It’s Friday night and I’m sitting in my bed, my three-year-old son sleeping next to me, listening to the rain. My husband is downstairs, watching the news loudly. My infant son is with him babbling and toddling around. As I blog this, I feel like the day has gotten away from me.
I have laundry still sitting in the dryer, begging to be folded. The kitchen is a mess, dinner not even started, although the meat is marinating in the fridge. My boys have yet to bathe and I wonder if I will be even able to get Bobby down to bed, if he’s napping at 6pm.
To be honest, it’s a nice evening — the kind of evening where no one is in a rush to do anything. Maybe that’s my problem. I could’ve easily tackled some major plot holes and added to my word count for Camp Nano, but I didn’t. (I’m two days behind).
It’s a night of contradictions. I feel both anxious and relaxed. I’m anxious about my work. I wonder how I’m going to fix the book. I wonder if I’ve overplotted. I wonder if the idea is unique enough to snag an agent when the time comes. I wonder how long it is going to take me to finish. I wonder why I didn’t take advantage of the precious free time I had today to write. And yet it’s Friday night. I have the whole weekend ahead of me. There’s this breeze floating into my bedroom and it smells earthy.
I know I should just be grateful I’m safely at home with my kids. I can work tomorrow. I can always write tomorrow.