Straight out of a bohemian nightmare, isn’t it? I wasn’t always like this, you know. I used to fuck the day away. I used to be hard to capture, dreading schedules and pre-ordained meals and commitments I couldn’t escape from. I used to savour my idle moments. The truth is, now I don’t even know what to do with them. When I was in school I learned to tuck away the guilt, at least superficially, but now I feel like it’s constant push and pull between taking care of myself and taking care of them.
I love my family, but I like being alone once in awhile. I want to take life a little more slowly sometimes. I need space to dream and to romanticize the world within subconscious repository no one else has the key to. My inner self grates against convention. My outer self does what ‘good mothers’ do. And now I can’t even escape this cycle of plan, do, repeat. When someone throws something at me at the last minute, I find myself crumbling with anxiety. Where did my sense of freedom and spontaneity go?
I used to be bursting with passion, now it comes in trickles and waves. Sometimes we have afternoons off together. He chases me down the hall as if we’re a couple of kids, tackles me to the bed, reminds me that I haven’t lost her yet.
I try to remind myself that this beautiful life could be so easily lost. I’m lucky to have all that I have. Even with four colliding schedules, time pressures, and social duties I don’t necessarily want to pin myself to, there’s still got to be room for me somewhere.
Somewhere…
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