When A Break Isn't

Every summer, no matter the planning, there seems to be about a month in which I am Mom, primarily, instead of Mom/Writer or writer-mom. This usually falls in August, after camp is over and vacation is through. This year, I was determined to make it fun - not just filling the days with stuff but organizing activities, as if my daughter were in camp. Last week we went on a scavenger hunt, to ClimbZone, to SkyZone, to several libraries, playgrounds, and parks. Next week I have plans for a museum, ice skating, and - less fun - all those annual doctors’ appointments so I can turn in the appropriate forms.

A big part of how our family unit functions is due to my flexibility. I do not have a boss demanding my physical presence in an office for eight hours a day. Instead, I am the parent who is here, present, the default setting for my daughter. Although this isn’t how I envisioned my life playing out - I got a law degree and assumed I’d work full-time until retirement - I am grateful to be so close to my daughter, to know her like a friend and to know she trusts me, as she tip-toes into adolescence.

But.

I would like to write again. Not stolen minutes between six am and six forty, when I am also editing for Five South, but delicious hours, stretching into afternoon, the third cup of black tea, the proverbial cat on my lap, and so while I’m looking forward to the next week with my daughter, the first day of school can’t come soon enough.