I am so tired I have become something of a slug. A pregnant, pajama-wrapped slug. I am barely making it through my days without a nap either on the commute to and fro work, or on weekends, wrapped in a comforter, blissfully checked out from the sounds of a toddler and a husband.
My brain is fuzzy, and writing just isn’t on the radar. My GDM blog is woefully empty, this one sporadic. I used to be prolific and excited about blogging, and now I can’t even raise my wrists at the end of the day to make a coherent thought. I am in bed by nine, and have to drag myself up at 6:30 in the morning like a wet dishrag left too long on the bottom of the sink, wrinkled, stiff, and smelly.
Yes, I just compared myself to a dishrag.
March cannot get here too soon, and with it will come a new baby, and a different tiredness. Likely one where I can’t write then, either.
My fiction has been neglected yet again, and I add to the long list of reasons “why I cannot write”. Someday I will figure out how to kick my own butt into sitting in the damned chair and finishing something. For now, I am allowing myself to leave it alone wishing I could have more energy, more time, and more support to spend evenings writing in my own space instead of squished between dinner plates and crayons at the kitchen table.
Is it like this for all moms who write? Am I lazy, or normal? I wish someone could reassure me it gets better, because right now, this dishrag is feeling mighty low about her aspiration of leaving a desk behind and writing for a living, at home.