Tuesday stream of consciousness

The baby is sleeping (I think). Tonight after I nursed her, I pretended to sneeze on her face and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh that hard. I remember getting a similar response from Everett, my oldest, at that age. For some reason, I don’t remember pretend sneezing on Carson and feel slightly guilty about it. Did I ever make him laugh that hard? Is this what it’s like to be a middle child? I wouldn’t know.

An hour ago, that same middle child tip-toed into the baby’s room while her and I sat curled up in the rocking chair.

“Mommy,” he whispered into the dark, “When you’re done feeding Pres, can we play Uno?”

Here’s a confession: once the baby is down, I’m usually off the hook for the night. Brett takes the 6:30-7:30pm hour as his special time with the boys, and it’s become a sacred hour for all of us. They usually play board games while I work or clean up dinner.

But tonight Carson asked if I could play Uno with him, a rare occurrence. I immediately said yes, partly because I can’t remember if I used to fake sneeze on him when he was a baby. Maybe this game will make up for it, especially if he wins.

Five minutes prior to that request, I had promised myself I would write for thirty minutes after I got the baby down. I’ve been trying to get up early to write for—this is not a joke—three straight weeks. And, this is also not a joke, I am starting to wonder if I need to see a doctor about my insomnia. How can a person wake up at 6am to write if they were also awake from 1-4am?

Does it sound like I’m full of excuses right now? I am. Full stop. I have a hundred reasons why I don’t write anymore, or, at least, with any kind of consistency. I could list them out right here, the lack of time and the lack of space and the teething baby and do you know how hard it is to write when there are chunks of smeared banana stretched across the kitchen floor? I can’t unsee that.

Both of our boys are getting fillings at the dentist this week. The baby has a flu shot booster. None of them know what is coming. There’s a man in my house right now ripping our bathroom apart. What started as a “minor facelift” to our master bathroom quickly turned into more when we realized we should probably do this right the first time (and not, as they say, put lipstick on a pig). That turned out to be the right decision because—surprise!—the toilet had been leaking and we had no idea. So, yeah, three layers of flooring down to the subfloor: soaked. What else? We also uncovered faulty electrical wiring in the walls (hello fire hazard, good to see you again), mold in the ceiling, and the fact that all of the insulation behind the shower walls had disintegrated.

It’s a slippery slope, this fixer-upper.

I’d love to write more about our house, and what we’re learning in these walls. And no, I’m not talking about the rats, but that’d be a good metaphor for another day. I’d love to write more about why I can’t sleep and what I think about at 2am. I’d love to write more about my kids, for my kids, and only for my kids. I’d love to write more love notes to Brett, something I could tape to the bathroom mirror when he’s not home. I’d love to write more, period, is what I’m trying to say. That’s why I’m here, right now, spending thirty minutes typing and eating candy hearts instead of watching Netflix.

I’ve been … stuck—frozen by fear, and doubt, and insecurities I thought I had overcome, but, as it turns out, have not. It’s so much fun being a writer!

A writer.

Someone left a comment on my Instagram post today and said, “You should be a writer.”

I laughed on my couch. Surely she meant no harm. I almost responded, though, “Do you know I’ve been trying to call myself a writer for over a decade and still can’t do it with a straight face?”

(I can put that title in my Instagram bio, no prob, but I can’t look you in the eye while I say it.)

What does that even mean, to be a writer?

Most people argue a writer is a person who writes.

I haven’t been writing much. Because of the bananas on the kitchen floor and the 47 e-mails I haven’t responded to and the man with a jackhammer in my bathroom. It’s easier to blame them than to admit sometimes I think I’m terrible at this and that any day now, someone is going to find out I have no idea what I’m doing—writing, running a business, dreaming up things in the shower. It’s easier to blame rats in the wall and ants in the kitchen and a tax deadline than my own excruciating insecurity.

So yeah. Let’s blame the unopened mail and the credit card bills and the broken window in the living room. They are why I cannot write. They are all in my way.

You know who isn’t?

The middle child who asked if he could play Uno with me tonight.