Hello from a sick day, again, only 3 weeks after my daughter’s last. Is this normal? I’m not sure. I used to pride myself on her health, owing it solely to the lack of processed foods in our house, the lack of sugar. We are still exclusively eating Ezekiel bread, still cutting up pounds and pounds of organic cantaloupe, the only fruit or vegetable that she will always eat. Yet here we are. Stuck home with respiratory infections.

I have made no progress in writing. This may be because the only time I spend on it is between 10:45PM-11PM, the only time that the baby doesn’t stir, eyes closed, searching for me. 

That is one reason, but there are other reasons too. At this point, I have serious doubts. There is something wrong with me, or the book, or both of us. This is not normal. It is not normal to spend so much time on something  and have nothing to show for it. Or, something to show for it, but nothing that anyone wants to see. Nothing that anyone wants to read. 

I did have some people read it. Was that last year, or the year before? They read it and I changed things based on their feedback. Everyone’s feed back was great, and before the baby was born I thought it was finished. Everything except the ending (which will go after the part that I originally thought was the ending.)

Then, I started working on it again a few months ago. I started at the beginning—the only two pages that have stayed the same during this 13 year period. The two pages that I always loved, that always got me excited about the story, about the writing. I read them, and yes, I was exhausted from being up with the children. From feeding them and from the long c-section cut across my body. From bouncing the baby in the basement, bouncing, rocking, dancing to Taylor Swift. Doing all this so that his colicky cries didn’t fill up the whole house, didn’t wake up my daughter or my husband, neither of who do well with life when they miss out on sleep. Doing all this with noise canceling headphones, looking out the window at my childless neighbors, hoping to see them eating dinner or arguing or having a party so that I feel less alone. Instead, it’s just their blinds that I see, positioned so that anyone looking in (only me) can only see the back of their couch. 

I read it then and I was bored. I can be honest about that. I was bored, and decided the story needed to start somewhere else. 20 pages later. A fairly simple cut and paste job, I assured myself. It wouldn’t take too much time, too much energy. I could still be on my way to finishing. 

Do I want to finish, now, for good? I would say yes, but everything else about my behavior points to no. There is something in the way, and it is something about me. It is the same thing that keeps my house somewhat clean, somewhat messy. Clean enough for people to come over and not be concerned about my capacity for motherhood. Organized enough so that we do leave the house, we do get places on time. But, not so clean that I look around my home and feel calm, complete, at ease. Not so organized that there isn’t a layer of stuff pushed against all the walls, small pastel crates shoved under the fire place, forming a new perimeter. Not so organized that we don’t kick things out of the way as we get ready to leave, kicking them so they don’t trip us and make us tumble down the steps as we run out the door, forgetting to take our deep breaths, irritated, angry. Looking for someone to blame.