I actually have a life outside of dealing with feces in my home, despite what my recent smattering of blog posts would suggest. Although I just told my son, “I can’t get that right now, I’m sending an article to my boss,” and he said “YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A BOSS, MAMA,” which is technically true but doesn’t mean I don’t have a job. I’m pretty sure he thinks I spend my entire day Tumbling pictures of cats.
These days, I definitely don’t miss my commute or even the office culture. When I’m feeling sensitive or fragile, I’m awfully glad I don’t have to deal with the delicate social balance of a bunch of cutthroat 20-somethings trying to make it big in the digital marketing world. I do miss the Cuban coffee though. And talking about Project Runway.
I also miss lunch. My lunches are usually a quickly-cobbled sandwich or an apple or nothing because when I’m in the zone it’s just me and the keyboard and the window and my Spotify and I don’t need food, until I do need food, which is usually in the middle of my 45 minute trip to pick Chipmunk up from his completely awesome Kindergarten in a completely not awesome part of town. Then I’m cranky and a headache starts buzzing right at the bridge of my nose and also kind of behind my ears and I’m like ha ha ha ha ha ha ha WHY DID NOT EAT LUNCH. Look at your life. Look at your choices.
(Do you ever wonder if you’ve lost the ability to define yourself outside the structure of how you function as your child’s parent?)
Anyway, I’ve been writing a lot, which is cool in the holy shit I’m a writer way but also terrifying in the man, your brain actually has to be awake and vaguely functioning to make words go way. I’m mostly writing web articles and business blog posts, which isn’t exactly living the dream except for how really it is, because it’s just me and my brain and my fingers and I’m doing things of value with them. And by value I mean a paycheck, because these hospital bills aren’t going anywhere with the power of my self esteem and plucky personal blog posts alone.
On the side, I’ve been poking and picking at fiction. It’s slow going, but it’s something I’ve been wanting to do again for years, and I think I’ve finally clawed far enough out of the sneaky black bit of Post-Partum everything to have an imagination again. Or maybe my imagination pulled me out of the pit. I’ll never know, but I tell you what: It’s awfully nice not to be unhappy every single day.
It gets better, mamas. It gets poopier too, but overall, it gets better.