Being Mom

“Just write. That's what bored housewives do.” I mutter to myself. I’m definitely not losing my mind. All adult communication being limited to a couple of hours spent talking with my husband after work, but even then, it's mostly to complain, nag, or just plain argue, but no, I am definitely NOT losing my mind. I’m exhausted and tired. Mostly tired of not contributing to the bills and being stuck inside all day.

“Well, you could always go back to teaching.” I shudder. Nevermind. Absolutely not. Didn’t I just say I want to help actually pay the bills and not be stuck inside all day between four walls with sometimes not even a window. I might as well work at a prison. At least a prison probably pays better.

I’ve been reading Louisa May Alcott. Well, at least I am on chapter two of Little Women, so clearly I am an expert. It brings me some solace knowing she was just as miserable as I am writing Little Women. There's a few differences here though. One, no one is forcing me to write this. Although, perhaps they should. Two, she wasn't a bored housewife. Bored, maybe, but with no husband and no kids, I can't really say what thoughts spiraled in her mind day in and day out. I can tell you mine though if you are actually even curious. Probably not. I will be honest. There isn't much going on up there. It's a constant loop of crazy for sure, but the thoughts themselves, barely worth philosophical discussion.

“Just write.” My husband sheepishly offers up when I ask him what I should be doing all day. He means well. I am grateful to have a husband that one, believes in me; and two, thinks I have anything interesting to write about. He has his own thoughts to deal with though. We're both in the trenches of 1914 here with a barely out of infant stage toddler who keeps us up all night.

“Fine. I will write then, but I make no promises that it will be good or worth the read.” I tell myself as I sit down on the couch next to my sleeping halfling. I hate writing on my phone, but there is a convenience that can't be denied in being able to use a Google Docs page to write while you make sure to keep one hand on your physical touch love language infant who still contact naps and co-sleeps. I am not here for your petty arguments on how my husband and I should be raising our son, so save your breaths now. For now, suffice it to say that I am writing, so let no one hinder me in this.

“Do people even read?” I question after just pointing out that I have, in fact, read two chapters of Little Women, but, to be fair, I read them aloud to a feral gremlin who was actively destroying his room while I laid on his bed staring at my phone trying to do something “productive” for the both of us. He was uninterested as one might expect and I was presently surprised to enjoy what I had read seeing as I haven't probably read anything of real substance in several years now. My life revolves around reading toddler books and whenever I try to sit down and read a real book, it's interrupted by said toddler or my mind spirals somewhere else making reading completely pointless.

I think people still read though, or at least, I assume people still read. I doom scroll enough to know that people do read historical fantasy romance at any rate. This isn't that though and I vaguely wonder if I should be writing that instead. I decide not to pursue that line of thought further though for the time being and stick to writing what I know, which, admittedly, doesn't seem like much.