As some of you know, I am a stay-at-home mom. For the past couple of years, this meant more than the title conveys; well, maybe that’s always been true, the responsibilities are innumerable. This summer, in particular, has been rough. My son and I had Covid in June. Then my husband had it in July and I had a sinus infection. My other son just tested positive and I have some sinus “thing” going on. We’re vaccinated and boosted, so we’ve maintained a level of misery that does not require hospitalization, thank goodness. The TV is parked on YouTube.
I ordered school supplies on Amazon. Mechanical pencils and plastic folders. Hand sanitizer. Tape. Binders too big for book bags and dry erase markers—not the cheap ones. My sons and I shopped for new shoes at the outlet stores, in the heat, and without access to video games. We ate greasy food. The grocery store canceled our online order. Small inconveniences.
The laundry is a mountain. Darks and lights piled in peaks. The dog poops blood. Gastroenteritis, the vet says. The car inspection is due.
I’m a writer. I’m in constant conversation with characters, old and new. I can’t watch a movie or read a book without dissecting the plot. I have story notes on my phone, in notebooks scattered throughout my house, and on scraps of paper, crumpled and crumbed at the bottom of my purse. The wall above my desk is tiled with sticky notes, names and dates and occurrences quickly scratched on colored squares—my attempts at making sense of what I see and hear in my head.
I’m a writer interested in community, in communing with other writers. I started a newsletter (*wink), a local critique group, a writer’s meetup group at my local library. I started a short story. I thought about not writing. I thought about accepting that the part of me that stays home and cares for my family should just be the whole me. It’s easier to fold the laundry than feel bad for not. Sometimes I imagine being a parent who sees her family as her whole world. Everything she does is for them. I try to drink my water. I remember to check the dogs’ water.
Emotions run high like fevers.
I share this because it’s true and also because there are many of you who feel similarly, have your own reasons why you shouldn’t write, and struggle with ignoring them. It’s funny, you know? How I write about writing to figure out if I should write.
ACM