You know how sometimes you look back in life and there’s that moment where everything changed. Where there was a fork in the road and you had to choose one or the other. Red pill or blue pill. When your heart is telling you to go one way but your head is screaming out to take the other path. And you’re like “eeny meeny miny moe, let’s flip a coin” because you’re too scared to choose wrong and regret it for the rest of your life. At least if it screws up you can blame it on the damn coin.

Right about this time last year, I had one of those lovely moments.

I did the one thing every person fantasized about doing at one point or another in their career. I swaggered into my boss’ office with the Eye of the Tiger blasting in the soundtrack of my head and threw down my resignation letter. “Hey boss, I QUIT! BTW, this job sucks and I’m being paid way less than I deserve. Plus I’ve been posting ads in the men-seeking-men-classified-column in your name, which should explain all the weird calls you’ve been getting.”

I totally did that in my head, except that my boss was a really nice guy and I kinda liked my job (because I kicked ass at it and it paid me relatively well) and I hate the Eye of the Tiger.

But I did resign from my job to chill out at home and watch Grey’s Anatomy. Oh, and also to watch the little squirt after I wake up from my afternoon siesta. (I only had one back then – kid, not nap).

The quitting was easy once I had made up my mind, but the month leading up to it was agonizing to say the least. The moment Tru was born, I knew that I would be happiest taking care of him myself. We considered every possible childcare option but after 8 days with a maid from hell and visits to countless infantcare centers, I couldn’t bring myself to pick any of them. They all seemed so cold and sterile. I had no doubt that they were all prolific at feeding and nappy changes, but honestly, it just wasn’t good enough.

I need my kids to grow up giggling themselves silly everyday. To stuff cookies up their nostrils and fingers into other orifices and not be taught to sit quietly in a corner. They’ve got to know that Mommy wasn’t too busy chasing the next promotion to sit down and read to them. That when they bump their head and get a boo boo, Aunty Minah is not they first person they run to for comfort. That when they look back on their childhood years from now, they won’t struggle to remember having fun with mama save for a handful of weekends to the zoo and goodnight kisses when they’re already half asleep.

So that’s my heart talking.

But on the other hand, I like having a job. Having adult conversations over a Caramel Macchiato. Having Caramel Macchiatos, period. Dressing up and feeling important productive. Being able to bark orders at minions and use words like “commoditization” and “media engagement”. And most of all, being paid enough to fund my shopping sprees and holidays.

If I really quit my job, that’s half the income up in flames. How would we ever survive? I would  have to stay home and eat raw potatoes everyday (to save on the electricity, duh).

For a month, we butchered the budget and sold off internal organs (only useless ones like the spleen and appendix) and did everything we could to make the numbers add up while I cried myself to sleep every night thinking of Tru all alone in a fancypants infantcare centre. Then finally we decided to bite the bullet and do it. Take the plunge.

It’s been twelve whole months since and I still haven’t eaten the babies (out of hunger or insanity), so great success! I even have my retort all planned out for when the kids ask me why we don’t have an 8-seater jacuzzi in the bathroom. First I’ll whip their asses and then I’ll be all like “Kids, you should be thankful that we don’t have a large ass hot tub in the bathroom because you’d have grown up being tortured by a nut job and become delinquents and eventually incarcerated while daddy and mommy jet-setted around the globe. Then what good would a jacuzzi be? You’re welcome.”