Just a season. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Not the holiday season.
Or basketball season.
Not the flu season or the season of the year.
It’s a life season. Perhaps you know the one. It’s the all-of-my-kids-are-busy-and-none-of-them-can-drive season. I haven’t felt this discombobulated since all three were in the toddler-preschool years! I know part of my frustration is coming to an end soon—four months, to be exact, when we go from 15, 13, 12 to 16, 14, 12. But that doesn’t help me now.
Even moving closer to school, I feel like my days are spent running here, there, and everywhere. I keep reminding myself that when your kids are close in age, this happens. At least I’m not dragging a little one around while I do it!
The real problem is it cuts into my writing time. And I do know which is more important—so I drive. But I get restless inside after days of not writing. I feel jittery and anxious. Nothing a day with my characters wouldn’t fix, but when?
So I have high hopes for Thanksgiving week. No school. No sports practices. Amidst a doctor’s appointment on Monday, a birthday party on Monday/Tuesday, cooking for Thanksgiving on Wednesday, eating and visiting with family for Thanksgiving on Thursday, and a football playoff game on Saturday, maybe I can manage to put words on the page.