I’ve spent most of the last six months telling myself in bite-sized lies about how I’ve chunkd up my day; how I don’t have time to write here, how I can’t slate time to do work or why I’m not playing with my son on the floor during his time awake. Why should he feel it’s normal for an adult to sit hunch-backed watching cat videos. I’ve been distracted, feeling sort of lost in a sea of new things and strange timelines that I don’t have control over. Something I kept asking is if Finn, my son, would be proud of me each day of the things I’ve done – as menial as writing a blog about a new dairy-free chocolate sauce can be.
Sure, I said. He’d be proud of the “hard work” done by my half-assed parenting from the chair leering from other side of the room as he bangs into things and I pretend to tell myself I’m doing work while I surf Reddit.
I’m going nowhere doing this crap. He’s going to end up going to school and I’ll be stuck behind doing an ‘okay’ job for my overly nice boss stationed in Chicago. Enough is enough, it’s no longer time to shift papers and touch on things or only write when I get the incline to do so. This is my god damn life line, something I keep saying that I’ve always wanted to do and I’m stuck back in the masses shrugging all the way wondering “what now.”
I’m tired of “just enough.”
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