I’m really not a writer who needs “life” shit to happen to me. I BS enough with my writing all on my own. But, of course, “life” shit happens. At the tail end of August, when I was preparing myself for entering the empty nest phase of my life, taking my youngest child to college he selected, my oldest child drops a bomb on me.
“Umm…Mom, me and the girls need to come stay with you for a few weeks until my apartment is ready.”
Okay. I say. What else was there to say? “No. You and my 2 year old and 5 month old granddaughters can not come stay with me temporarily as you and your husband go through this separation.”
No. The reply was not an option. I am a mother. I am a grandmother. I am a helper. I am a nurturer.
Sooooo, for three weeks, I was full time grandparenting while juggling these two part-time jobs, with full time responsibilities AND trying to supply emotional support to my daughter.
It was rough, y’all. And that is an understatement. I literally did not have the mental capacity to write anything. I don’t even think I opened the damned Google doc. If it I did, it was probably to say, “Dammit! Why can’t you edit yourself?”
The three weeks ended. But it took my mind another few weeks to adjust foreign and sudden silence.
AND THEN October came. Me and my sister’s birthday month. Need I say more?
Sooooo, a few days ago when I came up for air, I finally opened the document and actually exhaled. It was like seeing an old friend that I didn’t realize I had been missing.
Seeing my words with fresh eyes was what I really needed. The writing has recommenced.
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