Mike and I are good tippers.

I mean, I think we’re good tippers.

Hairdresser? 20 per cent. Nail salon? 25 per cent. Dinner? Usually between 20 – 35 per cent.

Mike’s big thing? Remember to keep his drink full and you’ll receive a big tip. If he could get away with it, Mike is the type of person who would leave a wad of dollar bills on the table, adding to it and taking away depending on the service he was receiving.

I, on the other hand, always feel guilty. I feel good about tipping and like to make people feel good about getting a good tip.

It’s so childish, but I giggle a little each time I write tip.

I really wasn’t going anywhere with this except I wanted to use that clip and had to make it fit somewhere.

Anyway, as I was saying – I like giving a god tip to someone who deserves it. It makes me feel good and I’m sure they don’t mind seeing a little bigger tip than was anticipated.

Doing something nice for someone gives me a little bit of a high. You know? That gushing, happy feeling you get when you give someone something they really like or didn’t expect?

I remember one night we went for dinner at a local diner. It was before Hudson born, Carter was particularly ornery; no one was in a good mood. Carter was crying while he picked everything off his tray and proceeded to litter the floor below his highchair with majority of his meal. I would have left had the restaurant been a little busier, but I was starving and very short on patience as they’d frayed to their very last thread. The waitress was no doubt a bit frazzled by the mess and the snot covered teary mug staring back at her – Carter’s not mine.

Before we left, I made a point of cleaning the food from the carpet below the highchair and leaving her a rather large tip. As we were leaving, she approached us with our change which we insisted she kept. Twenty dollars for a thirty dollar meal. She gushed about how thankful she was as I apologized for the mess my kid had created. Though I was frazzled and felt a little lot embarrassed for letting my child behave as he had rather than nipping it in the bud and leaving, I was happy that she was so thrilled with the that we left her.

Ever since then I have been a little more conscious of the amount of the tip I am leaving. Even though I think the server should be grateful for any amount they receive, I feel better thinking that it may make their day to see a somewhat larger tip then what they may have expected.

And what have I learned from this?

Clearly I put far too much thought into tipping.

:::

This post is brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book: Do One Nice Thing by Debbie Tenzer. Check out her amazing book as well as her website dedicated to doing something nice for someone else.

Driving home from work I turned up the radio to escape the day. One of my recent favourite songs came on – Please Don’t Leave Me by Pink. I cranked it louder and began singing at the top of my lungs.

Then.

I really heard the words.

The words which I’ve heard before yet didn’t really think about until that moment.

I don’t know if I can yell any louder
How many time I’ve kicked you outta here?
Or said something insulting?

That Lump began to form in my throat. Unable to swallow it down, my eyes welled up with tears.

I sang louder in the hopes of drowning out my thoughts. The thoughts of how I’ve treated my husband. The thoughts of how I’ve battered him with my words repeatedly; digging deep to find something – anything – I could say that would garner some sort of reaction.

To hurt him.

How did I become so obnoxious?
What is it with you that makes me act like this?
I’ve never been this nasty

For as long as I can remember I have verbally assaulted him whenever we’ve had an argument. It was three and a half years into our relationship when I first threw something at him fully intended to harm him. Though I haven’t thrown anything in years, words are still my weapon of choice.

I forgot to say out loud how beautiful you really are to me
I cannot be without, you’re my perfect little punching bag
And I need you, I’m sorry

I’ve told him to leave.

I’ve told him I didn’t know why we were together.

I’ve said that if it weren’t for the children, I would have left a long time ago.

Can’t you tell that this is all just a contest?
The one that wins will be the one that hits the hardest
But baby I don’t mean it
I mean it, I promise

I don’t have a clue why I say these things; why I want to cause him heartache. I don’t know why I think hurting him would make things better; better for whom? I know I don’t feel better after it’s done, and I’m damn sure he doesn’t feel all that great. So why? Why do I feel the need to belittle and degrade him?

Please don’t leave me
I always say how I don’t need you
But it’s always gonna come right back to this
Please, don’t leave me

It’s a two way street. We’re both guilty of verbally assaulting each other but I can’t account for his reasons, only my own – none of which I have.

I’ve often wondered if we were together for all the wrong reasons. We began dating on a whim in college. It was summer break, there was only a small group of us remaining behind to work or complete extra course throughout the summer semester. Mike and I began hanging out more frequently and our friendship quickly crossed boundaries moving rapidly towards an exclusive relationship. From there we became engaged; bound. Though we waited another five years before we actually got married it sometimes still feels as though we rushed things.

I’ve been with him since I was eighteen. I’ve only known my adult life with him, and though I’ve grown, sometimes I feel as if he thinks he’s still living the bachelor life and we’re still in college. Much of our relationship was based on sexual attraction; the older we’ve gotten, the busier our lives have gotten, the more that has changed. It seems as though instead of learning to love each other past the sexual chemistry, we’ve struggled to know each other at all. We’re stuck in limbo.

Please don’t leave me
I always say how I don’t need you
But it’s always gonna come right back to this
Please, don’t leave me

I feel as though now I am just a mother figure for him to rely on.

Remind him to pay his tickets.

Make the phone calls.

Book the appointments.

Pay the bills.

Pick up the kids.

Make the dinner.

Wash the laundry.

Put the clothes away.

Make the bed.

I feel like he gets a free ride.

He will argue to the death that that’s not the case; though, I cannot help but feel as though I carry a significant amount of the responsibilities in this relationship.

It makes me bitter.

I resent that while I was home caring for the kids he was able to leave the house for the day.

For the record: I am extremely, undeniably happy that I had that opportunity and would never change that.

I resent that he would call me at the end of his day solely to find out what was on the menu for dinner. I resent that he would come home and comment that I got to be home all day doing nothing while he had to work: that he had to go to work and bust his ass all day while I got to be home – doing nothing but sit on the computer all day. His digs have left me rather indignant.

Maybe he is bitter that I was home, I don’t know.

Now that I’m back to work it’s been a never ending battle of wills as I fight to divvy the household duties while I feel he fights to keep his child-like freedom.

I think it’s played a considerable part in how I’ve been struggling and so miserable as of late.

:::

The other night I blew up over his caulking job on the kitchen sink. We fought. I yelled and said everything and anything I could to hurt him once again.

Over caulking, people.

Then as The Guilt set in I decided it was about time I tried to put into words how I’ve been feeling.

I told him how I’ve felt let down and that when I married him I thought I was gaining a partner, not a child. How we’re supposed to be a team and it feels as though we’ve been on opposite sides for so long we don’t even know how to support each other. We don’t know how to be there for one another.

I *know* there’s more beyond just the chemistry. There has to be. I know I love him. I know he loves me. We’ve been through so much and still depend on each other greatly, but – shouldn’t we have found that something by now? He says we have it but I am so filled with anger lately that I just can’t see.

I think he could be right.

Surrounded by unpacked moving boxes, I feel claustrophobic. I can’t get motivated to unpack them, search out a spot for their content or enjoy their existence in my life. There are no pictures I want to hang on my walls; walls which are still lacking fresh paint and are littered with scraps of wallpaper reminiscent someonelse’s life. I have no excitement to decorate or mold this house into a home; most days I have no ambition to get out of bed.

I am angry. So angry. All the time. My children are constantly whining, crying, asking questions, repeating “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” for what seems like an eternity; they’re begging, bribing and making deals. They’re being – wait for it – CHILDREN yet I find myself reacting quickly without thought. I yell, I threaten and I walk away. I take my aggression out on my husband verbally; he retaliates and it’s a never ending vicious circle of awful and hateful words. Sometimes in front of the kids.

Then the guilt.

The dreaded, unrelenting Mommy Guilt sets in and I find myself wallowing in front of mindless television while I attempt to numb any feeling by way of my emotional eating. It’s only a temporary remedy because it comes back bigger, faster and stronger the next time.

I have dreams. Dreams I fear will never come to fruition due to circumstances which have altered who I am. I used to be an organized and ambitious person. I used to love going out with friends, socializing and meeting new people. I used to dress up, do my hair and love searching out the best outfit. I used to take pride in my work, enjoy my job and have some semblance of professionalism. I never knew the word can’t. Now? Met with even the smallest road block, I give up.

I hate this new me. I hate her with every fiber of my being, yet I do nothing to try and rid her from my life. It’s like watching from a distance as she gives up and slink away, shoulders slumped. I want to yell at her to shape up, take control and love her life; it’s the only one she gets. Take those chances, buy that new outfit, get your hair done; because really? It’s a small price to pay for a little control and happiness.

That girl? She’s a roadblock. She’s keeping me from traveling, seeing my friends, having night’s out and laughing.

Oh, the laughing. We used to laugh all the time. I mean, that’s how this all started (well, she has a HUGE part in it too).

I want to tell her that stress is a way of life: it’s all about how you manage it. She NEEDS to get a grip. She needs to stop yelling at my husband before he’s had enough and gives up. There’s only so much a person can take and it’s really not fair to expect the world of one person. He’s only human. She needs to see that. She needs to see that men just aren’t programmed like women: everyone knows that but her.

Maybe she needs to seek some help that maybe just a general practitioner can’t provide? Maybe someone else can tell her what is wrong and what steps she can take to improve it? Maybe someone else can tell her that medication isn’t the be all to end all and there are other methods to achieve the happiness she so desires?

Maybe she’ll listen to someone else.

:::

Thank you all for your comments on my latest entries. I know you’re there for my and your support means more to me than I can even say. I’ve tried a couple times to go back and respond to comments, but end up writing novels and then deleting them so I gave up.

I’ve made an appointment to also see a chiropractor to try and rid myself of these awful headaches I’ve been getting. From my evaluation she said “She’s got her work cut out for her”.  I see her on Saturday for my first appointment. Monday I see my family doctor and I am thinking I should maybe print out these latest entries for her…. I don’t know though. Should I?

When I began taking anti-depressants I was embarking on a new phase in my life as a working mother. It was just over a year since Carter was born and I attributed my need for medication to be more of a situational issue rather than post-partum. Why does that even matter? I don’t know. Maybe because dealing with the stigma of depression as *just* depression just didn’t seem as difficult as it would have been should it be labeled “post-partum depression”.

Post-paturm depression just seems to have such an awful stigma attached to it; like a woman suffering is immediately assumed to be a danger to herself or her child(ren). No one wants to have that label.

That’s why when I read my discharge papers it knocked the wind out of me.

Even if I was (am) experiencing PPD I feel as though I’m not able to admit it because of the sideways glances and unsaid concerns. I believe others are thinking that I am a danger to my child(ren) and that? That makes me even more insane as I worry what people are thinking of me and my abilities as a parent.

Ashamed.

Ashamed that I am human.

Ashamed that I need help.

Ashamed that I don’t really have it all together.

Yes, if you read the previous post I’ve linked to you’ll notice I have a differing opinion now. I know, I know. I am all over the board, but that’s not the point nor the purpose of this post.

It’s hard to admit having post-partum depression because even though I *know* I haven’t failed, I can’t make others believe that; and what I *think* others believe plays on my mind constantly. Yet, I still find myself saying I don’t have post-partum depression because *I* haven’t been told I do – even though it’s on my hospital paperwork I have yet to accept it. Still.

So coupled with trying to hold everything together as it’s frayed at the seams over the past few months, I’ve neglected myself. It’s caught up to me. My mind, my body, myself.

Post-partum or not, I am going to see my doctor again at the end of the month about participating in a sleep study to see if I do indeed have Sleep Apnea and about my medication. Even though I have began taking it religiously again, I am not me. I don’t believe I have been since I started taking it back in 2006, but I just didn’t do anything about it. Call it lazy, call it settling, whatever.

For the past three years, I just accepted the fact I had (have) no desire to do anything, my activity level has been slim to none, I’ve gained an additional 20lbs, and I am just going through the motions.  I attribute some of that to the side effects of the medication, but honestly? This is also no way to live me life. Sure, I’m not yelling and constantly aggravated, but who wants to live a life that’s been wasted away sitting at a desk, on a couch, on a computer, watching television?

Wow, I think I have more to deal with than just being medicated.

As I read this back all I get from it is I want to be happy. I want to love the life I have. I want to enjoy my family, love my new house and participate. Participate in my life.

I’m fighting some demons at the moment. My depression seems to be taking a tailspin dive into darkness. I’ve been fighting this for weeks as stuff that is seemingly out of my control has been taking over. I think I made the mistake of trying to decrease my use of anti-depressants all while I’ve been returning from maternity leave, moving, facing reprimand at work, and constant fighting at home. I mean, there’s only so much a person can take, mentally – because physically I’m fine. Aside from the weight I’ve gained from my non-stop emotional eating and my flaming carpel tunnel syndrome, I am fine.

Mentally? I feel as though I haven’t slept in weeks even though I’ve been getting what seems like a solid 6 hours during the week and then about 9 or 10 on the weekends. But…I’ve begun self-diagnosing and I think I have sleep apnea. Based on what people have told me about my sleep patterns, my snoring, etc. I’ve decided to talk to my doctor about it. Sleep apnea can also increase symptoms of depression, so there’s that. I’ve been having horrible brain-splitting-in-half migraines so bad I have to hide in my room and cry for silence.

I can’t help but want to run away and hide from everything. Re-group and come back stronger and better. I just can’t. There are children, jobs, a house and family. There isn’t time for me to escape and wallow in self pity and try to fix myself when there is so much around me that needs fixing too.

I feel suffocated. I feel down. I feel worthless. I feel like nothing I do satisfies anyone. My boss, my husband, my parents. I feel as though I can do nothing right by anyone. I am even failing this stupid blog, my other site and my friends – both on-line and off.

I mean, I know it’s not all bad. I have a brand new (to me) house, brand spankin’ new shiny! appliances, beautiful children and a wonderful (most of the time), caring (most of the time), and helpful (sometimes) husband. I am not that hard done by, really.

It’s the little things which I’ve escalated and increased into BIG THINGS: like two weeks ago, Mike was driving down a super busy highway. A wheel chock flew off the back of a transport truck and THROUGH our windshield.

He had Hudson with him. Things *could* have been So. Much. Worse. than the replacing of a hood and a windshield. Had he not taken a chance and swerved into another lane of traffic it would have hit him head on. I could have lost them both in an instant two Fridays ago. Thinking about it now still makes me tear up. But they’re fine. Everyone’s fine! Yet, I don’t move on. I think about it, I worry, I stress. I work myself into this stressball of panic.

The daycare incident still weighs extremely heavy on my mind. I can’t shake it. I’ve tried valiantly to let it go, to *know* that my child is fine and that nothing happened. But ‘What Ifs’ cheap back constantly when he’s whiny, not listening and acting out.

I have been now living in constant fear that I no longer have the job security that I once thought I did. I don’t have the comfort of knowing that my employer has my back as they once did. This industry is extremely volatile at the moment. There is little to no work – I know, I bid on new projects. There are none.
Mike is currently at home. He’s been able to get a couple days here and there to at least have a couple hundred dollars to bring home and help keep us afloat, but there’s nothing going on at the moment. That? My friends, is the joys of living a life of construction. We hurry up and wait. Constantly.

So ya, I’m a complete Debbie Downer. I have nothing even remotely positive to spew forth on the interwebs lately.

I think about you a lot! I miss you all.

Most of all.

I miss me.

(I know, selfish bitch. I can’t help it. It’s in my genes.)

It’s been five months since this beauty left a gaping hole is the hearts of many.

Please take a moment to stop by and send her parents some love.

Donate to a cause dear to their hearts.

Help others.

I thought I’d pass the reins to someone else for the time being. You’ll have to excuse the mumbles and lack of dialogue on his part, he’s just starting out. I’m thinking once he gets his routine down he may be better at maintaining this bitch.

I mean the site.

(Not THIS bitch.)

((That’s just wrong.))

(((Not to mention disgusting.)))

((((And also? SOMEONE ELSE’S JOB. SOMEONE WHO HAS NOT BEEN DOING HIS JOB.))))

(((((YA HEAR THAT SOMEONE ELSE!? I’M TALKING TO YOU SOMEONE ELSE.)))))

Ahem.

This is all wrong. ALL. WRONG.

Like I said: I think he’ll be taking over.

Ya, I’ve painfully and horribly neglected this site. I just have nothing to say that’s not grumpy, crabby and full of self pity.

I am running on fumes. I’ve emotionally eaten an additional 10lbs which now reside on my ass. The same ass that is bunged up causing discomfort and bloating.

OH. THE. BLOATING.

It makes me super duper cranky.

I also now have carpel tunnel syndrome. The burn is unbelievable. Like I’ve shoved my wrists in a burning pile of dog poop.

I don’t know why I picked poo, but I did.

And now you can visualize me with poop on my hands.

Seriously? Why’d I even bother?

Go nuts in the comments peeps. I’m all yours. What’s wrong with you? Got roids? How about athletes foot? A wart? Just angry about something? My comment section is your venting playground.