I found myself crying today for no good reason. Or maybe it was, in the interest of time. I'd been reading Neil Gaiman short stories on a five-hour drive through ice with ten-year-old feet in my face and sports on the radio so loud I couldn't hear myself think. I had one of those moments where you just want everyone to go away so you can remember what you were trying to do in the first place.

I couldn't remember. So I cried. It was awful and embarrassing, and my daughter reminded me of the time I cried in We Bought a Zoo, and I realized I've become that mother whom you can't bring anywhere.

Fuck it.

I cried because sometimes in the midst of it I forget what I was starting to do snd how important it seemed at one time to get the stories out. And even if, over time, they start to seem more silly, I should remember that since the dawn of time stories are important.

My husband, dear man, told me to carve out time instead of crying, and that does seem more useful (smart bastard) so tonight I scheduled appointments with myself on Tuesday nights and Saturday afternoons. I will work on my stories when I am not exhausted because they and I deserve that. And, if I am honest with myself, because my husband snd daughter encouraged it and said they would occupy themselves elsewhere while I did.

It is hard to be a mother and pursue a dream at the same time. I realize what a huge gift I've been given to be encouraged to grow by my family.

So I pick up my book and my notebook and schedule meetings with myself in off hours, because I promised myself years ago I would keep reaching, no matter what.

*reaches*