I saw an old friend this morning that informed me that I am a good writer who never writes anything anymore. Um, thank you? Somewhere between child number 2 and child number 3, I completely lost my ability to write anything more exciting than a grocery list.
This from the girl who was writing (horrible, cringe-worthy) poetry as a child and writing for the student newspaper through high school and college.
I miss telling my stories, but I rarely slow myself enough to write them down. The kids are growing (like weeds). Life has just gotten busier. We run at a pace that I don't love but I don't know how to change. It is difficult to collect your thoughts when there is flag-football and ballet practice and where's my library book? and friday folders and important room-mom related emails to send.
Just sitting in the chair is hard. I am more distracted than ever. Last night I watched an old episode of "Parenthood" while online shopping and cleaning out my closet. This is not good. I think that if I fill my ears up with noise, it is easier to ignore my beating heart. The heart that beats to produce more than a grocery list, no matter how epic.
Eight years ago, I chose to stay home and nurture my small baby because that was what I wanted to do. I knew that if I wanted to return to work, I absolutely could, but I didn't want to miss out on her. Even though I chose to be home, it was still hard. Part of what kept me sane in those first lonely months, was my body in a chair, my hands on a keyboard, my words on a page. I find this still true as ever.
Thanks, Lyna. For reminding me.