this isn't what i'm supposed to be doing
just a note about the last two weeks
I spoil my children. I don’t deny it. If they have a problem? Yo, I’ll solve it. Even if that means I have to stop doing a thing I need/want to do. I don’t prioritize myself. Like at all. This is a terrible method of book writing. I do not recommend.
Yesterday my 16 year-old only had to be at school till 11:00 or so, so I said, “Hey, let’s go shopping,” after she got home because she needed some summer clothes. I’m aware this might encourage her to feel a little entitled.
This morning my 12 year-old was having a clothing issue so I dropped what I was doing and ran to my closet to find her a belt. I know that I’m only enabling her and that it would be better to let her deal with the natural consequences of not planning her clothing ahead the night before.
I understand these aren't choices that foster my children’s independence or maturity. And that these choices do not help set boundaries that would allow me have time to write. But fuck — another child massacre kind makes me want to comfort my kids in whatever way is available. I can’t change the shitty circumstances in their world but maybe I can make sure they feel safe and supported with me.
So this is the thing that keeps me from writing some days. Waves of guilt that I’m not doing enough to take care of my family. Has this always been the plight of mother-writers or am I just a product of the times we live in?
Yes, the end of this school year has been hectic in my house, in part because my children’s birthdays are within the last two months of school. So among the two orchestra concerts, the awards ceremonies, the piano recital, the end of year off-campus excursions, and all of the tests, we also had two birthday parties. Significant because we hadn’t had parties in a while due to covid and one kid basically never wants a party but did this year. Oh, and I think we have a family trip planned soon? Yes. That seems right. Plus I still need to call the plumber, the orthodontist, the oral surgeon, and the rheumatologist. And I’ve gained like eight pounds.
Shit. I forgot I’ll need a cat-sitter, too.
But at least my kids are fucking alive. So, yeah, I’m behind on writing and all my to-do’s, but my kids are okay. Some days that’s all I feel like I can ask for.