Right now, I'm sipping on coffee in a quiet house. One baby asleep upstairs. Three babies two states away with their Oma, probably sleeping too.
I don't like the shirt I'm wearing and I should go pull the trash cans to the street and the dishes from the dinner I made last night need put away. But right now, I'm dreaming of being an artist, even as I refuse to look at the novel notes I started three years ago and even as I put off writing a poem about shoes that is swirling around in my head.
Instead, I sip coffee and hammer out a clumsy diary entry and think about all the things that need to be done and hope that maybe one day there is more time for doing, while wondering how to ever cut in to all the time needed for living.
Sometimes I think something great lurks somewhere inside of me. Actually, I'm lying. I always think it.
They tell me that my generation has grown up feeling special.
In sixth grade, my teacher told me that I was too smart to become a teacher. She told me that I should do something bigger.
Those words haunt me as I sip coffee and put away laundry and dream of things I don't trust myself to ever do.