I crave to write. I think about it constantly.

I dream of a finished office space, white furniture with wall-to-wall white shelving filled with my books and my magazines. I dream of pristine walls with a slight hint of turquoise. I dream of a wide open window with lightweight sheers and a white orchid sitting on the sill. I see myself sitting at a glass top desk, lightly tapping out my mediocrity for all of the Internet.

In my head, that space will make it all better. That space will bring me back to the spot where I want to write again. In that space I will work, providing others with their lovely writing spaces while I will begin to remember what it was like when I would write something I was proud of. Something. Anything.

But that space won’t relieve my mental block. That space won’t be a reality for a long, long while – if ever. That space, this space, seems to have met it’s end. Or at least it feels that way.

It’s been months since I’ve been able to write something that others can connect with. The more I read, the more I realize that the need to be really good at what you do is ever more prevalent. As parent blogging changes and morphs rapidly into blogging for marketing and sponsorship, those whom used to write personally are converting and only the strong remain unwavering.

I am wavering. I have no desire to chase sponsorships no matter how much I’d love to be at the next *it* conference. Yet like others, I want to be noticed, adored and READ. (If you’re a blogger and say you don’t care about those things, you’re lying to us and worst of all – yourself. No one puts themselves out on a public stage just because.) But I have long since passed the stage of promoting this site. There is no more clicking around traffic building sites or adding my site to all the “communities”. I don’t work on improving my SEO (search engine optimization), nor do I care how you found my blog.

This blog is now dying. Actually, I believe it’s been dead for a while.

I am no longer – what I believe to have been – a member of the blogging community. There is very little community. It’s a shark tank full of people looking to make a quick buck and get stuff and if you happen to step on some toes to do it? So be it. There are some great people whom I’ve kept in contact with, but for the most part, my blog reader and twitter feed has transcended into white noise. There are fewer voices with a message; there are even less with ones I want to hear. That’s not to say that your writing is falling on deaf ears, rather that it’s just getting hard to discern the heartfelt writing. With FTC regulations, disclosure statements and disclaimers on satirical writing, it just seems so contrived and fake, even though the intention is quite the opposite.

Transparency is a fickle bitch.

As much as we’re transparent about what we’re writing and saying online, it’s behind the scenes where we are the most clouded,  contrary and unethical. Talking about people, their actions, their writing, their reviews, their “free gifts”, their sell-out attitudes. I see no disclaimers on the hateful statements spewed back and forth, no transparency in the relationships we are pretending to have.

I am no different.

I’ve sat back and watched for months as I fought my own internal battle of facing the truth. I’ve sat back and debated whether or not I owe you, readers and friends, a statement regarding things that have happened behind the scenes. You know, in the name of transparency. Am I being dishonest with you by not speaking out? Am I making myself appear guilty by allowing those who have spoken out – albeit inaccurately – on my behalf? Because every. single. fucking. time. I take to this keyboard, I stall. I am paralyzed by thoughts of people thinking that everything I write from here on out is a fucking lie because of something they’ve heard elsewhere. I think about the links and the emails flying back and forth saying, Did you see what she wrote now? I can’t believe she said that. What a fuckin’ liar. She is dead to me. After all this and she has the nerve.. Why does she even bother?

Dearest friends have said to let it go. My wonderful and loyal friends have said it nothing to worry about and that I acted out of good faith and love. My good friends, the people THAT KNOW ME are right.

But what about the others? The ones that I concern myself with when they really have shown they deserve little of my time. Why? Why do I give even an iota of shit for what they think?

Because I am human.

I am just like you: I want acceptance, I want love, I want people to care about me too. I want forgiveness, friendship and relationships. Because I am human.

Without transparency I feel I am stifling myself. I can write here over and over that I don’t care what you think and that it’s time to move on, but the truth is I do care, and I can’t move on – because EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. I open this computer I think about the people who have (may have) heard something and are taking it verbatim. I think about the fact that no one has even ASKED my side. People I thought were friends have taken what they’ve heard as gospel and haven’t even given me a chance. It angers me, it hurts me and it’s not fair.

But it’s not only about me and my perceived conflicts. There are people who I KNOW have been talking shit about some people I care deeply for and then they are playing nice to their faces and telling them they have their backs when they definitely do not. I know they say they are friends and “would do anything for them”  and then have been calling them hurtful and hateful things behind their backs. You forget, my friends, the internet is very much like high school. Things are said and they DO get back to the people you’re talking about; even if you’re calling someone a “crazy bitch” in jest, it may not be perceived that way in some conversations.

I think we owe it to ourselves – as compassionate, responsible and caring adults to just cut the shit. If you don’t like someone or something they’ve said, so be it. Deal with it. Move on. But the name calling? The hurtful and evil comments about people you *think* you know are really getting us nowhere. Because at the end of the day, has it made your life *that* much better by saying such evil things about someone else? No. Does letting someone know “for their benefit” that a friend of theirs has wronged someone else? No. Because no matter what you say, they will continue to make their own decisions in life and your hurtful words of “concern” and “support” are only going to make you look like that fickle bitch, Transparency.

I set up a Facebook profile ages ago thinking I would use it once and a while to stay in touch with some of the people I grew up with. It was a way to remain connected even though we’re really no longer in each other’s lives; to remain in the past while life quickly spins into oblivion and before we know it, we’re 30 and have no idea where the past ten years have gone.

I am notorious for updating my status for a day and then leaving it sit for weeks or months on end. Every time I load and refresh that website, I get nostalgic seeing the people I was friends with all those years ago. People who, at the time, were my world. People whom I spent hours upon hours with each and every day for the better part of my formative years. Those that had a significant part in molding me into the person I have become.

The only way I have kept in touch with those people has been through a volatile website which has come under fire for sharing and using our data to their advantage. Not very promising, is it? And it’s not even that I’ve managed to keep in touch with anyone through that website, but instead have managed to creep on their pages, view their photos, and for fear of being too overzealous, I comment sparingly on events in their lives. A few seemingly heartfelt congratulatory messages when someone posts photos of their nuptials or a birth of a baby. Not very personable, is it?

Last night I spent hours looking through photos belonging to those who were a huge part of my life so many years ago. Some of them barely even recognizable, after all, ten years in a long time – especially during the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Had their names or vital information not been included in their profiles, I am almost certain I would not have known it was my long lost friend had we passed on the street. That breaks my heart; the fact that these people, once so very important to me, have become strangers save the history we share.

Facebook has become the bane of my existence. I crave the ability to check and see that a former lover has married, a former best friend still remains that flighty lovable person I remember. That one of my (many) high school crush(es) is still as adorable as ever. What saddens me is seeing those whom have remained friends after all these years and I have been absolutely horrible at keeping in touch. All those relationships which have grown and changed over the years no longer include me. Most of that is my fault. As years have gone by I have become more and more reclusive. I’ve avoided reunions and gatherings. I almost never go back to my hometown to see friends who still live there. They’ve been asking me to come visit and for some reason, I just don’t. Though I long to have even a minute portion of my past life back, I make no effort to make it happen.

I found out a couple months ago that my high school is to be demolished. Years have been unkind to the old building. Its population has decreased to the point it makes more sense for such a small town to amalgamate all the schools into a simple K – 12 school and rid The Board of these older dilapidated structures which are unkempt and underused.

I’ve thought long and hard about trying to host a final class reunion in our old school gym; something along the lines of a 1995 Dance Party. As much as I’d love to do something I’m just not the planner type person. I have no idea where to start or how to even initiate something of that magnitude. Instead, I fear I will sit back and watch as the old high school is demolished and wish I had done something.

Similar to what I have been doing over the past ten years: watching from the sidelines as old relationships slip further and further into the past.

Eighteen months almost nineteen, but really? Who’s counting? I can’t believe how fast time has flown.

I can’t believe where’s out of the infant stage and heading full force into toddlerhood.

We’re past walking and moving into learning to walk backwards and running.

Shopping has become quite a chore. Just this past Sunday we attempted a trip to Wal*Mart where Hudson would run with reckless abandon throughout the aisle as he attempted to exert his independence. As he ran, taking in his surroundings,  Carter would become distracted by Teh Shiny; had Mike not been there, one would have been lost for sure.

I tried valiantly to keep him in the shopping cart, but Hudson is so determined to do whatever his big brother is doing.  The high chair has long been replaced with a booster at the table, the stroller is no more, the baby toys have been abandoned for the Hot Wheels and ‘boy’ toys; being carried is strictly reserved for when he’s tired.

I’ve tried so hard to hold to his infancy. We’re undetermined as to what our future holds in terms of more children and I fear that I will look back and realize there’s so much that I’ve missed because we thought there may be more babies to soak in. The smell, the cuddles, the firsts.

I can’t imagine that at 28 years old, I am done having children.

I can’t imagine myself without a daughter.

I can’t imagine that this chapter of child bearing is closed.

Then I see what we’ve accomplished so far, the beautiful children we have, my baby that really is no longer that much of a baby – I feel fulfilled. I feel happy. Complete.

But I’m waiver constantly about the complete part. We’ve never made mention of our family being complete, I think we both relish the idea of a daughter, or at least one child in our family.

Instead of worrying about age gaps and when (if) we’re going to start trying for another, I am trying my damnedest to enjoy where we are right now.

While my baby is still somewhat my baby.

As I reach for the scattered pieces, bringing them back to their rightful home, there’s a wind threatening to carry those thoughtfully sorted piece slightly out of reach; approaching with vengeance, it tries to steal everything. Unrelenting.

I stand my ground. I can’t lose my pieces again. I hold them tight, begging the wind to leave them intact, but it doesn’t listen.

The wind howls through me, carrying everything away. I stand there watching, unmoving, as they are scattered carelessly about. I try to remember just where those pieces fit. Where they belong. I can’t.

Silence.

I imagine what it was like to be whole. I want that again. I’m afraid to gather them up again in case they are ripped from me. I can’t fight any longer, but I can’t give up.

The wind natters at my back. I try to ignore it in hopes that it will leave me well enough alone as I slowly collect my dispelled pieces. I protect them fiercely this time. I can’t afford to lose them again. The wind won’t defeat me.

I am re-building. Stronger.

:::

I’ve taken a leave from this site over the past two weeks completely by chance. I’ve been really busy with work, our new house and my children. From an unexpected trip to Pittsburgh, writing a number of reports, to re-tiling our main bathroom, pruning trees and closing our pool I’ve had very little time to reflect and write (not counting my mindless banter of course).

• Thanksgiving weekend came and went with Mike working everyday. I spent time with my family and my kids for three days, without my husband. Needless to say, I do realize now just how much help he really can be when he’s here.

• I traveled to Pittsburgh and back: I didn’t get lost, forget where I parked my car or get asked a million questions by customs.

• I’ve gotten a prescription for new meds and a referral for a sleep study. I’ve started seeing a chiropractor three times a week.

I’m trying to get my life back on track. Just hoping the wind stays at my back and I can keep it together.

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.

It’s been close to a month since I’ve had a microwave at home. We had an over-the-range mounted microwave before and it obviously had to stay. We bought a new over-the-range to match our new stainless steel appliances (*squeeee*) but it has yet to be installed.

I never thought I would feel so out of sorts without a microwave. I’m not just out of sorts about it, I am damn near homicidal, people.

It wasn’t always this bad.

At first I felt bad that Hudson had freezing cold milk in the morning instead of it warmed as he was used to.

Then, I got irritated because I couldn’t heat left overs on a whim like before.

Now, I get angry because I forget (STILL!) that we have no  microwave (STILL!) and I’ve left the frozen veggies until last and now I have to put them in a pot on the stove.

It’s to the point where I look at my ratty existing hood over the new! shiny! range and I am filled with hatred.

Not to mention the fact that some moron (surprisingly not my husband ) installed a ceiling fan overhead. What’s so weird about that you wonder? Well, nothing. There’s nothing wrong with that.

But what IS wrong is that said ceiling fan is too close to the cupboard doors above the stove and (do you know where this is going?) should the fan be on at the same time as one tries to open the cupboards for spices all hell will break loose and I’m sure my roof would be taken off.

I imagine it would look something like a prop on a boat.

Only not.

Whatthefuckever. It’s Friday. This is all you get.

I *think* someone is coming to install my microwave on Sunday. Right AFTER I have people over for Carter’s fourth birthday. Convenient, no?

I was SHOCKED to see how many of you on twitter don’t use a microwave at all. Then I began thinking I am like, the laziest mofo on the face of the earth. Especially if I am about to go homicidal over not having a microwave. Thanks for making me look so bad. SHOCKED, people. Like so shocked I now NEED to have microwave popcorn and I can’t.

Fuckyouuniverse.

I started this blog back in 2006. July to be exact. (Totally missed my three year blogoversary blogiversary blogaversary day I started this trainwreck beloved blog.) At that time, I was moseying about the interwebs and finding new sites to read and began seeing this “BlogHer” thing showing up everywhere and people getting REALLY REALLY excited about it.

I had no idea what the hell it was.

I figured: Geez. And here I thought message board people got really obsessive and crazy addicted, who the hell would go to a conference about blogging?!

Ahem.

Ya.

So.

Um.

ZOMG!!!1! BLOG HER!!

I’M GOING!!

*squeeeeeeee!*

Now that that’s out of the way.

I’ve fretted about clothes, shopping and appearance more in the past month than I had throughout my entire high school life, and then? I was so totally, like The Queen of Vanity.

Then I decided if you’re not going to talk to me or like me because I chose to wear clothes I’ve had in my closet for the past two years then that’s your loss.

HEAR THAT TIM GUNN?

YOUR. LOSS.

Then I decided just too appease the masses, and my self-consciousness, I shall hit up a Target for a dress, a cover-up and a cute pair of heels when I cross the border.

*sigh*

THEN I began thinking, OMG, no one’s going to like me. They all have their friends that they’ve met before at previous BlogHer events and I’m so going to be sitting at a table all alone watching others have fun. I’ll feel like the new girl while I have no one to talk to so I’ll busy myself with my iTouch – because no one has offered to help a girl out with an iPhone which makes me even more of a loser because now I’m a poseur with my iTouch and not an iPhone. OMG, the A-listers are so going to point and laugh at me. Suddenly I feel like I’m going to prom with a date two years my senior.

See.

I am my worst critic. I KNOW.

So do me a favour, if you recognize me? Please say hi.

If you don’t recognize me, not to worry. Here’s a picture:

If you’re going to be there, you can find me:

• Attending conference events
• Driving a beautiful brand new 2010 Chevy Equinox as part of the BlogHer Carpoolers (follow @temptingmama and #BlogHerCarpoolers on twitter for our lastest updates while we’re traveling to Chicago!)
• Being a faithful ambassador for Yummie Tummie
• At the Nikon party with Carson Kressley thanks to Miss Britt for letting mebe her tag along.
• Wearing Sorrelli jewelry (thanks to Angie!)
• Attending the hottest parties of the weekend (hopefully not as a wallflower)

If you’re NOT going to be there?

Head on over to @BlogHerAtHome. It’s a fabulous site created by my buds Nic and Jenn for those of you who are partying along at home. There’s giveaways (including a masthead design from Yours Truly) and a butt load of other goodies.

So Karen and I are working on amalgamating our design businesses into one. We’ve thought long and hard about the process and what we want to come of it, but being that we’re so far apart (distance wise) and on different schedules – as well as completely distracted by SHINY! – we haven’t had a chance to nail things down.

With Craftastrophe ad revenue and design fees, items are starting to get lost in the PayPal shuffle, and while we try diligently to align our funds and create a stable business model, our work related chats turn into a mess of laughter and utterly and completely off topic. Probably why we’ve been sitting on this daunting task for the past six months, but hey: at least we’re enjoying it!

me: Do we want to make a rate that we chard each other for graphics / coding?

*Instead of ‘drop the Cosby’s at the pool‘ we changed it to ‘drop The Gosselin’s at the pool’ during our LONG drive to the Boston BlogHer Reach Out Tour last fall.