Workaholic.

My brother and I laugh about how, as kids, we used to run around my mom’s bed, screaming and shooting water pistols at each other in the thick, humid heat of lazy summer afternoons in NYC. Our mom was always asleep, her mouth agape, her expression uncaring as her jaw hung slack, idle, and uncaring from her face. She’d undoubtedly put in 8 or 16 hours at the hospital the night before, and no amount of noise we could make would wake her up. Back then, we’d make a raucus and laugh about getting away with it. Now, I look back and wonder if maybe we made all that noise to wake up our mom. Maybe we just didn’t know  how to tell her we needed her to be awake.

It’s no secret that my schedule is packed to the brim. Between classes, hospital duty, trying to put my editing business on the map, running the household, and setting/keeping Skype dates with Rob, having time for my kids seems damn near impossible.But I do it. I force myself to remember what’s really important, and I spend as much time soaking up their love in a given day as possible. The only reason I’ve been able to make it work is because I don’t have to clean up or cook. And my sanity? It’s not really all too necessary. Just give me some caffeine-loaded multi-vitamins and a couple liters of water and I’ll be on my way.

The closer I get to my goals, though, the more I freak the fuck out because HELLO? I might actually get my happily ever after. That wasn’t supposed to happen! I was supposed to be under the influence of some strange and illicit drug so I could run my car off a bridge. Or commit suicide. Or get raped and murdered. Or be killed in some other senseless act of violence.

You get the point.

The fact that I’m doing this? Working my butt off, spending time with the kids, making things work out with Rob, on the verge of making something respectable out of my editing business, and being, like, a good person and stuff? It’s kind of blowing my mind.

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