This morning the most amazing thing happened. Unsurprisingly Hugga fussed all morning about having to go to preschool, which I still tend to feel terrible about. When we got to school, I scooped her up in my arms, reminded her all the great things she was going to do today, named all the fun people she was going to see, and as soon as I set her down, she was done with me. She walked off and sat next to a friend in circle time without a single tear! Amazing progress!
It was a big win, and even if she cries again at drop off tomorrow morning, and even if this is something we have to deal with every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I’m okay with it. I’m still learning how to be a little easier on myself.
I’m honestly overwhelmed by all the things I want to get accomplished. Being in LA and living in a neighborhood of professional creatives (on our block we have two Hollywood types, a graphic designer, an interior decorator, and a photographer), I’ve been bitten by the ambition bug. I want my MFA, I want a successful freelance career, I’m starting to get the itch for another (possibly our last) baby, and yet I still have to give my day job a full eight hours. There aren’t enough hours in the day or money in my pocket to pursue everything I want right now.
I got my mentor’s feedback on my first packet today. Completing this program is near the top of my priority list (being a present mom and not getting fired from my job are my first two priorities). This is something I genuinely want to be successful at. While my mentor had some encouraging comments, there were a lot of obvious weak spots in my first story — and what disappoints me most is that I knew that going in. I just didn’t have time (least, that’s my excuse) to go hard at it this month. It’s just painfully clear that I need to spend more time on my fiction.
More than that, I need to just enjoy the act of telling a story again. For too long now, writing has been about getting published, getting paid, getting into an MFA program, getting on people’s good sides, getting to call myself a writer. It’s been such a long time since I’ve allowed myself to be creative purely for the joy of it.
I’ve needed a check-in, like a serious deep-thought check-in with myself, for a long time. Things are great right now. We have a successful cross-country move behind us, my husband and I just celebrated nine years of knowing each other, my kid just had her first truly enjoyable day at preschool, and my life is pretty much everything I’d hoped for. I’m just flying a little too high right now — I’m almost trying to find things to stress out about.
