Saturday, March 1, 2008

Decisions, Decisions

I'm really, really bad at making decisions. REALLY bad. For the most part, my decisions usually turn out to be good ones, but its taken me forever and a day to reach my conclusion and act on it. Also, the really bad decisions haunt you. Mine sound like my mother, "Well, remember what happened the last time you...."

I'm really struggling with the decision to become a stay-at-home mom or go back to work. Actually, the decision has pretty much been made, it's acting on it that's freaking me out. I've made some moves, placed some calls, but nothing is formal. No, I'm not telling you. Not yet, anyway. Dude, I didn't tell anyone I was pregnant 'till I was six-months along. You think I'm gonna bust out a major life change on the internet just like that. Come oooooonnnnn. You gotta know me better than that.

I will say that my decision making process always involves a lot of talking to and with friends, polling them about similar decisions they've made, asking for advice and guidance. I have to say: this time around, I've received some of the best advice, and been lent the most sympathetic, compassionate ears ever known. If you're one of those people who's listened to me whine, vent and cry over this, Thank You. If I haven't done it already, I hope to be as good a friend to you one day.

In other news, Dos is snugglier than ever. She's sleeping in her bassinet more and more, which means Grinch may actually be able to sleep in our bed again one day. Bug is finally over the creeping crud, or toddler Ebola or whatever it was she had. Grinch is over it, too, though you wouldn't know it from his coughing, moaning, and vitamin C popping. (Love you, honey! Smooches!)

Also, I told two close friends that I have a blog, but they didn't ask for the URL and I didn't offer so I still have exactly two readers and why does that surprise me? Duh. This explains why I am not in sales. I'll bet I couldn't sell Girl Scout Cookies.
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "I wonder where I can buy some Thin Mints."
Me: "I'm a Girl Scout."
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "Oh, really?"
Me: "Yes."
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "Mmm, hmm."

Finally, I went to the doctor and she says I'm okie dokie. I even broke down crying in front of her over this decision stress. She patted my leg, passed me some tissues and was very sympathetic, but the Post Partum Depression issue never came up. Did I ask about it? Hell, no. Why? Because after working in a pharmacy for a dozen years, I grew wary of people who came in with scrips for ailments they didn't seem to really have. Happy pills was all they wanted. Plus, of all the people I know who take anti-depressants (and strangely, I know a LOT), none of them seem particularly happy to me. So Prozac, Lexapro, Paxil and all the others can claim to make people feel better, but their walking, talking advertisements convince me otherwise. I'm sure it works for some people, but I haven't seen it yet.

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