When my children were small, I talked about them constantly. If you know me at all, you've likely heard a story about bathtime, bedtime, naptime or the lack of such.
In fact, if I had any inkling of how much I loved being a mom, I might have had even more kids. (I would have hoped against hope, of course, that doctors would have introduced a new, less painful way of birthing them.)
I lamented that I had no time to write - my kids took up every spare moment of the day.
But it pains me to say it ... my kids are growing up. They're increasingly independent. They need me, sure, but not quite as much. So I put together a tiny writing nook at home, outfitted it with a perfectly adequate computer, and worked out a little evening writing schedule in my head.
But I haven't written a story in months.
Oh, sure, I've written for work, and I've written freelance, but I haven't written for me. My blogs have sat empty. My stories, some half-finished, have just been waiting patiently in their folders.
I've likened my imagination to the Tin Man when Dorothy first found him that field. Slow. Rusty. Wanting to move forward, but stuck.
Maybe I'm just not good at transitions. Or maybe, for awhile, I simply misplaced my identity. After all, for years, I was a journalist. Now I'm not. Then I was "Mommy," and I was always, desperately in demand. Now I'm just "Mom," and while I'm still loved and needed, I see more independence on the horizon.
But I'm still a writer. Always have been, always will be.
That last part is easy to forget. But I think I'm starting to remember.