The writer’s wheels are spinning and the parenting wheels are in all wheel drive. In fact, sitting in my Prius, which wreaks of sour cleats, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, “looking gooooood.” Is this what single parenting feels like? Day four and I stopped to get my brows waxed and the new fuzz on my top lip cause this week If my son points it out, I could start crying? I prefer my husband be on the couch yelling at the t.v. instead of traveling for work. I am well over the “I want a career” envy of his career and just wanting him to tape the remote in a foolproof pattern so I can work the bloody t.v. while he’s gone. I do also miss hearing his voice, barking at the premiere league soccer game I managed to record-somehow, probably accidently. It’s worth it, it brings back the boyish glow he had when we’d met. I long for him to be next to me resting his unsocked calloused feet against mine, rather than be making spreadsheets and pitching investors to put money into his drug trial.
It’s November-the writing season and none of this matters. What I want is to attend to the monster living upstairs weaving tidbits of the novel I am supposed to be writing. It’s Nanowrimo month and the aches never goes away-so much to say, the dirty underwear pile up and friends want to meet me for coffee. Friends never want to meet me for coffee! I rise to the challenge of recognizing the path however cluttered it becomes with life foibles thrown in my way to make me trip. I get up, I keep going I barely take time to tie my shoes, because it’s the sixth, and I have until the 30th to realize my goal, to submit a draft Novel. I give thanks to contests that motivate me to finish the story that has steeped so long in my head, its bitter and needs honey. I want so desperately to make my heart and brain align themselves; free the words that come to my fingertips to my keypad, to you. I hope what I say is meaningful and insights change. The kind that we can all feel, the kind that betters this world.