motherhood

I can barely hang onto a solid thought these days. The demands of family and the demands of work have me stretched beyond capacity. I desperately try to rein it in. I start a hundred posts for this space in my head each day, posts which drown in the eddies of my brain. I want so desperately to write. To save our stories for the days when I will no longer remember them, or no longer be able to share them. But the stories are getting muddled in the day to day effort of survival.

I am starting to see spaces of time that are mine and mine alone and I mean to fill them with written words, painted pictures, photographs, knitted comforts, yoga, long walks and book after book. But I find myself guilted into folding another load of laundry, running another errand, tidying another bedroom. Self-induced guilt can be a powerful motivator.

And still, I am seeing beautiful in my life in so many ways. A beautiful note, clean babies (who aren't really babies anymore), a fresh loaf of bread, clean sheets, temperatures that are creeping towards the melting line, uninterrupted conversation with my favourite person, a little bitty red computer that holds my words and keeps my thoughts, ballerinas, thoughts of a new nephew, dreams of the Louvre, a song that I shazamed (that's a verb, right?) and giggled to discover was a new Ryan Adams (of course), Despicable Me, my favourite new album (which isn't so new), an ever so perfect wedding dress on my beautiful (soon to be) sister in law, and my (almost always) happy children. I have been blessed with the sight of the beauty around me.

I dream of Paris, of Barcelona, of home spun music, of a finished novel, of waking naturally, of downward facing dog and a child's pose. I think of walking through forests and up mountains and along rivers. I dream of the warmth of summer. I think of my bike locked in the shed, almost made inaccessible by the piles of snow which are hanging on and on and on. I dream of flying down the road, miles behind me, miles ahead.

My youngest wants to be a mom, she says so all the time. I mean to be flattered by her ambition, it's what I am, it's what I do. But somehow I want her to see all that she will give up to be a mom without letting her think I have regrets. I don't. I imagine I might have been a wiser parent if I had been older. I may have had more adventures with less guilt about the time I spend away from them in my dreams. But I don't have regret. For they are each beautiful, perfect, whole people and I am so lucky to call them mine.