I used to write all the time. I used to write all the time because I had all the time. When I wasn't working, I could do whatever I wanted to do.
Now when I have a little time where I can use both hands to type, I find myself listlessly clicking around on Facebook, occasionally engaging in a productive conversation (the kind I always want to engage in when I'm Facebooking from bed, one-handed, with a toddler attached to one breast or the other), but mostly just wasting time.
And I should be writing. I want to write. I keep promising myself that I'm going to start writing something, even if it's just a few sentences, every day. I'm not going to promise that because the broken promises pile up depressingly. But maybe I will try. I just started taking some actual medication for my anxiety and depression on Monday. I don't know if that has anything to do with my sudden desire to sit here and write, but maybe it does.
Lastly, here is a cute story about Marie. She and I both have mild colds/coughs, so she's not sleeping very well and thus woke up in the middle of the night the other night. We got up and changed her diaper and Nose-Frida'd her and had settled back in to nurse. This was around two-thirty, meaning that the Roomba had been running downstairs since two. Suddenly, we heard a loud "beeeeeeee-oop!" and then a mechanical voice requesting that we "Please move Roomba to another location. Right wheel is stuck."
Marie looked up at me, wide-eyed. "Mama," she asked, "is the Roomba talking to me?"
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