Why Mothering Permits Me To Be Only a Pseudo Intellectual
When I have time to read a book, I read a shitty one. One that doesn't utilize any of my (former?) intellectual prowess. In my down time my brain turns into a big stinking pile of mush.
I have two kids and it is wonderful and mind-numbing and inspiring and brutal.
I miss my life. I miss by brain. I miss my husband. I miss my work. Yes. I still get to all of those things. But, god, remember when you could stay up all night and work on something? I can't. If I do (and I have) my next day(s) are brutal. It is just not worth it and OH man I am sad about that. I covet you - you stay-up-all-night-and-create-amazing-works-of-art people.
There. There I am. That complaining mom. Who only has lots of little slivers and no BIG chunk. I am spread thin. And I am complaining and YET. AND YET. I chose this. And, you know what? I choose it again, day after day. I am not willing to give up anything that I love, even if it means I am spread thin.
I know you've heard this before, but we only live once. Motherfucker, even this moment is close to over. So if there is something you want, TAKE IT. Maybe you can drown in it and roll around in it and languish in it. But stick your toe in. Half-ass it if you must. Keep trying.