Most days are good days. I find my zone fairly early, and I write while the kids are at school so that I can pay the rent and buy the groceries and shop for the non-sparkly shoes. I am happy to see them walk through the door at half past three, listen to Erin tell me in great detail how her classes were and what she and her friends ate at lunch, and try like hell to nudge Nicholas to say more than ‘ugh’ and ‘I guess.’
Most days I remember that I’m lucky to live this life of mine. I struggle to make enough money, and I spend my time alone when the kids go visit their dad. But still, I’m lucky. I know that.
Today was a good day, at least on the surface. I wrote the words. I listened to the stories. I made us dinner and we ate together, as a family. I even dragged Nicholas to his sister’s orchestra concert, where he pouted that I made him stop reading his book and pretend to pay attention to the band and the choir and the orchestra.
Problem is, I wanted to be someplace else today. No place in particular, mind you. Just not here. I’m not the only one who does that, am I? I’m not the only one who thinks back to random days from former lifetimes–days that seemed so benign and unremarkable in the moment–and wishes that I could relive it just one more time?
I remind myself that fantasizing about being someplace else, someplace where I don’t have to write the words or cook the meals or pay the bills or shop for the non-sparkly shoes, doesn’t make me a bad person. A bad mom. A bad everything. I remind myself that a little fantasy is good for the soul, and probably essential for my sanity. I remind myself that I’m human, and I’m doing the best that I can, and that if a little Eddie Vedder and the thought of being lost in a sea of other people totally swept up in the moment is what keeps me chugging along, that I should go right ahead and close my eyes and imagine I’m there, instead of here.
I’m participating in NaBloPoMo, and posting every day in November.