There is something therapeutic about sitting at a desk clicking away, watching letters appear on the screen, turning into words, into paragraphs. Offensively riddled with little red dots, but that’s alright. Even the angry clacking of the backspace button is oddly restorative to my nerves.
With a husband who works long hours, a dramatic toddler who is just as stubborn as I am (that is, insanely stubborn), and an older house in need of love and new appliances, it isn’t often that I find myself taking any available time to focus on who I am outside of my daily parameters.
With nothing to draw from other than keeping house, my mood hinges upon my daughter’s behavior- often tempestuous. That word may sound theatrical, but I imagine anyone in close proximity to a three-year-old is shouting, “Alas, poor mama! I know you well!” I love my little diva, but it isn’t beautiful arias she bellows out all day long, and I feel as mad as Lady Macbeth. My poor husband, who is not much for the performing arts, has a nightly front row seat. “Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart that’s sorry yet for thee.”
So here I am. Chronicling my journey to become more. . . me. Maybe. I do enjoy writing, I think. Maybe it is just the sound the keyboard makes.
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