Most evenings I sit down, my laptop on my lap, the children asleep and my best friend busily selling chicken, and I tell myself I’m going to write. This time it isn’t going to be some chatty retelling of my day’s events. I tell myself that I won’t mention diaper, or toys, or laundry or housework. I’m really going to write something worth reading.
I end up posting about pickle buckets and spray paint.
I so desperately want to be a great writer. I have a lot of ideas from a book on infertility to a science fiction story based on the book of Ruth and I pull them each out at least once a month with ambitious goals of writing pages and pages of brilliance before Jonathan gets home. I can usually manage a couple of pages of mediocrity.
The reality of my life right now is that I am using the lion’s share of my brain power for things like calculating toddler bladder capacity and finding new ways to keep two children occupied around a house for twelve hours or so. It’s not surprising that those same activities are the things on which my mind dwells. From the abundance of the mind the blog posts, therefore my blog tends to be about . . . well, pickle buckets.
At some point, I will find my life has shifted again, and in that time I wonder if I’ll have enough brain left to become that great writer I have always wanted to be. In the mean time, you’re welcome to continue with me on this journey through middle aged mother hood.