The Sonia Show

Writer. Mocker. Beer drinker. Old movie watcher. Mother. Goober.

Back to work

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Yeah, so, I made my glorious triumphant return to work this week. With my return to work, the office has seen a huge increase in groan-inducing puns, eye rolling and general jackass-ery, because working with me is awesome.

My coworkers have been super kind throughout my recovery. I received a big gift bag the day before my surgery filled with a Hot Tamales, cozy socks, Star Wars goblets and a snuggly, red blanket that I basically lived under for two weeks during my recovery. They also sent me gifts every week at home during my recovery, and a lot of folks pitched in to cover for me so I wouldn’t walk in to a complete content shitshow when I came back. I’m really lucky to work with such good people.

Everyone seems happy that I’m back and to hear that I’m cancer free. It sucks to have to tell people over and over that I will be starting chemo in March. Maybe I should just announce it in the company newsletter or something. “Business cards are 50% in March. Also, I’m starting chemotherapy in March, so my wig and lack of eyebrows won’t be some bold, new fashion choice. Thank you in advance for not staring.”

Of course, my coworkers are already offering all kinds of support for my impending chemotherapy. Office buddy Paul just keeps sending me links to wigs that look like something out of “The Golden Girls.” Not really helpful, but pretty funny.

So, the wig on the left is called "Joey" on the website, when obviously it should be called "Dorothy."

So, the wig on the left is called “Joey” on the website, when obviously it should be called “Dorothy.”

So, yeah, it’s nice to be back. I’m trying to get everything back to normal, and getting back to work is a part of that. Things are not really normal, though. I have a lot of doctor appointments leading up to the chemo. Fighting cancer is a full-time job. I’m having to leave work early a lot and work from home more, which everyone is being very cool about.

So anyway, on another note, it’s been almost a year since Calvin started preschool.

The other day during his drop off, I spied some parents dropping off their daughter for the first time. She was crying, and the parents were having a difficult time leaving her. Eventually, the parents ran out of the school, but they were lingering in the outside play area. I could see that the mother was upset. I felt so bad for them. I’ve been that parent. Calvin cried FOR MONTHS at drop off. I cried in that outside play area, while one of the teachers comforted me, telling me it was totally normal for kids to cry and that Calvin stops crying after a few minutes. It was awful. I remember watching the other parents at drop off and being so jealous, because their kids ditched them at the front door to go play. Now, I’m one of those parents. Calvin runs up the stairs to the school, and he gives me a hug at the front door and runs off to play. It’s awesome. I’m living the dream, you guys.

Speaking of preschool, last year we were so out of touch with preschool expectations that Calvin showed up to school on Valentine’s Day with no Valentines to hand out, because his parents are clueless. This year, we got the preschool newsletter telling us that the kids will be exchanging Valentines, and we should pre-label the cards. Umm, huh? I don’t know how many kids are in Calvin’s class let alone all their names. I’m just going to address them all to Current Resident and be done with it.


Author: The Sonia Show

I'm a writer/podcaster/mother/goober in San Francisco who likes to drink beer, shop, laugh and make other people laugh, watch old movies, feed my unhealthy obsession with pop culture, kick breast cancer's ass, go on adventures with my mighty, mighty good man David and my awesome autistic son, Calvin, wear orange and root for the San Francisco Giants, participate in general jackass-ery, talk about TV, eavesdrop on strangers' conversations, make nerdy “Star Wars” and “Simpsons” references, and post personal things about myself on the web for all to read, which makes me some sort of literary exhibitionist.

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