Ever since moving my own little PR shop into a much larger firm, I’ve been living in an odd emotional dichotomy.

Regular Blogenberg readers know that I am quite capable of reveling in my own anxiety. And that’s how I’ve felt much of my just three-month tenure at my new professional home — anxious about succeeding.

At the same time, I’m very happy. I like who I work for and with. I enjoy coming to work every day. And I’m very happy with family life these days.

So I’m anxiously happy. Or happily anxious.

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One of the things that told me it was time to do something different professionally was that I was letting myself become too comfortable. I was satisfied coming to work each day, attending to the work we had. But I wasn’t feeling pushed to build the business. Or, put another way, I was starting to feel comfortable not working continuously to build the business.

While there were many reasons I decided to merge my shop into a larger shop, one reason was this discomfort with feeling comfortable.

Now, if I don’t feel like I’m continuously working to develop business, I don’t feel comfortable because I’m now part of something larger than myself. And that’s a comfortable discomfort.

For nearly two weeks, Blogenberg has been a single dad, as my wife has been out of the country. Tonight, the gloom lifts, my wife returns, and, hopefully, the fog of exhaustion that has enveloped Blogenberg will lift.

Some snippets from the last two weeks:

My 16-year-old son opens our refrigerator and, after staring into it for several long moments, says, “Man, it’s like we’re homeless.”

Again, my 16-year-old son, responding to a directive I gave him says, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in my entire life!” (Wow, he has no idea how much more ridiculous life will get.)

My 16-year-old daughter: “Why can’t I get a nose ring? Me and [name of best friend] want to do it together.”

Plus, I’ve been sleeping with laundry. Every time I do laundry I’ve just piled it on our bed waiting for somebody to fold it. Alas, clearly nobody in the house other than my wife knows how to fold laundry.

Thank goodness the long gloom of single fatherhood dissipates tonight.

My wife is once again going out of the country, leaving me to take care of myself, two teenagers, and a dog. Pray for us.

I’ve noticed that my teens have been hoarding food, hiding it in their closets, as experience has shown them that I’m not much of a cook.

(What’s the big deal about living off Chipotle and Five Guys Burgers?)

I am a bit worried about the grilled salmon my son has hidden inside one of the many, many basketball shoes he owns.

And clearly my wife has little faith in my ability to maintain the household. She has already scheduled the cleaning woman to come in the first day she is back home.