This weekend something funny happened. And by funny I mean “ha ha ha” but also not so much. I’m sure you understand.
As a family we decided to have a spontaneous outing and drove to the Waffle Window for waffles. I’m not known for my spontaneity so my kiddos and husband were probably pleasantly surprised to hear me grab my keys and head out to the car without any cajoling from them. On the way back I was chatting with them and I said something to the extent of “I’m sorry for being such a basket case lately. This querying my novel thing is pretty stressful.” To which 2 of my kids basically said “Really, we hadn’t noticed a difference.”
And by not noticing a difference, they didn’t mean “you’ve been your normal sweet-natured self, Mom.” Nope, they meant that I’m always a bit of a basket case. And they probably weren’t too far from the truth. Continue reading
Tomorrow is garbage and recycling day around these parts which means I’ve been scurrying about, collecting all the recycling that arrives via the USPS and trips to varied shopping places. Every two weeks I trundle my big blue box on wheels out to my alley and hope. I hope that all those numbers encircled with an arrowed triangle get “reduced, reused, and recycled”. But I know that it is an inexact science, this hope of mine. It is better today than it once was, but it is still not perfect.
Because reducing, reusing and recycling is not enough to break chains.
As I scrubbed out the old peanut butter tub and thought about if I had another need for it in my house (buttons? maybe the Borax?) I automatically checked the bottom for the code. Of course it is a 1, after all, it is a “necked bottle”. Which led me to wonder why the heck isn’t everything made out of the magical stuff that 1s and 2s are? My guess is it comes down to money.
Recycling ain’t cheap folks.
After having Oldest, I realized pregnancy and labor & delivery had changed my body in many ways, but one change I neither counted on nor initially realized was that I developed post-partum depression (PPD). I was 32, happily married, the mother of a beautiful baby boy, and miserable. But I did what I often think I do best…I buffaloed my way through the dark days and survived. And for the most part things were moderately good and then got better.
Then I had a miscarriage. And the darkness that I attributed to losing that baby came and just never left. When Middlest arrived 13 months later, I had gained not only more stretch marks and grey hairs, but the ability to recognize just how dark my emotional place was. Within two weeks of her birth I was on Zoloft and I started to inch my way towards a brighter place.