A happy mom.

So, last Tuesday was a rough one.

Let's be honest: A lot of days are rough ones right now. I fear the age of not-quite-two will go down in history as one of our more challenging phases. But I don't think this is unique to us. Or the not-quite-twos.

I think this is parenting.

It's the same at all ages and stages. A mom with one idea; a child with another. Back and forth, up and down, day in and day out. A never-ending cycle of crazy.

Sometimes I can let the hard days roll off me, no big deal. But other times I cannot, and that's when I start running my mouth — on my blog, on Facebook, on the phone, to anyone who will listen and have pity and tell me it's okay and I'm not alone. "It's so haaaaard," I whine. And almost immediately, my trusty group of mom friends jump in with support. Because it IS hard, and we've all been there, and sometimes we just need to let it out.

I firmly believe it's okay to complain once in a while. Necessary, even. But in recent weeks I've starting thinking about the ramifications of my public pity parties. Am I letting out too much, too often? How many times in the past year have I written about the challenges I face as a mother vs. the joy I experience as one? Would a casual reader of this blog think I love being a parent or loathe it? Do my posts on motherhood, which I've always considered honest reflections of my life as a mom, really just come across as whiny and ungrateful...or, worse, unhappy? How will my words affect my son, who will most likely read these essays on his childhood one day? And how does what I say affect those around me right now who don't have children, who haven't "been there?"

The other day I read an article in Details magazine titled The No-Baby Boom. An excerpt:

In a 2003 survey of more than 20,000 parents that Dr. Phil conducted for his show, 40 percent reported that they wouldn't have had kids if they'd realized the difficulties of raising a family.

Wait, what?

It goes on:

My wife and I have plenty of friends whose complaints seem to corroborate the findings of that survey. "I have no time for myself!" they tell us. "I don't know who I am anymore!" "Thank God! Only 11 more years and he'll be out of the house!" "Only 17 years, 8 months, and 29 days and she'll be out of college! Hey, did my watch stop? 'Cause time's moving really f'ing slowly!"

Oh. My. Gosh. Granted, this is a very one-sided account written by a man who is childless by choice (nothing wrong with that in my book, just stating the facts), so it's hard to say whether he took liberties with the comments of his friends who have kids. But let's say he didn't. Let's say after a day of tripping over toys and being hit in the face during temper tantrums and having to carry his kicking and screaming child out of the store, an exhausted friend said to him "Only 17 years, 8 months, and 29 days and she'll be out of college!"

It's not really that hard to imagine, is it? Parenting is frustrating and tiring and grating and there are times when I just want to fall on the floor and sob because I really can't do it anymore. Except I can. And I will. I want to. I love being a mother, far more than I ever thought I would. Yes, the toys and the messes and the sleepless nights and the chaos and the constant back and forth make me crazy. Those things would make any sane person crazy.

But in losing my mind, I have found my soul. My purpose. And joy — lots of it.

Parenting is not for everyone, though, and I respect couples who remain childless by choice. There's nothing wrong with knowing your limits and leading the life you want. In fact, if you had asked me five years ago whether I wanted to be a parent, my answer would have been "maybe" at best. At the time I wasn't particularly interested in children, and I certainly wasn't interested in the responsibility of caring for them. It would have been impossible to imagine myself living — and enjoying — the life I have now.

Thankfully, the Lord planted a seed of longing in my heart and placed wonderful examples of motherhood in my life — from my own mother and mother-in-law to my beautiful friends. Women who passionately love their children and joyfully embrace the task of raising them. In observing them, I saw the possibility of finding that same happiness for myself. But now I wonder: Would I have made the decision to have children had everything I heard about motherhood from these women been negative? If they had only shared stories of rough days and long nights and loss of self and constant heartbreak?

Looking back, it's hard to say. But from where I stand today, I know one thing is certain — I am not one of the 40% who regret choosing this life. And I never want the words I share, by mouth or in writing, to lump me into that category or harden someone's heart against having children.

So, just to be clear: Sometimes I am a tired, crabby, complaining mom. And sometimes I should probably just shut my mouth. But even on my worst days, I am still a happy mom. A grateful mom. A joyful mom. A mom who knows how blessed she is to have the challenges of a biting, tantrum-throwing not-quite-two-year-old because having those challenges also means having the extreme privilege of loving a precocious little boy with one blue eye and one green eye, an obsession with "big trucks," and a mind-blowingly good vocabulary.

And I hope you always see that in me, and in the words I write, even on the rough days.

Resolutions.

I never make resolutions at the new year. I see no point in doing so — no one keeps them, myself included. We make all these lofty and demanding goals for ourselves at the beginning of the year, start out with every intention of achieving them, and then the collective momentum inevitably dies around January 15. By the end of the year we're all five pounds heavier, disgusted with ourselves for failing, and once again claiming "the diet begins January 1!"

So stupid.

I'm not big on the resolutions, but I'll admit there's something inspiring about a new year. January brings us a fresh start, a clean slate, an opportunity for reinvention. This appeals greatly to my inner perfectionist, which is probably why every year around this time I get the itch to reorganize my house, buy an entirely new wardrobe, and start using a planner. I want order and peace in my house, my closet, my life. I want to live in Pottery Barn, or at the very least a Real Simple magazine spread. I want a white couch and sparkling floors and big bowls of fresh lemons on my kitchen counter.

I want order and peace and perfection, but what I have is...chaos. Messiness. Lack of control. Snot on almost every item of clothing I own.

I have a kid, a dog, a husband, and a full-time job. Order and peace are not on the menu these days. Dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, fingerprints on every possible surface, a never ending pile of laundry, stacks of bills to be paid...this is what I have to work with right now. And by "right now" I mean "for the next 18 years, at least."

Reconciling my wants and my haves is not easy. I tend to set ridiculous expectations of myself — to be the perfect wife, mother, friend, employee, housekeeper, hostess — and I fail. Over and over again. And of course I do, because you can't have sparkling floors and a white couch when you have a family. You can't work full-time and make a gourmet meal from scratch every night. You can't carve out significant time for your friends when you barely have time to see your husband and child.

I don't need more failure in my life, which is why I typically avoid making resolutions. But what's the difference between making big unattainable goals at the beginning of the year and failing and setting small unattainable goals for yourself every single day and failing?

Yeah, not much. And that's how I arrived at this very important (and yes, quite obvious) conclusion:

Perfection does not exist.

I say that for my benefit, not yours. Although maybe you need to hear it, too?

PERFECTION DOES NOT EXIST.

This is my new mantra. This is my New Year's resolution. To let go of perfect. To stop expecting so much of myself. To just be. To enjoy my family. To embrace the chaos. To stop apologizing for the dust bunnies on my kitchen floor. To not feel bad if dinner consists of hot dogs and frozen green beans again. To laugh. To wear unflattering old sweatpants to the store on Saturdays. To say no when I can't — or don't want to — do something. To accept that romance at this stage of life might just be frozen pizza in front of the tv with the man I love. To do what's best for my family, even if others disagree. To let guests help with the dishes. To leave work at work. To bake a lot, and eat it. To drink a little too much wine once in a while. To let go of the guilt. To smile at the fingerprints coating my walls. To have joy. To praise God in the good and bad, knowing there's a reason for the madness. To let tomorrow worry about itself.

I'm not perfect, and I never will be. But I am perfectly loved by the one who created me. By a husband who adores me, just as I am. By a little boy who thinks I hung the moon. By friends who couldn't care less about dust bunnies. By a family who has always stood by me.

This year, I resolve to be happy. With who I am, where I am, and what I have. Because that's what I think New Year's resolutions — or any resolutions, for that matter — should be about: finding ways to be the happiest, most perfectly YOU version of yourself. There is room for self-improvement, sure, but there is also room for self-acceptance.

And the you-est version of me really likes to eat, so rest assured, there will be no resolving to diet anytime soon. But maybe a little exercise to balance things out a bit...

Indecision.

I'm the kind of person who, when asked by a friend where to have lunch, says, "I don't know, what sounds good to you?"

I'm also an opinionated person, and in the right situation I have no problem letting everyone know exactly what I think. But most of the time I'm happy to defer to someone else's judgment, to sweep my feelings under the rug, to just go with the flow. I don't like to decide. I don't like to inconvenience anyone. I don't like confrontation. I don't like to cause a scene or make a call that might not sit well with others.

It's stupid, really. Why can't I just say "Let's go to Panera!"

I hate that I'm so averse to making decisions, especially about insignificant things like where to go for lunch. Because when it comes time to make a big decision, I am nearly paralyzed by fear and doubt. Most likely because I'm out of practice.

As a parent, there are millions of decisions to be made. I knew that going in, but I thought parental decision-making would be fairly straightforward. I'm the parent, I choose what's best for my child. End of story. No outside opinions needed, no one to offend.

I never once considered that I may not know what's best for my child.

Last week Nate and I made a fairly big decision — we decided to move Calvin to a new daycare. It's a long story, but it all comes down to scheduling. Our current provider is wonderful, but she has requested a lot of paid time off as part of our contract, and her hours have become a challenge for us to accommodate with our work schedules.

So, we decided it was time to move on. After touring and interviewing a few places, we found what we think is going to be a really great new place for Calvin: a small Christian daycare center that only closes on major holidays and is open normal business hours. We loved it. Yesterday I went and picked up all the paperwork — Calvin is registered and set to begin mid-September.

Almost immediately I began second-guessing our decision.

Calvin loves his current daycare. He loves his provider and the other kids (and so do we). She has been so good to him, and for him. I'm sure he thinks of her as another mother — he's been with her all day, five days a week, since he was four months old. He is excited to arrive each morning, and often hesitant to leave. And within the last few weeks he's made some major strides behaviorally (thank you, Lord). He is happy and thriving there.

But I'm going to take all of that away from him because it's no longer convenient for me.

I feel incredibly selfish. And really sad. When we initially made the decision to find a new daycare it was all very logical — our current situation wasn't working for us, so we needed to find a new one. But now I just feel sick about it. I feel like I'm choosing to put my needs above those of my child. Which is crazy and untrue. I mean, I can't even put my needs above those of a friend when it comes to deciding on a lunch spot! This decision is not being made lightly; of course I want what's best for my son. But last night the guilt started creeping in, and I just kept wondering whether we could make our current situation work, for Calvin's sake.

Yes, we could. We could stay there and Nate and I could keep scrambling to find backup care every time there's an unexpected closing or a last-minute vacation. We could stay there and I could continue to feel like a crappy employee doing a half-hearted job because I'm always calling off or leaving early to cover daycare. We could stay there and spend all of our vacation time covering our provider's — leaving no time for our family to take a vacation of our own.

We could stay there, but it would require weekly, even daily, sacrifice on our parts. Am I willing to do that for my child? Yes, absolutely. Is staying there the best decision for my family? No, I don't think it is.

Nate made a good point last night — that I'm assuming this change will be detrimental to Calvin. That we'll be trading a good experience for him for good schedule for us. Which, from the looks of it, isn't really the case. I think he's going to love it there, once he gets through the transitional period. So, in all likelihood, we'll be trading a good experience for him and an inconvenient schedule for us for a good experience for him and a good schedule for us. A win-win. So why all the worry and second-guessing?

Just me, I guess. This is not my strong suit as a parent. Reading, playing, comforting, disciplining — yes. Making potentially life-altering decisions for my child — not so much.

I know this is just one of many decisions I'll have to make on behalf of my children, and a fairly easy one at that.

Heaven help me when a big one comes along.

F.

F is for family reunion, which we planned to attend this weekend. A day up north on the lake with Nate's extended family, who we rarely get to see.

F is for four hours, the length of drive we had ahead of us Saturday morning. Which is why we planned to leave as close to 7am as possible.

F is for frustration, which is what I felt when Nate called me on Saturday morning to inform me that the dog boarding place does not open at 7am, but 9am — putting us two hours behind schedule.

F is for the many four letter words I could have uttered (but didn't) when we discovered, an hour later, that our car had been broken into overnight, our window shattered, and our GPS stolen.

F is the letter grade I give myself for assuming I knew what time the boarding place opened, and for leaving the GPS on the dashboard when I should have put it away (since when am I new to city living??).

F is for FAIL, which is what Progressive gets for saying they'd have someone call us to set up our repair by end of day Monday. For a claim filed early on Saturday. Gee, thanks.

F is for fixed, which is what our window is after a very nice man from Safelite came to replace it on Saturday afternoon. Don't worry, Progressive. We took care of it. Still anxiously awaiting your call, however!

F is for fun, which we still managed to have this weekend despite a busted window, a missed trip, severe weather, and a child who refused to sleep for about four hours in the middle of the night last night.

F is for my very fabulous husband, who makes life's adventures bearable...and even a little funny.

Something tells me Nate did not find the shattered window as photo-worthy as I did.


Say what? What do you mean we're not going??


Man, I was really looking forward to that long car ride. Guess I'll just simulate as best I can from inside the house.


Luckily, we still had access to our Civic. Our very roomy two-door Civic. The perfect choice for an active family!


It was no day at the lake, but we still manged to get in a $12, 45 minute trip to the pool before Calvin had a total meltdown and the storms rolled in.





Mom, do you realize you're only wearing spf 30? Have you already forgotten about Mexico?


Enjoying a post-nap snack from his favorite perch.


Calvin was not the only one delighted by the prospect of bedtime Saturday night. He went to bed at 7:20. We went to bed at 7:20:05.


Sunday we went on a picnic, which Calvin found a little strange. He looked at me like "Where is my high chair? Where is that bib you always force me to wear?" He didn't let a little confusion deter him from eating his weight in food, however.




And then we forced him to ride the wheel of terror.


The only way to unwind after a wild ride like that? Footed pjs and crocs.


An ice cold beer from the cooler (all packed up for our non-trip... please note, we do not condone alcohol consumption by one year olds).


And one last swim.

Balancing act.

I feel like this blog has become pretty baby-centered. Which is all fine and good — I've got a beautiful little boy and I want to show him off. But this has been my personal outlet for the past year, and I miss it.

Actually I don't miss it. I miss having something interesting to say on it.

I had every intention of continuing to write the way I had been — about my life, my thoughts, my adventures, my rants and raves — once Calvin arrived. I didn't want this blog to become all about me being a mom, because I vowed I would always be more than that. I would still be ME — with my own interests and hobbies and a life outside my baby.

But my life is different now. Right now I don't have many thoughts that don't revolve around my son. I'm home with him all day, every day. I'm not working. I don't have a lot of adult interaction, unless you count Ellen Degeneres, Ina Garten, and the detectives on Law & Order.

It's like I'm living in a mommy cocoon, where all I see, hear, smell is baby.

It's not who I wanted to be. But it's who I need to be, right now, for my family. I need to be here with Calvin, because he's still small and I'm his source of comfort, of entertainment, of food. I need to be totally engrossed in my baby's every movement, because soon he'll be spending his days in childcare with a stranger, while I'm at work, missing out. I need to be home so Nate, who is working hard so I don't have to, can get a break once in a while. And I need to be this person, because I want to be this person. I want to be a mom. His mom. The person who knows him better than anyone else on earth, who loves him more than anyone else ever will.

I fear this makes me irrelevant to some. And I don't want to be irrelevant. I don't want my friends who don't have kids to think I've gone off the deep end, that I don't remember what it was like to not have children. Because I do. It was two months ago, and I loved it. How could I forget the freedom I had before I had a baby? (Seriously impossible. I dream about it daily.)

Every time someone becomes a parent for the first time, you hear about their new set of priorities. But I don't think I have a new set. I think I have a bigger set.

Of course Calvin is my number one priority. But that doesn't mean the others fall away. My faith, my husband, my family, my friends, myself — all still priorities. I refuse to give up my quiet time, regular dates with my husband, trips to see my family, long dinners with my friends, or weekend afternoons shopping alone. Those are things I need to do to be whole.

I can't teach my children to have a balanced life if I don't have one myself.

So, while I don't have much to say right now, I know I will again. I won't be cocooned up in mommyland forever. Don't get me wrong, I'm a permanent resident. I love it here.

But I will soon venture out, because it's not enough. I'm still me.

Not so Super.

I hate Super Target. And quite possibly Pledge, though that might be misplaced hatred. For all I know, that's Super Target's fault, too.

It wasn't hard for me to fall in love with Target. Growing up I had much more experience with Walmart — Target didn't arrive in Joliet until I was in high school, and even then it was kind of a hike from where we lived. (Now you can turn either way out of my parents' subdivision and hit one within 5 minutes.) Also, we spent a LOT of time at Walmart in college. It was the closest superstore to Taylor (that crappy Kmart in Gas City doesn't count), and provided countless hours of entertainment (I have taken many pictures in Walmart...including one of my friend Bri in a canoe, one of my friend Ali smelling a wall of fake flowers, and one of me sitting on a race car made out of Bud Light boxes. Classy). But when I moved to Minnesota there wasn't a Walmart within the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. So, off to Target I went.

And oh, I loved it.

It didn't take long for me to become a full-fledged member of the Target fan club. Why would it? Target is amazing. It's clean and pretty and trendy and has cheap clothes. One of my favorite things to do after work (before I had to get home every night to my dog) was wander aimlessly around Target, buying a random assortment of things I didn't need. Cute shirts, cute shoes, cute home stuff...cute, cute, cute.

And then Super Target came to town. Both of the primary Targets in my life — one across the street from my office, one by my home — went from being boring old regular Targets to shiny new SUPER Targets. I was ecstatic. Cute shirts, shoes and home stuff PLUS a full range of groceries? No way!

No way was right.

Believe me, I feel I am being kind when I say this: Super Target SUCKS. I can't stand it. It's ridiculously crowded. People let their kids run wild. I can't find anything. They have a crappy produce selection. And they are always out of products I need, or they don't carry them at all. Every single time I have attempted to grocery shop at Super Target, I've had to stop at Rainbow on my way home to pick up something they didn't have. And it's usually for something stupid. For example, once I went there to pick up saltine crackers. They didn't have ANY. The entire shelf of saltines was empty. No brand name, no store brand. Nothing. Can it get more basic than saltines? I've found that to be the case with things like cheddar cheese and yogurt, too. And forget about it if you're looking for any type of specialty ingredients for a recipe. (And by "specialty" I mean things like capers. Not exactly fancy fare.)

I believe the goal in creating Super Target was ultimate convenience for the customer. But there is nothing convenient about having to stop at another grocery store for saltines.

This leads me to my complaint about Pledge. Which is somewhat related, seeing as I still shop at Target for household products (and cute shirts, shoes and home stuff), if not groceries.

Pledge keeps introducing products, and then pulling them off the shelf before I am able to use the entire product and replace it. It's driving me crazy. Last fall I bought a package of Pledge Stainless Steel wipes for my kitchen appliances. I have tried a number of stainless cleaning products, and those were by far my favorite. Quick, easy, cleaned up perfectly. Love them (love the whole wipes movement in general...so much better than hauling around a bottle of 409 and a roll of paper towels). Went back to Target to buy them again when I ran out...and they didn't have them. Assuming this was just another crappy Target is out of something situation, I tried another Target. No luck. Pledge doesn't make them anymore. (So no, this cannot be blamed on Target.) So I ended up buying some other stainless wipes that I hate, but whatever.

And then last weekend I used up my last Pledge "Clean and Dust" wipe, which I also found to be kind of fabulous. Went to Target to get more...and they didn't have any. This time I didn't even attempt to find them at another Target, I just assumed Pledge had discontinued them. So instead I purchased the new Pledge "Multi-Surface" wipes. This time I bought two packs, just in case they decided to discontinued those as well.

However, upon visiting the Pledge website, I discovered that the Clean and Dust wipes are still available. So this can be entirely blamed on Super Target being out of yet another product I need. (I knew there would be a connection!)

And now that I've gotten all this written down, I'm not sure I have a point. So I'll wrap things up with a quick summary:

Super Target sucks, Pledge kind of sucks, I really miss those stainless wipes, and I am ranting about cleaning products so I maybe need to find a hobby.

Busy having fun.

I have been slacking, big time.

Not just on the blog, on everything. My house is a mess, my fall decorations are still in boxes, and I am out of clean clothes. I owe about 20 people cards or gifts celebrating babies, weddings, showers, new jobs, new houses, etc. (Sorry, everyone.)

I blame much of this on my current state, which is general exhaustion. But some of the blame must be assigned to my (once again) hectic schedule.

Nate and I make waaaaay too many plans. And I have severe problems with over-committing. I'm working on both of these things. The good news is, all of our plans have been a lot of fun.

I have yet to post about my sister Jill's wedding, which took place in Illinois the weekend before last. It was beautiful, and my sister looked amazing. Of course I was busy with matron of honor duties, so I took very few pictures. I'm patiently waiting for other people to send me theirs. Until then, I will just say it was a ton of fun. More details to come once I have photos to share with you.

In the meantime, I will share some photos from this past weekend. Nate and I went back to McCormick House in Hayward, Wisconsin for the weekend — this time with our friends Eric and Lisa Hall.

Nate and Eric practically grew up together — their families spent every summer vacationing at the lake together. Eric has two sisters, Laura and Julie, and our two families are still incredibly close. We celebrate every Thanksgiving together, make the annual trek to Dave Matthews at Alpine Valley, and spend a week in Mexico together every January. We even have a nickname for our group — The Brall (Breyer + Hall = Brall. Aren't we clever?). Eric and Lisa are dear friends of ours, and since they live five hours away in Appleton, Wisconsin, we decided to meet in the middle (not really, it was a 4.5 hour drive for them, and only a 2.5 hour drive for us) for a weekend of fun.

Per usual, we didn't really do much while we were there. Friday night we went to a local brew pub for dinner, and hit the hay pretty early. Saturday we each had an hour-long massage, and spent most of the day lounging around. We did get in a rousing game of croquet, as well as a brief walk into town (stopping only to stock up on Laffy Taffy and gummy strawberries at the candy store). We went out for pizza (at Coop's, home of strange stuffed beasts and viking paintings), came back and played what was quite possibly the funniest game of scattergories ever, and ended the evening in the hot tub.

Sunday morning we had a delicious breakfast headed back home. Nate and I had to get home early because I took a holiday decorating class with my mother-in-law, Mary, and my sister-in-law, Mary (yes, there are two ladies named Mary Breyer in our family). The class was awesome. It focused on table settings for the holidays, from Thanksgiving through Christmas, and offered a TON of inspiration. I actually started to get kind of cranky toward the end of the class, only because I can't believe any one person could be so creative. I felt simultaneously inspired and overwhelmed. But it was still incredible and really good. I took some photos, which I will post below.

Following the class, we celebrated my father-in-law's birthday (a few weeks late, of course, because we're hard to schedule). A pile of spaghetti and two delicious desserts later (don't judge me, everyone ate some of both), we made our way home.

It was a fantastic weekend, but I am a little bleary-eyed today.

Next up: a weekend-long holiday shopping trip to Galena, IL with my mom, Nate's mom, my sister-in-law, and her mom. We leave on Thursday, so I'm sure I'll have plenty to share next week!

Work to live? Or live to work?

I have this cute little box of macaroons on my desk, courtesy of my friend/colleague David, and his wife, Becca. Becca is something of a domestic goddess...she fell in love with cooking while house sitting for friends with an awesome kitchen, and she hasn't looked back. Now she's launching a business called KitchenNut (she has a blog, too). David told me she's starting slow with one product (the macaroons) and is hoping to build from there.

Her baked goods are to die for, and they are packaged and labeled sweetly, thanks to David's stellar design. Becca is destined for success.

So, now I'm sitting at work after an eight hour day, staring at this darling little box of treats (willing myself not to eat them, but that won't last), and wondering how I got here.

I work for a design firm. A good one. We do great work, our clients love us, and we like and respect each other. My job is manageable. I have flexible hours. I get to work on a Mac. I'm surrounded by beautiful design, which I truly appreciate in any form. The company pays for me to attend fun events, like Magazine Day.

There are many, many good things about my workplace (Free Diet Coke, I've heard, is not available everywhere. This saddens me.).

And yet.

Growing up, I thought I'd be a teacher. During college, I planned to become a newspaper reporter. By the end of college, I wanted to be a magazine editor. In fact, I was certain I would become a high-profile editor at a fashion magazine, live in New York City, and be all kinds of glamorous. And I thought that was likely to happen pretty quickly. Maybe not right out of school, but definitely by 25.

I started out as a Bloomingdale's sales girl at the Mall of America. In Bloomington, Minnesota. (Also known as the glamour capitol of the world.) The clothes were awesome, but I got myself in loads of debt and therefore needed to make more money. Onward, upward.

I moved on to a receptionist position at a hair salon (that was boring and lasted less than 6 months), and then to an interactive agency in NE Minneapolis, where I answered phones, ran errands, stocked the fridge and wrote copious amounts of copy for next to no pay. I made more than I had at Bloomingdale's, but not much. So I supplemented by continuing to pick up shifts at Bloomingdale's and working an additional 3-4 nights a week at cute little housewares/gift shop.

(Yep, that's right. I worked three jobs. I can't wait to use the old "Well, when I was your age..." line on my kids.)

Much to my sadness, the cute shop closed. Bloomingdale's stopped calling me (though I think I might still be on staff there, I get employee mailings all the time), and I quit the interactive agency for a much better opportunity — a marketing position at my current place of employment.

Four years and two promotions later, I am still here. I live and work in Minnesota. I am not a high-profile anything. Age 25 has come and gone, and the word glamorous does not describe any part of my existence.

And truthfully, I'm okay with that.

There are days I long for the life I thought I'd have. I wouldn't want to move to NYC now — that was the dream of my 22-year old self, not the person I am today — but it's something I wish I'd experienced. And I would love to work for a fashion magazine, though I fear that environment would only cultivate my jealousy and materialism (things I struggle with now that would surely get worse if I was constantly surrounded by beautiful, skinny women in designer clothes). That is not the path I've chosen (or perhaps the path God chose for me), and that's fine. However, it would be a lot easier to accept the life I have if I felt more inspired by what I'm doing with it.

Unlike many of my friends, I have never wanted to stay home with children (I may change my mind about that once I have children, but it has never been the desire of my heart). My career has always been a defining part of my life. Other than my relationships with God and my husband, it's probably THE defining part of my life. When I am happy and excited at work, everything in my life seems happy and exciting. And when the opposite is true, well....just ask Nate. It's not pleasant. And there have been far too many unpleasant days lately.

I wish I had some answers. Is it better to be responsible — to stay in a career that is somewhat unfulfilling (but good in other ways) just to pay the bills and support the family I hope to have? Or should I try to figure out what really makes me happy, whether it's going back to school or attempting to open a cute little shop of my own? Is it even possible to have a career that makes you really, really happy? Or am I discounting all the good in my life — my family, my faith, my friends — and placing my career on a much-too-high pedestal?

I really don't know.

I'm going to go ahead and eat this macaroon while I mull it over.