I keep tell myself I am going to get back into the habit of writing. I would like to write my birth story, write a memoir, make something up ... anything that involves finding a creative voice. And then I start the dishes, get a text message, check Words With Friends, get sucked into Facebook, and fold a load of laundry. It is always something. For years, it's always something - lesson plans, beautiful weather, a sick dog.
Maybe I could write for the first 10 minutes of Margot's nap. I could ignore the editing process, be less picky. Maybe I could write about the mundane, like how I need a haircut, but I'm not sure how to make plans like that with this tiny little creature who relies on me for everything. Each day gets easier, I'm sure it won't be long before I figure out how to get out alone.
A good 4-inch chop would do. My hair grew so fast when I was pregnant and now it has slowed down - will I regret the cut? It's just so long and takes so long to dry and looks mousy.