Tuesday, October 13, 2015
I'm struggling with my writing.
I'm struggling with making it happen.
I want to write a novel.
I'm absolutely exhausted these days.
Allergies are kicking my tail.
By the time I get home, I just want to drag myself to bed.
I don't, of course. I am a mom.
I get home and make dinner.
I take daughter-the eldest to her music lesson, where hubby meets me to pick the little up so she isn't stuck in the car waiting for 30 minutes.
It isn't that I don't want the darling little snowflake to not have to experience waiting,
It is that my nerves will break if I'm stuck in the car attempting to remain calm while she whines tonight.
I love my job.
It requires a lot of energy to do it right.
Not much remains by the time I get home.
Yet, much of my To Do list does.
I lock my bedroom door.
Light some incense and fill a hot bath with Epsom salts.
I soak. I breathe.
For a few moments, I am not tasked with fulfilling any of my roles in life.
I am just me, floating in the water. Breathing, thinking, being.
Daughter-the-youngest's voice brings me out of my calm
And back into my reality.
I can hear her out in the hallway.
I love them even when they try me.
I love them to the moon and back.
after night-night stories,
after checked homework,
after listening to hubby's day,
I breathe. I write.
My story moves forward.