… If I ever actually became a bona fide writer, I would talk about how my first actual piece was a blog about you, mi conquistador. Never in a million years did I once think of being a mother. Turns out, the heart really is a powerful organ. I know that right now you think I’m your best friend. We recite our vows to each other every night before we shut our eyes; we’re each other’s favorite, and we’re each other’s “person”. But the truth is, the day that you’ll replace me as number one woman, or as right hand wingman, will actually come sooner than either of us think. You should know that I had already covered these things in my piece about you, as you were only a being who liked to break dance in my belly. And with that, I’ll still love you as my favorite, and as my person.
I used to write because I wanted someone to hear me. I wanted someone to hear me during those moments that I’d cried my loudest. But then I eventually realized that by victimizing myself, even I wasn’t even paying attention.
I realized that what I actually needed was a reaction, and not pity.
So, I started writing in a fashion that no longer exploited me. I figured out that I needed to captivate people; intrigue them. Make them so curious, they’re compelled to hear me out.
I eventually learned that my writing could no longer be just a conglomerate of emotions; a boxful of memories I hadent the chance to truly sort through. I needed polishing – the kind where you’re constantly weeding through your own dirt. If I was going to write, about my life, I had to do it justice.
Aside from agreeing to take my son to his teacher tonight to help create a banner for her daughters’ graduation, not having to cook because of a gender reveal party we’re attending after that, and needing to be at the DMV tomorrow an hour earlier than the appointment slot I reserved – I’m not sure that there’s any more room for me to ponder what else I should be doing with my life. Or that I lack the passion to determine what it is truly that I want to do with the rest of it. I don’t really know, or believe, that there should be something else more definite, and more career orientated, that I’m supposed to be fixated on achieving.
After putting in an eight hour work day, non inclusive of the time it took me to get ready – plus the commute, but also inclusive of grocery shopping during my sixty minute lunch, my only ambition on top of that is to have the energy to play with my toddler, and make a meal that both Instragam and I can be proud of.
So, what do I want to do with my life? What do I really want to do with my life? Do we mean career wise? Does it even have to be in regards to a career? Because I’d like to think that championing five days, following the same exact routine I just outlined, is a pretty kick ass role. And while I don’t necessarily feel complacent, I do feel accomplished.
Whatever it is I want to do with my life, look forward to doing, or should be getting done – I’m doing just that, right now. That’s what I want to do with my life.