Often I feel like there is someone looking over my shoulder just waiting for me to fail, to give up and quit, like I always do. It isn’t a real person, just an unwilling ghost dragged from one new activity to another. I am fire and passion where I first start something. Then my attention drifts. Especially if the activity is a self-serving one, if there is no one benefitting from me doing it except for me. The perfect example is this project. I have four hundred and thirty six prompts left to write on. Instead of celebrating the two hundred and eight days that I have found time to write, all I can see is the ones unwritten. I want to write. I want to be writing, always. Still in the last few weeks where my son has stopped napping, and I have found myself innudated with other things to do, writing has fallen to the wayside. Today, Seahorse fell asleep in his chair after lunch, while I was out taking his sister climbing, and for sushi on our weekly Mommy/Daughter date. The only day a week where we get to reconnect, and treat each other like people, instead of butting heads about some small thing. It is glorious. I wish it could always be like that, but I know that then I would not appreciate it. It is hard having two small people who rely on you every day all day until they finally fall asleep. I am incredibly lucky to have a partner who is supportive, and a willing companion on this parental adventure. We don’t always know what we are doing, but we are doing it together. I go out to comedy two or three nights a week, to recharge in the way that extroverts need to recharge. The past week my parents were here. They live very far away. We see them maybe once or twice a year. I am good with that. I am an incredibly indepedent soul, and don’t do well with people watching, or inserting themselves into what I am doing. I think my parents understand that, as they both moved away from their families to forge their own life together, with me and my brother. I feel like I am following a pre-set model, but that now that I have given them grandchildren they would prefer it were different. Now that they are the grandparents they want to spend more time with the little people I gave birth to. Still after a week, I think they were pleasantly exhausted, and ready to go back home. They do have grandchildren who live just down the road from them. They look after them once and twice a week, so the pressure isn’t so much on me to make my children available to them. I am grateful for that. I love my parents. I am not my best self around them. Mostly because I am trying so hard to be my best self around everyone else, and being around them I feel like it is safe to crack, and to show my other not so amazing human qualities. Still I feel terrible about that. I see myself snapping, and being controlling, and I try to correct my behaviour. More often then not I just remove myself. I go out and leave them alone with the kids, so that I am not there to obnoxiously monitor the juice intake, or get nervous about how my mother isn’t acutally watching. This is a step forward though. Before I couldn’t even leave the room for very long without feeling anxious. Now I can leave and not think about it. I feel like my children are capable of expressing their needs, and wants. Finally I no longer have babies in the house, and this makes me feel a little freer than I have for the last four years. All this being said, I just need to give myself a break. A break from my own expectations.
This may be my last post for awhile. Or not. I am doing this for me. I am knee deep (maybe neck deep) in comedy, and excited by it. There will come a time when I can find time for writing again. It is what I want to do for a living. Writing and comedy are not mutually exclusive. Parenting full time makes the both of more difficult but not impossible. I have to be more reliable in other areas of my life. I am going to be running a weekly comedy open mic starting this Tuesday. I am committed to that. It is easier to be committed to that because it isn’t just for me. In fact I even forgot to put myself on the open mic list this week. Running the show is making me feel accomplished again. Like I have some sort of value outside of the home, and that is important to me. So if you are a reader of this blog, I apologize for the petering off. I will get back to it. That is a promise I am making to myself.
You are a twenty-one-year old. Write a love letter to your girlfriend.
I know that I am not always lovable. I know that I am broken. I know that we don’t have a lot of time for each other. Still, I love you. I love that you let me be me. I want you to be you. I want the moments when we are us to last forever, but am aware that they cannot. I hope that when we are together you feel loved. I know we have a lot to learn about ourselves, and each other. I look so forward to that. The gleaning the stories from your hardened heart. To putting my hand on the small of your back and feeling your breath fall in and out of your body as you talk. I love the way your confidence comes out of hiding when you know what you are talking about. You make me curious about the things I don’t know. I don’t want to fix you, or be fixed. I want us to go on adventures, explore together, and be there to support each other’s growth. I want us to be friends, always. From here I can’t imagine what the world might look like in ten years. I feel like we are at the beginning of something. Adulthood, maybe. That this love is deep, like copper veins in rock, hard to get at, but solid. You are magic. Sparkling sequins. Even if you don’t always think you are. I believe in you. I believe in me. The world is not prepared for what we have to give. That is good. Let us take it by surprise. Let us surprise ourselves.