In a former life, I was "the RE's muse," a 30s gal trying for a baby or two, with two dogs, a great husband, a house, a cute figure, and my sanity (that last one is open for some debate).
I suppose I am now what you would call 'middle-aged.' Meaning, I am a former career gal raising two small children (girls, 2 and 4 years old--enough to try the patience of even Mother Theresa herself) after years of wanting what I now have. I've "arrived," "made it to the other side," "conquered that infertility bitch and her friend hope"--call it what you will. So why am I so miserable? Beats me.
Can we be honest here? And I think we can...this motherhood gig is hard work. Yet, so much of it is 'lather, rinse, repeat,' and this is slowly but surely killing off my brain cells. I'm still me, but I'm a dumber version of me. I used to be on top of my game--first in college, then in the career field I chose. Where once I remembered contacts, names, phone numbers and important dates off the top of my head, it now takes just about everything I've got to remember what day it is. Days blend into one another, weeks fly by, months even. How is it September already? Point is, I'm lost.
I've got some nerve complaining, huh? But if I don't complain somewhere (and really, if I complain any more to my husband and IRL friends, they may all just up and leave my ass), I am going to lose myself completely. Poof, gone.
So here I am, back for another round of finding me in the midst of the chaos that is daily life. Join me, won't you? There will be talk of kids, boobs and 'ginas (usually not mine), sex (or the lack thereof), fat, family, anti-depressants (go ahead and flame me now), and whatever else is plaguing me at any given moment.
Should be interesting, don'tcha think?
Bueller? .... Bueller?