Why I Don’t Write (Much) Anymore

Image taken from “The Seven Silly Eaters,” by Mary Ann Hoberman, illustrated by Marla Frazee

I want to write, but three in children in four years has tuckered me out.

Instead of words, there are toy horses hiding in the corner of my room mocking me, Will you let me sit here and stare at you while you think and ponder and write or will my presence so unnerve you that you are forced to return me to the third-floor playroom, and, in so doing, be distracted by half a dozen other things calling your name?

I let the horse sit and stare at me.

My days are filled with sorting toddler underwear and trade negotiations over favorite toys. (In the middle of writing this last sentence, the voice of my four-year-old trickles down the stairs, just as I’m settling in with my blanket, after a day of birthday shopping, writing for my paid job, toting children to and from school, lawn mowing, dish washing, and bath giving.)

“Mommy, you didn’t give me a goodnight kiss.”

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