The best and the worst thing about WFH is that my two young children are nearby

My children, 2 and 4 years old, are much less devious than they think.

The door of my home home is quite thin, so I often hear them sneer, whisper and tiptower in the corridor.

Sometimes I hear folded paper under the door and I look down to find an image drawn by hand. Sometimes I will find a necklace made of cheerios and dental silk suspended from the door button.

This is the best thing about working at home – having my children nearby.

On the other hand, in addition to the cute Snickers and Whispers, I can hear them arguing. Sometimes it is a toy, sometimes a book. Sometimes it is because they decided to boycott food, sleep or shoes.

These days, the worst to work at home is to have my children nearby.

Don’t get me wrong, I want the Cheerio necklaces. I like to work at home. It’s just that sometimes I would like me a little less in my work.

At the time when I worked in an office, I had a lot of distance between my personal and professional life

I worked about 40 kilometers away, and it took me an hour to get home every day.

I would leave my office, I would walk in the corridor, open a door, go up in an elevator, open four additional doors, walk in the parking lot, open the door of my car and spend the following 60 minutes to skate through the hot asphalt, run out of chicken nesting, to curse the erroneous traffic lights, and generally miserable and stressed.

However, I miss it a little.

There was something therapeutic to be locked in a car for an hour

I could listen to podcasts or music. I could sit in silence. I could be alone with my thoughts. I could decompress the working day, re -win and prepare for a fun evening with the children. It was 60 minutes to do what I wanted, as long as I broke any traffic law.

Now, I measure my journey in a few seconds: I get up from my office, I walk three steps to the office door and I turn the button. There is no decompression of the working day. There is no rewarmament. I barely have time to yawn before I come back to the heart of parenting, change diapers and pick up toys.

I know that these are good problems to have, and I do not claim another round trip of two hours to work every day. I cherish the additional minutes I come home with my family.

I just liked having a timeless time for me, which my journey gave me – twice a day, five days a week – although in a strange and abusive way, like tie someone to a chair and force them to eat ice.

I can recreate some of the good things from my way home

I try Be more intentional to devote personal time to my daily routine. I started to book a few minutes at the end of each transition to decompression and to react in my family environment.

Some days, I will pay our nanny to stay a little longer so that I can jog while listening to music. I receive my podcast solution by doing the dishes or cutting the grass.

I could always start going to the office again. I could pay for the two overtime hours of child care, prepare my lunch, jump in my car and walk at 25 miles on the highway, dodging the hen nests along the way.

However, as soon as I do it, I know that I will miss these additional minutes at home and these turned corridor conversations. Maybe I’m even going to miss anger attacks.

And at one point, in the middle of road works and blocked cars, I will look at my rear view mirror and I want there to be a suspended Cheerio necklace.