July 2nd, 2013
I am so very thankful for all of the blessings in my life. Why do I want more? Why do I have this ambition inside of me? Rearing five children here on the farm is three full time jobs, I know that.
Mothering and working, working and mothering, home, not in the home, outside the home, part, full, half, flex, seasons, school years. It's all a blur, all a mashed up mix of thoughts, conceptions, goals, aspirations, doubts, fears, obstacles, influences, opinions, report cards and diapers. Diapers.
(Cloth or disposable? Come on ask, I know you're thinking it!)
I can't deny the fact that I long to create, to be a part of something, to use my skill-set in a realm other than the maternal. Raised in an upper middle class suburb, surrounded by college prep, bathed in the pious worth of a higher education, embedded with the notion that a career with more than two syllables is a prerequisite for adult life, had the nails of outward-superficial-financial success driven into my inner and outer psyche-
But then how dare I aspire to such? As a mother of five young children, how can I even pen the words, that something other than mothering is my heart's desire? How can I tout the benefits and validity of one, without negating the very same for the other? And here resides the scene of the battlefield in my mind, the mommy wars, only this battle I rage against myself. Balance. Balance. Balance. Can't. Quite. Grasp it.
By saying I want something more, I am not saying that my family is not enough. I love to cook, I love to clean, I love two year olds, I love cuddling on the couch with little people and snotty noses, I love school plays, I love coaching soccer, I love decorating my home, I love a couple glasses of Pinot Noir in the evening on occasion, (the David Bruce of '97 will always hold a special place in my heart...), but yeah, I still want more.
So Diary, I have this dream, I've had it for some time now. Every outside source calls the glass half empty, the deck stacked against me and the chances slim to none, even my own brain wages war against this dream. Arrows and spears of family and peers alike pierce it, well-wishers are few and far between, but the dream remains unscathed, untouched, undaunted...
Diary, there is only one thing to do when a dream won't die:
Make a valiant attempt to bring it to life, for not till the breath is breathed into a thing can we know if it can be. It will burn bright, or go down in flames, but it can do neither without oxygen, without breath.