Let’s call it a goal
The other evening was pure misery. We were both in the lousiest of moods. J all day, me from a few minutes after seeing him upon coming home. It was just one of those days where you wanted to be alone and your parents/parents-in-law staying for dinner after picking up the kid from daycare wasn’t exactly a cherry on top.
I think we both mourn the loss of the house we fell in love with recently. I think we are both a little afraid that nothing like that will come up for sale once it is time for us to buy. I write this because last night, a way better evening than the one before, J told me that he had looked at different websites to see if there was something similar and there wasn’t. I hadn’t searched, but being the eternal pessimist I had already had the exact same thought.
The other evening, after I had thrown around with things and J had sat silently in the living room just staring out the window, we talked. Wasn’t all pleasant, at all. But it was good. And it was in need for. We talked about our apartment and our life as a family of three and about how it should be what keeps us happy. Coming home in the afternoon is supposed to be great, not something that just has to be over and done with. I think we are still generally happy to be who we are, but the house. That house threw us off course. Stupid as we are, we started dreaming, renovating, decorating. And then it was off the market, someone else had bought it and even though we didn’t even talk about making an offer, we felt as if someone had stolen our house. And as if feeling we had lost our house (though technically we didn’t, I know), that evening I decided to let my eternal pessimist out and let her tell J how she didn’t think we would ever be able to afford a house like that, how one like that would never be available again, how we would never have or make more money than we do now, how we would never have a car (something that I have missed a lot since giving birth since public transportation to my parents’ house or my brother’s is a bitch), and I probably threw in my fear that we will never find a buyer for the apartment. (Yes, sometimes I wonder why he married me, but I am thankful he did.)
Last night, apart from talking about enjoying being the three of us, we also talked about being us as individuals. Or we didn’t really talk, J did. And he said something that hit me very, very hard. He said that he wanted us to have time to do the things we love. “I want you to write,” he said, and that second I felt as if someone had punched me so hard in the stomach I was having trouble breathing.
And here is what I told him:
I have always wanted to write. It is the one thing I have always dreamed of. It is also the only thing I have never ever doubted that I was good at. And it is one thing (not the only, but one) I keep telling myself I have all in the time in the world to do.
But the thing is I don’t. I don’t have all the time in the world. I have a one-year-old who takes up most of my time, and I have a husband who I want to enjoy and be with. And I am 31, and though I used to think I would have all the time in the world to sit me down and do some writing, it is slowly dawning on me that I don’t. If I really want to write, I shouldn’t postpone it. I should get to it.
And then what happens? I have been here before. Except for the 31-and-feeling-old-part none of this is new. But I want to do something about it. And my husband telling me that he wants me to do it too, has to be yet another kick in my butt.
I want to write more. Even if it is just few lines about an imaginary apple tree, I want to write more.
Let’s call it a goal.