I love being a mother. I think I'm good at it. I love all the things it brings to me now, all it will bring later. And I'll tell you now, my willingness to raise children would be limited only by silly resources like money and physical health. I would keep adding children to our family by adoption until I fell over. And yet.
And yet, there's this other thing. This idea of paths not taken. The roads we look down, but keep walking on by. I want it all. I want a big, giant life with as many kids as I can take care of well AND time to make art with my hands and to write a novel, and to read, to travel, time to be in service to a greater good, time alone with Erik, time alone with myself. I want it all.
Is it too much to ask?
Am I tired just thinking about it?
You bet your ass.
Will I stop trying?
Genre and Nonfiction
3 days ago