I was always going to be a writer. My two favorite literary characters growing up were Jo from Little Women and Emily from the Emily trilogy by L.M. Montgomery. I kept a diary from the time I was in second or third grade, and just kept writing. By the time I hit high school, I had settled into an identity of being a bookworm (twenty years later, I can't tell you how many people have told me their main memory of me in school was that I would walk thru the halls reading) - and I was really good at writing. I had perfected the essay, English was the one class that came ridiculously easy to me, and I was more comfortable with a pen in my hands than I was at any other time.
But... I never really pursued it. I went to Emerson College, and studied creative writing, and loved it. But the love wasn't enough to overcome the misery that came with being away from home, I hated the city, hated the commute and just wanted to start my life. So I didn't stay in college, I moved home, started working full time, and moved out soon after to share an apartment with my cousin. I found working to be fun - I liked all of the different jobs that I had. I worked for a while doing retail and moved over into administrative positions and stayed there. I was good at it - and while I kept writing, I thought of it as just a thing I did. I was everyone's first call to write a resume. I kept reading - I was (and am) always reading, and kept gravitating to books about authors.
Then I met Marc and soon after had Jessica. This, really, this felt like a calling. I was delighted when my boss laid me off a couple of months after she was born. I collected unemployment until it ran out and then settled into stay at home motherhood. I loved it. I love it. I haven't worked full time since just after Jessie was born. I went back part time, to an entry level receptionist position when she was a toddler and quit after Sam was born and never looked back.
I've been incredibly fulfilled by motherhood. I'm not sure why, I know not every mother is. Not every mother loves being home. A lot of parents get bored and are better parents when they have another job - a job outside of the home. But I loved it. I threw myself into it - I, of course, read every book I could find on parenting and child care and spent probably way too much time pondering my children. But I think I'm good at it - I've got good kids. And there were definitely times when it wasn't easy, but I don't regret a minute of staying home with them. With being that available for them.
But... they get older. Jessie will be ten in a few weeks (I keep repeating it to myself because the thought that I have a child who's actually a whole decade old is freaking me out) and Sam is six and a half. Sam, in particular, was a kid who demanded an enormous amount of intensive, one on one attention. That's lessened a lot over the past year. And Julie - my angel girl Julie, she's going to be three in a few months. She's potty trained, talking, she's ready for preschool. I'm rapidly reaching the point where keeping her home, where not enrolling her in preschool would be actually holding her back from developing.
So I've got some time. And I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to do with it. I'll end up getting a part time job, I'm sure. And I'll probably love it, because I like working. But I wonder sometimes... if maybe it's time to put a little time into my own dreams. To not defer them the way I did when I was 19, and decided that I should drop out of college and then I was working because I had to support myself. I could write. I do write. I write now, not only for this blog, but on MassMoms and on InterfaithFamily.com, and I've had a couple of blogs on blogher. I wonder if I could do it, is there an audience out there that would read my stuff.