“You really need to go back to work,” The Sis told me the other day, after I had asked her yet another question about naps or feedings or something.

The world has not demanded much of me in the way of personal appearances for the past few months. There was the pregnancy announcement and concomitant job expulsion; then there was the hospital admission and semi-bed rest; and who can forget the C-section and newborn hibernation? The stretchy, cottony-smooth Gap pants The Sis gave me for my birthday have nearly grafted themselves onto my skin. Elastic waistbands are my constant companion these days, for there is still that extra layer of me that refuses to flatten into my Banana Republic Martin fits and my skinny jeans. This has all been well and good within the confines of our home, but the other day I had a job interview and it was time to lose the sweats.

The sweatshirt, anyway. The sweaty pits were along for the ride as always in these situations–situations in which I’m called upon to be “on,” to be evaluated, to show up. Anywhere but home, in other words. And as uncomfortable as those BR Martin fits are, these situations have them beat.

I’m in my own head more than ever these days–I recently picked out drapes and fixtures and they’re lovely, thank you very much–which is much different when you’re raising a baby than when you’re, say, running (my most comparable previous experience–I know, single girl problems). Staying in that space can feed into the lie that I am in control of everything, that the buck stops with me, that I have to make everything work on my own. Stepping out of it means letting go of pajama pants and fuzzy socks and familiarity. But that stepping out can also be an escape: an escape from the self-doubt that always knows just where to find me, an escape from being the caretaker and cry-hearer, an escape from a singular perspective. And whether that escape comes in the form of a new job or a trip to the mall, I need it. Often.

After hearing my profanity-laced vacuuming the other day, The Husband suggested we think about getting a housekeeper. (But I don’t like strangers in our house!) After seeing me break down in tears and hand him the baby with a sigh, he suggested I call the daycare and see where we are on the list–or, as he put it, “Maybe it’s time to outsource the childcare.” (But I don’t like strangers on my baby!) Right now I can’t imagine what life will look like when it doesn’t look like this, and even the potential positives in a new scenario are overshadowed by the ominous unknown. Will I be squeezing into work pants soon and burying my head in some kid’s mouth? (For the record–are you there, God? It’s me, Spoiled Brat–I like the writing-from-home-for-a-living-scenario much better.)

I think about how work in our world has been twisted from its original appearance, which was garden-tending; today’s “gardens” are strewn with fluorescent lighting, unhappy coworkers, TPS reports, cases of the Mondays. One of the hardest parts of living among such brokenness is being torn between what’s meant to be and what is; not knowing exactly where my place is. I’ve been dislodged from my “normal” life for months now, and a new normal has taken its place. A normal with its own ambivalence: how can I be a mom and anything else? How can my heart stretch far enough, my mind be present enough?

Then I remember a trip I made seven years ago, a loaded U-Haul and The Mom beside me and a stretching, stretching across hundreds of miles from home to a new city, a new city that became home when I found life and love there. And I know–because knowing is different than feeling–that whatever I’m called to do, whatever is next, I will be stretch-worthy for it. I’ve stretched from Alabama to New York, from Martin fits to maternity pants. I didn’t do it alone or in my head (though I consulted there often). It’s grace that made me stretch, grace that kept the stretching from turning into breaking, grace that made me the elastic pants that gave just enough to let new life in. Grace that moves me from baby monitor to computer monitor to everything in between, the unknown becoming known, the new places becoming home, the messes becoming gardens.