Still I sit and type because it’s Sunday, and I have a deadline.
I’ve wracked my brain trying to come up with something new. At this point I would even settle for something old.
I’ve hounded my husband, bothered my friends, and even pleaded with my kids.
Every single idea refuses to grow into an essay.
I will myself to keep going. I must make my deadline. Legions of my fans will be crushed if they go to their computers tomorrow morning, and a new post from me and my dishwasher isn’t there to greet them.
OK. Maybe not legions of fans. Maybe one of my sisters and my best friend, as long as they’re not busy.
Truth be told the only one who would probably know I didn’t meet my deadline this week is me.
And for the first time in my life, that’s the only person who matters.
When I started the blog four years ago, I promised myself that come hell, high water, or sick kids, I’d write one essay each week.
It didn’t have to be the best thing ever written. It could even be a piece from the past that I “re-visited,” but it had to be something.
I did this because I have a habit of letting myself get sidelined.
After all I’m a mom. I tend to put the needs of others before mine. That’s my job. The job I happily signed on to 16 years ago. A job I love. And one that’s starting to change.
My kids are getting older. Tom, the baby that started my adventure into motherhood is 16. Our daughter, Lizzy, is 13, and even the baby of the family isn’t really a baby anymore. As much as it kills me to admit this, Peter is a few months shy of his tenth birthday.
It may feel as if I’ll never have a morning when I’m not fielding questions about what we’re having for dinner or the wisdom of wrapping oneself in duct tape, or reminding someone not to kill their brother while I’m still half asleep, I know soon enough, my house will be quiet again.
So I write.
I write to remember a time before I had children. When the biggest decision Joe and I had to make was where to go to dinner that night.
I write to remember the days, weeks, months, and years I was desperate to see a beating heartbeat on a sonogram. Or the three times in my life when I did.
I write to remember what it was like to be a new mother and have no idea what I was doing with my beautiful son. The days when I would look at him and wonder what the heck he and God were thinking picking me as his mother.
I write to share some of the experiences we’ve had raising a daughter with significant special needs. Sometimes sharing the harder days of watching her struggle with a disorder that has no name. Sometimes sharing the funnier days, like the day Lizzy decided to tell me to go jump in a lake during Christmas dinner at my in-laws.
I write to remember that I can plan all I want, but sometimes life throws an amazing curve my way. Such as the day I stared in disbelief at the pregnancy test that told me I was having a third baby even though we were told it was almost impossible.
I write to reclaim a piece of myself. Perhaps to find a new career path when my job as full time caregiver is over and I become more of a consultant to my growing kids.
I write to remember that I am more than a mother, wife, daughter, sister, and friend.
I write each Sunday hoping that when I hit publish I will entertain or touch at least one person.
And I write each Sunday because I made a promise to myself that I would.
This is an updated version of a piece that was published on the Dishwasher, 2/23/14 under the title, I Write Therefore I Am.