Stuck. Busy. Edge. Argh.
I am frustrated because I have so many ideas, and practically no time to work on making them happen. I have ideas for creative projects, for career track projects, for parenting projects and for personal reflection and improvement projects. Sometimes I even get that pulse of motivation, that slow rhythmic flow toward inspiration that has so much potential you can’t help but get excited about it. And then I walk through my wreck of a kitchen, or look at the still-not-folded-for-the-third-day-in-a-row laundry pile. Or the clock. Or I just realize that my body can’t do much more than get to bed, whatever plans my brain my be brewing up.
And this is the frustration: I still kind of believe that if I try hard enough and want it bad enough I should be able to make it happen. I am a survivor of the 1980s’ ‘Against All Odds’ film genre, and the American Dream in general. Deep down I’m disappointed that I’m not hardcore enough to sacrifice whatever amount of sleep it takes to write a novel or a blog while working, parenting, partnering, nursing, pumping, churchgoing, and doing occasional chores. Why can’t my heart follow my brain out of this lie?
I’m already always too close to the edge. And if it can’t be done without taking speed, then it’s not going to happen, thank you very much.
Sometimes I wonder if I have a friend or relative desperate enough to move in with us and exchange room and board for nanny services. I know it’s delusional, but it’s a fantasy. I’m tired of stealing time from myself. ‘Cause you can’t really steal from yourself.
Argh, right? Right.
