I am tired. Do all these posts start this way? But I don’t feel exhausted like I normally do. Just tired from a full day.
I wonder how the story plays out, how it ends. I wonder if the path is linear, if there are unexpected turns and twists and if there is that happy ending. I think I’m tired from all the wondering.
I hear sirens and cars in the distance, the background melody to my life in the city. The world sometimes feels too quiet without this soundtrack.
I see all the words that I want to write swirling around in my head.
I want to write those words on paper and string them together in powerful sentences that make up brilliant stories.
I am a procrastinator and don’t write the words. Or do many other things. I used to think that I needed the pressure of a deadline to motivate me but I think that’s an excuse. I’m just a procrastinator.
I pretend to write, do my work and that I have it together.
I feel that I do a good job pretending.
I touch my kids’ cheeks because they are irresistibly chubby. And their hands. I love that they both still want to hold hands on the walk to and from school.
I worry that I’m not doing enough by my children, that I’m not the mother that my children deserve to have.
I cry at ridiculous TV shows.
I am happy, anxious, excited, scared, overwhelmed, angry, patient, not patient all at the same time.
I understand that that’s the nature of motherhood, of parenthood.
I say I want to freeze time right now, this moment when my kids are in this perfectly precious, inquisitive, smart-ass age before the drama sets in.
I dream about a lot of things, particularly long, lingering summer vacations.
I try to be silly, to make my kids laugh, to let them see me laugh.
I hope that’s how they think of me and remember me.
I am tired and really should go to sleep.
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