Should old acquaintance be forgot
The end bits of a soggy burrito are scattered atop a scraggly piece of foil on the kitchen table, beside greasy-spotted paper bags and tiny plastic containers of tomatilla sauce. Laundry is swishing in its own juices, dry and wrinkled sheets wait for folding in the dryer. Children, one, two, three lie in beds; only the smallest sleeps. L and I sit in the living room exhaling after another day full of sounds and smells and the constant motion that is the boat of parenting.
Some days the waters are choppy and others the surface is like glass—either way, we are never still. It’s incessant and joyous and exhausting and I keep waiting for us to get our sea legs but they don’t come, the dirty clothes to wash and germs to fight and permission slips to sign stay constant, like the tide. We drown, or bob to the surface and gulp in air, or (more rarely) we tread with strong legs and catch sight of the shore and swim sure strides in a straight line to respite.
I am not a resolutions gal. I’m not sure I’ve ever made even one—not even half-heartedly. But I find myself at a place where things must be different, and so I am starting with one small change, and that change is this. I will toss myself a life preserver in the form of words each night. Sometimes they will be flat and boring, other times they will lift me clear from the wake. But mostly, I think (I hope) they will keep me afloat. It’s time to start telling stories again. It’s time to write it down.