it’s three in the morning and I’ve been up for a couple hours.
I found out that I’m my mom’s daughter. She used to stay up all night worrying. I am worrying. And not sleeping.
Sometimes when I’m up at this time of night, I sit and listen to the breathing of my babies all through the house. This is a sleeping house, a house that in a few short hours will be bustling with laughter, crying, fighting, running, legoing, whining and jumping and loving.
Oh the potential of all these little people. The thoughts and wonderings and sadnesses that will come with a full day of exploring.
I joy in seeing them toddle out of their beds, their hair a mess, their pajamas mis-matched, asking for milk or a hug or cereal. I don’t even care if they’ve peed the bed. I just love their freckled faces.
Sometimes I think about my manuscripts in similar ways: sleeping. breathing in and out. but oh, when it wakes up. when it toddles out and has the whole day in front of it. What will happen? What will be discovered? What joy and horribleness and heartache will come.
I don’t have a lot this morning to say.
I should go back to sleep because I will be so tired all day and what if I snap at these littles that I love?
I love being a mother.
I love writing. I think.
I’m not sure.
But I love people.
And people are writing. I think.