One of the weird things that happened in the era of coronavirus was we learned how much we could work from home.
Many people were sent packing from traditional workplaces and took up space on their dining room tables or bedrooms so they could work from home.
I’ve known for years that much of my work could be done from home. We’re reliant on the internet for all our major systems at the newspaper. Still, I’ve been primarily working from our newspaper’s offices for the past seven months, as most of the people I work closely with were doing the same.
That doesn’t mean I don’t bring a fair amount of work home with me. Since we bought our current home, we’ve always had a little space set aside for me for a home office, where I can sneak away if I need to edit or write. In fact, most of my weekly columns are written from home, as it’s somehow easier to get an hour of uninterrupted quiet in my basement than it is at our office.
In the past few months, I’ve brought more and more work home with me. There’s a lot to do to get a daily paper out, and we’re trying to do it with fewer people than we once did.
That additional work has put me at odds with my children, though. They don’t want to share their dad with the readers of the paper. They want me to be fully present when I’m home, which is a fairly reasonable request that’s harder and harder to live up to nowadays.
I keep hearing them complain that I’m spending too much time working in my basement office. Kids are really good at making you feel guilty, especially if it echoes something you’ve been thinking yourself.
It led to an interesting conversation here. One day, I asked my daughters if they’d prefer if I stayed in the physical workplace later at night if it meant I didn’t bring work home with me. In other words, I might arrive a few hours later, but I’d be completely work-free at the time.
They bristled. They said they’d rather I come home as earlier as possible, even if meant I had to sneak into the word factory in the basement occasionally.
Their reasoning was interesting to me. They were happier knowing they could get me if they needed me than waiting until later in the day for me to come home. Having some access to me was more important to them than having complete access.
It’s a difficult balance, but I’m glad my children were honest enough to let me know their preference. And truth be told, no offense to the people in my workplace, I’d pick being home with them more often too.
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