Dear Uncle Dean,

Uncle Dean,

My dearest Uncle, I am writing to ask for your assistance.  My penance here must come to an end, as I can no longer tolerate my horrific living conditions.  I have reached the limits of my patience. 

The woman who is called “Mommy” is obviously a babbling idiot.  The drivel that comes out of her mouth when addressing me is unbearable.  I realize that I am a baby, but she is apparently retarded if she cannot see that my intellect far exceeds her own.  And please don’t get me started on the “singing” she does, as it pains me to think about.  I laugh and smile to play along, but trust me when I tell you it’s awful.  And the pictures, oh the pictures.  As much as she holds that shiny thing up to my face, with that blinding bright light, I am surprised that she gets anything else done.  The shiny thing will be destroyed, of that I can assure you.

This “Daddy” fellow is quite a character also.  He insists on dressing me in these wretched bright orange outfits, complete with a hat, and makes me watch grown men chasing a leather ball on television.  Barbaric.  And the Daddy enjoys this.  It’s sad, really.  Bless his heart.  The Daddy has also been gracious enough to share not one, but two “colds” with me, which enraged the Mommy.  I don’t know why this upset her, but I can tell you that this illness caused me not to enjoy one of my true comforts, my paci, as I couldn’t breathe through my nose.  Unacceptable. 

I heard the Mommy tell the Daddy yesterday that the television is to remain off while I am awake.  She says I get too excited when I see that wonderful box coming to life to entertain me.  The lights and the noise offer an escape from my dreary time here, and that horrible woman wants to strip me of it.  I know that in and of itself is enough to warrant my displeasure.  It gets worse.

I am allotted three meals a day, which I must admit is the highlight of my sentence here.  They insist I eat at least one green vegetable a day.  The Daddy says that this will make me “big and strong”.  Is he blind or just dumb?  I am anything but unhealthy, as I weigh as much as a small toddler.  Which brings me to my next complaint:  Have you any idea what they expect me to wear on “Halloween” (whatever the hell that is)?  A COW costume.  Now, I am acutely aware that I am chubby, a wee bit food-motivated, and have a love of milk.  But seriously, a COW?  I find it degrading and insulting at best.  It is criminal child abuse and I have contemplated calling the authorities. 

See?  Do you see what I must endure?  Pathetic.

The furry four-legged thing has it out for me.  You should see the way it looks at me.  If the Mommy is on the floor playing with me, the furry thing walks right up and sits between us.  The Daddy coddles the thing and showers it with attention.  With all the treats and toys it gets, it has the nerve to go in to my toy basket and steal my toys.  Bitch.  It is the devil incarnate.

The only sunshine in my life is the long-haired one they tell me is my sister and the tall handsome one they call my brother. This must be true, because we do share devastating good looks. She talks to me and tells me that what I am going through is nothing compared to the hell she had to endure. Ribbons, dresses, dance lessons(!!), were just a few of the things she was tortured with. They expect them to clean their rooms! The brother tells me that I will fall prey to the same fate if I don’t escape soon. Yours truly will not be cleaning anything, and I expect to be long gone before they can demand such nonsense. The sister tells me they are setting her free in less than a year. Lucky girl.

The final straw was this plaything they expect me to entertain myself with.  It’s outrageously scary.  There are savage animals strewn all over this thing and a seat that rotates so that I can’t possibly miss their horrifying faces.  Everywhere I turn there they are—staring back at me with their frightening eyes.  And what’s worse, they expect me to exert myself by turning the damn seat myself.  Can you believe that?  It’s not enough that I am virtually standing in this thing—they expect me to burn calories by turning myself also.  Sir Riley is above physical exertion.  Imbeciles.

So, I beg of you, dear Uncle, to rescue me.  The lady who calls herself “Grandma” and was put on this Earth strictly for my entertainment, keeps telling me she is making sweet potatoes for “Thanksgiving”.  I am hoping this will entice you enough to come down from your mountain and save me. 

I have it all worked out.  We can train your furry thing (the Daddy calls it “Pixel”) to change me while you’re at work.  I can handle feeding myself, and I will nap when I damn well feel like it.  Other than that, my demands are pretty straight-forward.  I insist on a toddy of brandy before bed, and not the cheap stuff.  I also enjoy Cuban cigars on occasion.  I feel I would thrive in the world of academia, so I may even be able to accompany you as you teach.  If not, Pix (see, I already have a cute nickname for your furry thing) and I can just hang out at the house until you get there in the evening.  To clear up any possible misunderstandings, I don't do housework, yardwork, or cook.  My job is to look cute and eat.  In exchange for your hospitality, I will grace you with my presence and maybe give you some decorating advice.  Which from what I gathered on my short visit to your place, you could use.  Bright red paint in the half-bath?  Was that some sort of twisted joke gone awry?  I digress.

This will work out, you’ll see.  I don’t know what crime I have committed to have to endure this, but I feel I have paid my dues.  Seven months is long enough.  I look forward to seeing you on “Thanksgiving”.  There will be one ever-thankful little boy if you will kindly take me in.  Have your people call my people to firm up the details.

Love,

Your favorite nephew,

Riley

Karmic

John's been under the weather.  He has a cold.  A common cold. 

We're about as different as two people can be, in many different areas.  When I get symptoms of an illness, I deny it until it's undeniable.  I'm feeling a little sinus pressure, must be the weather.  Fever of 104?  How did that happen?  It'll break.  I'll be fine.  Until I feel like ass, I'm not sick.  I can think my way out of it.  If I admit I'm sick then suddenly I feel sick. 

Not hubby.  If he sneezes, he settles in to the mindset that he is ill.  He moves in to this line of thinking, makes himself comfortable, and stays there.  I am highly amused by this.

My Facebook status read:  "Public Service Announcement: John has a cold. We will be accepting visitors this evening for those of you who want to come by and pay your last respects, as he is CLEARLY on his deathbed. That is all."

He asked for chicken noodle soup for dinner.  Not his favorite--but if that doesn't mean he's really sick, well then I just don't know what does.  He asked me if he had a fever.  He wanted advice as to what meds to take.  He punctuated his sentences with sniffles.  This whole dog and pony show reminds me of when Morgan and Chuck were little and would try to get out of school.  I texted his brother and parents to warn them of his inevitable demise.  Oh boy, did I have fun with this.     

"I'm glad something like me being sick ::sniff:: gives you sooooo much joy ::sniff::.", he smarted. 

Yeah, it does.  It's not the fact that he's sick, necessarily.  It's the whole production that accompanies his illness.  It's high quality entertainment. 

It's all fun and games 'til he gets the baby sick, which is unavoidable.  Then the joke's on me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last year, we had a nest of yellow jackets under a tree.  John got stung every time he mowed the lawn.  My father suggested pouring gasoline down the hole and lighting it on fire.  Which he did.  And subsequently singed the hair off his leg.

Morgan and I were on the back deck when he comes limping back there, all "Y'all didn't HEAR that?"  From the way he was carrying on, you'dve thought we missed a bomb going off in the front yard.  With an explosion so forceful, he lost a limb. 

After he explains himself, Morgan and I laughed hysterically.  The whole sight was hilarious. 

Somewhere amidst this debacle, my sister calls and I try to coherently relay what's just happened.  It was a little difficult, as I was laughing so hard I found it hard to breathe, much less talk.  After she hears this, she asks why he would do something so "dumb". 

Because YOUR daddy told him to, I replied.

Yeah, did dad mention how that worked out for him when he tried it?

No.  What happened?

He ended up having to call the effin' FIRE DEPARTMENT!!




And just when I thought I couldn't possibly laugh any more . . . . .

Ahhhhh, goodtimes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have often wondered why humans are equipped with some of the physical and anatomical attributes we have.  The appendix , for instance, has yet to be proven useful.  It serves no purpose and can eventually lead to problems.  Why do we have it?  I dunno.  It could hold the answer to the cure for several terminal illnesses for all I know, but that has yet to be revealed.

And why do we need hair in some of the places we have it?  Like on my chin?  What evolutionary purpose could that have possibly served? 

I can now answer why I have hair on my forearms.   

Lastnight, I went to light the grill to cook dinner.  I've done this no less than a hundred times and never had any problems.  I completely forgot about the faulty regulator that has been replaced since I last used it.  I was used to lighting it with the broken one--it never allowed enough gas in to the grill. 

The good news is, the new regulator works---all too well.  The bad news is, I have no hair on my right forearm.  It was singed off from the enormous flame that came shooting out of the grill when I lit it.  Whoosh!

So, turns out, one of the purposes of hair on the arm is to protect flesh from being melted off when an idiot, like myself, tries to light a gas grill.  It's the only thing that saved my arm from second degree burns.  My hand got fried, my arm is no worse for the wear.  No need to thank me for this little nugget of invaluable information, just doin' my part to help my fellow man. 

John was nothing but empathetic and helpful--outwardly.  On the inside, I know he was laughing his ass off. 

And I would have been, too.

Untitled

She had a knack for picking the broken ones, and then had the audacity to wonder what happened when the affair blew up. If she was attracted to a man, he was irreparably unavailable somehow. She had a never-ending need for validation and reassurance and a penchant for seeking her self-worth in men. Bad boys, preferably. Then she could be the "good girl" in comparison, something she had never exactly been accused of. Her intimate relationships were a disaster. Always a disaster. 

True to form, her relationship with him was no different. To say it was complicated was an understatement. Even in her impenetrable wall of denial, even she could see that. She needed him like an alcoholic needs their next drink. It was anything but healthy.

If her affair had only lived up to the fantasies in her head, she'd be happy.  Reality and weighing risks were not exactly her strengths. He was a doctor, she was a nurse. He had kids and was divorced, so was she. On the surface it seemed logical and simple. It was anything but, for reasons she chose to ignore.  They lived in a suffocating small town where gossip was the favorite pastime.  He was currently going through an ugly fight for custody of his children. And then there was the reason for his divorce, his mistress, who lived in the same small town.  An emotional, logistical, and social nightmare--her specialty.  All of the warning signs of a relationship that would not end well were there.  Evident to everyone but her. 

She watched as he drove away and drew a ragged breath.  Yes, he was always hard to read, and getting anything out of him about what was going on in that head of his was like pulling teeth, but something was very wrong.  She could feel it.  He seemed heavy, sad, and distracted.  Weird. 

The summer's events had taken their toll.  She just wished there was something she could do.  A messy divorce complete with a messier custody battle would test anyone's wits.

He was leaving town and there was nothing to do for him but worry.  Where was he going?  What was bothering him?  Why was he being so secretive about it?  Questions that were eating at her and if she knew him at all, questions she figured would go unanswered. 

You're being ridiculous, she told herself.  Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. 

Distraction, she could use one right about now.  There was a knot in her chest and a gnawing at her gut.  She knew just what to do to silence them.  What she always did--get wasted.  It was the Fourth, after all.  A holiday, she didn't have to work, her friends were off, the perfect excuse to get knee-walking drunk.  Not that she ever needed a reason.

All of her internal bells and whistles were sounding loudly.  She had no idea how right they would prove to be. 

The Times They Are A-Changin'

It's been at least a year since we've had any social events here, for many reasons, Riley being the main one.  Scratch that.  The fact that my dog barks incessantly at company and disrupts Riley sleeping is more like it.

We had friends over for dinner Sunday night--a couple and their daughter.  We've been friends with these folks forever and it was nice to catch up.  We love their company--Mel is always a goodtime and Jason is a master of culinary arts.  Jason standing at our grill is a sight I have missed.  We started way earlier than we normally would and ended in time for the little ones to make their early bedtimes.  It was indeed different.

After working out some technical difficulties with the grill, dinner was underway and we soon sat down to eat.  In the past, our dinner conversation was about the latest band we saw live, or the band we planned to see next, or when we were gonna go to the beach together.  Should we have a New Year's Party this year?  And when's the last time you saw so-and-so?   

They have become parents of a bundle of energy and we now have Riley.  Oh my, how things have changed.  Our mealtime talk covered topics such as disciplinary issues, potty-training, and the sorry state of  public education.  And isn't that big kids' consignment sale coming up?  We reminisced about how things were "when I was a kid".  "Kids have it so much easier now!"  It reminded me of the stories my mom used to tell, "I had to walk to school.  Both ways!".  Oy.

Jason and I stupidly attempted acrobatics in the back yard with the kids.  Yeah, I'm still eating Ibuprofen . . . . Spring chicken, I am not.  Ouch.   

Our babies were looked after by one another.  Diaper changes, or saving one of them from the brink of disaster, or attending to a whine or whimper seemed to come naturally to all of us--whether it was our child or not.

I was in awe of both of their abilities as parents.  Taming busy hands and answering an inquisitive mind seemed to come as easily as breathing.  It was an amazing thing to see. 

Amidst all the changes that come with parenthood, it was comforting to see that some things are durable enough to withstand redefinition.  Yes, things are different, but the camaraderie and ease I've always felt was still there . . . . . even if we did sound (and feel) old. 

Surprise!

One of the things I have learned about myself in the past few years:  I have mad party plannin' skillz, yo.  Especially surprise parties.  Entertaining is in my blood, turns out.  My mother puts Paula Deen (ugh) and Martha Stewart to shame.  The Barefoot Contessa?  Puh-lease.  She was always throwing some sort of soiree when I was young.  She still does.  Her house looks like something straight out of Southern Living every time she puts together a dinner party.  She seriously missed her calling--she should have started her own business decades ago.  Evidently her penchant for partying has rubbed off on me.  From formal to uber casual (my favorite), if you need some social function thrown together, I'm your girl.  I wish someone would explain that to Hubby's mommy, but that's another post (coming soon to a computer near you).

Handmade invitations?  Notsomuch my thing.  I'm not great with things of the crafty variety.  Working out logistics, delegating, baking, or cooking?  I excel in those areas.

I started planning John's 40th birthday party back in June.  His birthday is Monday and all I have heard about his big 4-0 is, "Please don't go to any trouble.  I really don't want anything big."  Riiiight.  If there's one thing I know about my husband, its that there's nothing he loves more than his birthday and Christmas.  Except maybe an audience, and being the center of said audience's attention.  He loooooves to be "on stage", so I saw right through his pleas for not doing "anything big" for his birthday.  Child please.

He's been nosing around for the last couple of weeks.  Lingering about trying to eavesdrop on my phone conversations.  Wondering aloud what his parents might do for his big day.  Additionally, his story changed.  Every time I reminded him of his insistence that no one do anything for his birthday, I got, "Well, anything anyone wants to do would be much appreciated.  I just don't want anyone to go to any trouble.  Save that for Riley.".  Uh-huh. 

Earlier this week, Kelly, author of Southern Fried Children did a post titled "Who Wants to Party?" wherein she talked about a gala she was helping put together and asked her peeps to spread the word.  So, I posted it on my Facebook and tweeted the link.  Hubby sends me a text:  "You accidentally post something on Facebook?".  Huh?  What the hell is he talking about?  I called him: 

"What are you talking about?", I asked.  I was seriously confused. 

"I don't know, there's something on your page about a party and I opened it, but then I closed it 'cause I didn't know if it was about my birthday.", he explains.  Really?  Mr. I-Don't-Want-Anyone-To-Go-To-Any-Trouble thinks there's a party?  I had to refrain from laughing out loud.  Bless.  His.  Heart.

With all the seriousness I could muster, I replied, "Honey, you've told me repeatedly how you don't want anything big for your birthday, or at least that's what I understood you to say.  Which is unusual for you, and I figure there's a reason for it, so I have respected that and not planned anything.  Now it's less than a week away and I don't have time to plan anything.  So, I would really appreciate it, for my sake, if you would just LET IT GO!  You're really starting to make me feel guilty.".  I said it calmly but firmly.  We hung up.  Brilliant!  I can be a pretty good actress when I need to be!  And then I laughed my ass off. 

His family and two besties have been in on this since late July.  His family and I did a wonderful job of leading him to believe we weren't planning some big hoopla for his birthday.  Boy, did we have him snowed.  Everything had been meticulously planned, all the deets ironed out.  All I had to do today was run one errand, get dressed, and show up.  Ahhhhh, I love it when a plan comes together.

He went to the Wake/State game today.  His buddies drove, so he was at their mercy.  I was using my susta and her husband as a cover.  I sent him a text:  "Jen just called.  They have a LivingSocial deal to Twin City Diner they wanna use tonight.  Riley and I are meeting them there around 7:30ish.  Get the boys to drop you off there after the game.".  My susta lives in High Point, but she's a coupon whore, so this is completely plausible.  And John's favorite restaurant is The Diner.  Perfect.  It was airtight.  And went off without a hitch . . . .

He didn't figure it out until he got to the restaurant.  I got him.  I got him good.  Thanks to all of you who helped me pull this off. 

 

It was a great, festive evening.  It was wonderful to be in the company of family and amazing friends.  I'm thinkin' maybe our monthly homie nights need to be reinstated.  I forgot how much fun this is!

I've Been Memed (!?!)

Kelly, author of the fabulous blog Southern Fried Children (which if you don't follow, you should) tagged me in a post to "meme" some of my past ramblings.  Keep in mind that I haven't been doing this for very long and don't have a lot to choose from.  And sadly, I don't "know" a lot of bloggers.  I'm gonna do my best.  Here goes.   ::rubs hands together::

The rules of this meme are as follows:

What this is about: To unite bloggers (from all sectors) in a joint endeavor to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again.

 

Rules:

1.  Blogger is nominated to take part

2.  Blogger publishes his/her 7 links on his/her blog – 1 link for each category.

- Your most beautiful post

– Your most popular post

– Your most controversial post

– Your most helpful post

– A post whose success surprised you

– A post you feel didn’t get the attention it deserved

– The post that you are most proud of

3.  Blogger nominates up to 5 more bloggers to take part.

4.  These bloggers publish their 7 links and nominate another 5 more bloggers

5.  And so it goes on!

6.  The site Trip Base be sharing the best posts from participating bloggers on their blog and everyday on Facebook and Twitter at #My7Links

 

My most beautiful post:  Beba* .  It was supposed to be me kvetching about how frustrating she can be.  Instead it exposed the root of my frustration, which was my love and admiration for her. 

 

My most popular post was by far I have issues . . . .  .  Apparently you people have a schtick for laughing at my "isms".  Which are numerous.

 

The post that caused the most controversy was a post entitled "Bitches and Porsches" which I subsequently deleted.  This blog is an outlet and a means of venting for me.  After I wrote that post and got it out, it served its purpose.  In the end, I'm a lover not a fighter.  I didn't want all that venom hanging around in cyberworld.  If you want to read it, email me and I'll send it to you.

 

My most helpful posts were Dirty Laundry and The D Word .  I was overwhelmed by the response I got to both--from people who were either in a similar situation or had been.  The thanks I got for writing both of those gets me all weepy.

 

The post whose success surprised me?  If the flip-flop fits .  I had no idea my fashion faux pas would be sooooo entertaining.  Bitches. 

 

The post I didn't feel got the attention it deserved was Escape .  Not because it was so beautifully written or was a profound topic--just 'cause I really wanted to know what you all were reading.  You people either don't read for pleasure or aren't reading my posts.  Either of which is unacceptable.  Ha!

 

The post I am most proud of?  Now that's a little tricky.  When I first started this blog, I obsessively checked my stats after each post.  And then it occurred to me that this was truly about me and not what everyone else thought or how many people read my rants.  The fact that writing and outward expression aren't exactly my "thing" makes me proud of all of them, to be honest.  If I have to pick a favorite, I would have to say "Beba"--as much for the subject matter as the way it was written. 

 

Nominations:

 

Kathy Clark from Workers Playtime with Kathy Clark

 

Kim Ayres from ramblings of the bearded one

 

Whew!

 

 

 

 

The D Word

My first therapy appointment was Friday.  I had all but talked myself out of the need for it.  It's amazing how self-sabotaging my psyche can be sometimes.  I relunctantly went, filled out all the necessary forms, and waited in the lobby pretending to read a book.  I felt like I was being called in to the Principal's office. 

We made our necessary introductions and I dove right in:  I confessed that I wasn't happy.  I recounted the events over the last year and a half.  All the changes in employment, relationship status, new mommy stuff.  Everything.  I tearfully told her that I was rarely in a good mood, couldn't sleep if my life depended upon it, and that I was irritable.  Always irritable.

She listened and punctuated my ramblings with suggestions and observations.  "It sounds like you're lonely.", she offered.  Lonely?  Huh?  I opened my mouth to argue the point, only to be flooded with the realization that I was, in fact, lonely.  Ugh.  I hate that word.  I have prided myself in being strong-willed and independent.  I didn't need anyone.  Ha!  What a joke . . . .

It was in that moment I had the revelation that my relationship with Riley had become extremely disproportionate.  I need him a lot more than he needs me.  Seeing as how he is seven months old and dependent upon me for everything, that's saying something.  He is the one thing in my life that is a constant source of joy.  He is my sunshine on the cloudiest of days.  He is also entirely too young to shoulder such a responsibility.  I have given my sweet baby boy the impossible task of my happiness.  My poor baby.

At the end of our session, she gave me a to-do list of things that must be accomplished before our next meeting.  I must get out of the house with a girlfriend.  I must call my in-laws to watch the baby so I can get out next week.  I must at least get my feet wet with the playgroup I just joined.  I nodded my head in agreement, though I was filled with dread inside.  New stuff.  Change.  Hadn't I had enough of that? 

Then she said it.  It was her opinion that I was depressed.  Yuck.  Just thinking of that word being used to describe me gets me all teary.  It's just so  . . . . . well, depressing.  What the hell, man?  Wasn't this supposed to be the prime of my life?  Wasn't I supposed to be filled with happiness, seeing as how I have a new bundle of joy who I am head-over-heels in love with?  What the hell is wrong with me? 

Balance.  That's what's wrong with me.  Or more specifically, lack of balance.  As of late, balance seems to be that fleeting moment that occurs as the pendulum is swinging from one extreme to the other. 

I did like I was told.  I was gone yesterday for an unprecedented four and a half hours.  It almost didn't happen.  Riley had an unexpected doctor's appointment yesterday morning and I almost cancelled my date.  His father is more than capable, I told myself.  Detach.  Baby steps.  One foot in front of the other.  I went with a girlfriend for coffee, pedis, and lunch while his father handled the appointment. Beautifully, I might add.
 

Boy, were my friend and I a sight to behold.  She just sent her only daughter to college, and I am unhealthily attached to my baby.  What a pair!  It was nice to be out and about and have some real conversation with someone who can empathize.  And it will happen again.  Soon.

I have scheduled the grandparents to come over and watch Riley so I can get out of the house one afternoon next week.  "What did you used to do for you before Riley was born?", my therapist asked.  She may as well have been asking me to explain quantum physics.  I honestly couldn't remember.  I am going to use that time next week to see if I can't piece together something that resembles me-time. 

Though wobbly, I am trying to find my identity outside of these walls.  I am looking for the me before I was "John's wife" or "Riley's mom".

Wish me luck.

Dirty Laundry

This poor woman at my insurance company drew the short straw and had to talk to the sobbing white lady today.  Bless her heart.  "Are you in danger of hurting yourself or someone else?", she asked.  I chuckled to myself.  I hadn't thought about it until she asked.  She had to ask, she said.  If I was honestly in the mindset to hurt myself or someone else, I highly doubt I would be on the phone verifying that my insurance would cover such a catastrophe.  I found this amusing and was grateful for the break from crying.  Oh, the crying.  Not just any cry--the ugly cry.  Yuck.

If I am completely honest with myself and others, which I strive to be, I must air the good and the bad.  This blog is titled "Sternly Blunt" for a reason.  I'm pretty good at both.  I am about to bluntly talk about what's really going on.  Maybe in the hopes of hearing from someone with similar experience.  Maybe to encourage someone else who is going through something similar to do what I did today.  I realize that I may be judged by some, and that's a risk I'm willing to take.

I'm not happy.  There.  I said it. 

In past posts, I have joked about and tried to make fun of myself for not having a life.  Which I don't.  I am a social creature by nature.  Riley's schedule doesn't exactly lend itself to a social life.  He naps three times a day and is bed by 8:00 every night.  Outside of necessary errands, that doesn't leave a whole lot of time to socialize.  John travels and has a life outside this house.  Morgan is a busy teenager and is never here.  Which leaves me, Riley and the dog.  All.  The.  Time. 

I realize some of my dilemma is of my own making.  Who implemented the schedule?  Um, me.  Who insisted on staying home with the baby?  Um, that would be me again.  Who could go back to school and put Riley in daycare if she chose to?  Again, me.  I don't want to do that, though.  I really want to be doing exactly what I'm doing.  I just want to be happier doing it. 

Riley is a true joy.  Really, he is.  That chubby little booger is sweet, happy, hungry (all the time) and looooooves his mama.  He is quite content to just sit and be with me.  I could eat him up.  He's also demanding, a huge time constraint, and can be rather diva-ish when he hasn't had enough rest (I have no idea where he gets that).  Whew!  Thus, the problem with being tethered to the house.  Blech.  I had heard girlfriends talk about how isolating motherhood can be, especially when caring for an infant.  After vowing to not let myself become one of "those moms", I am in fact, her.  That mom.  I have justified, rationalized, and talked myself into a corner of woeful isolation. 

I am tired of my family asking "What's wrong with you?".  I am sick of my husband talking about my "tone" when I address him.  He means well, but I swear if I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" one more time I'm gonna cut him.  I'm just tired of not feeling like myself. I'm ready to feel like me again, which hasn't been the case since long before Riley was born.

Baby blues?  Possibly.  Hormones?  Maybe.  Mid-life crisis?  I dunno.  But I'm gonna find out.  Pride and ego be damned, I called and made an appointment with a therapist today. 

After telling myself for months "Tomorrow will be better; it'll be different", maybe this time it really will.