During a time when I had five elders dependant on me to varying degrees and a young son still undiagnosed with several of his chronic health issues, my then-husband was pressuring me hard to "get a job." What I was doing seven hours a day, seven days a week, apparently was not work. So, I found a part-time job at a thrift store. I was also freelance writing, but that didn't pay much. The thrift store, as you can imagine, didn't either, but it was "real work."
One day, my mom called saying she had fallen on ice in the parking lot trying to get my uncle into the clinic. She was uninjured, but shaken, and I had to go rescue them both. My son was home in severe pain from a juvenile rheumatoid arthritis flare-up. I kicked into action, handled everyone and was home with my son by noon.
That's when I realized I "worked" mornings, at the thrift shop. I had completely blocked it out! I called the thrift shop, apologized profusely, and the next day I turned in my time. I've never let an employer down like that, and I couldn't believe I did. But the job simply wasn't at the top of my priority list. Neither was the $300 a month salary. I quit. I continued to freelance and got a newsletter for a health food store that paid more than the thrift shop and I could do it from home. Still, since I could do it from home, it wasn't "work." But that's another story.