby puts everything into perspective." Another common one: "Things that were so important to you will either take a backseat or fall off the radar entirely." At the time, I understood what that meant in my head, but I didn't completely get it in my heart. Sure, my heart almost exploded out of my chest when I first laid eyes on my newborn. And I can honestly say I would gladly stand in front of a moving train to save his life. But that thing about perspective? I didn't see things much differently until about two weeks ago, when I was given my layoff notice and told I had one month of severance. Suddenly, it was as if someone pulled up the window shade, positioned me in front of the clear, bright glass, and shouted, "NOW do you get it?" Um, yes, now I think I do.

 

Two years ago, after my maternity leave, I went back to work full-time, and though I didn't love my job, it was what I did and who I was five days a week. I spent most of my life in a poorly lit cubicle, feverishly typing on a keyboard and squinting at a computer screen all day. When I arrived home at night, I switched from office automaton to mommy automaton. I say "automaton" because more times than I'd like to admit, when I came home tired and stressed out, I felt as if I was an emotionless machine, doing what I had to do to make sure my son was safe, clean, nourished, and well-rested. I did what I thought was right ... but somehow, it didn't feel right. It was just what I had to do, another job for which I had to fulfill responsibilities. Many times, while I was playing with him, I wasn't "in the moment"; I was only there physically, somewhere else in my head. I didn't see the (adorable) toothy grin on my little boy's face, and I didn't hear the way his babyish cry developed into a funny, squeaky, high-pitched vocabulary of "Alexisms," as I call them. Way too frequently, all I saw and heard was a loud, active (a.k.a. typical) toddler I couldn't wait to put to bed, so I could throw myself into my own bed and escape from a draining day.

 

Until two weeks ago.

 

That was when the machine that I was came to a grinding halt, and I pretty much experienced the full gamut of emotions, from losing it in my friend's office to full-throttle "take action" mode (the machine taking over, pointing me in the direction of resume-updating and headhunter calling), and, finally, if you can believe it, to a sense of relief and gratitude.

 

I'm not sure anyone who's been laid off in this tumultuous economy would describe themselves as relieved and grateful -- at least, not initially. I know I didn't feel that way when I heard those terrifying words, "Your position has been dissolved, and your end date is ..." All I remember from that awkward situation is that as my manager and HR representative were basically reading me my rights, all I kept hearing in my head was, "Oh, God ... how are we going to pay our bills and cover ourselves if we get sick?" So basically, I heard nothing in that room except the voices in my head hissing that we CAN'T pay our bills and will NO LONGER have medical coverage. I drove home that day in shock, thinking about how my husband, a stay-at-home dad who works part-time at night, and I were going to hurdle this obstacle. We endured others over the years, but this one threw us for a loop. This was the first time we faced a frightening situation where the other party wasn't in a position to bail us out. This was, as we called it, "the full monty." 

 

And yet in the midst of that panic-inducing state, our son was beaming. As I pulled up the driveway in the middle of the day with teary eyes and a sick feeling in my stomach, I saw my 2-year-old standing at the door with a huge smile on his face, waving frantically at me and practically pulling me in the door. My husband and I immediately started talking about our "go forward" plan, and our son danced around us in a frenzy, all the while coaxing me to "Stay, stay." At one point in the chaos of our stressful discussion and our toddler's antics, I put down my laptop bag, took off my coat, and stopped in my tracks. It dawned on me that this 100 percent sincere welcoming committee of one was a far cry from the 100 percent sincere goodbye committee I had just met with to discuss my termination process. This little boy was telling me something indirectly, in his own baby babble and with his innocent, genuine expressions. He was telling me one door may have closed on me, but there was another door that was already opened, only I didn't completely walk through it yet. It may not pay the bills and doesn't cover us medically, but the rewards are abundant and infinite. And they've been there all the while.

 

Oh, my husband and I are definitely stressed out and scared to death about the uncertain future. We toss and turn at night, wake up tired, and haven't stopped plugging away in our quest for gainful employment. Who knows what the future brings? But what I do know is that as deflated, defeated, frightened, and drained as I feel about the door closing on my job and all that it entailed (primarily, financial security and medical insurance), the door that was already opened reveals something more important and rewarding than anything else in this life: my little boy, and precious time spent with him. So at the end of that upsetting day of my termination, when my son said, "Sit, sit," it took on a whole new perspective. I actually smiled for the first time that day and said to him, "Thanks for wanting me to sit with you, baby." And I sat with him for a long time. This time, it felt right.