I once thought of being a writer

It's true. 'Course, I was once a lot of things. I was organized. I had time to do what I wanted, when I wanted. I could leave the house within 5 minutes of deciding I wanted to leave the house. I prided myself on being able to clean the house, top to bottom, in just four hours.

And then I had kids.

My writing now consists of signing permission slips and proofing english homework. My organization is only seen in my silverware drawer and that's only because I have one of those silverware holders. There is no "me" time, not in the shower, not in the bathroom and not even while I sleep -- my youngest, at 3 months, makes sure of that. Going where I want, when I want. Yeah, right! Between the time I actually have the thought of leaving and actually leaving is a span of at least 30 minutes. I have to plan for days to go shopping, only to be waylaid by the baby. Cleaning? Are you freakin' kidding me? It takes four hours to empty the dishwasher, sweep the floor and, if I'm lucky, get a load of laundry switched around. The house hasn't been clean, all at once, in more than 11 years. Now adays I leave behind a tidy room that is hit by one of three tornados shortly after I turn the corner. My pristine room is marred by an errant sock, that when washed will loose its mate, an overturned shoe, a candy wrapper, a milk glass. The last time the house stayed the way I left it was last November, during Thanksgiving, and that was because we were all in Orlando.

So, no, being a writer is no longer in the cards. But that's why I have this blog -- I can pretend. I'd forgotten how to pretend, and then I had kids.