People often assume it’s my children’s fault when my writing is going slowly. And it’s true. Being the mom of three boys is exhausting.
In high school and college there were times I thought I had no free time. But I didn’t know the meaning of busy until I became a mom. Until my idea of a break became being able to pee with the door closed.
So yes, they keep me busy. But they’re not my excuse, they’re my reason.
Every day they challenge me. They ask for more and more, and miraculously I find it. I wrestle three children into the car and drive across town. I bounce a baby, while listening to a rambling, nonsensical toddler story, nodding at all the right parts, and trying not to unwittingly promise him ice cream. Sometimes I lose it, but most of the time I don’t.
They count on me. They believe in me. So I am strong.
That momma bear instinct is real, And fierce. It grows out of a love that shouldn’t be possible and bleeds into everything.
So this is an ode to my children: they may not give me hours to write, but they help me find the strength to share what I have to say. They inspire me with stories. And force me to let rejection go. (Who has time to dwell when someone is biting someone else?)
I was a writer before I was a mom. But when I become an author, it will be because of my children.
So here’s to my reason.
Here’s to my boys.