So the Mister has taken the two youngest to the pool for a swim and to burn off any excess energy that is lingering from a morning of not much. Giving me a few moments alone and unattended in the house. The house that is relatively together and not in desperate need of attention. For a change.
|Photo found here|
Sure the washing machine is beeping and the dishwasher waiting to be emptied and refilled, but they can all wait a little longer. The floors have been vacuumed and yesterday they were even mopped. The load in the machine is only pool towels, which signifies the washing is essentially under control. The pool towels only get washed when everything else is out the way.
All the indicators point to it being ok for me to be here.
The eldest has headed to the local shopping centre to wander around with a friend. Apparently as a twelve year old that is what you do these days.
I try to rewind my mind back to twelve but honestly it seems so long ago. So so long ago.
I start to wonder if I ever was twelve? Of course I must have been. It's not like I went from being eleven to being thirteen. Twelve had to have been in there.
It all seems so foggy and hazy. Such distant memories, tightly locked away, supposedly for safe keeping. I know I was twelve the first time I met the Mister. He made my heart stop and race all at once, even then. I might not have had much to do with boys at that stage but boy did I want to.
Working out the maths for how long ago I was twelve makes my mind want to explode because all I really want to do is write, not worry about what it is like having a twelve year old daughter and whether or not I am doing an ok job or not out at keeping her safe. And I must definitely do not want to work out how long ago I was twelve.Which is all totally ridiculous because I am only 35.
I just want to write!!
Despite the quiet grumbles from my stomach I opt for spending time here rather than in the kitchen. Because that is how much I want to write. And there are no children here and there is no reason why I shouldn't just sit down and write.
It is after all day ten of Nanowrimo and I am yet spit out more than a few pages of handwritten scrawl. (Which I am certain is nothing but complete awesome because of the emotional throws I was experiencing at the time)
This year I seem to know more people than ever before giving it a go, Nanowrimo that is. It should inspire me to join their ranks and write away. Yet for some reason I am stumped. I can't seem to make the time to just sit and write.
There just never seems to be enough hours in the day. If only day dreaming were not so time consuming. What with the desire to write, and read, or just create anything really combined with the all the other things that as a mother I am expected to do it so often feels like I never actually get anything done.
Though of course I do. It may not always be what I wanted to do, or even set out to do but things do inevitably get done.
Much like this post. It may not be part of my Nano efforts but it is something, which is always better than nothing. Apparently.