I got a catalog in the mail to the house yesterday for the new Lands’ End clothing line, Canvas.

And I’m loving it. I mean really, really, really loving it. I should probably, like, do work but I’d rather fantasy shop.

Who needs work? I have a whole new wardrobe awaiting me.

It’s got a very comfortable chic to it.

I could wear it to work, taking the kids to school, Church, and just schlepping around in something other than my trusty jeans or black yoga pants.

I’m wondering if it’s healthy to do this much fantasizing about being properly dressed in public. By proper I mean in clean clothing that hasn’t been worn everyday for the last 6 months by me upon running errands. Clothing that I didn’t find in a ball on the floor & decide it was OK to wear yet AGAIN!

No wonder the kids are starting to act like they don’t know me when we are out in public & we see friends.

Now that I’m thinking about it maybe I need to go shopping for real.

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When I was very young I wanted to wear glasses. I thought it was “cool” to have a pair. I have no idea why. Because now that my glasses are the first thing I grab in the morning & the last thing I take off at night I’m not sure I want them EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE!!

I use to wear contacts more, but when I was in my last trimester with Mr. J my eyes got so dry that I couldn’t stand wearing them. With breastfeeding, lack of sleep and the subsequent years of pregnancies, breastfeeding and lack of sleep I have not been able to wear them.

But sometimes I pretend to not have them.

Note the glasses are on my head because right after taking this picture I had to put them back on.

Or I might have mistaken a wall for Hubby & kissed it.

Which would have been embarrassing because let’s be honest I’m SO outta the wall’s league.

Really I would have been kissing down. Given it is a wall & all.

(1960’s photo of Moi is courtesy of Mr. J)

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It’s been a while since I wrote my kiss off letter to postpartum depression & I’m still not 100%. I’m better than I was, I’m stronger & have more perspective but 100% I am not. I’m close, really close to being able to just be me again all the time.  But there are days I still work at trying to kick this bastard to the curb & he keeps trying to claw his way back to my door. It’s also weird because even as I write this I wonder if I should hit publish when I’m done. I don’t know why it’s still hard to write about or even talk about, but it is.

Even after wrote the PPD letter I felt a wave of shame wash over me. Like I had failed as a mother, I was a cliche.  Here I was going into my thirties, with kids, and a cliche. A medicated mother struggling to be normal. Whatever the hell normal means. I think it means not wanting to fall asleep in a bathtub of water face down. Not because you want to die, but because you are TIRED. Tired of your body not feeling like your own, tired of feeling like you can’t make it through a day without crumbling into a ball of tears, tired of wondering why, and just plain tired.

AND I was so tired. I remember laying down in the tub, shower on my back and just feeling like I could fall asleep there. I didn’t want to die, no, I wasn’t there yet. Thankfully I wasn’t there.   But I was feeling like getting out of that tub was too hard. I knew then that I needed help. The  possibility that I would go into the rabbit hole and never come out haunted me. I couldn’t escape that haunting fear and when Hubby confronted me, tears in his eyes, fear in his voice, his loving hand gentle against the small of my back, I had to face it.

I face it still.

I do so because it is worth it.

I am worth it & I love myself.

Also, more than anything in this world love I them.

I love these wonderfully beautiful people I’ve been blessed to have in my life.

I love him.

I love him.

I love her.

I love him.

I love him. He is my rock.

I thank God daily that I’m able to be awe struck every moment of every day by these gifts I’ve been given.  I know that I can’t give myself to anyone else if I want to lay down in a tub to sleep or am swinging a bag of frozen meat at a book shelf. Oh, I didn’t share that story? Trust me once you swing frozen meat at a book shelf (poor, helpless, defenseless book shelf) it’s clear you need help. I needed help, I got it.

And so I’m looking forward to next month, one year post-baby, months after seeking help and I’m still here.

That bastard PPD can try his best to get me to take him back, but I’m not giving in.

I am not giving in. Not today.

I am not giving in. Not tomorrow.

I am not giving in.  I’m here for long haul.  I’m here to stay.

So, SUCK IT Postpartum Depression.  SUCK.IT.

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Alright Andrea over at Good Girl Gone Redneck has tagged me. Andrea has a great blog and she chronicles her life as a transplant from New York City to North Carolina, along with a great sense of humor. She also has several other bloggers who have been tagged & are fabulous. Visit her & give her lots of love. But not too much love because then you might considered a stalker. Keep it within reason people.

And while I was sort of hoping being tagged would come with some cool spray paint logo, it didn’t. Instead it comes with me “giving up” seven things about myself to you (seven things you don’t already know) & tagging seven others to do the same (if they are willing to accept this challenge).

Ok, first things first.

Me in Seven

1. I graduated from Wayne State University. I met my husband there & pretty much have been a part of the campus for what feels like FOREVER. Although I’m pretty sure it’s not really FOREVER, I mean dinosaurs weren’t roaming the Earth when I started. At least I don’t think they were.

2. I have weird food habits. I don’t let my food touch on my plate, I eat Starburst candy in color coded order, and candy or marshmallows should always be given in pairs of twos. These are non-negotiable items, ask family & close friends. They will tell you I am weird with food. I’m sure there are other oddities that I don’t even notice anymore, but others would cringe in horror at because it’s SO WEIRD! But whatever. I own it.

3. The title of my blog comes from a few different things. One: I’m confused at what I want to do. I started this blog when I was in the final throes of a dissertation, after my 4th baby was born & thought connecting to others would help me figure it out (given my latest posts, confusion still abounds). Two: I like to talk and share things I find or do, a lot of things overlap into homemaking. I love homemade, simple, and connecting to the creative side of life. Three: it’s social commentary on the concept that every woman is supposed to be a homemaker & worker. That these concurrent roles are in conflict leading to confusion about what one’s role identity is and how to navigate the endless social expectations as a woman. Nah, I’m just messing you on that one. I didn’t think about that at all when I picked it I just liked it.

4. My breasts are real. I don’t know why that matters, but I’ve never shared it. So there. Now you know.

5. I can eat an entire meat lovers medium pizza in one sitting if I had to. And I could do it even if I didn’t have to. It’s an illness, similarly I can eat an entire family size bag of chips in one sitting. I’m not talking an hour long sitting either, maybe 15 minutes tops. This is why these things can’t come near me. If they are around I will not stop until I am unable to fit through my front door. Then I’d have to be like the guy they airlifted out of his house. Please if you see me near a meat lovers pizza stage an intervention.

6. I have had stitches twice as a kid. Once because I cut my foot on a ham can that was in the trash it’s 1/2 moon shaped. Yes, ham in a can I’m NOT kidding you. The second time because I cut my knee on glass that was in the trash it’s not shaped like anything cool. I now keep trash at an arm’s length. Fool me once shame on you, Fool me twice shame on me. YOU WILL NOT FOOL ME AGAIN TRASH!

7. I was on the tennis team in high school. The first year I was terrible. I mean down right awful. The second year I was better. But let’s just say I was not ever going to be a tennis pro. I never had the grunting thing down right. I think if I could have gotten that down then I would have been able to get a consistent serve down pat. Grunts=good serves. It’s a tennis rule, trust me. I was on the team I should know.

Now here are my Seven…who you should also check out & give love (within legal limits) too…

1. Martina @ Johnny’s Brother
2. Faemom @ Faemom
3. Heather @ Theta Mom
4. Debbi @ Suburb Sanity
5. The UnknownMami @ Unknown Mami
6. Lynn @ Smiling Green Mom
7. Lisa and Laura @ Lisa & Laura Write

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I read The Bell Jar when I was in high school, like every good indie-alternative-girl does. I read it with a passion that the world did not understand me or want to get me. It was in the female indie-alternative-set of BOOKS YOU MUST READ TO HAVE ANY TRUE INDIE-ALTERNATIVE STREET CRED. It was listed right next to The Catcher in the Rye.

Of course it made sense to me then…

We are the real frauds, the liars, you know the whole “The world is full of hypocrites who only care about themselves. Except me. But I’m the real hypocrite. I don’t even know who I am. Who am I? What is the point of this life? Is there any point?”

Then neurosis sets in & you go to grad school to deal with it or you drink or you drink in grad school or as a chef or as a writer or behind a desk or behind the kitchen table or maybe as THAT guy at the local 7–11 who never seems to move from in front of the store with his pack of smokes drinking from his Coke bottle that is only 1/3 Coke and the other 2/3rds is some sub-par rum he got for a few dollars. There really is no romantic glow around that guy. Turns out there really isn’t a romantic glow around heavy drinking in general. I know weird, huh?

Well, unless it’s absinthe & that’s only because it was once banned in the USA. Well that & you drink it in a cool glass. You even get to use a nifty spoon with it. I mean then you’d be having a love affair with a known bad boy & with cool accessories everyone knows those turn out well.

Oh, actually I was mistaken. Love affairs with absinthe turn out badly as do those with bad boys. It’s licit love affairs with bacon that turn out well. Makes sense, everything is better with bacon (and butter and cheese and bacon flavored butter cheese). Bacon is the good brother, absinthe is the bad brother. Got that internets?

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes.

My realizations about life.…

Anyway, after you get lost in that sea of identity, absinthe, grad school, and bacon. You continue your love affair with bacon, have children, finish grad school, deal with a new (or resurgence of the old) identity crisis and realize you are NO Sylvia Plath. That’s right I’m NO Plath.

It is NOT just because I haven’t written some iconoclastic novel based on my life about the American dream that let me down as a woman when was hurled into and down a dark path of young adulthood.

But mostly because I would be WAYtoo selfish to even consider making cookies and pouring glasses of milk before committing suicide with my oven. I have appointments, the kids & Hubby need me, & I’ve already agreed to be in my friend’s wedding at the end of summer. Overall, it is just too hard to schedule in.  Not to mention the whole dieing thing isn’t something I’m going to attempt any time soon.  I kind of like (OK, I admit it LOVE) the living part & I’m afraid of burning my head on my oven. 

See I’d make a terrible depressed, suicidal, poet.

However, my desire for the “WHO AM I?” I’ve realized hasn’t left me. If it had left me then I wouldn’t be confused (see title of this blog for reminder!!).  I wouldn’t have sought advice from the internet or my grocer (who by they way is in love with me, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Don’t tell my husband or my grocer for that matter) about what the future brings.

So, thank you readers & kind people of the internet for your advice. If you didn’t realize it this post is my painfully awkward attempt to say it helped & I appreciated it.   Having others share there stories, advice, and just remind you that it will happen in all good time. I’ve also greatly appreciate everything & all the support from the last 6 months.

Maybe there’s hope for me after all, although you might be wondering if that’s possible given this post may have made little sense. Unless you are drinking absinthe then it probably made perfect sense & I also offended you, given the love affair you two are having.  I’m now off to rename one of the children bacon not because of any advice I got here but because “bacon tastes good”… (10 points to the person whose seen that required indie cred movie & lists it in the comments, come on you know the movie).

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The New Year starts here with Winter in full swing. The trees outside my house are bare with only the Evergreens holding onto the outward signs of life. Life for the other trees is not visible to others but it is there because it is waiting in the silence of the morning, in the business of the day, and in the soft sounds of night to reveal itself in the Spring.

In many ways the hidden nature of the life to come outside my door expresses what I am feeling. I have a lot of decisions to make. I finished my degree, I have it, & now what? I am not so sure anymore. When I started I assumed I’d go for a Tenure Track position and a Research University. I would publish, attend conferences, and teach. The latter I have done even throughout grad school, I’ve done well, & could still create in this capacity regardless of other decisions I make in my life. Yet, I am not sure anymore if academia is my home & I am not sure if it ever really was. But leaving what I thought would come next is not an easy decision. Like um, there are BILLS. A Ph.D. it turns out doesn’t get you much by itself, minus debt.

So, yea it’s a New Year. One full of possibilities, like every new moment. However, looking forward seems less clear to me. I know there is a new life with its roots in my family ready to reveal itself for me, but I also know that I have to met it 1/2 way. Like the joke my Hubby read the other day in our parish bulletin (which I’ve read/heard done a variety of ways).

A guy named Joe finds himself in dire trouble. His business has gone bust and he’s in serious financial trouble. He’s so desperate that he decides to ask God for help. He begins to pray…

“JOE, MEET ME HALF WAY ON THIS ONE … BUY A FREAKING TICKET!”

I’ve written here before I love the creative outlet of writing, I love to creative, and I love being with my family. But I am not sure how to decide what the next step is supposed to be. I know I can’t sit around thinking it will happen without effort on my part.

Anyone else ever sit on the edge of a big decision like this? How did you figure out what to do? I could some advice as the year before me stretches out.

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The other day I arrived in my Department, after feeling that my nerves were going to push me over the edge. That edge where you fall into an abyss of random definitions and information floating around your head but none of it makes ANY SENSE AT ALL!! ALL morning long & by all morning I mean ALL MORNING. Because “the time” had arrived. It was time to defend my dissertation, the long road was ending.

I met with my adviser before the big event started. My adviser gave me great advice, reminding me that I wouldn’t have made it to this point if I wasn’t ready. Darn logical reasoning. Of course my husband had told me the same thing. In fact, he told me about a MILLION times that morning alone. But what does he know? He has to tell me those things, it was in our vows. I believe right after the line that went something to the affect of “And always tell you that your butt looks great in those pants.”

Then it was time to make my way around the hall and into the room. Oh, “the room” that sounds ominous doesn’t it? Like I was on a walk toward the execution chamber, you know “the room.” But it wasn’t that intense. Unless power point is like a slow death.

Then the rest of the committee arrived & there were actually audience members. Which I have to admit was SO WONDERFUL!! To have people from my Department, fellow students, show up to support me was just amazing. Definitely helped put my nerves at ease.

The process itself took about an hour & 1/2. It was pretty smooth. I didn’t throw up, randomly fall over into an abyss of random definitions or information and I didn’t pass out from the sheer magnitude of having to actually sound coherent after not sleeping for the last 2 nights. Thank goodness for kids who decide to NOT sleep right before a big moment like your dissertation defense, eh? What would I have done without that lack of sleep?

My committee did ask challenging questions, but they were fair questions. I was prepared for them, I know my research back & forth, nothing was asked that was too left field even if they did challenge me to push myself further. I can honestly write that I respect my committee immensely & I appreciate the support they gave me throughout the dissertation process.

Except I’m going to admit it was a little anti-climatic when all was said & done. Yea, I finished & it’s official but still I was hoping for something a little bit more. Really, when I think about it a little more, I blame the 80s for the let-down.

See, I was hoping that at some point I would have been forced to show who I was in a dance off. I even thought it out ahead of time. It would start with me being told “You don’t belong here. This place isn’t made to accept people like you.” Then, I’d have to prove them wrong. You know, like Electric Boogaloo style, prove to the world I DO belong. I then would rip off the sleeves of my shirt or my shirt would magically go all off shoulder ala Jennifer Beal in FlashDance & then off stage music would play. As the music starts & my sassy style was front & center I’d express myself in street meets ivory tower dance moves.

But alas that never happened. Instead everyone was nice, I knew my work (I mean after all it’s MY work), and I passed. When I got home I received a balloon & a very lovely card at the front door from my husband and kids, along with lots of hugs & kisses. That did kind of make up for the lack of a dance off. It’s a really nice balloon after all.

What can I say? Except thanks for the love & support, now feel free to call me Dr. Mommy.

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