Step 32: My knapsack on my back

Out of the blue, I was contacted recently about a really amazing job opportunity. It truly is the chance of a lifetime, but it would mean a move across the country. If I only had myself to think about, I would accept in a heartbeat. With a family to consider, though, things are a bit more...complicated.

Nevertheless, Angry Driver and I have been seriously discussing our options.

On the one hand, much to our mutual surprise, we both actually enjoy living in Blahtown. It is a great city in which to raise a family: good schools, friendly people, low crime rates, enough to do without the nightmare traffic of major metropolitan areas, fun parks, etc. Our neighborhood is great. We love our home. My daily commute is less than 10 minutes by car. My current position has the advantages of very decent work hours, great coworkers, and a very manageable call schedule. I am one of the few practicing physicians in the United States who actually gets to spend enough time with her patients. I even get to make house calls, black leather doctor's bag in hand. So what's not to love?

This:
My job is not just a job to me. It is my career and my calling.

As it turns out, the very stability that should be so attractive to me as a mother of two young children actually feels a bit stifling to me as a physician and adult learner. I'm beginning to suspect that the scope of my practice has become too limited. Opportunities for true intellectual growth are rare. Challenges at this point are mainly bureaucratic. I see many possibilities for building a stronger, more dynamic program, but I don't think the system shares my vision of the future.

Also, it is horribly cold here in the winter. I mean it. It's cold. Right now it is 5 degrees. Last night, it was -19 degrees. That's Fahrenheit and, no, that is not with the wind chill. I'm telling you, human beings are not meant to dwell in such inhospitable terrain. I can't even fathom what this place was like before the use of Tyvek house wrap and central forced-air heating. If I had rolled through this state in a Conestoga wagon 120 years ago, I would've immediately turned to Angry Wagon Driver and said, "Keep it moving, pal. Oregon or bust." Even if we had arrived in spring (which is, admittedly, gorgeous here), I would've hit the dirt road come November and the first blast of frigid wind and icy rain.

And let's not forget the snow.

It's become so bad, there are times I even look forward to the arctic chill because it means that it is too cold to snow. And that's just messed up.

Two days ago, there was so much snow that I couldn't even get my car up the hill into our subdivision. After multiple attempts, I finally had to admit defeat and abandon my sweet powder blue Mini Cooper to the elements until the city deigned to plow the roads. Which they eventually did. The next day.

This new job would bring with it a broad scope of practice, close interactions with colleagues, and daily opportunities to teach medical students and resident physicians. And while I have a passion for improving the quality of end-of-life care in America, I also have a passion for teaching. In my experience, nothing forces me to innovate and improve more than being around learners. Also, while I would like to think that I improve end-of-life care for each of my current patients, I know that my impact would be exponentially greater if I can teach a few generations of young doctors to provide such care in their future practices.

As an added bonus, the new job is located in a wonderfully warm and sunny climate.

The cherry on top? Angry Driver's best friend and bromantic life partner lives there.

So what's a physician mother to do?

Perhaps I am putting the proverbial cart before the equally proverbial horse since the job has not even officially been offered to me. Still, Angry Driver and I have been weighing the pros and cons of a move. As parents, we try to hold adult discussions out of earshot of our kids (even Pearl, who doesn't understand most of what we are saying anyway), but there is a well-documented parenting phenomenon known as The Child Who Can't Hear You Repeatedly Asking Him To Pick Up His Toys Develops Super-Sonic Hearing When The Conversation Is Not Meant For His Ears.

I'm speaking, of course, of Bean. Not only has he managed to piece together that we are considering relocation, he is already lobbying for a swimming pool at the new house.

Bean has probably overheard more of our conversations than he should, but I suspect even Pearl has picked up on the emotional undercurrents of the discussions. She has taken to wearing a blue and yellow backpack from sunup to sundown. Inside, she keeps the usual toddler necessities: a random charging cord for an electronic device, a small jar of Play-Doh, a doll's shoe, and a roll of stickers. She removes it while sleeping and bathing, but aside from those irritating rituals, the backpack is both her faithful companion and oddly unfashionable wardrobe accessory.

 Photographic evidence to support my claim 

of the backpack's ubiquity in my child's life.

It's possible that she's already packing for the big move, but I think the more likely explanation is that she enjoys the comfort of the backpack's weighty embrace and the stability that comes with knowing that one's personal treasures are always within easy reach.

To a certain extent, I find the backpack-wearing adorable. However, when I was a child, my mother used to derive great pleasure from publicly embarrassing me by loudly and repeatedly singing a horrid song from her own childhood. The only words I ever heard (and, quite likely, the only lyrics my mother knew) were the following:

Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
My knapsack on my back.

Here's a link to the song which, I have just learned courtesy of that modern miracle known as Google, is called The Happy Wanderer. If you really want to torture yourself, try listening to the actual tune. And when it becomes stuck in a perpetual loop through your auditory cortex, don't say I didn't warn you. After all, I did describe this song using words like "horrid" and "torture".

Courtesy of The Happy Wanderer, all I can think of when I see this adorable tiny tot shlepping her ugly blue and yellow backpack is the chorus of this song. Thanks, Mom. I owe you one.

Even Bean, who talks big talk about wanting to live near the beach and have a swimming pool, seems to be subconsciously giving voice to his insecurities. About a week ago, he suddenly and inexplicably began constructing small beds for his stuffed animal friends. At first it was a bed on the floor for a small stuffed black cat; the "mattress" was his own white cotton blanket, the "comforter" was a dishrag, and the "pillow" was a wad of folded Kleenex. Cute, certainly. Harmless? So I believed.

The next night, Bean proudly showed me how "Mousie" nestles into a "sleeping bag" (child's slipper) next to his pillow.

A few afternoons later, I discovered that "Hottie" (his name for his lovey - don't ask) enjoys camping beneath the chair in Bean's room.

Within days, his bedroom morphed from a standard boy's sleeping space into a veritable barracks for plush boarders. This is what I came home to tonight:

 The nice thing about a Kleenex pillow
is you don't even have to get up to blow your nose.
Frankly, I'm surprised the Kleenex people
don't market this already.

 I think the cat toy "puff" is meant to entertain the stuffed guinea pig

The mouse in the middle appears to have scored the bigger bed.

What's up with that?

Is there a parenting lesson buried in all this madness? I suspect there is. What is that lesson? I'm not too sure.

Maybe the lesson here is that Angry Driver and I should only speak to each other between the hours of midnight and 4 AM, when we can be reasonably certain that Bean is asleep.

Or perhaps the lesson is that children express their feelings and insecurities through play, and we as parents need advanced degrees in psychology to uncover the hidden meanings behind what appears on the surface to be innocuous recreation.

Or maybe - just maybe - the lesson is that kids are weird. And because they are weird, they do things that are bizarre and amusing to adults.

I think I'm going to go with that last one.