Last week I got an email from a dear friend of ours who had been reading my blog and wanted to give me a pep talk because I seemed stressed and down. I thought it was sweet (he is kind of a parenting hero of mine 'cuz his boys turned out very creative and independent and just plain cool), but I couldn't understand why he thought I needed to chill out.
And then this weekend I was hanging with Clementine's future husband and his mom, and she wondered if all this angst I'm feeling isn't a touch of the baby blues. Baby blues? But my baby is 7 months old, I thought. This ain't no time for baby blues.
And then I just read through all my recent posts, and I get it. I complain ALL THE TIME. Seriously, even I want to express my sympathies to myself when I read this. Or I want to shoot myself, but not in a get-me-out-of-my-own-misery kind of way; rather a shoot-that-annoying-woman-so-she-shuts-up kind of way. Actually, shoot seems much too strong a word there. I am just annoyed by my own whining, so I can't imagine why you keep coming back here to read it. Are you waiting for me to combust?
So never you fear, Internet: Punk Rock Mama is back on her meds (metaphorically, that is). How could I be otherwise when I have the sweetest little girl in my life? Sure, I have a few things to work out, and life can be pretty overwhelming with all these huge bits to balance, but I'm turning it around. At some point I may even be the last 31-year-old in the world to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up.
How have I managed to make adulthood so hard?
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