If there is one thing that defines me as a writing mother, it's the night. I don't mean anything ethereal about the night and the magic of it or anything, I mean, pfft... I mean most nights I sit here until far past midnight. Writing or editing or trying very hard not to procrastinate on Twitter or Facebook or LinkedIn or wherever else I can go to forget that Oh My Gosh Am Worst Writer Ever Why Do I Try.
(See, that never goes away.)
But here I sit, almost every night with the laptop and heavy socks and my feet up and a coffee or tea at my side. I usually make a list of what I need to get done and I keep working at it until my neck hurts or my eyes start to feel like they've been poked with hot coals.
And then when the alarm goes off at 0600, I try not to ignore it. Except today, apparently, I did. I'm supposed to be at work at 0730 and I looked over at the clock and it was 0708. Whoops. With Major Man working nights, he doesn't get off work until 0700 so I'm the one responsible for getting both kids up, ready and out the door. That's an hour minimum.
I admit that I wonder why I do this. I wonder if I can do this. But then I just put one foot in front of the other and one word next to another . . . and just one night after another.